Jane Friedman's Blog: Jane Friedman, page 61

To Nail Your Memoir’s Beginning, Stop Looking in the Wrong Direction

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Today’s guest post is by editor and coach Lisa Cooper Ellison (@lisaellisonspen).

You’ve been told the first fifty pages of your memoir can make or break your publishing dreams. Listening to The Shit No One Tells You About Writing podcast has amplified those first-page stakes. So, you’ve active-verbed the hell out of your sentences, sharpened your imagery, and made sure every period is correctly placed.

But when the queries aren’t answered, or they’re answered with an unhelpful “thank you for submitting, but it’s not right for me,” you wonder what’s missing from your manuscript.

The beginning of every memoir must hook the reader, establish the setting, and reveal the situation and stakes. Most writers work tirelessly to develop these elements. But spending all your time at the beginning of act one might mean you’re looking in the wrong direction. Instead, try studying the end of your manuscript. Your closing pages shouldn’t just reflect all you’ve learned, or the triumph you feel—they must reveal your story’s resolution.

Once you know what you’re resolving, you can establish a clear path for getting there. This is essential because most openings are revised to death in an exhaustive line-by-line edit. The tedium of this process can cause you to rush through the rest of your manuscript, resulting in a middle that sags and an ending that flags.

Even if your opening pages light up an agent’s enthusiasm, that fervor will quickly wane if the writing that follows seem like it’s not going anywhere specific. Sadly, beautiful sentences can’t hide this issue. That’s why you must know your destination, no matter how your memoir is structured.

In artfully rendered manuscripts, the opening and closing pages give the story a sense of symmetry. Screenwriter Blake Snyder talks about this in his book, Save the Cat! The Last Book on Screenwriting You’ll Ever Need. He says, “[The opening image] sets the tone, mood, and style … and shows us a before snapshot of him or her.” The before snapshot is the narrator in full problem mode, well before they’ve figured things out. “The final image is the opposite of the opening image. It is your proof that change has occurred and that it’s real.”

Jane Alison’s craft book on the nonlinear form, Meander, Spiral, Explode: Design and Pattern in Narrative, also explores the power of symmetrical scenes. Reviewing the opening and closing pages of the memoirs you love will help you see this symmetry in action. Here are a few examples to get you started.

 At the beginning of Wild, Cheryl Strayed is homeless, motherless, bootless, and unsure she can become the woman she once was. At the end, she’s a married mother visiting the Bridge of the Gods, the destination of her hike, who understands how this journey transformed her.In The Glass Castle opening, Jeannette Walls avoids the homeless, dysfunctional parents she ran away from at eighteen. By the end, the entire family eats Thanksgiving together, showing that her shame has morphed into acceptance.Nonlinear books also contain this symmetry. Michael Ondaatje’s nonlinear memoir, Running in the Family, chronicles his return to Sri Lanka so he can understand where he came from. In his half-page opening, he concisely reveals the drought happening both in his homeland, and in what he knows about his origins. In the closing, we experience the lushness of his understanding through the verdant place which now mercifully accepts the rain.Krystal Sital’s intergenerational memoir, Secrets We Kept: Three Women of Trinidad, opens when her grandfather is rushed to a New York City hospital. Because she’d always seen her grandfather as her protector, she can’t understand why her grandmother might be reluctant to save him. At the end, a far-wiser Krystal is back in Trinidad. She acknowledges her grandfather’s complexity, the power of her mother and grandmother, and both the beauty and danger of her homeland.

If you don’t know your book’s ending, you’re not ready to nail your beginning. Keep writing until you arrive at a compelling ending point. Once that has been established, identify what you’ve resolved and then list the steps you took to get there. Now describe what the opposite looks like. That opposite is your story’s opening.

Sometimes, when we’re working on a story that happened more recently, or a situation that’s yet to resolve, we struggle to find the ending because life continues to happen. If this is the case, either take a break and return to this project when a clear ending emerges, or ask yourself the following questions: What have I set up? When in the future does it seem to resolve, even if that resolution is imperfect? Let that imperfect resolution be your ending until something better comes along. Then make sure your story works toward it. Even if you later discover this isn’t your memoir’s true ending, you’ll have practiced the art of telling a cohesive story.

If your ending is solid, consider revising backward, chapter by chapter, to ensure everything belongs. Once you reached the opening, apply a tool like a beat sheet to ensure you’ve hit the key turning points in the early part of your memoir. And don’t forget about beta readers. Their keen eyes can spot what’s truly working and what’s begging for revision.

While writing, revising, or waiting for feedback, choose five books you love. Read the opening and closing pages. Note their connections. Then do a last 25- and first 25-page review. See what issues the author resolves in those final twenty-five pages. Then find out how those issues were set up. Repeat this exercise several times, and you’ll know which direction to turn when it’s time to nail the beginning of this book and your next one.

Your turn: What symmetries have you discovered in your favorite memoirs?

The Vital Difference Between Plot and Story—and Why You Need Both

Today’s post is by book coach, editor and platform expert Heather Davis (@HLeeDavisWriter).

Writers buy plotting books by the dozen and do their best to create the plottiest plot that the world has ever seen. They stuff their novels with action-packed sword fights, explosions, fist fights, and screaming matches. Plot points, pinch points, and grandiose climaxes abound.

But the problem is this: in the world of great novels, Plot and Story are very different entities, and every great novel needs both.

Plot refers to all the external events that happen in a novel. The plot encompasses things like sword fights and explosions. It also encompasses the logical flow of the narrative as a series of cause-and-effect events. (Plot even encompasses your Inciting Incident—you know, that oh-so-important event that catapults your reluctant protagonist into the action in the first place!) Think of Plot as the external and highly visual part of your novel.

Story, on the other hand, refers to the internal transformation that your protagonist must make throughout the course of the novel in order (usually) to become a less flawed version of themselves by the end. Story tracks the character arc of the protagonist, showing us exactly how they get from point A (maybe selfish or cowardly) to point Z (maybe unselfish or brave). Story is largely internal, and it follows the emotions and thoughts of the protagonist as they try to make sense of (and adjust to) their ever-changing world. It is here in the Story where we see the protagonist slowly transformed by the events of the Plot.

Think of Plot as what’s happening to your protagonist and Story as what’s happening within your protagonist. And certain events force them to wrestle with their internal demons, fears, misconceptions, and prejudices until (finally) they come out the other side of your Plot as a changed person. (Or, possibly in a tragedy, not changed.) When that happens, the Story is done!

Novels that have an interesting Plot but not a deep Story are dramatic sequences of somewhat related external events that would rival any Hollywood action flick. But…those action-packed events don’t seem to have a throughline, and there is no emotional continuity for the reader to grasp hold of. Plot without Story is unrewarding for readers. In fact, neurologist Paul Zak found that both plot and story must be present for test subjects to pay attention to a narrative and feel empathy for the characters involved.

Here are seven ways to infuse your Plot with Story.

1. Design a clear character arc for your protagonist. Your protagonist is an imperfect person, because they would be totally boring if they already had everything figured out from the beginning. Decide which aspect of their imperfection your story will focus on. This will be their basic character arc. Here are some common (simple) arcs, but there are many more that vary in complexity.

Selfish to selflessCowardly to braveMistrusting to trustingDeceitful to truthfulLacking self-confidence to having self-confidenceAfraid to unafraid

2. Create a compelling backstory that makes your protagonist’s character arc make sense. If your protagonist is selfish, have a specific and concrete backstory that supports this flaw. The backstory you create will be sprinkled throughout the narrative like seasoning, helping the reader understand your protagonist and begin to empathize with them.

3. Make that character arc clear from the beginning of the novel. The opening scenes and chapters are the perfect place for your protagonist to show off their imperfection. If their character arc is cowardly to brave, the reader should see them acting cowardly (and what effect that has on their life and happiness) early in the novel.

4. Test each plot point (narrative event) to see if it relates back to the Story. The events in your novel aren’t just there to be flashy and dramatic. They should pressure your protagonist to change in a very specific way. In essence, plot points exist to make your protagonist walk the trajectory of the character arc you have designed. So, if your protagonist’s character arc is cowardly to brave, then each plot point should relate back to that idea.

Sometimes these events will cause them to be less cowardly and sometimes more cowardly. Their character arc is a two-steps-forward-and-one-step-back sort of thing. But, overall, there should be forward momentum and the reader should feel it.

5. Prune away plot points that don’t relate back to the Story. Once you start connecting plot points to your protagonist’s character arc, you might notice that some of the events in your novel don’t fit anymore. That means they aren’t actually a part of the Story you are trying to tell. This is where that advice to kill your darlings comes in extremely handy. If plot points don’t serve the Story, they must go.

6. Check that internal change is slow and subtle. Readers love Story, but they don’t want to be beat over the head with it. They don’t want to feel like you’re trying to teach them a lesson. Instead, the magic you’re working should be nearly invisible. The internal change your protagonist undergoes is subtle and slow enough to make sense in the context of the Plot. Meaning, the protagonist shouldn’t just wake up one day as a changed person. The external events of the Plot must really leave them no choice but to change.

7. Show that your protagonist is changed by the end of the story. The beginning and ending of your story should be like night and day. If the opening scenes and chapters show that the protagonist has a flaw, then the ending should show that the flaw has been fixed (or at least greatly improved).

Plot and Story are two halves of a great narrative. By spending as much (or more) time weaving a dynamic Story as you do creating a flashy Plot, readers will walk away feeling like your novel was worth their time and energy. They will have gleaned a nugget of universal truth about the human experience from the pages of your work. (And isn’t that why we come to novels in the first place?)

Now I’d love to hear your thoughts! What is the Story at the heart of your Plot? How did you decide on it?

Not a Journal Person? Post-Pandemic Might Be the Perfect Time to Start

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

Today’s post is by writer and creativity coach A M Carley (@amcarley).

When vaccinations became available, that was when we though we’d be able to breathe a collective sigh of relief and resume regular life. No, that didn’t happen.

After the second (North American) winter of a global pandemic, I’m no longer waiting for things in the world at large to improve. For all we know that won’t happen—at least not in a way we can envision now. Powerful currents—the global climate crisis, war, naked hatred, tribalism, cellular-level fear, and mistrust—swirl among us and drive events.

Several new habits are helping me adapt to the changes. Routine phone calls and Zooms with loved ones, colleagues, and friends have become anchors for me. Our conversations combine reassurance and support with practical suggestions—and brief, shared, descents into despair. More walks outdoors, better hydration, escapist reading, and the occasional nap are all helping. And one old habit, journaling, supports me every day.

It’s a great time to consider cultivating a journaling practice if you don’t already have one. If you are more swamped than ever with demands from others who live under the same roof, what follows may be of limited use. If, however, you see the possibility of unassigned time in the week, here are some ideas.

1. Welcome everything. Your journal is uncritical and agnostic. All thoughts are welcome here. Anything. For all the things you’re thinking but not comfortable saying, your journal is a safe receptacle. It also welcomes ideas you didn’t even know about—sometimes you can channel inspiration directly onto the page, bypassing most of your conscious thought processes.

2. Use your journal as a time capsule. Ticket stubs, receipts, Polaroids, drawings, pressed flowers, clippings, memorabilia—these can all live in your journal.

3. Stash your present moment awareness. Capture a moment, a strong sensation, an inspired idea. No time like the present.

4. Plan. For a comprehensive point-by-point list or agenda to one-by-one marginalia, your journal is a great place to track the things you intend to do.

5. Compose your morning pages. Julia Cameron’s time-honored three pages a day have populated millions of journals.

6. Draft, draft, draft. Struggling with the wording for a letter, email, phone call, or other challenging interaction? Want to send a heartfelt greeting to a loved one? Start writing out your thoughts in your journal, knowing that you can cross out, insert, mark up, walk away, come back, rewrite, and polish in private until you have what you need.

7. Sit with a trusted friend. I’ve called my journal my silent companion. Not an exaggeration, that describes the bond I feel with the once-blank notebooks that have accompanied me for decades. I rely on my relationship with my journal and know it has the power to support me.

8. Figure out what’s feeling off. Something’s not right. But what? Start writing about it. Often the pause—to step back and consider in your journal—is what you need to get to the heart of whatever needs to be addressed.

9. Name the emotions. Research suggests that emotions won’t hijack our mental, biochemical, and physiological processes when we are able to recognize our emotions, feel them, and release them. When you sense that you’re in the grip of your emotions, you may need a place to focus on what exactly is going on. Grab your journal and find the words for how you’re feeling.

Once you’ve been journaling for a while, you can then add the following ideas:

10. Revisit old entries for retrospective fodder. In search of lost time? Use past entries to discover what you wrote about back then. The choices you made—your entries as well as your omissions—are as important as the contents. Looking back can offer tremendous insight. Patterns emerge and a new way forward reveals itself.

11. Study in your research library. Need specific information about a specific day or date range? Your previous journal entries will provide some you-were-there immediacy.

Amid all the uncertainty and unrest, center yourself with a journaling practice. Trust your inner wisdom to show up and give it a safe place to be seen and heard.

The Benefits of MFA Programs: Q&A with Alan Davis

For a long time, now, I’ve seen writers on social media either asking questions about the real-world benefits of MFA programs or complaining about the MFA’s focus on literary fiction. Recently, I happened upon a long Twitter conversation that questioned the logic of MFA programs not including a course on the publishing process. Because I think these are important questions and valid criticisms, I asked one of my former MFA professors, who is also my writing mentor, if he would address those questions and criticisms—some of which are also my own. Our exchange follows.

Alan Davis is a writer who has published three prize-winning collections of short stories: Rumors from the Lost World, Alone with the Owl, and So Bravely Vegetative. He co-edited ten editions of American Fiction and Visiting Bob: Poems Inspired by the Life and Work of Bob Dylan.

Davis was born in New Orleans, grew up in southern Louisiana, and now lives in Minnesota, land of the wind chill factor, where he taught, collaborated in the creation of an MFA program, and served as editor for over fifteen years of an iconic literary small press that he helped revive as a teaching press associated with Minnesota State University. He teaches in a low-residency MFA program at Fairfield University and writes, often spending winters in the Sonoran desert.

Kristen Tsetsi: What is good writing, and can it be taught?

Alan Davis: Anything can be taught except inspiration, vision, and voice. Craft is pedagogical.

Taking a writing workshop buys a student time, first, and a mentor (or mentors), second. A student’s peers also take writing seriously and often respond passionately to work-in-progress.

Craft is easy in the sense that it’s pedagogical; it’s difficult in the sense that it’s an all-at-once process, with momentary decisions (word choice, syntax, rhetoric, rhythm, alliteration and assonance, metaphor and metonymy, etc.) too numerous to count, and with workshops providing a barrage of often-contradictory critiques.

Writing, as I like to define it, is speech frozen on the page. A writer can return to a draft and revise until time runs out (a deadline, a semester, a lifetime), but craftsmanship without inspiration, voice, and vision, although it can get you an “A” and get you published, will leave a reader, finally, unsatisfied if the story is only discursive (one page after another) and not recursive (words calling out to words, theme holding forth dramatically, voice serving vision and capturing the attention of a busy reader in a world full of ridiculous distractions).

And good writing is meaningful. Bob Dylan once said, of his own mentor, “You could listen to Woody Guthrie songs and actually learn how to live.” That’s high praise.

Most MFA programs emphasize literary fiction. What does literary fiction do that other fiction doesn’t?

It speaks to the heart, brain, and soul all at once. It teaches you how to live. It does more than merely entertain. Unfortunately, crass entertainment often drives out art. That’s not to say, as Joseph Heller pointed out, that one of his contemporaries, Mario Puzo (author of The Godfather novels), didn’t get up as early in the morning as he did and work as hard at his craft every day as Heller did when writing Catch-22 or Something Happened (a very long novel in which almost nothing happens).

There’s no dishonor (quite the contrary) in writing popular or genre fiction if plot emerges from character; I love the mystery novels of James Lee Burke and I consider the best science fiction novels by Kim Stanley Robinson to be literary achievements of the highest order. Shakespeare elevated sordid stories or common tropes into art through his use of language until stereotypes were transformed into unforgettable characters still with us centuries after his time.

My point is that literary fiction is a hybrid designation; it’s not limited to realistic writing about contemporary or historical characters. It’s related not only to craft, which is essential for any good writing, but to vision and voice, whereas most bestsellers, as Ursula K. Le Guin pointed out, “are written for readers who are willing to be passive consumers.” She continued: “The blurbs on their covers often highlight the coercive, aggressive power of the text—compulsive page-turner, gut-wrenching, jolting, mind-searing, heart-stopping—what is this, electroshock torture?”

Unlike pop fiction, literary fiction is news that stays news, whereas it’s usually quaint and tedious to read some throwaway popular novel that was a bestseller in its day. Philip Roth’s The Plot Against America (2004), a what-if book in which the Nazi sympathizer Charles Lindbergh becomes President and a minority (in this case, Jews) fear relocation and the grotesque handprint of fascism and bigotry, is powerful fiction about a particular family in New Jersey that’s timeless. I read it last month and it made my neck prickle: it was that good and that relevant to our contemporary problems with authoritarians and bigots.

Schools offering MFA programs will often list as one of the advantages of an MFA the connections that can help a writer’s career. This sounds like, “Having an MFA can help you form networks that will be useful *wink wink* when you want to publish a novel.” How true is this, realistically, for the average MFA student?

Networking is a thing in every profession, but the degree itself won’t get you very far, so the quote in your question is not very true, given the number of such programs and the proliferation of such degrees. (It goes without saying, some degrees are more prestigious than others, which is true in every profession.) It’s a union card: a terminal degree if you want to teach at a post-secondary institution. It’s also a chit, though, that tells an editor or agent you’ve put serious time (and probably a decent chunk of change) into acquiring the skills needed to write a good book.

The connections, though, are very real: your mentors, if willing, can make the case for your books, introduce you to agents or editors (or at least recommend where to send your work), and invite you to events where you have the chance to make acquaintance with publishing professionals. Most, if they know your work, are willing to write advance comments (or blurbs) when needed.

It’s inspiring to think that a work of fiction or creative nonfiction can speak for itself to agents and editors, and that sometimes happens, of course, but writing is a business, sometimes a corporate business, where logrolling and backslapping can be legion (as well as offensive to those of us not good at it).

A writer without such connections who’s earned an MFA and who’s introducing herself to prospective representatives and publishers should mention the degree, and if a mentor or two who knows the book is willing to speak up for it, those names are worth mentioning (and any advance comments worth including), but it’s the work itself that makes your best case.

I read something recently by a writer who, in her piece, admits she’s bitter about seeing her peers’ names in impressive places while hers is comparatively less prominent. She blames herself: she chose to write what she wants to write rather than what her agent has told her might sell better, and the consequences are what they are. But that it was her choice doesn’t necessarily make the reality easier to accept.

This probably happens a lot: writers who are writing well, but not what will sell, and who are therefore feeling a sense of relative failure. What do, or would, you say to writers who are just starting out about this potential future frustration?

If you’re writing to become the next Jennifer Egan or Jesmyn Ward or George Saunders or Marlon James, good luck. I recently read a Ted Gioia essay about the late singer Eva Cassidy, who died 25 years ago, at the age of 33, and whose now famous album, Live at Blues Alley, was self-financed; she cashed in her pension to rent the venue and pay the musicians. She died unknown except to a coterie of fans; since then, she’s sold more than 10 million records (and, I might add, deservedly so).

It’s a heartbreaking story—she came close on at least one occasion to a record contract—but paradigmatic. She sang what she loved without regard for fashion.

Publication, literary fame and monetary compensation either come your way or they don’t. Either way, writing well is always the best reward and, sometimes, the best retaliation against those incapable of recognizing the worth of your work. We all want our work to survive and join the literary conversation that takes place over time, but a life’s work is a life’s work, whether it takes place in the spotlight or in the contemporary equivalent of a garret. Keep at it. Don’t let the naysayers get you down. Keep at it. And join that conversation. Write and read widely.

Has there been any evolution in the MFA program toward evenly blending literary and commercial/genre fiction studies not only so students can learn the techniques and approaches of each, but also to ensure the instruction offers equal value to those who will go in different directions with their writing post-graduation?

Yes. Many MFA programs, especially low-residency ones, accept students interested in writing popular fiction, including fantasy (and, in at least one case, romance), sci fi, mystery and thrillers, and, of course, leprechaun fables. Most low-res programs make it a point to invite editors and agents to residencies and often incorporate the option of internships in publishing. As competition for students grows fierce, the business of writing increasingly receives attention in such programs.

A perplexing aspect of the MFA experience is that the program emphasizes the writing—attention to the craft, what effective writing looks like, why certain writers’ novels have lasted through the ages, etc. A student writer might think, “This is great. All I have to do is produce something good, and I’ll be golden.”

However, once out of the program, what begins to look more important is whether the writing—no matter how good—is traditionally published. The same people who profess to have a profound interest in and respect for, first, The Craft are also some of the first, if not the first, to decline to even acknowledge self-published writing—regardless of its quality—simply because it’s self-published. Can this be explained?

Yes. Once, universities scoffed at MFAs. Now, in many cases, it’s their meat and potatoes. Self-publishing, in contemporary terms, is in its infancy. Most readers like gatekeepers so they can avoid reading dreck. Publishers have been traditional gatekeepers. And publishing is also a business. There are lobbies, interest groups, corporations, logrollers, hierarchies with vested interests. Those with power, even limited power, won’t relinquish it without a fight.

It’s a dirty little secret in literary publishing these days that many competent and applauded presses require subventions, either the purchase of a minimum (but large) number of copies of one’s book or a sizable subsidy to cover publication costs, sometimes with the tradeoff that the writer receives a higher royalty rate. I’m not talking about vanity presses, though they exist; I’m talking about reputable presses (you would recognize their names) that have adopted a hybrid model (sometimes openly, sometimes under the table) to make ends meet. For years now, reputable presses have required contest or reading fees, and many prestigious literary magazines won’t read even a regular submission anymore without a fee attached.

I feel obligated to point out that self-publishing gets a bad name because some who self-publish write dreck or don’t even copyedit or proofread, but self-publishing is an honorable and honest means of publication.

If I decide to self-publish, I have a track record, reviews and advance comments and the like, and can point to my deep and long editorial experience as a gatekeeper myself to establish credibility. The question then becomes, however, how to do for myself the many things—distribution to bookstores, publicity and promotion, review copies, foreign and other rights, etc.—that an agent or publisher would otherwise take care of.

Part of what I was getting at with my question is that a self-published writer can have a track record, reviews, and advance comments (and from authors whose names or opinions should carry weight), and even that won’t satisfy—because the work is self-published. Period. A writer I recently interviewed, for example, admitted to having “an old-fashioned bias against self-published work.”

Can you speak to this attitude, having spent so much time in the community of professional literary writers? Is it as simple as snobbery?

I think genre fiction that’s self-published has an easier time finding its audience online (as ebooks and sometimes audiobooks) than literary fiction. Literary culture is nothing if not snobbish. Snobbery is its middle name. We take ourselves very seriously. Recently, I was one of three finalist judges for the Minnesota Book Awards (Novel and Short Story category). I don’t have a list of the preliminary titles that other panelists pruned, but I can guarantee you that none were self-published.

To be fair, it’s not as simple as snobbery. There are only so many hours in the workday. When I was co-editor of the annual American Fiction, at a time before my co-editor and I had assistants, I read 500–600 stories and my co-editor did the same, to find the 20 or so we’d publish and send to our Judge (Ray Carver, Anne Tyler, Joyce Carol Oates, etc.) to pick three prize winners. I had wonderful assistants and interns I trusted, but the reading burden, in retrospect, was so time-consuming that, as mentioned above, my own work suffered. (It’s almost like PTSD to think about it.) Readers of American Fiction didn’t have to read 1,200 stories to find the 20 or so that stood out.

Stakeholders have often wagered their professional lives on the chits, awards, grants, book contracts, and sinecures handed out by gatekeepers, whose own professional lives are defined by such gatekeeping. The idea that a writer can decide for herself that a manuscript is ready to hit the streets, and publish it forthwith, goes against everything they hold true and dear: Mom, Pop, apple scones, and whatever flag they fly.

I’m no expert on this stuff, but my considered view as a seasoned writer and editor and teacher is that the publishing industry at present is clearly a work in progress and the only thing to do is write often, write as well as you can, and insert yourself, by hook or crook, into the literary conversation. Write for the internal listener you know so well by now. Tell that listener the story that only you can tell.

Many writers entering MFA programs must have publishing as a goal, ultimately, but most programs don’t include a course covering the path to publication—how to research agents, how to write query letters, traditional vs. self vs. hybrid publishing models, etc. Why do you think most MFA programs don’t offer such a course—and is it something you can see them adopting?

Yes, you see such programs and tools offered much more frequently now, especially in low-res programs. As competition for MFA students increases, more programs will do as you suggest. The truth, though, is that most disciplines teach students how to do a job or have a career, not how to find work, and send them to career centers if networking and logrolling and the like doesn’t get a particular graduate a sinecure (or, in this case, a book contract).

Many students attended (and attend) traditional MFA programs not only to write a book (or books) but to get a terminal degree and teaching experience to find work in academia. The MFA industry was once a growth industry, but I don’t know, given the proliferation of such programs, if that’s still the case. Demographics and a dearth of jobs in academia argue against traditional MFA programs (if a teaching career and not publication is the significant goal); students earn a degree and often work as TAs, teaching mostly freshman composition and rhetoric, hoping for employment after graduation as college or university instructors.

The camaraderie of such programs is lovely and often life-changing—students make lifelong friends, find long-term mentors and fellow travelers, and write a book—but many end up, if academia is the goal, as adjuncts working for slave wages and sending their revised MFA theses to numerous contests and publishers each year, hoping for a break.

Low-res MFA programs, by contrast, draw students from all walks of life who often already have satisfying careers but want to write books on the side and get them published. You can be 25 or 30 or 50 or 70 or even 80 and decide to enter such a program (without relocating) to help you along in your journey towards telling your story.

Meanwhile, you can find numerous courses and workshops online about paths to publication. This blog is a good place to start, and Jane Friedman’s books, among many others, offer the guidance you mention.

Many writers want to enroll in MFA programs, but either they aren’t accepted, or they don’t bother applying because they can’t afford today’s college costs or the high interest loans. What books on your syllabus should DIY-MFAers buy or check out from the library, and what should they pay attention to as they read?

Good craft books are legion these days. One such, The Portable MFA in Creative Writing, by the New York Writers Workshop, promotes itself (on Amazon) like this: “Get the core knowledge of a prestigious MFA education without the tuition. Have you always wanted to get an MFA, but couldn’t because of the cost, time commitment, or admission requirements? Well now you can fulfill that dream without having to devote tons of money or time. The Portable MFA gives you all of the essential information you would learn in the MFA program in one book.”

Every workshop leader has favorite craft books. Many community education programs offer inexpensive writers’ workshops. There are numerous affordable summer writing conferences. Online workshops are also affordable, as are reputable writing consultants. Blogs like the one where this interview appears can be invaluable to find resources and advice.

Most important, read the kind of books you’d like to write yourself and develop a writing practice. Read as a writer, noting chapters, scenes, details, and structure. Write as many days a week as possible at a fixed time. A devotee of meditation meditates. It’s the practice that counts. Writers write, and organize their lives around writing, which means convincing yourself and your loved ones to take your devotion to writing seriously rather than as something you can put aside when your partner needs a floor scrubbed or repairs made. It might not make money but it’s not a hobby, it’s a vocation, and you, and those who love you, should treat it as such. (But don’t use writing as an excuse, especially if you’re a guy, to avoid your fair share of household duties!) Finally, when you’ve written something that’s reached a point where it requires somebody else’s attention, find a reader you trust or a workshop group to join.

We All Need to Be Defended Against Predatory Publishing Practices

Photo by Wai Siew on Unsplash

Note from Jane: Today’s guest post is by Brooke Warner, founder of She Writes Press, a hybrid publisher. She has written this post in response to a recent UK-based report into hybrid and paid publishing services.

I’ve written and spoken about hybrid publishing for years now, and it’s a nuanced and complicated issue. Some of you may know I’m not a huge fan of the term “hybrid publisher,” because sometimes it’s little more than a marketing ploy by paid publishing services, meant to make authors feel good about their choice of paying to publish. (More on that here.) But there are excellent hybrid publishers who deserve to be categorized differently than your average paid publishing service. She Writes Press is one of them.

I plan to write about the UK report for my paid newsletter, The Hot Sheet, and share that piece on social media (on May 11) so everyone can read it. I’ll also link to it here when it’s published.

Now, without further ado, here is Brooke.

The barriers to getting a book published have never been lower, and the consequence of this reality—that anyone can publish a book—is that predatory bad actors come out of the woodwork, and would-be authors must be on guard.

A prerequisite to becoming an author these days is self-education about the industry. The pay-to-publish space has been on a steep growth trajectory, evermore so in the past decade. There’s been a proliferation of self-publishing, but also of other non-traditional models—which, lacking any clear identifying label, have had to define themselves. Non-traditional by design, these author-subsidized publishing models have adopted labels that include hybrid (the one that’s been mostly widely embraced by the industry), partnership, subsidy, entrepreneurial, cooperative, and others.

I’m the publisher of two hybrid imprints, She Writes Press and SparkPress, and when I first launched She Writes Press in 2012, there was no right label for what we were doing. The only other presses I knew with this kind of “in-between” publishing model, where authors paid for various aspects of production, printing, and warehousing in exchange for higher royalties, were traditional publishers who cut hybrid deals with authors (often at the authors’ request because these models can in fact be in the authors’ best interest), and Greenleaf Book Group, who didn’t call itself hybrid at the time.

It was my early authors who pushed me to call what we were doing something—anything. They wanted a label because they wanted to distinguish themselves, and to explain to the outside world that their publisher was neither traditional publishing nor self-publishing. But being neither, we were in a gray zone. Many of my authors advocated for partnership, but in the end I settled on hybrid because that’s what it felt like to me—a hybrid between traditional and self-publishing, and I first wrote about this “third way” space in a Publishers Weekly Soapbox piece in March 2014.

Since 2014, hybrid publishing has exploded, but with the model’s elevated attention and reputation, the sharks started to swarm. One of the most complicated and disappointing results of naming this third-way publishing something concrete—hybrid—was how it started to be exploited and coopted. As She Writes Press and SparkPress began seeing true results, and therefore legitimacy, in traditional spaces (reviews, awards, sales), we also started seeing all kinds of entities, most of them providing services to authors to varying degrees of professionalism, who were calling themselves hybrid publishers. In the absence of any true definition for what this middle-ground was (in fact, I myself didn’t really know what it was and wrote a definition of hybrid in the first edition of my book, Green-Light Your Book, that I wouldn’t stand behind today), the floodgates opened, and all kinds of businesses were suddenly calling themselves “publishers” even when they were not true publishing companies (which involves vetting manuscripts or being selective about what you publish) and having a marketing, distribution, and sales strategy for all books.

One early response to this coopting came from the Independent Book Publishers Association (IBPA), who released its Hybrid Publisher Criteria in early 2018. It offers nine criteria for the industry and authors alike to use as a measurement of a hybrid publisher’s integrity. The problem is that human beings run companies, and human beings fudge the rules, and in the aftermath of making public those criteria, I talked to more than a few heads of “hybrid publishers” who said to me with all sincerity, Yes, we’re hybrid; we meet all but two of the criteria.

The failure to force well-intentioned would-be hybrids and bad actors alike to comply to true standards met a new point of resistance last week with the release of a report called Is It a Steal?: An Investigation into ‘Hybrid’/Paid-for Publishing Services, put out by The Society of Authors and The Writers Union. It was clearly initiated to draw attention to the degree to which authors are exploited by “pay-for” publishing services, but the underlying and wrong assumption the report makes is that all hybrid publishing is vanity publishing, and that no existing hybrids have standards they adhere to—which would include things like vetting, traditional distribution, and proven sales records. Nor does it acknowledge IBPA’s criteria, which has been around for more than five years. The report, instead, is an attack on the whole of hybrid publishing, without any nuance or acknowledgment from its authors that perhaps hybrid publishing needs also to be on the offensive because our label is being misused, and therefore hybrid publishing is being exploited too. It’s important to note that the Society of Authors and The Writers Union are UK-based, and as the US-based Authors Guild rightly notes in a statement it released in response to “Is It a Steal?”, “The hybrid publishing space is larger and more nuanced in the United States. There are some highly reputable hybrid publishers in the U.S.”

Had this report been framed differently, I would champion its efforts. I believe that its authors, at heart, want to protect unwitting would-be authors from being taken advantage of—which is important in the confusing landscape of offers, from every corner of the Internet, to publish writers’ works for fees that reach up into the tens of thousands. I myself got a phone call just last week from a woman who couldn’t wait to partner with me to make my book, Breaking Ground on Your Memoir, published in 2014, a bestseller. The very premise of this offer was absurd, both because of what the book is (not bestseller material) and because of how old the book is, but I wouldn’t necessarily know that if I weren’t a book publishing professional. The old truism, “If it’s too good to be true, it probably is,” unfortunately falls on deaf ears and starry eyes when it comes to capitalizing on authors’ hopes and dreams.

“Is It a Steal?” attempts to address a known problem: predatory publishing practices. There are many bad actors out there, and we do need strategies to address this problem. We need to protect and educate writers. However, “Is It a Steal?” wants to strongarm bad actors by insisting that they follow a set of “recommendations.” But the bad actors won’t give a lick about recommendations; they will not be moved by a report telling them to be transparent and to produce a viable marketing plan if that’s not what they do or intend to do.

The better—and only—way to address the problem of bad actors in the publishing space, especially those who are coopting the good name of “hybrid” for their own reputational and financial gains, is to educate would-be authors. We must equip authors with the tools they need to see past flattery and compliments, to support them to think clearly when someone tells them they’ll make them a bestseller, to empower them ask critical questions about contracts and rights and finances. 

I’m as frustrated as The Society of Authors and The Writers Union by bad actors, scammers, and unscrupulous people who overcharge and underdeliver, but attacking hybrid publishers is not the right way forward. Many of us in the hybrid space have been immersed in author advocacy for years. All of the legitimate hybrid publishers I know are hard-working stewards of the book and author champions who entered into the hybrid space because they saw a need that they could fill. In my case, I started She Writes Press specifically because the barriers to traditional publishing are so high (too high) for most authors, and because there are many authors who do not want to self-publish, and for whom distribution and sales, reviews, and a team that supports them through the publishing process is the right combination of elements they’re looking for in a publishing experience. My own efforts as a hybrid publisher have focused from Day One on leveling the playing field for authors, to give them a fighting chance against their traditionally published counterparts and to sell more books that the average self-published author can on their own without infrastructure and publisher support.

I empathize with writers and authors who are getting bombarded with oftentimes contradictory information. But my best advice to all authors is to trust your gut. Know that reputable publishers won’t make hard sales pitches. If you feel pressured or like someone is catering to your ego, walk away, or at least ask for time to think. If you’re not sure about something—anything—in a contract you might have received, send that contract to the Authors Guild to review. Again, never succumb to pressure. If the so-called publisher is pushing you, that’s a red flag. Ask for references. Interview authors who’ve published with these entities in the past. If you want to be really well-equipped, join the IBPA. Their savvy, attentive staff will always answer your questions and address your concerns. Writers and authors have a world of resources out there; it’s just a matter of figuring out who to listen to.

Is Journaling a Waste of Writing Time?

Photo by Los Muertos Crew from Pexels

Today’s post is by writer and creativity coach A M Carley (@amcarley).

Lately, I’ve noticed several working writers whom I respect—authors of multiple published books, a healthy reputation, generous with the community—quietly dissing journaling. You may know people like this as well. For me, after the initial defensiveness passed, I looked more closely at the question they raise: Is journaling a waste of time that would be better applied to writing? You know, actual writing, not diddling around in a notebook.

What follows is an attempt to argue both sides. And, as a longtime journaler, I don’t intend to treat them equally. Disclosure: Although I was never in Debate Club, I did go to law school.

Yes. Journaling is a waste of time.

There are only so many hours in the day. Life’s demands only intensify. Why would you intentionally devote even a fraction of one hour to a journal? It’s better to use the time you have for writing—and write. Work on the thing you’re focused on, not some stray thoughts.

You’re robbing yourself. Let’s say you allocate an hour a day to writing. (Of course, you’ll take more, whenever it’s available, but your firm commitment to yourself is one hour, every day. Butt in chair.) How many pages are you good for in an hour? Take that number and multiply by 365. That’s your pages per year. Take that annual number and throw out half of it. Or three quarters of it. There, in simple arithmetic, is the quantity of work you won’t do, if you devote 50 or 75 percent of your writing hour to journaling. Why would you want to do that to yourself?

No one will ever see your journal. You’re a writer. The way to make it as a writer is to publish. You do the math.

Think qi. If you take your journal seriously, investing yourself in explorations and ideas, you’re diverting your creative energies from your main project into a side project that’s destined to go nowhere.

No. It’s not a waste of time.

It’s a false choice. Journaling and creative writing are qualitatively different enterprises. There’s no zero-sum calculation involved. Putting time into journaling doesn’t need to deduct from the pages you produce on your main writing project. If it’s a priority, make the time.

Warm-ups help you write better. It’s like singing scales before you practice the aria. It’s like going to the gym so you are ready to climb the rockface. It’s like practicing your speech in front of a mirror before you deliver it to a thousand people.

Side note: Part of me is moved to speak up about that last paragraph. Journaling can be a lot more than just warming-up exercises for the main event. Although it’s a fair argument to include, I don’t believe in casual dismissal of journaling as mere preparation for something else.

Think again about qi. That whole qi argument (above) is insidious and superficial. Remember the part about qualitative differences between journaling and other writing? It’s not a diversion from “real” writing to maintain your journal as well. On the contrary, the two activities are complementary and can be mutually supportive.

An audience changes things. For better and for worse, the awareness that there will be an eventual reader has an effect on the way we write. A private journal welcomes unselfconscious writing. In your journal, you are free to fire the editor. Knowing there’s no audience changes how we approach the page.

There are no mistakes. The essence of journaling is the permission to form letters and words (and images and sounds) undirected by your conscious brain. Journaling offers tons more flexibility than does focused purposeful writing for an audience. Journaling welcomes surprises.

Your journal makes the problem-solvers and quiet inner voices feel welcome. Over time, your journal can become the place to address those questions that are not readily answered. Your journal is a creative laboratory where you can amaze yourself and then apply your discoveries elsewhere.

A journaling practice can sustain and inspire your writing projects. Your journal can be a member of your creative team. And a commitment to your journal can inform and improve your entire life. Waste of writing time? Not even a little bit.

Writers, Stop Using Social Media (Like That)

Today’s post is by Allison K Williams (@GuerillaMemoir). Join her on May 11 for the online class Writer Mind, Marketing Mind.

Agent after agent. Editor after editor. “You need more platform!”

They’re right.

“Build a following on social media!”

They’re wrong.

It’s comforting for all of us to believe that social media—so countable, so calculated!—is the answer. That we should spend a chunk of our writing time each day pursuing the little dopamine hits of comments and likes, watching the numbers mount up, working hard to send out love and feel loved back.

But social media is not platform.

Social media does not drive book sales. Social media has never driven book sales. When an influencer sells 10,000 books “on social media,” it is their tool, not their fuel.

Think of constructing a literal platform: a hammer exerts the force to pound a nail. But it didn’t drive itself to the worksite. The hammer is the culmination of architectural plans, engineered into blueprints, supply-chained into piles of lumber and churning bowls of concrete, in a location where people have agreed to show up and pound nails.

Twitter, Instagram or TikTok might deliver the final “buy this” message, but that message is a single nail in your author platform. To have anything to attach that message to, you must first know your mission, discover your best mix of publishing, events, ads and social media, and create an audience who agree to show up and buy books.

As a valuable tool, social media helps nurture relationships built over time through online and real-life interactions in multiple contexts. Making a Reel, hosting a webinar or speaking to a book club will each result in 1-10 people signing up for what you do, even though the Reel reaches over a thousand people and the book club has maybe 10.

But social media channels are not tools to move product. Instead, they train you to produce content that keeps eyeballs on the screen, and to change that content every time “the algorithm” changes or a new product—Reels, anyone?—is rolled out.

Social media channels are built on the unpaid labor of women and children. Meta’s profit model forces their best workers to regularly guess and adapt to new rules, while constantly creating new work, under threats to their livelihoods and their self-esteem. It’s a Hunger Games where the Gamekeepers randomly disable all the weapons you’re carrying and reissue new ones without instructions:

Surprise! No-one sees your Facebook posts unless you pay!
Surprise! No-one sees your Insta posts unless you make video!

And the “walled garden” means if you leave a social network, your audience stays with them—which is why email lists are so important.

Long before issuing the work order, “Buy this book!” you need a platform that supports your mission.

The two kinds of author platforms that sell books

1. The culmination of our life’s work, of who we are. This is the most useful kind of platform. I’ve spent 25 years learning to teach, to write, to edit, and to share that knowledge. Jenny Pentland spent her life being Roseanne Barr’s daughter. Suleika Jaouad spent her life speaking, writing and reporting, eventually about her own illness. Each of these lives has become a book. With a life’s-work platform, writing a book is a logical next step to convey your mission to the world. The book enhances the platform as much as the platform supports the book.

2. A platform deliberately created to support a book, which may or may not become our subsequent life’s work. This kind of platform is built with faster work over a shorter period of time, and it’s what most agents and editors mean when they say, “Build more platform.” Ideally, this platform also builds on what you already love to do and have spent your life caring about.

From these platforms, social media is an economical, low-stakes tool to speak directly to our audience and discover what they want to read. Listen for the gaps in their knowledge, their complaints, their fears, and identify how your book—your mission—fills those gaps and soothes those fears. Build your platform on solving those problems and reaching those readers, often one by one. To paraphrase Margaret Atwood, a conversation after a conversation after a conversation is power.

Social media also allows us to amplify messages we share elsewhere:

I wrote an essay, here’s a quote on Twitter, go read it.I’m speaking at the library, here’s the poster on Instagram, please come.My book is on sale, here’s a review quote on Facebook, this is the third of the seven times you’ll hear the title before deciding to buy.Here’s what you should do before using social mediaKnow your mission, why it matters, and who needs your work.Have at least three paths to connect with your audience that are not social media—events and appearances, writing and publishing essays, op-eds or blogs, interacting in real-life groups, etc.Create an email list and start writing to your audience regularly.Be able to write a press release or pitch that serves the magazine/podcast/newspaper’s needs—not just your own.Engage regularly with other writers as your colleagues, and copy the behavior of authors you want to be shelved with.

You don’t have to do all of it—but you do have to do some of it.

Writers, stop chasing social media numbers.

Stop working for Instagram.

Use the hammer when it’s the right tool—and stop caring about whether the hammer loves you back.    

Note from Jane: If you enjoyed this post, please join Allison on May 11 for the online class Writer Mind, Marketing Mind., where she’ll discuss how to build a platform from what you already care about and love to do.

How the Literary Journal Landscape Is and Isn’t Changing

Today’s guest post is a Q&A by Andrea A. Firth (@AndreaAFirth), a writer, editor, and teacher and cofounder of Diablo Writers’ Workshop.

Getting published in literary journals is hard—still. Editors routinely say that they often have to turn down good writing. The submission cycle takes months, and months. But some things have changed. No more snail mail submissions. All journals have an online presence and most publish in a digital format, some with a print edition too. Submitting is easier. Online portals facilitate simultaneous submitting and easy tracking.

But how else has the lit mag world evolved in recent years?

To get a better understanding of today’s literary journal environment, I spoke with Becky Tuch (@BeckyLTuch), who publishes the Lit Mag News Roundup, a free, biweekly newsletter with more than 3,000 subscribers that covers the literary journal world (news, trends, controversies) and includes calls, contests, jobs and more. Becky also regularly interviews journal editors in an open Zoom forum and posts the videos on her Substack and YouTube channel (over 40 interviews already, also free).

Becky isn’t new to reporting on the lit mag scene. She wrote and managed The Review Review (a website dedicated to reviews of literary journals, interviews with editors, and publishing advice) for over ten years before selling the site to a university in 2019.

ANDREA FIRTH: Less than two years after wrapping up The Review Review you launched the Lit Mag News Roundup and started interviewing journal editors again. You didn’t stay gone for long. Why?

BECKY TUCH: I love reading lit mags, talking about literature, and connecting with people. The Review Review newsletter was always so much fun. The feedback I got from readers was really positive. It’s always a happy coincidence when you love doing something and people love what you’re doing. I missed that. We were all under lockdown, my kid was home from school, I wasn’t seeing anyone, I didn’t have any social outlets. And I wanted that creative outlet and connection again. I tweeted something like Should I revive my lit mag newsletter? People were like, YES, do it! I thought, wow, people remember it.

What new trends do you see in lit mags today?

A lot of lit mags are publishing material that could only be transmitted online. Scoundrel Time is a good example. I just interviewed one of their editors. In addition to poetry, fiction and nonfiction, they publish music. They publish original songs that people record and send in. You can have an auditory lit mag experience.

Focus on visual accessibility is another recent development. I recently interviewed the editors of TAB Journal, a really cool magazine in California. They think a lot about visual access, which is something not all editors think about but that is specifically in their mission statement. You can listen to poetry. You don’t have to read it on the screen. As people think about inclusivity and access, I think some are also thinking about visual access, which is great.

Print lit mags also continue to play with presentation. This was popular during the 1970s and 80s with zine culture. But some magazines such as McSweeney’s, Ninth Letter and Belletrist have taken it to new levels. Sometime in 2020 I got the latest issue of Belletrist. I had no idea what it was. It arrived in a tube, like what you use to mail posters. The theme for that issue was “unfurled.” The contents of the issue literally had to be unfurled.

Are you hearing anything new and different today than when you left The Review Review?

There is kind of a mood out there. It’s hard, maybe harder than it used to be, to sustain a literary journal. At the end of all my interviews I always ask editors what keeps them enthusiastic about the work. One editor sighed and just said, “I’m so tired.”

Another editor recently opened up about being done with his magazine. He’s been doing this since the 1970s. His magazine was having all these problems due to the supply chain issues. The recent issue was backlogged for months. They couldn’t get the paper. He was just done.

It seems like lit mags have been closing or getting budgets cut left and right this past year. The Believer closed, Conjunctions nearly closed; Alaska Quarterly Review, Sycamore Review, Gettysburg Review, have all faced budget cuts.

Still, most editors I’ve talked to seem energized and enthusiastic. There were scores of new journals created during the pandemic. I tracked how many lit mags opened in 2020. I found over 75! I don’t know how many have lasted; sometimes these are created on a whim. But my sense is that during the pandemic, a lot of people were starting lit mags for the connection and to focus their mind and energy on something productive and meaningful.

It sounds like you don’t sugarcoat anything in your editor interviews.

I don’t want to sugarcoat anything. That’s a great interview if an editor says, “This job is hard on me.” That’s what people want to know. Who are you as a person? And how does that affect your editorial decisions? How does that shape what happens at your magazine?

That’s my goal with these interviews, to get at something deeper. As an editor, what is your worldview, what is your philosophy, what’s your temperament like, what are your values, who are you? We don’t always get to all of that. But I think this is so interesting and important for submitting writers to know. It’s also nice to provide this space for editors to talk about their pride and joy, these magazines, and what the work is really like for them. All this was always part of my mission, to make that personal connection, to bring writers and editors together in a genuine way.

Literary magazines today will have a statement that they’re very interested in getting submissions from BIPOC writers and marginalized groups. Some of them are going a step further and waiving submission fees. Do you think it’s making a difference?

Yeah, I do. All the issues surrounding this are very complicated. I think a lot needs to change on a societal level to get real changes. A concern I have is that sometimes it feels like window dressing, like, oh we’re just trying to balance things out so we look more fair, but we’re not actually changing things on a structural level.

I remember when the VIDA count came out in 2010. And everyone started paying attention to women and gender parity in publishing, which is great. But part of the conversation that didn’t appear to be happening was the issue of the wage gap. Are women getting paid in a way that enables them to go to graduate school? Are they getting health coverage that enables them to take time off work and focus on their writing? Fairness in publishing is interconnected with all these other things. Are you actually supporting policies that would make a difference in people’s lives? That would create the conditions for all people to pursue a creative life?

But I do think there is positive change happening.

Recently you interviewed the editor of Consequence Magazine, a journal focused on the realities of war and geopolitical violence. Is this a new journal?

It’s not new. I had corresponded with their founder, George Kovach, who has since passed away. We actually reviewed his journal a couple times. I’ve long been fascinated by this journal. That was just pure coincidence that I arranged this interview and then there was this geopolitical stuff happening. It was a sad coincidence.

What excites me about their magazine is the possibility to hear from so many types of people. All literary magazines are interested in diversity now, which is great. But especially with war-themed literary magazines you’re going to hear from people who don’t have MFAs, who’ve served in the military, who’ve lived all over the world, so that, to me, is really interesting. I’ve been wanting to talk to them for a long time.

Editor pet peeves?

The main one, always, is when the writing is not the right fit. Writers need to know what the journal publishes. When a writer doesn’t follow the guidelines, when they submit work that is too long or too short for the magazine, or work that shows the writer has not done the barest amount of research into the sort of work the magazine publishes, it’s just annoying and a waste of everyone’s time.

Another thing that comes up sometimes is writers submitting to magazines too much. Marcela Sulak, the Editor of Ilanot Review, wrote a great piece about this for Lit Mag News Roundup. Of course, it’s important for writers to get their work out the door, to be persistent and submit simultaneously and submit widely. But when a writer repeatedly withdraws work from one magazine because it’s been accepted somewhere else, it can be a hassle for editors. One time is fine. But three or four times over several months is too much. It can make an editor feel that the writer is not invested in their magazine and also does not respect their time.

Oh, and there are always the complaints about writers who respond in nasty ways to rejection letters. It’s amazing when you talk to editors and learn some of the stuff that goes on. I understand—it’s never fun to get a rejection. But editors don’t like sending them either. Lashing out at editors is just bad for everyone.

What is your recommendation for writers? How many journals do you send out to?

It takes time to submit. And money. I say, maybe start with seven or so. It’s not exact. The most important thing that I always tell people is make sure they’re all your first choice. So if any come back and say yes, you will be really excited to accept that. Wherever you’re submitting at once, make sure you’re equally excited about them.

You write fiction and nonfiction. What advice do you have for writers trying to handle the long process of writing and rejection?

Keep going. Be obsessed.

What it comes down to, and I’m not sure people talk about this enough in creative writing programs: If you are passionate and obsessed then you will get it. You will find your way. I don’t believe only in rigid discipline, writing 1,500 words a day or whatever. Sometimes I definitely use this routine. And that absolutely works for some. But ultimately, if you are obsessed with writing, stopping and giving up are just not options.

I don’t know how to tell someone to be obsessed. Maybe it’s really a matter of saying, Let yourself be obsessed. Give yourself permission.

When you’re obsessed with something, when you’re passionate, you just really don’t worry about what an editor thinks. Your driving force is too powerful to be concerned with that. Give yourself permission to become fanatic about your subject matter and what you’re trying to communicate.

The people who are great, the people who we worship in our culture, they do what they do because they have to do it. Let yourself become one of those people. Unabashedly obsessed with your work. Then it doesn’t matter what this or that editor thinks. Who cares? You’re completely wrapped up with what you’re doing.

Why Frankenstein Still Sells 40,000 Copies a Year

“Frankenstein Parking, Universal City, CA” by Grufnik is marked with CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Today’s post is by author Catherine Baab-Muguira (@CatBaabMuguira).

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein remains an undisputed classic. It’s required reading in classrooms across the world, while artists, writers and filmmakers constantly reinterpret its man-makes-monster premise. The longer you look, in fact, the more extraordinary its success becomes.

First published in 1818, Frankenstein was released in a modest edition of just 500 copies. Some 200 years later, in 2021, a first edition sold at auction for $1.2 million, setting a new record for a book by a female author. Thomas Edison, Mel Brooks and Tim Burton all adapted Frankenstein for the screen, with the total number of film adaptations now well into triple digits. Fresh off the success of Pan’s Labyrinth, Guillermo Del Toro began pre-production on his own adaptation in the 2010s—his dream project, he said—only to have it killed by the studio. A huge Frankenstein mask still hangs in the entrance to his L.A. home.

There are Frankenstein-inspired dolls for sale at Build-a-Bear. Frankenstein Legos. There’s even a breakfast cereal you can buy seasonally at Target—General Mills’ Frankenberry. Any 19th century novel inspiring this many interpretations is a wonder. But maybe most enviable are the book’s “backlist” sales. As the Guardian reports, Frankenstein still moves an eye-watering 40,000 copies a year, which means it outsells 99% of all “frontlist” (or newly released) titles.

Authors dream of such long-term success. But how to pull it off? Is Frankenstein a freak, or can it show us how to make art that lasts?

“Write a classic” isn’t a strategy, obviously. It’s a goal, plus a highly contingent outcome. No one could recreate the conditions that gave life to Frankenstein—its famous origin story is itself a series of unlikely contingencies. In 1815, Indonesia’s Mount Tambor volcano exploded in the largest, most powerful eruption ever recorded. With so much ash still in the atmosphere, the summer nights of 1816 were gloomier than anyone could remember. It became known as the “year without a summer.”

Mary Shelley, then 18 years old, happened to be staying in a Swiss villa with her lover Percy Bysshe Shelley, next door to the poet Lord Byron and other literary friends. To entertain themselves in the evenings, they told ghost stories, and in the grand tradition of writers everywhere, tried to outdo each other. Later, Mary Shelley would claim a certain monstrous face and form came to her in a waking dream. Two years and three drafts later, Frankenstein was published, though Shelley, fearing scandal, didn’t put her name on it. Instead, the book was published anonymously, which meant that—notwithstanding differences in copyright law then and now—its premise could essentially be pirated in stage plays and elsewhere without attribution.

The novel caught on quickly in part for such perverse reasons. To explain its staying power, however, we have to look further, seeing how Shelley’s novel demonstrates timeless truths about “perennial sellers,” to use Ryan Holiday’s phrase. As he argues in Perennial Seller, “the more important and perennial a problem” that a book concerns, the better the chances it will survive the test of time.

Frankenstein practically bum-rushes the criteria. Its characters’ problems are timeless. Victor Frankenstein, a starry-eyed scientist, is blinded by ambition, leading him to an act of creation he comes to bitterly regret. Meanwhile the monster, like all of us, finds himself here, alive and breathing, without ever having been consulted. Stranded and alone, he craves love. Denied it, he plots revenge. Shelley’s shifting POV, which veers from creator to so-called monster, poses daunting questions: Don’t we all deserve love? If bad treatment creates bad actors, what is our moral responsibility to every person and creature around us?

Helping to make these questions extra sticky is how readers of all ages may identify with an abandoned, rejected child. Impressions from our early childhood stay with us, consciously or unconsciously. Since our parents’ love is key to our survival, all of us know what it is to need it—and far too many know what it means to get something rather less than what they’d hoped. When stories touch us on such universal fears and on longings so fundamental they virtually define our species, then they can survive beyond their own epoch, fascinating no less than an Edison or del Toro.

This is why a great premise tends to trump great prose. That’s not a bolt of lightning, insight-wise, though it’s true. Frankenstein proves “astonishingly adaptable,” says the literary biographer Richard Holmes. Adam Gopnik, in the New Yorker, made the same claim about H.G. Wells’ work, citing Wells’ “premises so simple and strong that they can sustain any amount of retelling.” Edgar Allan Poe’s stories, for the same reason, get retold and reimagined in every generation.

So the reasons for Frankenstein’s success include its quick initial spread and a story touching on our sheer worst fears. And now here’s where things get really interesting.

Per a phenomenon known as the Lindy Effect, books that survive tend to keep surviving, as Holiday points out. Nassim Taleb has advanced the same idea, arguing that the longer a work of art survives, the longer it will survive. Which means that Frankenstein’s survival has contributed to—and still contributes to—its survival.

Tautological? Sure. Absolutely. That’s the whole point. Art that lasts tends to keep lasting.

Less directly, the Lindy Effect also explains why, while aspiring writers simply want to get published, established writers often aim to backlist well. Writing one hit is hard enough. Now imagine trying to do it three or four times over. Almost no one can. Pros know the better, more practical plan is to try to create work that survives, that can sell year after year after year.

It’s reasonable to ask if this doesn’t set the bar too high. If your aim is simply to finish writing your book, period, ensuring its long-term survival may seem an impossibly steep climb. At the same time, what Frankenstein makes clear is how you may just want to go for broke—all the more so when you consider the differences between Shelley’s time and our own.

Getting a traditional publishing deal was hard enough in her day. In ours, it’s even harder. There are more spots, but far more people competing for those spots. Likewise, while the pool of readers is much vaster, with literacy rates so much higher, there’s far more competition for readers’ attention. Mary Shelley had sexism to fear, not Netflix; jury’s out on which one’s worse. Under such conditions, it makes sense to attempt your own masterpiece—to aim to create work that might endure rather than something so topical it won’t. If the odds are desperate, not to say impossible, why not try to write books that are, per the Internet parlance, “very lindy”?

In other words, hitch your wagon to a star. Or maybe a misunderstood monster. Whatever works.

Tell Your Story with 3 Tarot Cards

Today’s post is by author and book coach Margaret McNellis (@magickalbard).

I’ve always been obsessed with story, whether it was my five-year-old self asking my parents to read Winnie Pooh and the Blustery Day until they had it memorized (sorry not sorry!) or pursuing a bachelor’s degree in art history to study the tales told through the visual arts.

But it wasn’t until I began devoting more time to story that I realized all the ways tarot can help us tell stories.

Using tarot for writing is nothing new. There are many books on the subject, and with spirituality becoming more front and center via social media, magazines, books, TV series, and more, is it surprising that using tarot for story might undergo a bit of a revival?

As a tarot practitioner, one of the most common questions I’m asked isn’t, “What does my future hold?” but how people can learn to use their own decks. We’re all seeking answers, and the cards are ready to provide—if not to life, then to the tales we strive to tell.

I created a 9-card spread that weaves together character and story arc and allows me to use the imagery and symbolism in the tarot to understand story in another way, a visual way.

The art historian in me loves this.

While the 9-card spread is much too large to share in an article, you can work with a condensed version that focuses on helping deliver clarity on the most important foundational elements of storytelling: character and story arcs, or the internal and external journeys.

So grab your cards, and get ready to use them to spotlight the heart of your tale.

How do you interpret the cards?

If you’re new to working with the tarot, it can feel intimidating. At 78 cards, the tarot deck can seem both full of possibility and confusion. Plus a card’s meaning can shift based on what cards it sits next to, whether it’s reversed (some practitioners even read them sideways), or where it lands in a spread. After early attempts, you might be ready to pack your deck away in the farthest reaches of your cobweb-iest closet.

Please don’t. You can work with the cards even if you haven’t memorized them, and even if you’ve lost the little booklet that comes with most decks.

All you really need to do is follow your intuition. You can’t really get cards “wrong” because the message they give you is the message you need to receive. Yes, there exist preconceived ideas of what they symbolize, but the only reference you really need is your intuition. What does the imagery make you think of? The words? The number on the card, if it has one?

This is the key to reading intuitively, which is the type of tarot reading I practice.

I’m going to talk you through some tarot basics that I use, so you can start playing with them and seeing your story in a new light today.

The deck is split into 5 suits:

The Major ArcanaWandsSwordsCupsPentaclesThe Minor Arcana

First, let’s talk about the minor arcana, numbers, and court cards.

Wands: The suit of fire. This is a masculine-energy suit, so it’s direct and focused. This suit often has to do with business, family, and home. It’s associated with zodiac signs like Aries, Leo, and Sagittarius.Swords: The suit of air. This is the other masculine-energy suit, so it’s also active and focused. This suit often has to do with intellect, ideas, legal matters, education. It’s associated with zodiac signs like Gemini, Libra, and Aquarius.Cups: The suit of water. This is a feminine-energy suit, so it’s more reactive and big picture. This suit often has to do with emotions, interpersonal relationships, and spirituality. It’s associated with zodiac signs like Cancer, Scorpio, and Pisces.Pentacles: The suit of earth. This is the other feminine-energy suit, so it’s more reactive and big picture. This suit often has to do with resources, which can but doesn’t always include wealth. It can also relate to craftsmanship. It’s associated with zodiac signs like Taurus, Virgo, and Capricorn.

Within each of these suits, you’ll find numbered cards and court cards. The numbered cards, depending on the deck, may have scenes or just pips to represent the numbers.

Court cards reference the seeker or someone else in their lives. Pages and Queens often carry feminine energy, whereas Knights and Kings often carry masculine energy. Pages are often young, inquisitive, adventurous, and sometimes naïve. If they were readers, they’d be young adult readers. Knights are your New Adult readers—they’re older than Pages, but not possessing the wisdom of age that Queens and Kings have. In tarot, Queens rule with the heart, and Kings rule with the mind.

Numbers matter, too. For this, here’s a brief numerological reference list you can use to help you understand the minor arcana. By combining these numbers with the suit, you can gain a deeper understanding of each numbered card in any of these four suits:

Aces represent new opportunities, leadership, and gifts from the Universe.Twos are all about balance and partnership.Threes are about community and creativity.Fours reflect stability and foundations.Fives show challenges and change.Sixes involve caring for the self or others in one’s sphere.Sevens are about retreating into the self and reflection.Eights talk about hard work and mastery.Nines suggest near completion and/or serving others in a larger sphere.Tens are about the end of one cycle and the start of another.

The last key thing to understand about the minor arcana suits is they refer to everyday life.

The Major Arcana

The Major Arcana refers to the soul’s journey through life. These are bigger, more life-changing moments. A tarot spread with a lot of Major Arcana cards for a character rarely points to a quieter story.

Here’s a quick guide to help you understand how to read the Major Arcana:

The Fool is like the grand page. This card is all about faith in the self and the Universe, but also sometimes naivety.The Magician and The High Priestess are about the ability to manifest desires and know things intuitively, respectfully. They are the masculine and feminine energy cards.The Empress and The Emperor speak of the ability to create/fertility of ideas and the ability to rule, respectively. They are like the grand queen and the grand king. We can also think of them as expansive (Empress) and restrictive (Emperor) energies.The Hierophant is a card that represents authority or, if reversed, rebellion/standing out.We often see The Lovers as a romantic card—and it can certainly refer to romance. But really it’s about external partnership, whereas The Chariot is about internal partnership and control of one’s own masculine and feminine energies to create movement in life/the soul’s journey.Strength is that quiet courage, compassion and strength together.The Hermit is about self-reflection or being the light or wisdom for another.The Wheel of Fortune suggests change, but change that relies on chance. This could be a signal that the seeker can exert more control over their path or that they are trusting of the Universe.Justice is all about balance and decision.The Hanged Man shows that waiting, or perhaps a fresh perspective, would help the seeker.Death is a card that often scares people, but it doesn’t mean physical death. Rather, it’s an opportunity to rise from the ashes. Not that the “phoenix burning” moment won’t be challenging—it will be. But the seeker can grow and make something better of their situation.Temperance is about balance and moderation.The Devil is all about temptation and the seeker’s ability to break the proverbial chains.The Tower is about ideas that were built upon a foundation of inaccuracy or something that did not turn out to be true. It’s about disillusionment and the opportunity to create a narrative for the self based in truth and reality.The Star is about following one’s dreams and recognizing that to succeed, dreams must be grounded in real, temporal effort.The Moon is about illusion and magick.The Sun is about success and the ego.Judgment is about action and consequences.The World is about wisdom and completion of the cycle (which often restarts at The Fool).

A note about potentially frightening imagery: Depending on the deck you’re using, some cards may have alarming imagery. If you don’t have a deck yet and you’re worried about this, I recommend the Cat Tarot. It’s whimsical and light, but still useful. Remember: The tarot is symbolic. A collapsing tower doesn’t mean lightning will strike your house and cause it to crumble.

A note about the card meanings above: These are surface-level descriptions. As you get to know the cards more, they will take on deeper meanings. They may also take on more personal meanings. There are many books and online resources that can help you study the cards if you wish to expedite this process, but if you’re reading intuitively, don’t worry about it. Trust that the meaning you derive is the right one.

How to have a productive tarot reading

Now that you’re ready to work with the cards, I want to take a moment to ensure that you’ve got some practices in place that will help you make the most out of your reading.

The first is understanding spreads, or layouts. These are placements for the cards, chosen to help you not only read the cards in a specific order, but to see the story of the cards unfold spatially as well. If you’re new to using spreads, this will become clearer when I explain the 3-card spread below.

It doesn’t matter how you shuffle the cards. You can shuffle them any way that makes sense to you. Tarot cards can sometimes be large and some shuffling styles may feel unwieldy. Go with what works. We can say the same for cutting the deck.

It doesn’t matter how you deal or select the cards, so long as you’re consistent. Don’t flip some around and not flip others the same way.

Keep an open mind. If you are unwilling to trust the cards, they’re not likely to make sense. If you don’t believe in using them spiritually, that’s fine—think of them as a writing tool. Try not to judge the practice of using them—or your own practice of using them—ahead of time.

Finally, focus on your protagonist and story. If you don’t have one in mind yet, just focus on being ready to think about character development and story development, and trust that the cards will give you the results you require.

Get story clarity with this 3-card spread

Let’s start with the layout of the cards. The first one is easy; you’re going to place it on a flat surface in front of you in the portrait orientation. This card will represent your protagonist and their deepest desire—the why of their story.

We will place the second card in landscape orientation, atop the first card. This card is going to represent your protagonist’s major challenge or hurdle, or what stands in their way. It could be a situation or, with an antagonist, another character or group. This is going to help create tension in your story.

We will place the third and final card in portrait orientation, above the other two (not on top of them, just farther away than the first and second cards). This third card is about the climactic moment. This is the most significant reversal of your story, when the internal and external journeys shift simultaneously, when all the external beats have led up to this moment of highest tension when the reader finds out if your protagonist has changed or not, where the story tests whether your protagonist is dynamic or static.

Let’s consider a sample reading.

The first card is the Three of Pentacles. Maybe this character is an artist—a writer, a singer, an actor perhaps, dreaming of the recognition of others. But not just recognition—the type that proves the artist’s mastery of their craft. They may also dream of freedom from imposter syndrome.

The second card is The Tower. The hurdle is internal on one level, and external on another. Perhaps this artist has been told time after time that they won’t be successful. The Tower may be their first brush with success. Maybe this is the first time they’ve really had an attack of imposter syndrome. Maybe they’re ready to give up their craft.

The third card is the Eight of Pentacles. The climactic moment is when they can choose to prove that it’s through their hard work, not dreams alone, that they experience mastery. That it’s not always easy and sometimes they fail, but they can pick themselves up and get back to their creative work in order to succeed.

Sounds a lot like a budding novelist, doesn’t it?

This character’s deepest why is to have their work be appreciated, to be loved. Maybe they themselves create art in order to be loved. It doesn’t get any deeper than that.

Disillusionment creates the tension, the challenge of seeing past it to a more honest narrative.

The reversal, where the protagonist shows they can change and put real-world and working effort into their dreams, is the climactic moment of this story.

We’re given the internal journey in all three cards. The dreamer faces disillusionment and must reframe how they see themselves as successful. We’re also given the opportunity to dream up external beats. I gave some examples in the sample reading, but there are many situations that could prompt this sort of emotional journey.

Final thoughts

These three cards can help you gain clarity and focus on your story and the foundational elements that matter most. But there’s so much more tarot can do for your characters—and for you, as the writer. If you’re curious about how tarot can be a tool for writers, I hope you will continue to explore and trust your intuition.

I’m still learning about ways these cards can help with storytelling, both from a character and writer perspective, but have incorporated this practice into my writing and book coaching experiences. I’ve not only found it fulfilling and helpful, but also fun.

Fair warning though, I’ve become a bit of a tarot deck addict, and the same can easily happen to anyone. Thankfully, they don’t take up too much room on the shelf.