Time to Write

Inspiring lessons and practical skills for writing the novel you’ve always wanted

Emily Winslow

Cambridge Creative Writing Company

Copyright © 2023 by  Emily Winslow

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Cambridge Creative Writing Company

Unit 82A, James Carter Road

Mildenhall, Bury St Edmunds, IP28 7DE

www.CambridgeCreativeWritingCompany.com

Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

Time to Write/ Emily Winslow. -- 1st ed.

ISBN 978-1-7395147-1-6

Have you always wanted to write a novel?

Emily Winslow will help you develop the mindset and skills to get you started, keep you going, and see you through. Time to Write is a creative writing guide aimed at anyone who wants to write a novel and could use some support.

It contains 49 lessons, each easy to read and packed with insights based on experience. Emily has taken her own work to high levels with major publishers, and has learned from teaching at Cambridge University what makes students light up and what makes their work drastically, excitingly improve.

This book is full of encouragement, recognizing and affirming different work styles. It’s a total handbook, teaching a broad range of specific writing skills with insight and clarity as well as covering topics around writing in-depth, such as how to give and take critique and how to evaluate publishers and agents.

Acclaimed, multipublished authors love Emily’s teaching:

“Emily Winslow is a uniquely brilliant teacher. I would highly recommend that anyone who cares about improving their writing follow her advice.” Sophie Hannah

“Emily has taught a range of students of all ages, nationalities, and experiences, from first timers to those already in the early stages of a writing career. Students blossom with the confidence she provides.” Elizabeth Speller

“This book is packed full of fantastic insights to ignite and stoke creative inspiration. Every teacher and student of creative writing will want it on their shelves.” Menna Van Praag

Popular life and business coach Kristen King recognizes the value of creative writing on mental health and self image:

“Emily’s insights skillfully draw out not just words and stories, but also self-awareness, perspective, and connection. Whether you’re working on a book-length project, dabbling in personal essay, or just trying to figure out who the hell you are, this book is a must-have for anyone who thinks their words and stories aren’t enough.”

It’s time to write the stories inside you.

Contents

Part 1: Getting Started

1.

Daydreaming and Discipline

2.

May I?

3.

Outlining versus Improvising

4.

Write What You Know?

5.

The Two Buckets

Part 2: Writing Skills

6.

Metaphors and Similes

7.

Showing and Telling

8.

Setting

9.

Relevant Details

10.

Grocery Bags and Maypoles

11.

Flashbacks and Exposition

12.

Introducing Unknown Words

13.

Principles of Dialogue

14.

Point of View: Options

15.

Point of View: First-Person in Depth

16.

Point of View: Third Person in Depth

Part 3: Storytelling Skills

17.

Structure and Plot

18.

Wonder and Worry

19.

Scenes

20.

The Blurb is for You

21.

Aspects of Blurbs

Part 4: Technical Skills

22.

Technical Difficulties

23.

Dialogue Formatting

24.

Dialogue Punctuation

25.

Apostrophes

26.

Transitions

Part 5: Facing the Middle

27.

Writing Onward

28.

Cause and Effect

29.

Ideas for Middles

30.

Revelations

31.

Assessment Outlines

Part 6: Being Understood by Others

32.

Depth and Clarity

33.

Tasting the Ginger

34.

Preparing for Readers

35.

Critique: Introduction

36.

Critique: Praise is Not Just Flattery

37.

Critique: Neutral Observations

38.

Critique: Criticism

39.

Critique: Taking it In

Part 7: The Professional Life

40.

Publishing: Big, Small, Self

41.

Publishing: Money

42.

Publishing: Marketing versus Promotion

43.

Vanity Publishing

44.

Agents

45.

Rejection and Celebration

46.

The Professional Rollercoaster

Part 8: Your Future

47.

Writing Groups

48.

Wish List

49.

The Beauty of the Work

Onward!

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Part 1: Getting Started

Chapter one

Daydreaming and Discipline

In April of 2020, I was asked to appear as a guest on BBC Radio Cambridgeshire. With lockdown in full swing, people were home, and many had time on their hands. The host wanted to tap into the positive message of “Now might be the time to write that novel!” She invited me as one of two novelists to give advice.

The other writer, a fellow crime novelist, had a message that emphasized planning and discipline. It clearly works well for her, and I hope that those who needed that nudge heard it joyfully. It’s certainly an appealing message that’s exciting to project into the future: if I write 500 words each day, I can finish my novel in six months! If I write 1000 words a day, I could be done in three months!

I had a very different suggestion: Rest. Daydream.

This is because there are lots of steps to writing a book, and writing is only one of them. Daydreaming, brainstorming, and what-iffing are parts of an essential foundation that counts as a form of progress. Mid-project stages of analyzing what you’ve already written, wrestling with plot problems, and imagining the consequences of various character actions can count as progress. Imagining your own success—what you hope reviewers or prize-givers will one day say about your work—helps you crystallize what you’re trying to do. Stimulating your imagination with inspiring examples, and even getting some distance and perspective away from your project, can all be forms of progress.

Sadly, work that doesn’t involve a keyboard or pen often goes unrecognized. When people dismiss the value of non-writing forms of work, they often berate themselves, calling themselves lazy when they’ve failed to add to their wordcount. Then, commonly, shame makes them want to avoid the project and perpetuates the not-writing rather than jump-starting the writing they desire.

And when people dismiss the value of the non-writing forms of work, they can easily miss the gifts they contain. If daydreaming has been “doing nothing” then its fruits go unexamined and unused. Where is your imagination leading you? Pay attention! There are treasures there, and necessary rest.

By no means am I against self-discipline. It’s necessary too. There’s a part of every project—sometimes a large part—where inspiration isn’t enough, and progress can only be made by sheer will and an external deadline. But our culture is already steeped in that fact. In my experience as a teacher, student writers already know they need self-discipline, and they’re skilled at guilt and apology.

So, I encourage daydreaming! Not because daydreaming alone is enough, but because our culture is already skewed toward the necessary value of discipline. We need balance between the two, and for most that means discovering the value of daydreaming with relief and gusto.

Chapter two

May I?

The writing questions students most often ask me begin with the words the “Am I allowed...?”

They usually want to know if they’re allowed to use multiple narrators, or jump around in time, or tell a novel entirely through a dog—whatever they consider non-standard or daring.

The short answer is always “Yes.”

The long answer begins “Yes, but...”

You can do anything: you’re the author! And authors have already done stranger things than whatever you’re thinking of. (Multiple narrators and jumping around in time are quite common. Animal narrators less so, but by no means unheard of.)

Whatever it is you think might be interesting to try, you’re allowed to try. The “but” is that I can’t promise you it will work well, or, even if it does work well, that it will be worth it.

The wonderful thing about writing is that, if it doesn’t work, you can try telling the same story a different way. Or move on to another story. So, I say, if you feel the urge to try out something unconventional on the page, you absolutely should. Maybe it will be brilliant.

A better question than “may I?” might be to ask about authors who have already done this thing, whatever it may be, even if you think it has never been done before. Chances are it has, or at least something similar. Ask a teacher, a librarian, a bookstore employee, or ask online. It can help to see how other authors have handled it.

Experiment with whatever you like, but in the end ask yourself:

Is it truly important to you or is it just being different for its own sake? For example, some students are very keen to try writing dialogue without quotation marks. Maybe they want to use dashes or italics to indicate dialogue, or just have dialogue flow within the narrative. Are they allowed? Yes! But it can be a lot of effort for very little payoff. It may work great in one scene but be difficult to maintain clearly in a longer manuscript. This can be true for any unconventional formatting. Whatever it is, consider whether it’s important enough to you to justify the limitations or frustrations it may impose. If it is, go for it.

Are you aware of possible consequences? For example, letting a vulnerable character die or ending the book without solving the mystery might upset or frustrate some readers. Are you allowed? Yes! If you believe this element is important, and you’re willing to narrow your reader pool to serve the readers who will appreciate it, that’s great. Just make an informed decision.

PS: I lied about the answer always being yes. The answer to “Am I allowed to put my medieval or fantasy story in a calligraphy font?” is no. It’s too uncomfortable to read!

Chapter three

Outlining versus Improvising

Some people plan a whole book beforehand. They decide how the story will go, from start to finish, sometimes with a chapter-by-chapter or even scene-by-scene outline, and then they write it. These people are planners.

Some people are the opposite of that: they begin a book having no idea where it will go and figure it out as they go along. They discover. They’re sometimes called gardeners, dealing with whatever grows as it appears, or pantsers, for “writing by the seat of their pants.”

And many people are in between, perhaps planning but then changing the plan substantially as they write. Or they plan the first half carefully but have no idea how it will end. Or they start having no idea what’s going to happen and then halfway through stop to carefully plan the rest of the book.

All of these ways of writing a book are legitimate. Often planning is hailed as the best way; some people tell others or themselves that failing to outline in advance is laziness. I want you to know that that’s not true. In my observation and experience, there are as many pantsers as planners.

Planners tend to be able to write faster, with less plot revision. If your favorite author writes a book a year (or more) chances are they’re planners.

Pantsers discover as they go. They get to enjoy the thrill of figuring the story out alongside their protagonist. Some pantsers spend years on each book, immersing themselves and pausing at big turning points to figure out the next steps. Often (but not always) they have to make more revisions and adjustments than a planner does.

Readers sometimes insist that they can tell if something was planned or pantsed, but in a good book it should be invisible either way. Let’s say that in chapter 1 the heroine knocks over an umbrella stand and an umbrella rolls under the couch, and in chapter 20, when she’s cornered by a villain, she’s able to grab that umbrella and use it as a weapon.

A planner would have designed chapter 1 to include the umbrella stand incident for exactly this purpose. A pantser might have created the umbrella stand incident solely to show the heroine’s shock at some news; then when they get to chapter 20, they think about what’s in that room and remember the fallen umbrellas. They make use of what happens to be there, even if they hadn’t put it there for that purpose.

In the end, the scenes should look the same. In a planner’s world, the author is God designing the story; in a pantser’s world, the author is practicing natural selection and evolution, responding naturally to what happens to be there.

What do you need to know before you start?

The key is to know at least what your protagonist knows. If they’re the detective, for example, it’s fine not to know who the killer is. But if they have a dark secret in their past, you’ll be able to write them better if you know what it is.

I really enjoy being in the midst of the mystery with my characters, figuring it out alongside them. For me, knowing the answer already can reduce my motivation to keep writing. Or, even if I know the answer to the main mystery, I may not know how it’s going to affect everyone when it’s revealed. I write to find out!

It’s natural

Some people can’t write from an outline even if they want to, while others are lost without one—and many are in between. Allow yourself to work in the style that comes naturally to you. But do try the other way, at least in part if it appeals to you; you might learn something and expand your repertoire.

Chapter four

Write What You Know?

It’s common advice to “write what you know.”

There’s good reason for this. Writing about something you’re not familiar with can lead to fundamental errors in how you depict a place or situation, a psychological reaction or a cultural experience. These errors can affect not only description but plot, making it difficult to unpick if you realize your error after you’re deep in.

It can also lead to basing your story on stereotypes that can be inaccurate or offensive. Even if you get it right, instead of sharing interesting things your readers don’t know, you’re just repeating common knowledge.

These are good reasons to follow the adage.

But limiting yourself to writing what you know can take the fun out of writing. A lot of people are drawn to writing because they want to have an adventure through their stories. As do their readers!

The key is to expand what you know.

Writing what you know doesn’t have to mean only writing about what you’ve personally experienced (though it can; an experienced diver might be able to tell a heck of a diving story, for example). You can research what you haven’t done yourself and where you haven’t yourself been. In fact, if you’re writing historical, you have no choice but to rely on research, and if you’re writing fantasy, you may use research to bolster your imagination as you create a coherent, functional new world.

Research: look for systems

While physical details are good—like looking at a map of a place you’ve never been to figure out how far things are from each other, or looking at magazines for fashions from before you were born—can you also find experiential details? If you can’t experience something for yourself—though in some cases maybe you can!—you can use interviews, letters, memoirs, or diaries in which someone shares what it’s like being in that place or doing the things your characters do. Even better, talk to knowledgeable people. Ask questions and share your intended ideas for their feedback.

And as you do these things, remember that the systems that make a time and place tick are often their most interesting aspects.

For a place, you might wonder: What patterns are there to a year, for example, a tourist season or a harvest season? Does almost everyone drive to get around (Los Angeles) or almost no one (New York)? Do families dominate the playgrounds, or kids with nannies, or kids alone, or are the playgrounds mostly empty? You don’t need to know everything, but you should know the things that will affect your characters.

For a character’s job, you might wonder: Are there hierarchies in this workplace and how do they manifest? What kind of background does it take to get a job like this, and what kind of past is likely indicated by a character having this job? What do they spend their time doing day-to-day; are they collaborating, or working on their own, or managing others? Does their work bleed into their free time or is there a strong break between the two?

When am I ready?

Some people use research to delay writing. They just keep accumulating information and never feel they have quite enough to start making use of it. If this is you, you need to push yourself to get writing.

Some people get so excited about an idea that they skip research altogether. If this is you, and you’re writing about something outside of your experience or knowledge, take a break. Find some resources you can immerse yourself in. Jumping in too early can create plot problems that are unfixable.

In both cases, choose ahead of time how much is going to be enough. If you’re in the first group, this may be less research than you’re used to. If you’re in the latter group, it may be a lot more.

Chapter five

The Two Buckets

There are two main sets of skills for a writer: writing and storytelling.

In the writing bucket, there are skills like a precise and varied vocabulary, a way with metaphor, vivid description, immersive dialogue, and insight well expressed. Great sentences, great paragraphs, and great pages come from skillful writing. If you find yourself underlining sentences or reading a paragraph aloud to the people around you, you’re admiring great writing.

In the storytelling bucket there are skills like suspense and structure. Choosing a great place to start and a satisfying place to end, creating scenes that are active, ordering chapters in such a way that the reader is desperate to turn the page—those are storytelling skills. If you stay up late to find out what will happen next or recap a plot twist to your friends, you’re admiring great storytelling.

Sometimes, you’ll hear people complain that certain bestsellers are “badly written” and marvel that other people enjoy them so much. Often, it’s great storytelling skills that are shining through, even if the writing itself is basic. There’s a lot to admire and learn from great storytelling.

Sometimes you’ll hear people complain that certain critically admired books are “boring” and that nothing happens. That can be great writing overcoming a lack of story. There’s a lot to admire and learn from these books too.

A writer should strive to strengthen their skills in both buckets.

Strengthening your writing

You can strengthen your writing by noticing great passages as you read them. Maybe you could collect favorites by copying them into a notebook or photographing them with your phone. You can make an album of lines and passages that inspire you.

Caution: Sometimes people are taught they’re supposed to admire what intimidates them. You might be tempted to praise writing for being complex, overwhelming, or using large words, because that’s what it seemed like got praised in school. This is especially true when school focuses on older books, which can be so different from the way we write now that reading them can feel strange and difficult.

I encourage you to praise writing that affects you. I encourage you to praise writing that feels easy to read, pulling you forward like it’s inviting you to dance. Did a description make you feel like you were really there? Did dialogue make you laugh out loud, or gasp, or spark a tear in your eye? Did you reread a sentence a second or third time just for the pleasure of it? Did you make note of an insight that inspired you or captured a feeling you’ve been unable to pin down? That’s great writing. It might be complex, or overwhelming, or use large words, or it might be deceptively simple.

The point is to recognize writing that skillfully affects you, however impressive you think it may or may not be to whatever authority figures may live in your head.

Strengthening your storytelling

You can strengthen your storytelling by thinking about how some of your favorite stories are assembled. Why did they start where they did? Why did they focus on that character’s journey and not someone else in the plot? Is there a different way the story could have been told? Which way do you prefer and why?

This works with movies too. While writing skills are learned primarily from examples in books, storytelling skills can come from movies and TV as well. Do you have a friend who’s a great storyteller about their own life, always making you lean forward, desperate to hear what happens next? Think about how they do it. What do they focus on? What do they skip?

Good storytelling is all around us. Notice it, enjoy it, and think about how to emulate it.

Part 2: Writing Skills

Chapter six

Metaphors and Similes

Metaphors and similes are together a great skill from the writing bucket. A metaphor is when you say something is something else, for example, saying a restless child is a wiggly worm, or a large amount of work is a mountain, or someone’s refusal is a roadblock. A simile is when you use the words  like or as to make that comparison. For example, “her heart beat like a jackhammer” or “his voice was as shrill as an alarm clock.”

Metaphors and similes can make descriptions more vivid and memorable. They can also help a reader understand an unfamiliar thing by comparing it to a familiar thing. For example, “The ballroom’s circular ceiling had beams emanating from the center, like the ribs in an umbrella.” The reader hasn’t been to this ballroom, but comparing it to the shape of a familiar item makes it easy to picture.

Metaphors aren’t limited to directly saying what something is or was. Verb phrases can be metaphorical too. Someone who “passes the baton” to a colleague by handing work along for next steps is being depicted as a runner in a relay race; someone who “irons out” a problem is being depicted as someone making laundry wrinkle-free and ready to wear.

Some metaphors have been used so often that readers don’t consciously make the comparison anymore. The above example “irons out” has been used so often to mean “solves a problem” that most readers won’t think of the steam, the fresh-from-the-dryer scent, the weight of the iron and the way its tip moving forward pushes a wrinkle flat. It’s fine to use these common metaphors—especially in dialogue, where they’re natural—but using too many thoughtlessly can come across as clichéd. If you want a comparison to be vivid, consider options that are specific to your story’s milieu, mood, and characters.

For example, comparing a red dress to blood might be effective in evoking danger or death, while in a context that’s more cheerful it might be more fitting to compare the red dress’s color to an apple. When a metaphor or simile is used by a character, whether in dialogue or narration, the choice of blood or apple (or something else) tells us something about that character, their experiences, and how they see the world.

Mixed metaphors

A mixed metaphor is when you combine metaphors that don’t work well together. Multiple metaphors and similes can be fine—a hero can be both skyscraper tall and stallion strong—but they become unsuccessful when the metaphors seem to contradict each other. For example, saying “his deep roots in the industry made him a highflier” doesn’t quite make sense. While it can be true that someone’s long experience (deep roots) can contribute to impressive success (flying high), the metaphors of roots and flight don’t match. How can something deeply rooted take flight at all?

Really good metaphors and similes stand out, so you don’t need a lot of them. Occasional use can make a strong impression without overwhelming the reader.

In the beginning

Be careful of using metaphors early on in a story. When a reader is just getting into a book, saying “she put on her clown makeup” can be unclear; is this character putting on an excessive amount of normal makeup, and the word ‘clown’ being used as exaggeration? Or is the story set at a circus and she’s an actual clown? Deeper in, when your reader is more certain of the story’s context, you can be more free with vivid metaphors. At the start, similes can be a better choice: “her heavy makeup made her look like a clown.” The word like makes it clear that it’s not literal.

Chapter seven

Showing and Telling

“Show don’t tell” is a common and profound piece of writing advice. It can be difficult to grasp at first, because in a way everything in a book is told with words. Here are some straightforward examples:

Telling: It was cold.

Showing: She shivered and pulled her cardigan tightly around her.

The telling gives us a fact on its own; the showing uses action to show how characters are affected by the fact.

Telling: He was a rude person.

Showing: “You can’t tell me what to do!” he muttered, shoving the waitress aside to get to the table he wanted.

Again, the telling gives us a fact on its own, while the showing lets us see this trait in action.

The rule is often phrased “show don’t tell” as if showing is always the right thing and telling is always the wrong thing. But sometimes telling is the most direct, clear way to communicate. It’s more accurate to say “show more often than you tell and choose what you show strategically.”

Showing is more memorable. If you tell something in passing, and show something else in action, chances are your readers will remember what you’ve shown, and it may overshadow what you’ve told.

Showing demonstrates priority. If you show something, readers will think it’s important.

Showing is more interesting and more fun. Showing helps the reader feel what the characters are feeling and react alongside them. That’s why you should have a lot of it! It’s the difference between a summary of a story and a story itself. For example:

Showing versus telling is not always clear-cut. Sometimes you tell and then show what you’ve told; sometimes you show and then summarize with a tell. Sometimes a character does the telling, either through dialogue or first-person narration, and the way the telling is done—its tone, opinions, and style—shows us things about the character at the same time.

It can be difficult to write enough words to complete a novel. Sometimes this is because student writers rush. A common mistake is to try to fit your entire premise and backstory into a first scene or chapter. This usually involves a lot of telling: summarizing and exposition. It’s more effective to slow down and show one or two things at a time. You don’t need to give the reader everything all at once.

Try making a list of all the things you want to communicate to the reader. Underline or highlight the most important ones. These things can be given scenes that show the information in action.

For example, if it’s important for your reader to know that the protagonist is new at work and feels intimidated, you might write a scene that shows her unable to find something she needs, or trying to get help from someone unhelpful, or trying to hide her inability from her boss. That allows the reader to observe the situation and feel that anxiety for themselves.

Rather than saying a character takes a lot of vitamins and medicine, let us observe their morning ritual. Rather than saying a character is behind on their rent, let us witness an argument with their landlord, or a difficult decision to leave wanted groceries behind, or an awkward request for getting their paycheck a few days early.

What you are and aren’t showing

If you spend your time showing unimportant things, you can mislead the reader as to what your story is really about. If you find yourself repeatedly drawn to writing scenes that seem unimportant to your plot, it could be that you’re avoiding writing significant scenes because they feel daunting. Once you’re aware of that unconscious resistance, you can make the decision to face it. Or perhaps you’ve misunderstood the heart of your story; perhaps those “unimportant” scenes, of family bickering or coworkers negotiating a delicate truce, are what your story is really about, and you can adjust your understanding.

Both buckets: writing and storytelling

Showing versus telling is here in the writing skills section because, with any scene, you face the choice over and over on a micro level to tell or show. But it’s also a storytelling skill, because choosing scenes that will allow you to show key story elements is part of how you structure your plot. For example, if you want to show that someone is respectful to his boss and rude to servicepeople, you’ll need to include scenes that place that character at work and at a restaurant or shop; if you want to show someone’s rescue skills, you’ll want to include a scene where they can use them. These are plot choices.

Chapter eight

Setting

Setting includes a place’s physical elements, like a forest or buildings. But the physical things may or may not be the most interesting things you can describe.

There are many different aspects of place that may be relevant to your story:

- The larger where, for example: New York, Paris, a small town in rural England.

- The smaller where, for example: a dentist’s office, a hotel, the bottom of a well.

- When your story takes place if it’s not set in the present day. For example: the year 1066, or during World War II.

- A story-relative time: just before the election, or on the eve of someone’s 30th birthday.

- A setting’s temporary state, like tornado season in Kansas, tax time in an accountancy office, the third day of continuous rain, or the third week of a terrible drought.

- Characters around the protagonist can be part of the setting. Think of the beginning of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, when the townspeople sing about how they feel about Belle. Their unified opinion of her strangeness is the context in which she lives, just as much as the cottages and farmland.

Using the above as prompts for thought, what are the most important aspects of your setting?

Your protagonist’s version of place

For every setting, there’s no one perfect description of that place. The setting will be described differently depending on the characters and story. For example, New York could be a discouraging place your character wants to escape, or an inspiring place your character wants to get to. The doctor’s office might be frightening for someone who’s been medically traumatized, or it might be a second home if their parent is the doctor. Cheerleading practice in the gym could be wholesome and fun, or competitive and tense. Never assume that just naming a place will make every reader feel about it how you feel. Take the time to be specific.

Your character’s feelings about the place will affect what elements you focus on and how you describe them. That scary doctor’s office might be full of sharp tools and posters that admonish and warn; the happy doctor’s office might be full of smiling nurses and colorful lollipops for small children. Both of these descriptions could be of the exact same place, but the protagonist’s worldview affects which parts of it get noticed. In the discouraging version of New York, the skyscrapers covered in windows could be constantly looking down and judging the protagonist’s failure; in inspiring New York, they could be reflecting the sun like a giant, city-sized disco ball.

Ask yourself:

How does your protagonist feel about this place? Is it someplace they fit in or someplace they feel excluded? Is it someplace they admire or someplace they want to escape?

What mood do you want to give your readers? Is the mood of the story—and so perhaps the perceived mood of the place—ominous, or dazzling, or comforting, or dangerous, or something else?

Setting in action

Once you’ve thought about what your setting is, you can think about how to communicate it. One of the best ways to do that is to show your characters interacting with it.

The opening of Sharyn McCrumb’s She Walks These Hills, for example, depicts a forested mountain to us by describing a character running through the terrain. This combination of action and description keeps us connected to the plot and demonstrates the effect of the setting on characters, which is both interesting and relevant.

The first paragraph of In the Lake of the Woods by Tim O’Brien, in contrast, uses pure description without action, choosing to focus on elements that show how isolated the place is, which is a key plot point, and which sets up an ominous mood. But by the end of that paragraph, it connects to the characters by telling us how they feel about that isolation, and in the second paragraph they’re interacting with the setting, spreading blankets on the porch. It’s an effective choice, just as effective as Sharyn McCrumb’s.

Characters interacting with setting versus pure description is like showing versus telling. Sometimes description, like telling, is just the right thing, but ultimately you want to get to interaction, and have more interaction than description overall.

Setting expressed throughout

It’s fine to tell your setting directly. Sometimes a book or chapter will have a heading that says something straightforward like “Paris, 1789” or an opening sentence like “New Hampshire in the fall is at its most beautiful and overrun with tourists.”

Even if you clearly tell where you are, it doesn’t end there.

The effects of being in that place and time should be embedded throughout your story as well. The era, for example, can continue to be shown through fashion or technology. The effects of weather, or of crowdedness or emptiness, of beauty or drabness, of cleanliness or dirtiness, can influence your characters and force them to respond. A wet bench can result in people standing even if they’re tired; a muddy path may send characters off into the grass or the road. Give your characters the opportunity to be affected by place throughout your story.

Systems

The physical aspects of setting can be important and interesting, but you should also consider the invisible systems of a place. Those are my favorite parts of describing setting.

You can show the norms, values, and priorities of their society or group. How are people expected to conform here? What makes for success in this place, what makes for failure? You can show how the place is supposed to work, and where it fails to work that way. What dangers are here? What’s happening here that’s deeply embedded in tradition, and what’s happening here that’s new?

There’s an early page in Devil in the White City by Erik Larson that describes late-nineteenth-century Chicago not by its buildings or weather, but by its constant influx of newcomers, and the job ads, some manipulative and dangerous, that bring them there. That’s what matters to that part of the story, so that’s what he so effectively describes.

Is this normal?

Lastly, is the overall mood or situation you’re showing unusual or typical for this place? Is it always rainy, or is this downpour a shock? Is everyone always surly like this, or is the town usually welcoming and friendly and something terrible has happened? Books often begin with something unusual happening, but equally books often begin with establishing the norm just before the unusual thing happens. Your readers won’t know which you’re doing unless you make it clear.

Remember, readers start out open to everything. If Godzilla is stomping down your city street, we don’t know if this is the invasion of a monster intent on killing us all, or if this is a story entirely about a society of Godzillas going about their day and this one is on his way to work! A story can be about literally anything, so don’t rely on readers making the correct assumptions. Help your readers know what your specific story is about.

Chapter nine

Relevant Details

I would love to tell you about my friend Menna. She loves to read and loves to eat cake. When we get together, it’s often to have a lovely meal. If it’s not, she often brings something sweet as a gift for us to share while we talk and talk and talk, and she’ll have put it into a beautiful box or bag so that even just opening it is magical.

I probably wouldn’t bother to tell you that she has blond, curly hair or that she’s of medium height. She does and is, and I don’t mind you knowing that, but it’s not that interesting. It’s not relevant to what we do together or how she makes people feel. (I might mention that despite her unbridled passion for cake, she is slim, which seems terribly unfair!)

It’s a common instinct to think that to describe a character means to describe what they look like. But often that’s one of the least interesting things you could mention, unless you're explicit about why those physical aspects matter.

Is more detail better?

It’s commonly taught that using detail is the key to making a description vivid. And it is! But only if those details add up to something, and if what they add up to is relevant.

Piling on disconnected, random details is ineffective: It was October. She had red hair. She was 5-foot-4. Her eyes were blue. She was a Capricorn. The rug was purple and thick and a little bit dirty.

There are two questions with a list like this: why are these details together, and why do any of them matter?

Adding up

When you give multiple details, they should connect and work together. Some good descriptions take the form of a mini thesis. You assert that someone is beautiful, or obnoxious, or strangely friendly, for example, or that a place has some certain characteristic, then you list details that help prove that assertion. Here are two examples:

Her house was perfectly neat, as if no one lived there at all. The throw pillows on the couch were all positioned exactly six inches apart. The fireplace had no ash in it, or even the smudgy remains of ash, even though it had been a cold winter. The mat to wipe your feet on looked clean enough to wipe your face with.

I felt completely intimidated. He was well over six feet tall, looked muscular underneath his neat gray suit, and didn’t crack even a bit of a smile. Worst of all, he didn’t seem to blink.

In the first example, the details work together as evidence of the narrator’s assumption of no one living there. In the second, all the details work toward convincing the reader that feeling intimidated by this character is warranted. In each case there are multiple details, but they add up to one overall descriptive point.

Relevance

You can also single out a certain detail and expand on why it matters.

From that above list, let’s look at “She was 5-foot-4.” It’s pretty boring information on its own. We don’t know what that means to her or even if it has any effect at all. But what if you describe how it’s relevant to your story:

I’m five-foot-four. This is the exact average height of a British woman in 2019; I looked it up. Everything else about me is average too, nothing to attract notice: brown hair, size 14. An interest in The Great British Bake Off, and a crush on Dennis Crown. Oh yes, that’s average too: everyone in the office has a crush on him. He was sent here by the head office for a month’s work and we’re all trying to get a piece of him.

or

I’m five-foot-four, which makes me the tallest girl in my family. And just two inches shorter than my dad. The whole row of top kitchen cabinets go unused in our house, because none of us can reach them. That’s why we never noticed the mysterious box.

or

I’m five-foot-four, too short to be a model. That’s how I know the man at the bus station was lying when he said he wanted to introduce me to an agent. I know I’m pretty, but it’s real-world pretty not professional pretty. I think he just wanted to get alone with me.

In each of these, we learn what being that height means to her—if to her that height is medium or tall or short—and how it connects to the plot about to unfold.

People often think that the key to description is adjectives, similes, and metaphors. These all have a place and can be useful, but the most important key to description—whether of a character, a setting, or anything else—is relevance.

It’s better to share a few details and be clear about why they matter to the story than to include hundreds of details that don’t connect.

Do you have to describe what a character looks like?

It’s up to you! Sometimes what a character looks like is important to the plot, or to their self-image, or to how others think about them, in which case it’s relevant.

If you’re going to mention what they look like at any point, it’s important to take early control of how the reader pictures them. If you haven’t mentioned their hair at all and then on page 100 it’s long and curly, readers who pictured them with a pixie cut will have to readjust. Readjustment is distracting, and pulls readers out of your spell.

But if what your character looks like isn’t relevant, no need to mention it. Focus on whatever is important and describe that: their habits, their hopes, their connections with others, what they rely on to get through the kinds of struggles they expect to face each day.

Chapter ten

Grocery Bags and Maypoles

I enjoy sorting things. It’s a good thing I do, because that’s a lot of a writer’s job. A novel contains dozens, maybe hundreds, of little ideas, character developments, plot points, and themes.

One of the most important things an author does is organize these many things in such a way that the reader is able to easily take them in. Sometimes it seems like an overwhelming job, but I remind myself that I regularly bring home dozens or maybe even a hundred items from the grocery store. It never seems hard, and that’s because I use...

I bet you’ve guessed it from the title, and from the fact that you use them too: grocery bags.

Grocery bagging

It would be pretty challenging getting a week’s worth of groceries home if you didn’t have any bags. Carrying, say, twenty-seven items would be difficult, and chances are you’d drop several of them. But put those twenty-seven items into three bags, and chances are you’ll get them all home easily.

In this metaphor, the items are pieces of information. At the start of every book there’s a lot that the author needs to tell the reader, more than the reader can comfortably remember if each fact is disconnected from all the others. But if you group bunches of them together, you can help the reader hold onto all of them. That’s what I mean by grocery bagging.

What does it look like to bag items together? You relate them all to one thing. This is the “adding up” we looked at in the previous chapter. If all the details you use to describe someone or something add up to a specific overall trait, that’s easier for a reader to hold onto than if they’re all unrelated traits. For example:

She was the wealthiest person he had ever seen. Her blouse was silk, her shoes were snakeskin, and her handbag had a recognizable logo repeated all over it. A stylist had done her hair in a perfect blow dry.

Because all of those details are in the one bag—wealth—a reader can easily carry them.

When you have a lot to tell, brainstorm about how you can distribute it among just a few bags. For example:

Instead of introducing six individual characters, introduce two groups of characters:

Instead of describing a dozen different responsibilities the protagonist has, how about putting them into three bags:

Maypoles

If grocery bags don’t inspire you, how about a maypole?

See if there’s some single important event or aspect of a character to which different pieces of backstory can be attached, and around which they can revolve:

It would normally be overwhelming to tell the reader about family problems and work problems and friend problems one after the other. But by highlighting their connection to a single central item, in this case the divorce, they feel like one thing, not several things. They’re all ribbons around the divorce maypole.

The more you group details, the more they’ll be both meaningful and memorable to your readers.

By the way, maypoles aren’t just important for the writing skills of description and exposition; they’re important for the storytelling skill of plotting as well. If you have a complex plot with many threads, decide which one element is the maypole, and relate all the other elements to it. You can have as many ribbons swirling around it as you like, but typically just one maypole: a central question, event, or goal that connects the various elements.

Chapter eleven

Flashbacks and Exposition

Characters exist in their present, but they carry their pasts within them. Those pasts can be important parts of your story, even though they’re not happening in the story’s present.

- Backstory is what happened before your story begins.

- Exposition is text that tells the reader about that information.

- Flashbacks are when those past events from the backstory are shown to the reader as memories or scenes.

All of these can be connected to the present, and often work best that way.

As mentioned in chapter 7, it’s a common mistake to try to tell all of a book’s exposition as quickly as possible, all bunched together at the start. It’s as if the writer feels they have to catch the reader up to everything from the past before they’re allowed to start the book in the present, where the book will then firmly stay.

But it can be more effective to inject information about the past only as it’s needed by the reader, throughout the book. Even better if you can do this at times when it’s natural for a character to be thinking about it.

Backstory is about the past, but memories of it exist in the present. You can use the present presence of memories as a way to attach exposition and flashbacks to present action.

For example, a character hanging family Christmas ornaments may be reminded of their childhood Christmas traditions and of their parents, or a character looking in a shop window at the high price of a needed object may naturally recall an embarrassing scene when their account was closed at their bank. It’s natural for the narrative to share this information in a way that’s woven with the present action.

But if your character is in a panic trying to unlock a door as a stalker is running toward them or is delivering a rousing closing argument before a jury, it would be jarring to mention those things above—childhood Christmas traditions or their bank balance. That is not the time for them. Talking about them will take your reader out of the scene you worked so hard to immerse them in.

If you feel the reader needs that information to appreciate the scene, think of what scenes could happen beforehand to allow you to naturally weave in that information.

Flashbacks

Flashbacks, which are the depiction of backstory as fully realized scenes, can be woven into the narrative, or set apart as their own scenes or chapters. In some books, formal flashback scenes may be a regular feature, a parallel narrative taking turns with the main plot. More commonly, flashbacks are vivid memories or musings of a character within the present narrative. The key is to clearly signal to the reader when you’ve left the flashback and are now firmly back in the present. For example:

Abigail shook her head firmly. This was not the time to get lost in a reverie. She hung another sparkling bauble on the tree; they would be here at five o’clock and she had only half an hour to get the decorating finished.

Dialogue

Sometimes authors use dialogue as a means to communicate exposition to the reader. This can be effective but be sure the characters have a reason to say these things to each other. If your story includes a lot of complex information, for example, a main character whose specialized job is key to the plot, it can be helpful to include another character who needs to be taught by the expert. Correcting a newbie in the workplace gives your expert a reason to say things out loud.

If one of your characters is tempted to say, “As you know...” that’s a hint that they probably wouldn’t be saying this out loud at all.

Chapter twelve

Introducing Unknown Words

Sometimes a writer needs to introduce words or terms the reader doesn’t know. There are a lot of possible reasons for this:

- Fantasy or science fiction writers who are making up words and terms.

- Historical novelists using words and terms that are not used in the present day.

- Writers of characters who use job-specific jargon or foreign phrases.

- Writers of settings that are likely to be unfamiliar to many readers.

- Writers using brand names that some but not all readers will know.

- Writers referring to things that will be familiar to some but not all, like a historical battle or scientific principle.

- Writers using vocabulary that will be familiar to some but not all, because a word is unusual.

- Series writers referring to something in a previous book, which will be known to devoted readers but not new readers.

Sometimes giving an explanation or definition within the narration is the most straightforward solution. But relying on explanation as your only tool can mean you end up with too much of it. Also, if it’s a term that some readers will understand, giving an explanation can make them feel impatient.

Another possible solution is to have one character explain it to another. The important thing is to make sure that they have a good in-story reason to do so, such as one being new and the other experienced. As was mentioned in the exposition lesson, if a character says “as you know” then they probably wouldn’t really be saying it!

But to my mind, the most elegant solution is neither of these. It’s to show the meaning or explanation.

For example, if you’ve made up an object called meebles, and you write this sentence, it would not be helpful:

She put six boxes of meebles in her shopping cart.

Meebles could be almost anything! We know they come in boxes, can be purchased at a store that has shopping carts, and are of a size that several boxes can fit in a cart, but that still leaves a lot of options.

But what about this?

She always seemed to have a meeble in her mouth or her hand. I leaned over to offer her the flame from my lighter. She accepted, took a drag, and smoke floated up between us.

Most people can correctly guess that by meebles I mean cigarettes.

And how about this:

The music from the Meebles commercial danced in her head. She sure would like to drown those little cartoon elves in the milk they pour over those godforsaken chalky chocolate balls. Why the twins loved them so much, she’ll never understand.

Again, most people can guess the meaning of meebles here as breakfast cereal.

If you show the thing in use or in action, readers are likely to figure out what it is.

This also works with characters! It’s a personal struggle for me that, as a reader, I don’t hold onto names very well. If you just say “Jason entered the room,” even if you introduced him earlier, I may not remember who he is. But if he comes in, plonks his briefcase onto the couch, and pats his suit pockets looking for the black-ink pen he needs for the contract signatures, then you’ve reminded me that he’s the family lawyer. This is an elegant way to remind readers who may have forgotten without alienating readers who remembered, who might roll their eyes at the more obvious “Jason, the family lawyer...”

Here’s an unhelpful sentence:

Jason showed me a dead rat. I recoiled.

Jason could be anyone! He’s maybe kind of mean, or into rats, but that’s all I get.

But this:

Jason nudged the door open with his nose, dropped a dead rat from his mouth, and tentatively wagged his tail. I recoiled.

Now I know who Jason is. Context clues can make things perfectly clear to your reader.

Party game

The concept of meebles is an effective exercise that can be practiced as a game among fellow writers and friends. Keep your meaning of meeble secret and use it in a sentence or paragraph. Can the others figure out what or who it is? Can you figure out theirs? This is great practice and great fun.

Chapter thirteen

Principles of Dialogue

The purpose of dialogue is to tell the reader what characters have said to each other. This is obvious, but it’s important to note that this is all it is. It’s not necessarily what the characters are thinking or feeling, only what they’ve chosen to say out loud in this specific moment to that specific person. It’s certainly not necessarily what the author believes to be true.

Dialogue can lie. Dialogue can be true as far as the character knows, but ultimately incorrect. Dialogue can be true but incomplete.

It can be part of an action: a decision being made, or a realization happening before our eyes.

It can be part of showing a setting: what people are saying communicates a lot about the values and mood of a place or situation.

Dialogue can be exposition. We can learn important information from what is explained in dialogue, but do be careful to give a reason for the characters to say these things to each other. People don’t usually recap things for others who already know, so use your plotting to create situations where it would be natural for one character to tell something to another.

We can also learn from the way one character speaks to another. Are they condescending? Are they dismissive? Are they fawning? You can demonstrate relationships and power dynamics with speaking style and word choice. Who is deferring to whom? Which character gets called by a first name and which by an honorific such as Mr. or Ms.? Who gets called by a nickname or endearment and is it mutual?

Dialogue can be used to communicate other points of view in first person narrative. This can be handy!

Dialogue might match and build on the characters’ actions and setting, or it might stand out in contrast to them. For example, someone might be lying or exaggerating or oblivious. Dialogue is a strategic choice that characters make.

Dialogue might be different depending on whom the speaker is addressing. What impression are they trying to make on this specific person? What might they say differently about this same topic to someone else?

Dialogue can tell or show:

Telling: “You know I hate bugs.”

Showing: “Ack! A spider! Get it away!”

Dialogue, action, and description should be woven together. This isn’t a playscript; it’s still prose, even if the dialogue is taking temporary center stage. Think about how narrative can continue to play a part.

If you want to represent a pause, use action and description to take up time between lines of the dialogue. Do you know the cliché of the sound of chirping crickets (something we can only hear if everything else is quiet) to represent silence? You can use something similar—but more relevant to your setting—to represent the time between characters speaking:

What about accents?

A little hint of an accent goes a very long way. Word choice, sentence structure, and sometimes very, very sparingly dropping a sound (huntin’ and fishin’) are more than enough. Emphasizing an accent too much has the possibility of coming across as mocking, especially if it’s not the author’s own accent. In most cases it’s for the best to just say a character speaks, for example, “in a delicate French accent” and leave it at that.

Chapter fourteen

Point of View: Options

There are three main ways to narrate a book:

- Third person is the most common form. That’s when the book is being told from an outside point of view. It refers to the characters as he/she/they.

Malcolm stepped forward to answer the call. He was ready.

- First person is also common. That’s when a book is narrated by a character from within the story. The narrator refers to themselves as I and me.

I stepped forward to answer the call. I was ready.

- Second person is not common at all. That’s when a story casts the reader as a character. It tells what “you” did.

You stepped forward to answer the call. You were ready.

In these examples, nothing is different except the pronouns and their associated verb forms. But over the course of a book, different forms of narration can lead to small and even very big differences.

Third person (he/she/they) allows you to go anywhere and tell any part of the story that you think the reader should know. You can have one scene on the battlefield, another scene at home with the family worrying about their faraway soldier, another scene in the White House as the government makes decisions.

First person (I/me) has limits. You can only show scenes in which that character participates. You can only share ideas and opinions that that character would have. They’re the ones telling the story.

Why would I want to limit myself?

Some people look at the limits of first person and think it’s just too much. Why would you want to limit yourself at all?

Think of your story like rushing water and your limits like a dam. Putting up a dam doesn’t make there be less water; rather, it force-creates a lake of deeper water. Yes, third person allows you to go more places, like a rushing river, but first person allows you to go deeper in one place, like a deep lake. Breadth and depth are equally valuable. Choose whichever works best for your story.

What about combos?

You can use multiple first-person narrators, so while each section or chapter is through the eyes of just one character, the next one can be through the eyes of a different character. The challenge and joy of multiple first person is to highlight the differences between the narrators, how they see the world, and how they express themselves.

You can have a part of your story that’s first person and a part that’s third person. For example, your detective chapters could be third person alternating with murderer chapters in first person.

You can have first person, or third person, augmented by letters or diary entries or court transcripts or case notes, or a book made up entirely of any of the above. You’re free to be as creative as you like. A good example of a diary book is Dark Matter by Michelle Paver. A good example of a book in letters (which is called an epistolary novel) is Ella Minnow Pea by Mark Dunn.

If you’re using more than one kind of narration, you could think of them as A and B. You might use one as a prologue and the rest of the book as the other: ABBBBBBBBBBBBBB. You might alternate them equally, ABABAB. Or you could use an unequal pattern: AAABAAABAAAB. You could even have no pattern at all, ABACCABAC. Whatever works best for your story.

What about second person?

You can use second person (“you”), too! Be warned that while it can be easily effective in a short piece it’s more challenging to sustain over a whole book. The most famous example is Bright Lights, Big City by Jay McInerney, and you might be interested in You by Zoran Drvenkar, which uses second person serially to identify the reader with several different characters.

To clarify: saying “you” as in “you know what I mean” is addressing the reader as audience, not second person narration. Also “you” as in “you can’t just say things like that!” is an informal replacement for “one” as in “one doesn’t say things like that.” It’s a general statement, not second-person narration. True second person is the casting of the reader as a prominent character within the story. It’s rarely used, but immersive when used well.

Chapter fifteen

Point of View: First-Person in Depth

First person is my favorite. All of my published novels are written in multiple first person, typically five narrators in each one.

In my first novel, The Whole World, I was careful to choose a mix of narrators who had distinct voices: three were young people around age twenty, two were middle-aged; three were British, two American; three women and two men. They each had different backgrounds that would affect what they pay attention to and what they use as metaphors.

It was exciting to play with these different voices, but also intimidating. These are the principles that helped me.

The principles of first person

When you write in first person, you’re writing in the voice of a character within your story. They’re telling their own story, and you’re limited to only what they know and to their way of speaking, which will come through in several ways:

- Vocabulary and metaphor

Maybe they use formal words or maybe casual words. Specialist words or simple words. A narrator who describes a garden using the Latin names for the flowers is different from a narrator who uses the common names, who’s different from a narrator who just says “those big purple ones over there.”

When using metaphors, what will they compare other things to? Someone who says a woman’s hair has the shine and color of a well-polished banister is showing us that they’re someone who notices the details of housekeeping. Someone who says the cat purrs like the engine of a Porsche 911 shows us that they’re someone who cares about cars. What kind of comparisons is your narrator likely to make? What will they reveal about their experiences and opinions by choosing these points of comparison?

- Voice

Do they chat like they’re sitting across from the reader, or do they build their case like they’re proving something in a court of law? Maybe they organize their thoughts in a formal way, or perhaps they ramble in a stream of consciousness, or anything in between.

- Opinions

The whole world around them will be described based on their biases and past experiences. Strong opinions make first-person narrators great fun.

- Priorities/focus

This is slightly different from opinions. Different opinions mean whether the narrator thinks a dress is pretty or ugly. Different priorities mean whether the narrator notices the dress at all. What kind of things will your narrator focus on?

All of these work together so that every description your narrator gives is doing the double duty of also describing the narrator themselves, through their choice of focus and how they talk about it. Your narrator may be telling, but the way they tell can show the reader who they are.

- Assumptions

These are a fun tool for manipulating the reader. Your narrator can be telling the complete truth as they understand it and yet still steer the reader wrong.

A narrator who misleads the reader through their assumptions—or even in some cases through deliberate omissions and lies—is called an unreliable narrator. Readers tend to trust a narrator until they’re given a reason not to, and you can play with that trust to great effect.

Example

A good example of first person comes from The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger. The narrator’s casualness, slang, and disdain work together to create an intimate and vivid voice:

Choose wisely

If you’re writing a first-person narrator, then you can only tell what they know, express what they believe, and take the reader to places they have access to. Make sure you choose a character who can go where you want the story to go.

Beware too much “I”

Switch up sentence structure so you’re not repeating the pattern of “I did this. I did that.” Look at the difference between this:

I put on my shoes and my jacket. I opened the door. I stepped outside into the bright sunshine.

and this:

My shoelaces weren’t quite long enough, and I had to pull them tight to make any kind of bow at all. My jacket was also too small, but it was all I had. I opened the door and squinted. Sunshine was hell on my hangover.

They communicate the same things, but the latter has a more varied sentence structure. Unless you’re deliberately using repetition for effect, a more varied structure flows better and keeps the reader’s attention.

Beware too much filtering

You usually don’t need to say “I heard the birds chirp” or “I saw her slip the envelope into her bag.” If your narrator knows about these things, we assume they’ve heard or seen them. You can just say “The birds chirped” or “She slipped the envelope into her bag.” (But remind yourself to only describe what your character can directly sense or reasonably assume.)

What about accents?

As with dialogue, a little goes a long way. That’s even more true for a character who’s going to narrate an entire chapter or book. Word choice and phrasing can be more effective than trying to write out what a character’s pronunciation sounds like, which can come across as mocking. While some great books have been written in vernacular, that is most successful when the author is from that culture and the book is particularly about that culture. You’ll know if you’re writing that kind of book and just letting your natural voice shine through.

How can you communicate something that your narrator isn’t directly part of?

Your narrator could be directly told about it or overhear people talking about it. Dialogue is a great way to inject another character’s point of view without deviating from first-person narration.

Your narrator could read about it, and you could consider including part or all of the article or letter (or whatever your narrator is reading) as part of your text.

You could decide to use multiple first-person narrators or to alternate with third person.

You could decide to switch to third person completely. There’s no shame in trying something out and then deciding something else would work better!

Chapter sixteen

Point of View: Third Person in Depth

Third person is the most common point of view in fiction. It uses a voice from outside the story and refers to the characters as “he/she/they.”

Some writers use third person close or third person limited, which is similar to first person. In third person close, the narrative follows one character closely and the narrative tone reflects that character’s opinions and feelings. Dorothy B. Hughes’ In a Lonely Place is a great example of third person close that is so near to first person the only difference is that it uses he instead of I. One potential advantage of this is that it gives the readers and author a little bit of extra distance from the character, if they need that for their own comfort. (Hughes’ protagonist is a murderer.)

A first-person bit of narration might look like this:

The idiots at the hospital were stonewalling me again. Whoever I needed to speak with was always on a smoke break or eating lunch or God knows where.

It could become third person close instead with just some small changes (bolded):

The idiots at the hospital were stonewalling Bethany again. Whoever she needed to speak with was always on a smoke break or eating lunch or God knows where.

Third person close doesn’t have to be as voicey as that if you don’t want it to be. So long as you follow the character of Bethany and only narrate what she experiences, you’re fulfilling third person close. You can still express her opinions, but put them as her thoughts, for example:

The doctors connected to Bethany’s case were not available, again. Smoke break, she thought. Eating lunch. Or just God knows where.

All of these possibilities are valid.

Some writers use third person close serially, following different characters one at a time, and reflecting each character’s opinions and feelings as they do, to stronger or lesser extents.

Some writers use a more distant narrative voice, and go wherever they want in a story, following any characters they like at any time, while maintaining a consistent tone that represents the book as a whole rather than any one character. This is called an omniscient narrator, meaning the narrator knows everything.

Some people think of an omniscient narrator’s tone as neutral, but there is no true neutrality. You still have to make choices of vocabulary and tone, and you have to choose certain details to focus on and not others. When you do, you’re giving your third-person narrator a distinctive self that complements the setting and mood of your book.

In sum: even supposedly neutral third-person narration can have a strong point of view, which might be aligned with a specific character or characters, or might represent the book’s setting, mood, or author. The more this tone matches the author’s own worldview and way of communicating, the more it will be invisible to the author and feel neutral to them, even while it comes across to readers as strongly voiced.

Discovery

Often, students who are drawn to third person don’t start out with a strong sense of what narrative tone they want to use or which characters they plan to stay close to. It’s fine to not know before you begin. But as you write, pay attention to what naturally emerges, and think about what aspects you might want to emphasize as the story goes on.

Head hopping

When you’re using third person, you’ll probably tell us what characters are thinking. If you’re using third person close, you’ll focus on one character’s thoughts and opinions, and their interpretations and assumptions about other characters’ thoughts. For example:

If you’re using third person close serially, or using omniscient, you’ll have the opportunity to tell us the other characters’ thoughts and opinions as well. But if you jump without transition from the thoughts and opinions of one character to another’s, it can feel jarring and confusing to the reader. It’s called head hopping, and it’s best to avoid it. Here’s an example of what not to do:

In the first example, we stay firmly with Julian throughout the scene, and Mark, Zach, and Ziggy are all present but only through Julian’s perceptions. It’s easier to read and keeps the reader immersed.

In the second example, we hop from one character to another. While it’s the advantage of an omniscient narrator to have access to all of these different characters’ thoughts and motivations, the transitions happen awfully fast here, and don’t spend enough time with any one character to get much out of them. The reader is jerked awkwardly from one to the next.

Unless you’re deliberately giving a fast-paced overview, it can be more effective to stay with one character for a longer period at a time, as in the first example, and to give more of a transition when you do change focus. Scene breaks and chapter breaks are common methods. Thomas Harris in The Silence of the Lambs, for example, usually starts a new chapter when he wants to focus on a different character.

If you really want to give all three points of view, it could be best to write three separate scenes, or to find a way to communicate the most interesting facets of Mark’s, Zach’s, and Ziggy’s perspectives via Julian, perhaps using dialogue.

If you feel it’s important, you can move from one character’s thoughts and feelings to another’s within a single scene so long as you’re very clear. In the second example above, it feels jarring for the reader to be with Julian inside the house, then suddenly be out on the lawn with the boys, and then suddenly be in the police station with Ziggy. Instead, guide the reader to each new place.

In this new version, I’ve bolded what I’ve added:

Do you see how this reads more smoothly?

Visiting the thoughts of multiple characters in a single scene can be worth doing if your point is to show someplace as an aggregate of voices, or to follow a process of cause and effect. But be choosy and deliberate about whose thoughts you represent. In many cases focusing on more than one character’s point of view per scene can diffuse the reader’s focus and derail the intimacy that you’ve worked so hard to create.

Part 3: Storytelling Skills

Chapter seventeen

Structure and Plot

It’s a common mistake to think that plot  is structure. That’s not so: plot is what happens in the story chronologically, while structure is how you choose to tell it, which may not be chronological at all. Even if you do tell it chronologically, there are still many choices. Structure and plot affect each other, but they don’t control each other.

Where to start?

Let’s say you’re going to tell the story of a character who dies and leaves all her assets to a cat shelter instead of her adult children. Where might you start?

- With her childhood relationship with her cats

- With her relationship with her children while alive

- With her suspicious death

- With her funeral, where the children either don’t show up or behave abominably

- With the reading of the will, when the children are shocked by the news

- With the building of a cat palace, using her money

- With the first day in court as the children testify in a civil suit against the cats

Any one of these could be a great place to start the story, and would be useful to highlight different characters, relationships, and themes. It all depends on what’s important to you.

Order

Then, in what order do you want to tell the story? You could start at any one of these and proceed forward chronologically. Or you could start with her childhood relationship with her cats as a prologue, then jump forward to much later in the story. You could start with the court case and use it as a framing device, each adult child’s testimony introducing a flashback chapter. There are many, many options.

Point of view

Point of view is also intertwined here. Which character or characters will you follow? If it’s the story of the mother herself and why she made this decision, maybe she narrates from beyond the grave. If it’s the story of her son who learns to regret his previous selfishness and eventually goes to live as a hermit among the cats, you’d focus on his journey. Or maybe on the character of his bemused wife who is watching all of this in amazement, with a light, comic voice. Again: many, many options.

Ending

And where will you end? It depends on what story you’ve chosen to focus on within this plot. Is it a love story that will end with the resolution of the troubled husband and wife relationship? Is it a David versus Goliath story of the cat shelter conquering the greedy children? Is it a mystery leading up to the revelation of why all of these cats were so important to the mother? There are as many possible endings as there were beginnings; which one will be most satisfying depends on the other choices you’ve made.

The main thing to understand is that these choices exist. Even when telling a true story, where you can’t change the plot at all, there are still many storytelling decisions to make about what to focus on and in what order. When writing fiction, where you can change the plot, the options are even greater.

Structure exercise

A fun exercise for a writing group is to pick a well-known person or event and come up with different starting points for telling that story. In a group of a dozen, I bet you could even get around the room twice with every person suggesting a different starting point each time. It’s fun and it really drives home how many choices you have even after you’re certain of your plot.

You can also consider exploring possibilities about your own story with some trusted friends. Tell them the main thrust of your story, and let them brainstorm different points of the story from which your book could begin. Even if many of the ideas don’t resonate with your plans, hearing them out can stretch your boundaries for what scenes the story could cover. And maybe one of the ideas will surprise you and click into place perfectly.

Chapter eighteen

Wonder and Worry

Why do readers turn the page? They want to find out what happens.

So, you must give them something to find out. Give them something to wonder or worry about.

By wonder, I mean:

- Wonder what the answer to the mysterious riddle could possibly be

- Wonder how the murderer could have committed the crime and escaped a still-locked room

- Wonder how someone so young and slight could possibly succeed as an FBI agent

- Wonder where the treasure is hidden and how they’ll find it

- Wonder how the protagonist will prove their innocence when there is so much evidence against them

- Wonder how the protagonist will ever find love in this too-busy, superficial city

By worry, I mean:

- Worry that the dinosaurs might break through the fences before the protagonist can get away

- Worry that that the protagonist’s well-meaning lies are about to be revealed

- Worry that the protagonist won’t make it to the hospital before their father dies

- Worry that there won’t be enough food to keep them alive until rescue comes

- Worry that it’s not a prank and the house is actually haunted

Wonder or worry is a great reason for the reader—and the writer—to turn the page. What are you inviting your readers to wonder or worry about?

Wonder and worry scene by scene

You don’t need to have the main wonder or worry of the book on the very first page (although some books do it effectively). Often, it’s better to set up the overall situation more clearly before you introduce the main conflict or concern. For example, if it’s a crime-solving novel, the crime might not be committed until chapter 3. Maybe chapters 1 and 2 will set up the reasons why so many people have motives to want the victim-to-be dead.

In those early scenes, you can still use wonder and worry, just on a smaller scale. We can wonder if the scatterbrained detective is going to get to the phone before the caller hangs up. We can worry that the shy student is going to be called on in class when they haven’t been paying attention. We can worry if the arguing couple is going to miss their train and wonder how they’ll resolve their disagreement. There should be small tensions even before we get to the main tension. Wonder and worry apply to each scene as well as to the plot as a whole.

Chapter nineteen

Scenes

Scenes should be active.

The word “action” makes some people think of car chases and combat. That makes sense in the context of the action/adventure genre or military action.

But “action” doesn’t have to mean something physically extreme. In writing, action is a character doing something in a specific time and place. It can be a seemingly small action, so long as it’s important to them. For example, a character who is fixing their makeup in preparation for seeing someone they’re trying to manipulate.

The best action isn’t something that a character just happens to be doing; it’s something they’re doing with a goal in mind. Maybe they’re trying to get somewhere, or impress someone, or finish something before a deadline. Whatever it is, whatever the stakes to the wider world, it matters to the character.

If someone suggests your writing needs action, it’s likely that they’re not demanding something on the level of a street fight or helicopter rescue; rather, it’s likely that they want your character to do something to further their personal goals.

Scenes should be anchored in a specific time and place

It’s also possible that someone asking you for “action” is noticing that you have unanchored information floating around. It’s tempting to use narration to tell, tell, tell the reader all you want them to know about the general situation the protagonist is in.

Perhaps you’re telling the reader about the general situation of a character: for example, their ex-partner has signed up their child for their first stay at a sleepaway camp—against the protagonist’s wishes. That anxiety is something they will live with for weeks, maybe even months. It will be much more vivid and interesting if the narration about the situation homes in on a specific time and place in which the character is doing something related to the situation. Perhaps they could be reluctantly packing the suitcase, and the narration about the situation could be related to the objects they’re choosing and not choosing.

As with telling in general, unanchored narration is not forbidden, and sometimes works well. But most of the time you won’t go wrong by anchoring a scene in time, place, and action.

Scenes should have tension

I’ve set writing students many different exercises over the years. I’ve noticed the exercises that have the best results have some tension inherent to them.

For example, asking students to “write a scene in which someone opens a present” can easily fall flat, while asking students to “write a scene in which someone opens a present they don’t like” has much more engaging results.

When you’re writing a novel, you’re assigning scenes to yourself. Think about putting tension into each assignment.

Instead of writing a scene in which someone receives a delivery, write a scene in which someone receives the wrong delivery. Instead of writing a scene in which a character is introduced to the antagonist, have that character be misintroduced by someone who gets their name wrong. Putting a character in the position of being surprised or having to react to something unwanted makes it more likely for a scene to be interesting.

Chapter twenty

The Blurb is for You

The word “blurb” has two meanings. It can mean the description of the book’s premise, like you see on the back of a paperback or the flap of a hardcover, or it can mean a pre-publication quote of praise, many of which also appear on the backs of books. Here we’ll be looking at its first meaning.

Premise versus synopsis

The premise of a novel is the setup to the story, the conflict that sets the story in motion. In your blurb, you sum up that main need or conflict, and include information from only the first few chapters. This is typically one to three paragraphs, and is meant to entice agents, publishers, and readers to pick up the book, so you don’t give away the ending or late twists. In contrast, a full synopsis describes the whole story: beginning, middle, and end. Some—though not all—agents and publishers want these too, so they can discover quickly if a story is well-structured. Synopses are often two or more pages.

For both blurbs and synopses, the expected convention is that they’re written in the present tense when describing anything that happens within the book, and past tense when referring to backstory.

Because of a blurb’s usefulness at the submission and sales stages, the exercise of putting one together is often something writers do last, after they’ve finished writing and are getting ready to submit their novel for consideration. But a well-written blurb can serve you much, much earlier.

Woo yourself, not just future readers

Writing can be hard. After an excited start, the writer stares at the next empty page, not knowing how to fill it.

Just as a compelling blurb drives readers, agents, and editors to turn pages, a compelling blurb can help inspire you—the writer—to fill those pages in the first place.

When the protagonist’s goal and obstacles have been clearly articulated, when you know exactly what event or action causes your story to begin, when you have a good handle on the specifics of your story rather than grand generalities, you will be more likely to figure out what needs to happen next.

In the next chapter, we’re going to look at all three of these aspects of blurbs: goals with obstacles, inciting incidents, and the grand versus the tangible.

When to write it?

You may be able to write your blurb before you start, or it may take you several chapters to discover it. It’s likely that your blurb will develop over time, as the story becomes more and more clear to you as you write; it could even change multiple times along the way.

Even without changing the substance of what’s being described, there’s no one perfect way for a book’s premise to be written. There can be several different descriptions of the same book, depending on what aspects of the story each blurb prioritizes. But some forms are more useful than others. You may write several versions before you find one that spurs you forward.

The most important thing to embrace is that describing what your book is about isn’t a cruel obligation foisted on you by the business of writing to placate gatekeepers and entice readers; rather, a blurb can be a tool that helps the words flow out of you in the first place. A clear, specific, and active premise is useful for exciting both reader and writer.

Chapter twenty-one

Aspects of Blurbs

Here are three aspects of blurbs for you to play with as you describe your story.

A want and an obstacle

Your protagonist needs to want something. That’s what will drive the action. It might be something they want to accomplish, like winning a prize or getting a date or escaping a kidnapper. It might be focused on something they want to stop, like a condo development on a nature area, or the rise of an enemy to power. It might relate to something external, like a military invasion, or internal, like the development of the courage to do something that intimidates them.

Whatever they want, there needs to be a reason why it’s going to take them approximately 300 pages to get it (or fail to get it, or realize they actually want something else). What is their obstacle?

The obstacle can be a person—someone against whom they’re competing or who is trying to stop them or whom they’re trying to stop. Or it could be something nonhuman like the weather (a huge snowstorm), or the terrain (an unforgiving mountainside). It could be something internal, like a phobia or addiction. There could be multiple obstacles, all at once or in succession. You can be creative about what your obstacle is.

The movie Jaws is a good exercise for thinking about wants and obstacles. It might seem obvious to say that the shark is the obstacle; it’s certainly an enemy! But the shark isn’t what the protagonist is directly fighting until the last third of the film. At the start, Chief Brody wants to close the beach to protect people from the shark, and the mayor wants to keep the beach open to attract much-needed tourists. Focusing on that conflict involves more characters and more actions than focusing on only fighting the shark. So even once you’ve found an accurate want and obstacle that describes your story, you can keep thinking about it. Maybe that way of describing the blurb isn’t the only or best way. There might be a different one that’s more vivid, specific, and helpful.

Inciting incident

The inciting incident is the event that triggers the main conflict in your story. It doesn’t have to happen right away; some books take time to set up what’s normal before the inciting incident happens. But it needs to happen near the beginning of the book, near enough that it’s part of your blurb.

In my experience, students often have a great situation for their characters—tense relationships, rich backstory—but lack the specificity of an inciting incident. An inciting incident is more than just a situation that’s true over a long period of time; an inciting incident happens at a specific moment. It gives your story a start at a specific place and time. It’s why your story is starting exactly now, not yesterday, or next week.

The plot of My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult is a great example of this. The situation of the story is gripping all by itself: two sisters, the firstborn with leukemia, and the second-born conceived to provide blood and eventually organs to the first. The tension inherent to that relationship, and with the parents, is fascinating. But that alone isn’t enough.

What starts the plot of My Sister’s Keeper is the second child’s decision to refuse to give her kidney and to sue for emancipation. That takes a fascinating general situation and focuses it on a specific conflict within that situation. The daughter saying no and deciding to sue is the inciting incident.

Another example is Jurassic Park. The general situation of an amusement park of cloned dinosaurs is amazing, but it’s not enough for a plot. The plot of Jurassic Park is that the owner of the park needs to get expert approval in order to be granted insurance coverage, without which the park cannot be opened. To accomplish this, he brings several disparate experts together for a visit and tries to impress them. Instead, the park’s vulnerabilities are revealed, and adventure ensues. Bringing the experts to the island for their approval is the inciting incident that focuses the story.

If you’re having trouble thinking of what your characters should do, or what your next chapter should be about, you may be lacking an inciting incident.

Remember: even if your general situation is as amazing as an island of cloned dinosaurs, or as tense as a family relationship built on one sibling providing body parts to another, you still need an inciting incident on top of that to begin your plot.

The grand versus the tangible

When describing one’s premise, it’s a common temptation to focus on what’s grand about the story. We see that for famous books and big movies: They’re about love! They’re about passion! They’re about saving the world!

These kinds of big statements work as advertising for already famous authors and big studio movies because people already have expectations of genre, style, and quality based on past work. But they’re not useful for attracting readers, agents, or publishers to a new-to-them author; for that you need to be more specific about your story. Most importantly, such generalizations aren’t helpful to you, the author, as you write. For a useful, effective premise, you’ll want to focus on the tangible.

So instead of saying something vague like:

This book is about love, choices, and staying true to yourself.

tell us what the story’s really about:

In Finding Home, teenage Hannah is forced to run away with her dog Brandy to prevent Brandy from being put down after a neighbor has lied about being bitten.

That gives us so much! We learn that the teenage protagonist is compassionate and brave, and we observe this for ourselves from her actions. This is showing versus telling at work. We see the love, we see the choices, we see her being true to herself.

By what measure?

One of the hardest exercises for students is when I ask them to come up with specific ways a character could accomplish a grand generality. For example:

A character wants to win their parent’s respect. What specific goals might represent that generality? Some options could be getting accepted into the parent’s alma mater, getting married before a certain age, winning a specific prize or competition, giving birth to the first daughter to be born into the family in ten generations. All of these goals are very different, and each would result in a very different book! A story about a character working toward winning an Olympic medal would be very different from the story of a character having six months to find a wife.

So, if you hear yourself saying “Jodie wants to win her father’s respect” or “Allan is going to prove his haters wrong” or “Louis is determined to make the business a success” ask yourself the next questions: how? By what measure? Maybe Jodie is going to win her father’s respect by clearing the family name from suspicion of murder. Maybe Allan is going to prove he deserved the role in the school play by getting a role on Broadway instead. Maybe Louis is going to know he’s a success when his restaurant gets a Michelin star. When the goal is specific, it’s much easier to write the next chapter, and the next, and the next.

Is this enough?

Often, after a writer has successfully described their premise with specifics, they feel deflated. It seems so small when it’s boiled down to a girl and her dog, or any one character and single, specific goal. It’s normal to feel that way. This boiling-down is still the right thing to do, and, truly, it doesn’t seem so small to people reading it. In fact, specificity is the only way to get to the universality so many writers crave. You can add a grand statement as a summary at the end, if you like, so long as you’ve been specific first.

Potential readers, agents, and publishers will appreciate this. Most of all, such specifics will help you write the book in the first place.

Part 4: Technical Skills

Chapter twenty-two

Technical Difficulties

There are two unuseful extremes when it comes to grammar, punctuation, and formatting:

- Some people care too much. They panic if they realize they missed an apostrophe or misspelled a word; they worry that whoever receives even a single error from them will judge them harshly and maybe even dismiss them entirely. They apologize when they don’t need to. To people in this category, I want to assure you that in the many thousands of words in a manuscript, a few mistakes here and there are not dealbreakers. Even professionals make slips. The force of your story as a whole is much more important.

- The other extreme is not to care enough about grammar, punctuation, and formatting. Some student writers dismiss it as beneath their interest as they prefer to focus only on the big picture issues of character, story, and theme. Some even think that it’s an editor’s job to fix the less important stuff for them.

You want to find a happy medium.

While isolated errors are not a problem, pervasive errors are. If your dialogue is carelessly formatted throughout, if your commas are in strange places or almost entirely absent, if you lack paragraphing or regularly misuse homophones, then reading your otherwise wonderful story becomes difficult. It’s like hanging a gauzy curtain between your words and the reader, making the reader squint and work extra hard just to get the basic meaning of what’s happening.

You absolutely should make an effort to get grammar, spelling, and formatting under control before you give your work to someone else; then, after you’ve done your best, let it go and stop thinking about it. If you later catch a mistake or someone catches one for you while your piece is still a work in progress, that’s great news; you can fix it. No need to apologize or explain.

The most common technical problems I’ve seen over and over from student writers are in paragraphing, dialogue punctuation, and apostrophes. That’s what we’ll be looking at for the next few lessons.

Even if you’re already good at these,consider reading the next chapters anyway. Sometimes the things we’re naturally good at are things we then don’t think about at all. Taking some time to consciously consider what formatting and punctuation contribute is about more than avoiding mistakes; it’s about using them to your advantage.

Colons and semicolons

For this chapter, we’ll take a brief look at colons and semicolons.

A colon is two dots, one on top of the other. It looks like this: “:”

You’ll notice I even used a colon in that sentence! A colon tends to come just before an example or list. Things like this:

I have three favorite kinds of animals: cats, rabbits, and lizards.

I have a basic standard for first dates: punctuality. If they’re not on time, I leave.

A semicolon is a comma with a dot on top: “;”

A semicolon usually connects two sentences that are especially closely related in content. It can do this by replacing a sentence-ender like a period, or it can replace a conjunction that connects two sentences, like because or and.

For example, all of these are correct (their differences are bolded):

I would never want to drive an RV. It’s just too big.

I would never want to drive an RV because it’s just too big.

I would never want to drive an RV; it’s just too big.

Which you’d use is a matter of taste.

Normally, just the fact that two sentences are next to each other is enough for readers to infer a relationship between them. For example:

I’ve never been so close to the ocean before. My hands are shaking, and I feel energized, even giddy.

The second sentence doesn’t explicitly say that these feelings are caused by being close to the ocean, but because one sentence follows the other, that’s the implication.

If you want to more strongly emphasize a closeness between two sentences, you can use a semicolon:

I’ve never been so close to the ocean before; my hands are shaking and I feel energized, even giddy.

The second sentence is then considered part of the first sentence. You’ll notice that when I changed the period to a semicolon, I also changed the first letter of the second sentence’s “my” to lower case. That word is now in the middle of a sentence, not at the start of one.

The most common mistake I see with semicolons is putting one where a comma should be. Remember, semicolons usually replace sentence-ending punctuation, usually a period, not commas. (Very occasionally, semicolons replace commas in a complex list, usually after a colon, to separate items that themselves contain commas. But this use is relatively rare, especially in fiction writing.)

Well-used semicolons can enhance your prose with increased clarity and structural variety. But if you find semicolons difficult to grasp, don’t worry—you don’t have to use them at all! A misused semicolon stands out as strange. No one will ever be bothered by a lack of semicolons.

Chapter twenty-three

Dialogue Formatting

A  dialogue tag is any variation of “he said” (“she asked”/“he begged”/“they offered”). Not every piece of dialogue requires a tag, but using one clarifies who’s speaking if it’s not already obvious.

“Said” is the most common dialogue tag to use, and it’s considered to be mostly invisible. There’s no need to come up with clever alternatives to avoid repetition of “said” though you may wish to change up your sentences in other ways to avoid the repetition of structural patterns.

This, for example, is repetitive:

It would still be repetitive even after changing up the tag, because of the repeated structure:

First of all, you don’t need to tag every line of dialogue. For example, if there are only two characters present, establishing the first speaker is enough for a few lines of back and forth:

You can also mix in some description or action to add variety:

Mixing up the structure makes it more interesting to read.

By the way, the line of action “she put her hand on his arm” also helps with clarity. It’s a useful bit of psychology that readers will assume a character carrying out an action just before or after a line of dialogue (and in the same paragraph) also said the dialogue. For example:

Without any tags at all, we assume Archie said the first line, and Anna the second. Which isn’t to say there’s anything wrong with dialogue tags; by all means, use them! But in a long scene, especially with more than two people, having a method for clarity besides dialogue tags will help you mix things up creatively.

Changing speakers

Changing speaker typically requires a new paragraph. This example below is fine but not as clear as it could be:

This is more clear:

Notice it wasn’t at the point of Alex’s dialogue that the new paragraph started, but at the point when attention shifted to Alex, which in this case was action.

Clarity

It helps to keep everything each character does, their speaking and actions, together.

This is ambiguous and confusing:

It could be that Lynn said the first line, Marcia responded by sitting, and Lynn then said the last line. Or, it could be that Lynn said the first, and Marcia both sat and said the next bit in agreement. The reader can’t be sure.

Do whatever you need to be clear. Grouping Marcia’s action and dialogue together makes it clear she did both:

Or, if you mean it the other way, you can reinforce that with a tag:

It’s all about making it effortless for your reader to be sure of who is saying what.

Chapter twenty-four

Dialogue Punctuation

Punctuation in dialogue has peculiar rules. If you get them right, they’re invisible. If you get them wrong, readers become distracted.

Whatever you do, you always have some mark of punctuation just before the closing quote mark. Always. The question is: what kind of punctuation?

Without a dialogue tag

This is a line of dialogue without a dialogue tag (“he said” or the equivalent) and followed by a separate sentence. Note that the dialogue ends with a period, and the new sentence begins with a capital letter:

“Fish has always smelled strange to me. I absolutely never eat it.” He leaned back in his chair, wrinkling his nose at the plate in front of him.

Dialogue without a dialogue tag can also end with an exclamation mark or question mark. If there’s no tag that follows, just punctuate your dialogue in the normal way.

Avoid the mistake of treating actions that aren’t about speaking as dialogue tags. It’s incorrect to write:

“I love ice cream,” he smiled.

Smiling isn’t a form of speaking, and therefore not a dialogue tag. It’s a separate action that comes after speaking, and should look like this:

“I love ice cream.” He smiled.

Note the period and the capital H.

With a dialogue tag

When dialogue has a dialogue tag attached, it is considered part of the sentence. For example:

“Fish has always smelled strange to me. I absolutely never eat it,” he said, wrinkling his nose at the plate in front of him.

Note that “I absolutely never eat it” ends in a comma not a period, and “he said” begins with a lower-case h. While there can be periods within dialogue (as above, after “strange to me”), if the very last bit of punctuation just before a dialogue tag is a period, it turns into a comma. Remember, this is only if there’s a dialogue tag continuing the sentence.

Exclamations and questions

What if the speaker is very angry and needs an exclamation point, or is asking a question? Go ahead and use those marks, but if they’re followed by a dialogue tag you still use a lower-case letter:

“Fish has always smelled strange to me. Do I have to eat it?” he asked, pleading with his eyes for permission to be excused.

“Fish has always smelled strange to me. I absolutely never eat it!” he shouted, flinging the plate across the room.

Dialogue tags at the front

When a dialogue tag is at the beginning of a sentence, you put a comma after the dialogue tag:

He said, “Fish has always smelled strange to me. I absolutely never eat it.”

Note that the dialogue itself does begin with an uppercase letter.

Dialogue tags in the middle

Sometimes you have a dialogue tag between two bits of dialogue. You get to pick whether you want to attach it to the bit of dialogue that comes before, or the bit that comes after, using the rules above.

Both of these are correct (differences bolded):

“I can’t believe how well it fits,” she marveled. “When I twirl the skirts make the most wonderful swish!”

“I can’t believe how well it fits.” She marveled, “When I twirl the skirts make the most wonderful swish!”

You can connect the tag to both, but usually that’s when the tag interrupts a sentence in its middle, and if you want to give a feeling of onrushing words:

“I can’t believe how well it fits,” she marveled, “and when I twirl the skirts make the most wonderful swish!”

Ellipses and dashes

Besides the comma, period, question mark, or exclamation point, you might also have:

- An ellipsis, which represents a character trailing off:

“I’ve never…” she said, shaking her head. She couldn’t bear to say the words.

- Or an em-dash (a long dash, usually made by two hyphens) if a character is cut off or interrupted:

“Why do you always—” he sputtered.
“Because you’re never here!”

Thoughts

Thoughts, as opposed to dialogue, are often expressed in italics rather than inside quotes. Like dialogue, they can come with a dialogue tag or not.

Never, she thought, while outwardly smiling.

It’s complicated

Dialogue punctuation is complex! If you don’t trust yourself, consider bookmarking some dialogue scenes in favorite novels. You can then refer to them and compare your own work.

Chapter twenty-five

Apostrophes

There are two reasons to use apostrophes: contractions and possessives. Plurals do  not use apostrophes, unless they happen to be possessive too.

Contractions

Writing often sounds more natural if you use contractions, especially in dialogue. That’s something to keep an eye out for as you self-edit.

A contraction is when you drop one or more letters to shorten a word. Common examples are don’t, won’t, can’t.

- Do not becomes don’t

- They are becomes they’re

- We will becomes we’ll

- I am becomes I’m

You’ll notice that the apostrophe goes where missing letters would have been. In the above examples, an apostrophe replaces the o of not, the a of are, the wi of will, and the a of am.

So if you’re not sure where an apostrophe goes, think about what’s missing. If you want to shorten you all for example, put the apostrophe where the missing ou would have been: y’all.

The last few examples, where the apostrophe is at the start of a word, can be challenging. You’ll notice that an apostrophe is the same symbol as a single close-quote. When you’re writing a quote, chances are your word processing program notices the difference between the start and the end, and will automatically curve the quote marks correctly:

An apostrophe is the same as the close-quote at the end. When you use it at the beginning of a word, many programs don’t recognize that it’s an apostrophe and curve it the opposite way, as if it’s the start of a quote. You can correct this by typing a letter first, then the apostrophe and the rest of the word, then going back and deleting the first letter.

Possessives

The second reason to use an apostrophe is to indicate that something belongs to someone:

The dog had eaten the cat’s food.
In retaliation, the cat knocked over the dog’s water.

An apostrophe + the letter s tells us that the food belongs to the cat, the water belongs to the dog.

Pronouns

The exceptions to this are possessive pronouns. His, hers, ours, its, and whose are possessive but do not use apostrophes, even when they end in s.

The dog buried its bone.
Whose was it? Hers.

It’s and who’s do exist, but they’re contractions (it is and who is or who has), not possessives.

It’s never too late to try your best.

Who’s there?

Plurals

It’s common to indicate a plural by adding the letter s. Some nouns don't pluralize that way, like people and women, but many, many do.

It’s a very common error to add an unneeded apostrophe before a plural s. Do avoid this mistake as much as you can.

This is especially common with plurals of initialisms. An initialism is an abbreviation made of initials that don’t make a new sounding word, like CD for compact disc, or PC for personal computer. If you have six PCs or twenty-five CDs, just go ahead and add the plural s. No apostrophe necessary. (Some people worry that without an apostrophe people will misread the s as another initial in the initialism. But initialism letters should all be capitalized; just use a lower-case sfor the plural and that should be sufficient difference.)

Words ending in s

The rule with possessives is that if the word ends in any other letter besides s, you add ‘s but if the word already ends in s you have two options:

After the s at the end of the word, you can add an apostrophe and another s, or just an apostrophe. Which one to choose is up to precedent and style. There’s a personal rule I use that has served me well:

If turning a word ending in s into a possessive adds another syllable to the pronunciation, I add an apostrophe and another s:

- The abacus’s beads were painted brightly. (‘Abacus’ is three syllables; with the possessive added, it becomes four.)

- The compass’s needled pointed north. (‘Compass’ is two syllables; with the possessive, it becomes three.)

- Travis’s jeans were worn out and torn. (‘Travis’ is two syllables; with the possessive, it becomes three.)

- The boss’s tie was purple with gold flecks. (‘Boss’ is one syllable; with the possessive, it becomes two.)

If the pronunciation of a word ending in s doesn’t change when it becomes possessive, I just add the apostrophe alone:

- The otters’ bodies undulated in the water.

- Myles’ guitar was missing a string.

- The bikers’ helmets were all shiny and well-cared-for.

- The tarot cards’ images had a haunting beauty.

Chapter twenty-six

Transitions

Words are the atoms of writing.

Groups of words are sentences, groups of sentences are paragraphs, and groups of paragraphs are scenes.

Readers understand better when the beginnings and ends of these groupings are clear. Punctuation and capital letters are what delineate sentences; most of the time, student writers get these correct. Paragraphs and scenes, on the other hand, are often not so neatly clarified.

Paragraphs

TLDR is a popular initialism. It means “too long, didn’t read” and is frequently written in response to overwhelmingly long online posts. But it isn’t actually the length that’s always the problem. Often, the length would be fine, if only the whole had been broken up into smaller pieces.

There’s a good reason why IKEA makes you assemble their furniture: it’s a lot easier to ship things and get them into your house if they’re in pieces. That giant sofa would never fit through your front door! But in pieces, it gets in just fine.

That’s what paragraphing is: breaking your scenes into pieces that fit through your reader’s mental front door. Many student writers don’t paragraph nearly enough.

There are two ways to mark the start of a new paragraph:

And option 2:

I’ve frequently noticed that even students who typically use paragraphing correctly will think it doesn’t apply to short lines or dialogue. But it does! If you’ve hit the enter/return key, you’ve ended a paragraph, no matter how short it is, and what comes next is the start of a new one. For example, here are six paragraphs using indents:

Or equally correctly, the same six paragraphs using line-skips:

Another problem I’ve seen frequently is paragraphing short lines of dialogue correctly, but then adding an extra line-skip before the next non-dialogue/long paragraph. I think student writers who do this are trying to cluster the dialogue lines together as a special mega-paragraph, but this is very wrong. A paragraph is a paragraph no matter how short or long, or whether or not it contains dialogue. Each should get no less and no more than standard paragraphing.

One reason behind rampant poor paragraphing is technology defaults. Someone who habitually uses a program that automatically indents for them might not notice that the indent isn’t there when they use a different system, and just do without. Or they might paste their text into a different system, which has a line-skip default setting, and then end up with both indents and line-skips. You really need to take a look at your final product and check that your paragraphing is as you intend and evident to the reader. Be deliberate about it.

Scenes

There are two ways to mark the end of one scene and the beginning of another.

In published books, you used to see a little symbol to separate scenes. Sometimes it was a pretty little flourish, and often it was the classic three centered asterisks:

Nowadays in published books, it’s more common to use a gap of white space to separate scenes.

Either way is fine. But in word processing documents, which are frequently double spaced, and especially if using the gap method to separate paragraphs, a bigger gap between scenes often just isn’t noticeable enough. If you want it to be really clear that one scene has ended and another is beginning, those classic asterisks will serve you well.

White space

Students who haven’t previously used paragraphing much or have used it but without tabs or skipped lines to emphasize them, are often dismayed by all the white space they suddenly see around their words when they follow the formatting advice above.

Don’t be alarmed! White space is comforting to the reader. It gives room to breathe, think, and understand.

The distribution of white space also makes rhythm visible. The difference between snappy short lines of dialogue being traded back and forth (lots and lots of white space) and someone filling an entire page with a relentless, unbroken monologue (very little white space except the margins) immediately feels different to a reader, even before they’ve read a single word. It creates a mood and can give a sense of increased speed (the short lines) and then crescendo (the long paragraph).

Starts and ends

Whenever something is a first line or last line of a paragraph, scene, or chapter it has extra importance. For example, the sentence “It was Mark” has differing levels of significance depending on where you place it. Here in the middle of a paragraph, it feels simply factual:

If you end the paragraph with it, it feels a little more important:

If you let it be its own paragraph, it feels really important:

Do you want the fact that it was Mark at the door to be downright ominous? Let it be the last line of the chapter!

That’s like ending a film scene with an ominous chord.

Part 5: Facing the Middle

Chapter twenty-seven

Writing Onward

Writing classes are great at teaching people to write scenes and short stories.

Examples of great scenes are short enough to be looked at and analyzed in class. They’re short enough to be assigned as homework and to get feedback from the teacher or even the whole class. Writing students become skilled at scenes, especially beginnings.

They get less practice at continuing onward. One of my favorite classroom assignments is to give students a specific exercise, share the resulting scenes with each other, and then follow that with “now write what happens next.” They often balk, because they’d treated the first scene like a precious, self-contained short story and hadn’t planned to go further. But when I nudge them to push onward, wonderful things often appear.

The feeling of writing a first scene or first chapter, or even the first few chapters, can be very different from the feeling of continuing. That’s normal! Don’t let the difference in how it feels make you believe that you shouldn’t continue. That difference doesn’t mean you’re not ready or that something is wrong.

Should you start over?

It’s normal to find writing the middle of a novel difficult.

That difficulty can be because you realize you’ve chosen a premise that isn’t meaty enough, or a point of view that you can’t comfortably maintain, or a structure that’s overcomplicating things. It’s normal to learn from these challenges and then start over with something better suited.

But it’s also common to get into a rut of starting over, again and again, because writing any novel—even a novel with a substantial premise, a fitting point of view, and an appropriate structure—can feel hard in the middle. A feeling of difficulty—maybe a lack of inspiration, or confusion about what should happen next, or a sense of artificiality or ridiculousness—can actually be a normal part of writing a novel. If you turn back every time you feel any of that, you can create a pattern where you never finish.

I’m not saying you should never start over, but that you shouldn’t always start over. If you find yourself tempted to start over yet again, reconsider. Write onward.

But is my good idea enough?

One reason people often turn back when they hit the middle is because they think of what they believe is a better idea.

Maybe it is better. Or maybe it just seems better because you haven’t looked closely at it yet, the way you’ve gotten to know the idea you’re actually writing.

But it doesn’t necessarily matter even if the new idea is better, because for an idea to work it doesn’t have to be the best idea. It only needs to be good.

So please don’t worry about better or best. If it’s good, it’s worth seeing it through. You can take notes about your new idea and write that idea later.

Chapter twenty-eight

Cause and Effect

I used to think that writing well on a small scale, like a terrific scene, would be easy to apply to writing a whole novel. A novel is just many scenes, right? If you can write one you can write fifty.

But I have learned that even people who write great scenes can struggle with writing a whole novel. The biggest struggle I see is with failing to connect their many scenes using cause and effect, so that there’s momentum and eventually a crescendo.

Think about each new action being caused by the one before it, creating a chain.

Here’s a disconnected list of events/actions:

Here’s the same list, connected (additions bolded):

The second version is more interesting (to the reader) and useful (to the writer) than the first. In it, something happens in each scene to make what comes next needed or possible.

Are you able to describe the action of your story connectedly?

Not just time passing

Has a character of yours made a decision? Had a realization? Changed their mind? If so, why?

You’re allowed any reason except “because time has passed.”

What you want to avoid are phrases like:

“happened to notice”
“suddenly realized”
“finally decided”

Your story will flow better if you have something happen to cause each decision, realization, change of mind, and next action.

In my favorite episode of Black Mirror, “Be Right Back,” a grieving widow refuses the assistance of a disturbing technology. She later changes her mind and signs up for it, not because she’s thought about it more, or feels worn down by continued offers, but for a concrete plot reason: she discovers she’s pregnant. This is an effective story choice.

Another example is when a detective character experiences a shift in their point of view that enables them to see a clue or situation in a new way. You don’t want them to just “finally figure it out.” Something they experience should prompt them to see things differently. (And it probably shouldn’t come to them in a dream. In most cases, that’s a cheating way for the author to whisper the new viewpoint into the character’s ear. Give them an active in-story experience that pushes them to change for a direct reason.)

Strong causes and effects that come from plot happenings are more vivid to read about and more rich to write about than time just passing and a character shrugging their way through a change of heart.

Chapter twenty-nine

Ideas for Middles

It's common to have a great beginning and plans for a great ending, but not know how to stretch the middle long enough between them. We’re going to look at some ideas that might help you deal with your tricky middle.

Middles: not solving

A change in how you describe the overarching action of your book might help. It’s very rare that I would advise anyone to think negatively instead of positively, but in this specific case, it can be useful.

For example, most of us would say a detective novel is about solving a crime. We think about how our detective’s unique talents will lead to the solution. This can lead to a problem with length: if the detective is so well-suited to solving it, why don’t they solve it on page two?

What if instead we say the book is about not solving the crime? After all, that’s what’s happening for most of the pages. What if we think about the way the detective figure’s mindset or context are working against them, getting in the way of solving the crime? Emphasizing that conflict to yourself can give you a lot to work with.

Perhaps their obstacle is an internal block. What if something inside your detective figure makes it difficult for them to perceive the real solution? Perhaps they don’t believe a child is capable of murder, or perhaps they naively trust any character who shares their religion, or perhaps they’re fixated on blaming a certain kind of person.

Perhaps their obstacle is an external block. What if something outside your detective figure makes it difficult for them to access the real solution? Perhaps the witnesses don’t trust the detective and refuse to speak to him. Or perhaps some extreme weather makes it impossible to deliver to the lab the evidence he would normally have relied on.

This can apply to more than just crime-solving stories:

See if that might make the actions that will fill most of your book more clear.

Look closely at your story’s obstacles: Why are the people in your story not accomplishing their objective faster? What inside them or around them is making this harder?

Middles: be specifically wrong

Here’s another way to approach the problem of filling your book’s middle, specifically for stories where something is going to be revealed at the end (not every story fits this mold).

Is your protagonist trying to find something out? Maybe solving a crime, or locating a lost loved one, or discovering the exit from the labyrinth? We know they don’t have the real solution yet; they won’t have it till the end of the book, right? But what do they think is the answer now? Do they just not know anything, or have you given them an alternate solution to believe in in the meantime?

It’s hard to write chapters for a character who has no answer and is looking for one. It’s much easier to write chapters for a character who has a specific wrong answer.

What if instead of just not knowing who the murderer is, your protagonist thinks it’s some specific other person? Or other type of person, like assuming the murderer must be a man, or must be an adult, or must be an outsider? What if they assume it isn’t a murder at all, but a suicide or an accident? Then they can fill chapters pursuing their wrong theories. It will give them so much more to act on.

What if your protagonist is looking for their birth parents? Rather than giving them a blank slate, what if you give them some specific vision of who or what kind of people they think their birth parents must be, different from who you’ll eventually reveal them to be?

What if your protagonist is searching for hidden treasure of some kind? Rather than having them just not knowing where it is, what if you give them some specific vision of the kind of person who would have stolen it and kind of place they would have been likely to hide it, different from where you’ll eventually reveal it to be?

Not only does having a specific alternate theory give your character something specific to do, it also adds to their reason for not considering the real answer. Their investment in their preferred theory becomes an internal stumbling block.

Middles: using the end early

What if what you thought was going to be your satisfying ending might actually work better as an escalating middle?

Do you have to save the answer or victory till the end? Maybe not! Instead of holding off your protagonist’s success, you could use it to make bigger problems:

If you’re finding it difficult to hold off your ending, consider making that intended ending a middle with consequences.

You may find that this is where things get really interesting.

Chapter thirty

Revelations

It's a common mistake to refer to the last book of the Bible as “Revelations.” It’s actually singular: The Book of Revelation. In this case, though, my pluralizing the title of this essay is intentional and correct, because I want you to have many possible versions of the revelation your characters seek. One is simply not enough.

Not all books have a reveal at the end, but many do. A book doesn’t have to be a crime novel to have characters solving a mystery. It’s very common that a book will have the answer to a persistent question revealed at the end.

It’s commonly understood to put a lot of effort into making that final reveal satisfying. It’s the finale, and often the last substantial image readers will take away with them.

What many people don’t realize is that you need multiple wrong versions of the solution too, and they all need to be just as interesting as the one that turns out to be the truth. These are the theories that characters follow during the long middle of the book. Typically, a reader will spend more time with wrong theories than the right one. Make sure all the theories in your book are engaging, not just the one at the end that happens to be right.

Characters believe certain things because of who they are

Alternate theories serve another purpose: they’re a great way to show character. For example, which of your characters will suspect the husband, the mother, the priest, the CEO? Which of your characters will believe the amulet is a piece of trash, that it’s a valuable work of art, or that it’s actually magic, and why? You can show a lot about a character this way.

What characters believe affects what they do

If a character believes their boss is the head of a manipulative cult, it’s likely they won’t trust them, or share personal information with them, and will avoid meeting with them alone. If a character believes their colleague knows the location of the treasure, it’s likely they’ll keep tabs on where they go and follow them when they duck out of work in the middle of the day.

Belief shapes action.

Be clear to yourself about what each character in your story believes, and consider how these beliefs can be expressed through their behavior.

Different beliefs

Sometimes a central character will go through several versions of belief. Perhaps a detective will first suspect one character, then another, then another, and as their beliefs change, their actions change. You can go through several different versions of the answer to your mystery in just one character.

You can also have multiple characters with different strong beliefs who bump against each other. If one character suspects the husband framed his wife and another believes the wife is innocent, their subsequent actions might get in each other’s ways.

Characters getting into each other’s ways can make for a great middle.

Little Face

One of my favorite exercises is based on the premise for Sophie Hannah’s novel Little Face.

The setup is that a new mother has left the house for the first time since giving birth to have a spa day, a gift from her mother-in-law. When she returns, she looks at the baby in the crib in horror and insists it isn’t theirs—it’s a different baby. Her husband, who’s been home with the baby, says of course it’s their baby.

I ask the class to get into groups and brainstorm possible solutions to this mystery. Some of the ideas they come up with are that the husband is having an affair and this is his lover’s baby, that the mother-in-law has replaced a sick baby with a healthy baby, that the wife is experiencing a condition that makes her unable to recognize her own child... and so on. It’s not unusual for the class as a whole to come up with 15-20 different ideas, including evil fairies and curious aliens!

Little Face part 2

I ask each student to pick one theory and create a character in the story who would be drawn to that theory.

Think about why they would believe that. What biases have they brought with them from previous experience that make them immediately mistrust the husband or wife or mother-in-law, or the police, or doctors? You can come up with a lot about a character’s past, personality, and habitual behavior from their beliefs.

Ask yourself what actions this character might then take based on this strong belief.

Little Face part 3

Then I put students into groups of two or three, matching up characters with very different beliefs.

Maybe the detective character suspects the husband and mother-in-law of replacing the baby, but his own mother is convinced the transformation of the baby was a supernatural act that needs to be appeased with a sacrifice. While a neighbor, infertile and unhappy about it, suspects the wife is lying about not recognizing the baby and never wanted one, so she plans to kidnap it and give it the home it deserves.

When you have strong characters with strong, different beliefs acting in their own interests and therefore against each other, you have plenty to fill your middle.

Brainstorm with others?

Some people like to talk about their projects, and others prefer to keep details secret until it’s done. Either way is fine. But even if you’re the second way, consider allowing yourself to brainstorm with friends or a writing group when it comes to plot problems, and for generating multiple fascinating theories of your central mystery.

Whenever we’ve done classroom exercises on plot, laughter abounds. People have a great time. I suggest a desire, and they brainstorm possible obstacles. I suggest a mystery, they brainstorm possible solutions. The Little Face exercise is a blast. I encourage them to be as creative as possible and the breadth of ideas they come up with is a joy.

As a writer asking for help, be specific about the plot issue at hand. Maybe your character needs money, or wants revenge, or has to get off a moving train somehow. Maybe your detective’s investigation has stalled, or you don’t know how the murderer could have gotten out of the locked room. Maybe you need more variants of the solution to your mystery to keep your characters away from the truth. Let your friends loose on the problem, bouncing ideas off each other. Let it get outrageous, and don’t squash even outlandish ideas; this will tend to squash less outlandish ideas too. It’s very likely that somewhere in that wild list of possibilities, an answer or several possible answers will show themselves.

Sometimes the best plot developments feel too big at first. You may think, “I can’t do that!” Sleep on it. Maybe you can.

Chapter thirty-one

Assessment Outlines

Most people think of outlines as something you make before you start your novel, to plan what you’re going to write. And some writers do work that way: they make a detailed outline of the whole book before writing even chapter one.

But not all outlines are about planning for what’s going to happen. Some outlines are about looking back and assessing what you’ve already written. This can be useful in the middle of writing a book, or even after you’ve finished a whole first draft.

We’re going to look at different kinds of assessment outlines. All of these ideas are things you might use, if they seem appropriate for your book. I wouldn’t expect you to do every kind of outline for every project. But considering each of them can help you figure out how you naturally work, and what you most need to pay attention to as you proceed.

Assessment outlines: what have you done?

When trying to make life improvements, it’s common advice to keep a record of what you actually do. What did you spend money on this month? What did you eat this week? Seeing the results in list form can make us realize that our overall impressions of what we’re doing may not match what we’ve really done. We can also then compare what we’ve done to our intended priorities to see where changes may need to happen; we may say a big priority is family or studying or exercise, but in practice it just doesn’t get as much time compared to other things. We need to know.

This works for books too.

You may have intended to write a romance about Mark and Lois, but what if there are only three scenes of them together, but fifteen scenes with Lois and her best friend? Maybe your book is really more about friendship.

What if you intended to write a book about an animal shelter, but only two out of fifteen chapters are set there? What if you intended to write a book about high school but the characters graduate in chapter three?

With that in mind, a basic assessment outline is a chapter-by-chapter or scene-by-scene list saying where each is set, which characters are present and active, and what they’re doing summed up briefly.

It might look something like this:

While detail can be wonderfully helpful in a planning outline, too much detail can obscure the purpose of an assessment outline, which is to see the forest instead of the trees.

Look at your list and ask yourself: Where does my book spend most of its time? Who are the most present characters? Which problems do they spend the most time working on?

What should you do if this outline makes you realize your book is off-track from what you planned? You can accept what it now is and lean into that, or you can revise to reflect your original intent. It’s your choice.

Also, you will likely now have a clearer idea of the arc of the whole book, and you’ll be better able to revise based on that understanding, and better able to describe it to others.

Cause and effect

Remember when we discussed cause and effect and Detective Sturgess?

In your assessment outline, try adding or highlighting the cause-and-effect connections between scenes and chapters. Is your story a chain of events and actions, each in some way leading to the next? If not, this would be a good time to think about how to connect them.

Assessment outlines: subplot chart

Subplots/plot threads are story elements that have their own arcs, meaning they develop over several scenes. They can happen almost in the background, like a romance between minor characters, or they can be integral to the plot, like an ongoing argument that leads to a plot-driving act of violence. Some books have very separate subplots that run in parallel, like a book that follows the story of a soldier in a battle alternating with the story of his family at home. Some subplots are intertwined with the main story, like if that soldier in battle has an ongoing bet with his fellows or is receiving letters from his fiancée back home and gradually realizes he’s losing her. If you have a mystery-novel detective struggling to parent his teenage daughter, or a romance-novel heroine starting her own business, you have a subplot.

My personal favorite type of assessment outline is a subplot chart. I really need this because my books are very complicated and have a lot of plot threads to keep track of. This kind of outline gives you a handy bird’s-eye view of the flow of your book.

It serves two very practical purposes: it helps you see your subplot patterns and judge whether you’ve arranged them in a sensible way, and it’s a great reference for revision. You can, if you wish, focus on one subplot at a time, and easily find all the stages of its development.

For example, here’s a chart for a made-up book showing which chapters progress which subplots:

Looking at it laid out like this, you might notice a wide gap between mentions of Don’s bar exam studies. Maybe it would be better to keep that subplot more in the reader’s mind in the middle of the book. Also, Lyn’s adoption doesn’t come up until near the end. Maybe that plot thread could use some earlier mention or foreshadowing. I’ve put Os in the next chart to show where you might aim to add more to your manuscript:

I also find it helpful to use square brackets to emphasize the starts and ends of subplots:

These brackets remind me to pay special attention to how a subplot is first introduced or at last completed. For example, in chapter 12 I need to bring the story of Lyn and Marta’s friendship to a satisfying close, not just continue it; in chapter 4 I need to remember that I’m bringing up Lyn’s adoption for the very first time, and so should be extra clear.

You might be more specific and use page numbers, if your chapters are long and the mentions would be hard to find with just a chapter number:

This can make it easy to work on a single plot thread on its own. To read through Don’s bar exam thread, print pages 3, 9, 41, 42, 57, 58...

Assessment outlines: timelines

Timelines are reference lists you can make to keep track of when characters do things or have done them in the past. This can be helpful while you’re writing, to keep track of things, or after the first draft, to discover errors or synchronicities you hadn’t realized before.

Chronology

This is a timeline of your characters’ actions over the course of your book, particularly noting any elements that might indicate time or shared events, like weather. It’s especially helpful if you have different subplots happening simultaneously. For example, one character’s timeline might look like this:

And another’s might look like this:

Looking at these lists, you might notice some potential discrepancies. For example:

- It’s dark when Karen receives the text but light when Riley sends it.

- If Denver is only three hours from when he started, and it was still distractingly bright out when Riley got gas along the way, how is it late enough to give away his hotel room when he arrives?

Maybe you’ll decide to insert some traffic or an accident as a delaying tactic to make Riley’s journey longer; maybe you’ll get rid of the reference to sun being in his eyes and make him start his journey later; maybe you’ll have Karen turn off her phone and so put a delay between him sending the text and her receiving it. There are lots of options.

The main thing is to realize that you need to do something. Especially in stories where different subplots take place in different chapters, it can be easy to miss things that make sense in their own chapters but fail to match up with events in other chapters. Timelines can help.

Backstory

Making a timeline of backstory can help you see where characters might have crossed paths in the past, or if they had similar or very different experiences. It can also help you see how their pasts fit in with historic events in ways that might impact them in the present.

Make a list of when your most important characters were born and therefore what years they would have experienced various milestones. See what historic events happened at those times in those places. Was your now-much-older character a young woman in Seattle back when Ted Bundy was murdering? Had your character been studying astrophysics at university the year the Challenger shuttle exploded? These past experiences could have an effect on them in your story now.

The Reader’s Experience

In many books, the reader is supposed to identify closely with the main character and follow them chronologically through the story. These kinds of stories are straightforwardly structured, and the reader’s experience is the same as the protagonist’s: they know what the protagonist knows, they suspect what the protagonist suspects, and they read about events in the same order that the protagonist experiences them.

Some books are more complexly structured, with multiple points of view and/or time jumps. Perhaps flashbacks to earlier events alternate with present action; perhaps different narrators cover different times within the story or even repeat the same events from different views. With books like this, it can be helpful to look at two separate timelines: a chronological timeline for the characters, to be sure that your continuity is consistent between them, and a timeline of the reader’s experience.

In what order is the reader receiving information, and at what points do their beliefs and expectations about the story change? When do they go from suspecting the husband to suspecting the ex-lover? When do they go from believing the wife is hallucinating to believing she’s really seeing these strange things? These things will happen because of what you show and tell them; keep track of when that happens.

It’s true that not every reader’s experience will be identical. Some may catch subtle clues that others don’t, for instance. But overall, the author should be in control of the reader’s major turning points. Just like a theater director or the host of an elaborate party, you’re masterminding an immersive experience, and you want to take your guest on a deliberate, designed journey.

Part 6: Being Understood by Others

Chapter thirty-two

Depth and Clarity

I love getting lost in a book, when all you can think about is turning pages and you no longer realize how much time is passing.

If you ask someone what makes a book have that effect, the most likely answers you’ll get are “engaging characters” or “an exciting plot” or “a setting I long to visit.” It’s true that you need something like at least one of those to make a reader want to enter the world you’ve created. But what immerses them? What keeps them there?

It’s something that may seem much more mundane:

Clarity.

The importance of clarity

If your reader has to flip back a few pages to remind themselves where the scene is set, they’re pulled out of that experience.

If your reader has to reread a paragraph multiple times to get its meaning or to figure out which character is speaking, they’re pulled out of that experience.

If your reader has to look up a word, because not only do they not know its meaning but the author used it in such a way that there are no context clues, they’re pulled out of that experience.

Lack of clarity distracts your reader. Clarity allows them to enter into the world you’ve created and stay there.

Often, school teaches that deep, important writing needs to be mined. We look at short passages over and over, finding more and more richness and meaning as we delve deeper.

While it’s true that good writing often has a deeper meaning that’s evident only when read a second or third time, its surface meaning should be easily apparent. This is especially true for novels.

Unlike a poem, which might be read multiple times in one sitting, a novel has hundreds of pages. Novels are meant to be read straight through, one page right after another. It’s the novelist’s job to make the clarity of the story easy to perceive as the reader moves through it. (It’s my preference for poems to be easy to read too, but novels especially require it because of their length.)

There may be bonus depth available only upon reread—indeed, that will be true for the greatest books—but the main story should be vibrantly, readily graspable. The reader should easily and unmistakably know who is present, who is speaking, and other basics of picturing each scene, as they plow ever forward. (If you’re writing a scene meant to purposely mislead, such as one in which the reader will wrongly assume which character is narrating or when the scene takes place, that’s fine; the point is that whatever you’re giving them is something they can confidently picture, and that most readers will picture roughly the same thing, even if that picture will ultimately be proved wrong.)

Another thing we often inadvertently learn in school is that understanding great books takes additional resources, like historical context and special glossaries. Shakespeare’s words sometimes need to be defined in footnotes and the cultural practices of Austen’s or Fitzgerald’s times sometimes need to be explained in a history lesson. This makes perfect sense for books written in a time different from our own, but a book written now should make sense to readers now without any extra materials. A novel should aim to be a complete kit for understanding its story.

I sometimes hear student writers praise each other for writing that’s difficult to understand because lack of clarity is taken as evidence of depth. My lesson for you is that this is not a true equation. Depth and clarity are not opposites. Depth and clarity work together, and the best writing has both.

Thematic depth and greater meaning live below the surface of the story, like beautiful, mysterious fish. They might be glimpsed by only the more mindful readers. The clarity of the story—by which I mean the who, what, where, and when—should float like a boat, in a patch of bright sunlight, clearly outlined and brightly colored.

Chapter thirty-three

Tasting the Ginger

It’s very common, when a student writer receives feedback that someone has misunderstood their piece, to point at the line that gives whatever the misunderstood information is and blame the reader for not being attentive enough.

It’s very possible that the reader was inattentive. That definitely happens. But most often what I see is something else.

Remember back in the showing/telling lesson, we talked about how showing is more memorable? If you’re relying on a single line of telling for something significant, it may not be enough.

In cooking competition shows, we often see a contestant putting in an ingredient that they hope will be key to their dish’s success. Maybe they add some ginger. Then the judge might point out when they taste it that the ginger just isn’t coming through.

They’re not accusing the cook of lying about adding ginger! They know the ginger’s in there. What they’re saying is that in the synthesis of the tasting experience, the ginger that is there isn’t strong enough to stand out among the other elements. That’s a legitimate complaint, and something the cook can fix.

Your ginger is there, yes. But maybe, in combination with all the other elements, it’s just not coming through.

Times Square

No reader is going to retain every word you write. It’s not possible; there are too many of them in a book! Readers synthesize the words into general ideas and images that they carry along with them as they proceed through the story.

It’s possible that the important information you wrote didn’t identify itself as important enough for the reader to pick it up and include it in their idea or image.

Imagine you’re in Times Square, with all those flashing signs and huge advertisements. Everywhere you look, more information. There may well be a sign that says “closed for lunch between 1 and 2” but with all those distractions you really can’t blame the reader for not realizing that that’s what they were supposed to notice.

Showing battling telling

Sometimes it’s not just that a reader missed something you wanted them to stop and take note of; sometimes they claim you actually said something else completely! And maybe you did. You might have told the reader that the character is seventeen years old (“she was seventeen”) but you might have also shown the reader behavior that suggests a different age (“she stomped her foot and held her breath when her mother said she couldn’t go to the party”). Chances are the reader will remember what you showed more than what you told, especially if the telling and showing happen far apart. They might instead register the character as five years old.

Even if they do note the surprising discrepancy between what was shown and what was told, instead of thinking “ah, a seventeen-year-old who behaves in a younger manner!” they might wonder “is this the same character? Did I misread? Did the author make a mistake?” And then they’re distracted and out of the story.

You want your telling and showing to work together. If there’s a mismatch, maybe you’ll decide that you should change one or the other.

If you have an element of your story that’s deliberately contradictory, like the example above, it can help if you explicitly acknowledge the contradiction, to confirm to the reader that they’re understanding the situation correctly. In this case, it could be something like the mother retorting, “If you want to behave like a five-year-old in front of your friends, go ahead. But your driving test is tomorrow so you’re not going out tonight.”

Different readers

Different readers come to a book with different experiences and assumptions. Sometimes one reader “gets” your work instantly, while another is confused. It can be tempting to dismiss the confused reader as just not thinking hard enough.

If it’s just one reader, maybe that’s true. But if you get a more significant fraction—say, six people understood it as you intended and three didn’t—it’s in your best interest to see what you can do to clarify. Ideally a book will be intended for many readers, and you want to make it as impervious to misunderstanding as you can.

Chapter thirty-four

Preparing for Readers

Sometimes first drafts benefit from a light polish. Some benefit from significant development. Critique from mentors or peers can help, or guidance from a professional editor. In any case, the first step is editing yourself.

What is editing?

While the editing process will involve catching and correcting errors, it should go deeper than that. Good editing is concerned with flow, clarity, pace, mood, character development, thematic development, suspense, and lots more. While there will be some wrong things to fix, the bulk of editing is about fine things that could be made even better. One of my favorite things to note on student work is where there are opportunities to emphasize or expand what they’ve already mentioned.

The most important thing is to enter into the process willing to make changes.

When should it happen?

Editing can happen anytime throughout the writing process. Some writers push through writing a whole section or even a whole full draft then go back and edit the whole thing. Some edit their work as each scene is written, polishing each one as best they can before moving on to the next.

If you’re the latter type, be warned that some people get so caught up in making the opening of their novel “perfect” that they don’t ever move forward. If you’ve gone over the same scene several times, it’s probably time to push yourself into the next one. You can always revise the earlier scene at a later time, and getting deeper into what comes next may help you figure out how that earlier scene needs to change. You might even realize that you’re starting in the wrong place and the scene you were polishing isn’t needed at all.

Also, be aware that by the time you finish the whole manuscript, though each scene may be individually polished, there will still be editing to be done on the book as a whole. You’ll need to look at the way scenes fit together, and how they lead up to a crescendo. Expect that there will still be work to do at the end even if you edit as you go.

Think of the reader

What you’ll need to specifically focus on as you edit depends on what you naturally do well and what you have to work a little harder on. I hope that working through this book has given you some insight in this area.

In general, what everyone needs to think about as they edit is putting themselves in the reader’s shoes. Imagine you’re someone who knows nothing of what’s about to happen, who’s never been to this setting, who isn’t personally similar to the main characters. What do they need to know? What do they need to be persuaded of?

Conversely, think about what the reader might already know if they’re an avid reader of the genre: what are they expecting will happen? How are you going to play with those expectations; will you fulfill them or subvert them? How are you going to guide the reader through the experience of your story?

Seeing what we expect to see

Our brains make sense of senseless things by automatically correcting errors we see. That’s how we can read the same paragraph six times and not notice a missing word, for example. It’s a wonderful thing, but it can make editing our own work difficult.

This applies to big things as well as little ones. Just as we can blip over a missing apostrophe, we can blip over plot holes or lack of clarity, because we as the writers know the information that’s missing from the page. We automatically incorporate those secret things into our understanding.

Here are some tips for reading your work afresh:

- Take some time to “forget” what you wrote. Taking days or weeks away from your manuscript can help you step away from your role as author and come back to your work with fresher eyes. (Never completely fresh, of course, but fresher than if you’ve just typed “The End” an hour ago.)

- Read it aloud. Having to say each word means you can’t just skim and assume what’s generally there, which we often do when reading familiar things. Or listen to it being read aloud; some programs have that function. Either way can also help with finding awkward or overly complex sentences and stilted dialogue.

- Print it out if you’re used to seeing it on a screen. Having it in a different medium can tug your brain out of expecting the same old, same old. I like to change the whole manuscript to a new font or new font size, just for the read through; either of those will move the text around. For example, if the new font is larger, fewer words will fit on each page, and the manuscript will fill more pages as the text is pushed forward. A paragraph that used the sit on the bottom of a page might now sit at the top of one; a sentence that used to start in the center of the page now might start at the right-hand edge. Even though the words are in the same order, the visual shake-up is a useful signal to my brain that I’m reading something new.

But most of all, it’s helpful to get the views of an outside reader. That’s what the next lessons are about.

Chapter thirty-five

Critique: Introduction

It can be both a great dream and a great worry that what you’ve written will be read by others. Being understood, appreciated, and admired is the dream. Being misunderstood or, worse, understood and disliked, is the worry.

When I first started writing, I didn’t share it with anyone I knew. I sent things straight to contests and otherwise it was my secret. Now it’s one of my great joys to create an environment where students can develop the courage and compassion to share their work with each other, even in its early stages. In this chapter and those that follow, I share the principles that go into creating such environments.

Critique is feedback/comments on a work in progress to help the author improve it.

This includes peer workshopping, teacher comments, and professional editing. It doesn’t include reviews; critique is for the sake of the author while the author can still make changes, while reviews are for readers, and happen after the work is set in stone.

Critique should be asked for, not unsolicited. Telling someone out of the blue how you think they should change their work is usually unwelcome and ineffective. (If you feel something you have to say is important enough to share with someone who hasn’t sought your advice, do so humbly and gently, both for the sake of your relationship and for any chance of the advice being taken.)

If someone asks you to read some of their work, ask them what kind of feedback they’re looking for. They might just be sharing something they’re proud of and not looking for advice. Even if they are looking for advice, knowing what kind of advice will help you read with a goal in mind.

If you’re the one doing the asking, be explicit about why you’d like them to read. Perhaps you’d like them to check for accuracy regarding something they’re experienced with, or perhaps you’re worried the reader will solve the mystery too early, or they won’t understand your protagonist’s leaps of logic. Let them know what you’re most concerned about.

If someone just wants general feedback, a good focus is clarity. Are there any points where you feel confused, any points where you have to reread or flip back to understand what’s going on? I always like to hear about anyplace like that in my manuscripts, so I can make my intended meaning easier to understand.

It’s natural to think that critique means only criticism, but that’s not so. In the next lessons, we’re going to look at three different kinds of critique: praise, neutral observations, and then, at last, criticism.

It’s common to think that this is what’s true:

But really, this is what’s true:

These next sections are for people giving critique and also for those receiving it, because ideally a writer will be both.

Chapter thirty-six

Critique: Praise is Not Just Flattery

Praise is often used as a softener, to make criticism easier to take. Compliments are the gentle parts of the “critique sandwich”: compliment, criticism, compliment. But praise can also be useful in its own right.

Pointing out what worked well helps the author know what to do more of and be confident about. They also need to know when a risk they’ve taken has paid off.

Many students are wary of criticizing their peers but feel unuseful if all they do is praise. Even if all you give is compliments that can be very useful, so long as the compliments are specific.

Here’s an example that is nice, but not particularly useful:

“I loved it!”

On the other hand, something like these examples below would be very useful:

The way you arranged the dialogue was absolutely clear. I always knew every moment who was speaking, even though there were so many characters involved. [This sentence] could have been confusing but [this action] made me understand it easily.

I love the way you embedded the exposition so naturally in [this sentence] and [this sentence]. I never felt like you were explaining things to me, but it was obvious from her uniform that she worked for the police and from what was on his computer screen that he was struggling to finish his PhD.

There are things writers do naturally that we’re not necessarily aware we do well. Specific praise can help us identify and name these things, which makes it easier for us to consciously use them when they’re most needed.

Imagine feedback that skips all the praise. That would be like a recipe that instead of a list of ingredients has only a list of what not to use. Not helpful! Writers need to know what to keep doing. Praise gives them their ingredient list.

If you’re critiquing, be generous! Underline the lines or even just words that stick out as delightful to you. Jot a star or a smiley face next to moments in the story that make you gasp or laugh. And show the author.

MYTH: If my work is really good, there will be only praise.

TRUTH: Not so!

Writers are often sensitive and believe that if there’s any criticism alongside compliments that the compliments aren’t really real. They think, “they said they like it, but they also had criticism,” as if criticism negates compliments.

Try the word “and” instead: “they said they like it, and they had ideas for improvement.” That’s a more accurate statement and more healthy attitude.

If you’re being critiqued with praise, drink the compliments in. It’s easy to wave them away, especially if there’s criticism too. But compliments and criticism are common roommates. They’re both real, and they both matter.

Chapter thirty-seven

Critique: Neutral Observations

The writer knows more than the reader. They know more backstory than will ever make it onto the page, and more about the setting and the characters than are on the page. The writer knows what’s going to happen next.

Because of all that extra knowledge, the writer cannot know what it’s like to read their book with a fresh mind. Feedback from others gives a writer access to the reader’s experience, something they can’t have on their own, no matter how carefully they self-edit.

Simply telling the writer what you perceive is happening can be immensely useful.

For example:

“This sentence made me laugh.”
“I think he’s the murderer.”
“I think she’s lying.”
“I think this character is a jerk.” (Yes, this is neutral, not critical! Some characters are intended to come across as jerks.)

Then the author can decide if the scene is working as intended, or if they want to make adjustments in order to get a different reaction.

A reader might say:

“Even though the characters were speaking politely to each other, I got a sense of simmering resentment between them.”

To that reader, that’s simply neutral information. It’s what they perceived.

If the writer intended that undercurrent to be there, they’ll take this as a compliment. Hooray, the scene worked!

If the writer intended a wholly different mood, then they’ll know they need to do some work...or they might choose to revise their intention, if the reader’s unexpected interpretation sounds interesting!

Things a writer can learn from a reader:

- Whether important facts are clear

- Whether or not something is surprising

- What subtext is coming through

- What the reader suspects might happen next

These are things even very insightful writers can’t realize by themselves, and therefore they’re a great gift to give a writer

Chapter thirty-eight

Critique: Criticism

Criticism should be gentle.

Criticism should assume the best of the writer, and the writer should assume the best of the critiquer.

Criticism should not be entered into with the attitude of fixing something bad, but with the attitude of helping something already good become even better. Don’t think of writing quality as having a right/wrong binary; instead, writing quality is a spectrum:

Critique can help get you from one classification to the next.

Writers sometimes feel ashamed when they hear an idea for improvement, because they think that means what they wrote was therefore wrong or bad. Switching your thinking from the binary model to the spectrum model helps both critiquer and writer to have a more accurate and practical attitude. There’s no shame in having written something fine or great. In fact, there’s not even shame in something not working in its current form; many terrific writers have faced such problems.

Intention and execution

Intention is what you ultimately want to put into the reader’s head. A writer’s intentions should be protected. Executionis how you use words to do that. Whether someone has used the best execution of words and structure to accomplish their intention is open for discussion.

Criticism should be aimed at execution, not intention. This means it’s not appropriate to tell a writer that they should have different goals for their story. Rather, the critiquer is the writer’s ally, helping them evaluate if they’re making the best writing choices to reach their chosen goals.

MYTH: Someone suggesting I should change my work is an affront.

TRUTH: No. Telling you to change your intentions would be an affront. Helping you improve your execution so that your intent is even more clear is a gift.

Problems and solutions

Criticism typically comes in two parts:

- This is a problem

- This could fix the problem

The first part is the more useful of the two. Once an author knows where a problem is they can do something about it.

Often, if a critiquer has recognized a problem but doesn’t have any ideas how to fix it, they’ll hold back saying anything at all. No need! Just pointing out a problem can be helpful, even if you don’t have a solution to offer.

In fact, that can often be more helpful than offering a specific solution. If the proposed solution doesn’t jibe with the author’s overall intentions, they may dismiss the comment altogether, even if the identified problem is still a problem. If you do present a possible solution, keep it in context as one of many, as a suggestion not an instruction.

Who is critique for?

MYTH: Critique is only for students; professionals are past that. I can’t wait to become a real writer and never have to go through this again!

TRUTH: No! Professionals appreciate their colleagues, agents, and editors and make good use of their input.

Chapter thirty-nine

Critique: Taking it In

Sometimes critique doesn’t feel good.

You can’t control how other people critique. Not everyone will follow the principles we looked at in recent lessons (though the hope is that moderators and teachers will always encourage kind, supportive behavior).

Even if critique is handled respectfully and helpfully, it can feel like an attack if you’re feeling vulnerable.

And not everyone will be in sync with your vision or share your personal priorities for your story. They may have good ideas, but ones that don’t fit what you’re trying to do.

Remember: every bit of critique is a gift you can later choose to use or ignore, no explanation required. You don’t need to argue or defend or apologize in the moment you receive it. Just nod and smile, jot it down, and say thanks. (The jotting it down part is important. Sometimes an observation or suggestion that seems outrageous at first comes into focus down the line. Receiving critique is like digging for artifacts: collect everything you find and evaluate each piece’s worth later.)

You might ask questions if you don’t quite understand what they’re concerned about. You might explain a little bit, not to try to change their minds, but to see if extra information affects their advice. Something like: “That character is actually fifteen years old. Can you show me what in the scene made you think she was so much older?”

But no arguing. There’s no need! They don’t have power over your story. Only you do.

What about your publisher?

Caveat: if your book is being published then, yes, your assigned editor does have power over it. But that doesn’t mean you must blindly obey all their suggestions. Most editorial relationships are collaborative. In my experience, fulfilling 70–80% of what an editor asks for has been sufficient; those changes often make the rest of the requested changes moot or at least minor.

But what if they insist on something that feels wrong to you?

It doesn’t have to be a standoff, with the only two options being giving in or fighting. Try working backward to see what problem they’re trying to solve with their request. Even if their suggestion isn’t the right thing to do, they may have correctly identified a relevant problem that you can solve a different way.

For example, an editor asks you to break up your character’s marriage, and that doesn’t sit right with you. Ask yourself: What problem are they trying to solve? Maybe there’s a lack of tension and interest in the home-set scenes. Maybe you can solve that with a different form of conflict.

This works with any suggestions that don’t feel right to you, whether they come from someone with power or not. Remember the two parts of criticism: a problem and a solution. See if working backward from a suggested solution reveals a problem you could solve a different way.

What if they insist?

In my experience, the above mindset is sufficient in most cases. After all, the reason they bought your book is because they love it already.

But sometimes a publisher or agent makes a firm demand about revisions that an author doesn’t agree with. What to do?

One of the hardest things for a writer to figure out is when to stand up for their work and when to humbly accept the advice of an experienced authority. We all know the stories of great writers who knew better than the stodgy, stick-in-the-mud establishment that failed to recognize their genius; good thing those authors didn’t bend to the editorial advice that would have made their work formulaic and mediocre! But we also know stories of arrogant aspiring writers who refused to consider changing even one golden word, and so got stuck in mediocrity because they weren’t willing to get better—because to get better one has to change.

It’s possible to be too stubborn, to your own detriment. It’s also possible to be too accommodating, too willing to surrender your vision. When you’re in the middle of a situation, it can be hard to know which one you should be. I wish I could tell you what to do, but the truth is that the answer isn’t universal; it depends on the manuscript, the goals for it, and what you’re being asked to do.

Collect the best advice you can, from the most informed people you have access to, and make the best decision you can. Then see what happens. If you’ve gotten that far, it’s clear you have talent and some good instincts, so either you’ll make the right decision or you’ll rally and recover from the wrong one. Or maybe neither is fully right or wrong, and you’ll rally from there.

The gift of critique

One of the hardest things about revising one’s own writing is figuring out which parts of it to work on. Imagine facing 300 pages. 80,000 words. Some of them work better than others. But which ones?

A robust critique is like a treasure map telling you exactly where to dig.

Part 7: The Professional Life

Chapter forty

Publishing: Big, Small, Self

Being published can be wonderful. It’s a form of validation, acceptance, and objective achievement. One of my favorite things about it is that it completes a project in a way that allows me to move on creatively.

The frustrating thing is that publication depends not just on determination but on agreement from others: you need to be chosen. Even if you decide to self-publish, ultimately you depend on being chosen by readers.

It’s common to reach the stage of pursuing publication with an all-or-nothing mindset. To some people, their manuscript isn’t “real” until it’s in print and for sale to strangers. This can be a stressful approach. It’s important to recognize what you’ve already gained from every step along the way.

The act of writing has importance apart from publishing. There’s already value in the self-knowledge gained, in the worldview articulated, and in the sharing of your work among your inner circle. It’s fine to want more and pursue more, but please don’t discount what an accomplishment you’ve already achieved, what an experience of personal development you’ve already had, and what a connection you’ve already forged with others before you’ve even tried to be published. You’ve already done something wonderful!

Publishing seems simple but is actually complex, which means that writers can misunderstand what they’re agreeing to, they can be taken advantage of, and they can be vulnerable to rash decisions. I want to give you information that will help you make choices you understand and that are truly right for you.

Here and in the next few chapters are important facts that will help you.

(And if you don’t desire to be published and are content at this point, that’s just fine! You’re in charge of your creative expression. You get to choose when the process is complete. But do read on. The inner workings of publishing are fascinating.)

- Commercial publishing/trade publishing (sometimes also called traditional publishing) is a publisher buying the rights to sell an author’s book. Typically, big publishers that have a national reach and a well-known positive reputation can only be approached by an agent, not by an author directly. (Agents will be discussed in a later chapter.)

- Small publishing is a form of commercial publishing with a smaller reach or focus. Perhaps the audience is naturally small because the topic is a niche interest; perhaps it’s simply that the reach of the publisher is small. Micro publishing is very, very small publishing.

- Self-publishing is publishing one’s own book by either doing the work of publishing oneself or hiring services, such as editing, formatting, cover design, and printing.

Some writers deliberately aim for self-publishing or small publishing because the book they’ve written is naturally suited to it. For example, a collection of local ghost stories might be perfect for a press run by a small historical society with distribution to historic sites in the local area. A well-respected university press with very small print runs might be a great place for a poetry collection. An e-book-only genre publisher with an established audience can be a great place to find eager romance readers. Someone with an established reputation or large social media presence might self-publish to their followers and fans. Sometimes authors with big publishers will also self-publish their backlist books that have gone out of print or side projects that don’t fit their main brand. If you have a specific reason to aim for a small press or to self-publish, they can be good options.

But small publishing and self-publishing can be disappointing for a writer who was aiming for big publishing, and who then comes to a small press or self-publishing as a compromise. How to decide if a specific small publisher is a good choice?

Chances are that a publisher—any publisher—will only be able to do for you what they’ve already done for others. While exceptions do exist, they’re rare. For any publisher you’re considering working with, look at the books they’ve published before:

- If their other books are poorly produced or poorly edited, it’s likely yours will be too.

- If their other books sell very few copies, it’s likely yours will too. Find out actual sales numbers. A vague phrase like “selling well” might not mean what you think it means.

- Have you read their books before or will you now? If not, why would anyone else?

- If their other books are not selectively chosen, even if yours is brilliant it’s likely to be judged by the company it keeps.

An important thing to find out is where your book would be available to buy. Research carefully where their other books are already for sale. Some people mistakenly assume that books available on a store’s website are also stocked on that store’s shelves; that is not typically the case. Online stores carry many, many more titles than physical stores. Some people think that a book being available in the publisher’s or author’s local store means it’s also carried by that chain nationwide, but that’s not necessarily so. Many chain stores carry local books in the local store only. Some publishers say that their books are “available” in certain chains, which makes the author think they’re in stock on the shelves, but what the publisher means is that a reader can special order them from the front counter.

It’s fine to have a book available online only, if you know that’s what’s happening and are happy with it. It’s upsetting to expect it to be in shops and discover it’s not.

Another thing to look at is price. This is especially relevant if the publisher uses Print-on-Demand (POD) rather than offset printing. Offset printing is high quality and becomes cost-effective with large print runs. Big publishers use it for new books because they have the means to store and distribute thousands of copies, and the expectation of selling them. Smaller publishers don’t want that many copies at a time, because they can’t store, distribute, or expect to sell them all. If they do print physical copies they often use POD, which prints one copy each time a book is bought. (And bigger publishers sometimes use POD for backlists.) It’s more expensive per book to print one at a time, and this is often reflected in what smaller publishers then charge. These high prices can make their books harder to sell. (Conversely, if they do use offset printing to make a big print run, either they or you can end up with a garage full of copies that are difficult to find buyers for.)

You can have a great experience with a very small publisher, but only if your expectations match what they’re going to do. Consider carefully if you’re truly happy with the quality, distribution, audience, and reputation they have already achieved. If your book achieved exactly that, would you be pleased?

Only proceed if the answer is yes.

Many writers want a publisher so badly that they overlook warning signs or convince themselves that their experience will be different. This often leads to unhappiness.

What if a publisher is new?

If a publisher has never published anything before, and the people running it have not worked in publishing before, I recommend being cautious. (And if they have worked in publishing before, look at the quality of that publisher and their role in it.)

Technologically, it’s easy to call yourself a publisher and start advertising to writers. Enthusiastic but inexperienced people start up small publishing companies and get in over their heads all the time. Sometimes writers get hurt in the process and give their careers a wobbly start. Sometimes poorly written contracts and small publishers going out of business can mean that the writers lose all rights to their work altogether, and then they can’t submit or self-publish it in the future. It’s heartbreaking.

Many writers think, “I’m new myself. I’m asking them to take a chance on me, so I should take a chance on them!”

That statement sounds good but has an assumption behind it that is incorrect. The model for publishers (and agents) isn’t starting one’s own company as a newbie and gradually gaining experience; instead, it’s a kind of apprenticeship. They get experience before they take charge, then publish well right out of the gate. Ideally, someone starting a publishing company has done significant work at a reputable publishing company and learned the ropes there. Loving books, having themselves written book-length manuscripts and experienced rejection, and/or having an English degree are all insufficient preparation.

Similarly, the model for writers is from flawed manuscripts that get filed under the bed to eventually terrific books on the shelf. You do your improving in private. It’s not to first publish lousy books then fine books and then eventually great books!

It’s very, very hard to break into commercial publishing, but that’s a good thing: it forces you to get better. Professional writers often look back at their early, unpublished work with relief that it stayed under the bed.

Should you self-publish?

Maybe! Some writers have a good experience with it. Some are disappointed. Some retract their books later, realizing they weren’t ready. If you feel excited about the work of publishing and have a realistic understanding of how much work it is, if you have a good plan for reaching readers, or are truly comfortable with a small readership, it could be a good choice.

But some writers consider self-publishing in order to avoid aspects of publishing they find uncomfortable, like dealing with rejection, making changes to their manuscript, or relinquishing control of ancillary aspects like cover design.

While rejection is indeed painful, self-publishing doesn’t protect you from it. There’s rejection in low sales numbers, in negative reviews, in lack of reviews. Publishing of every kind has the possibility of rejection built into it at every stage. There’s also the wonderful possibility of meaningful connection and accomplishment, hence the temptation to take the risk.

As for disliking change and wanting control, remember that improvement is change. Growth is change. Change can mean your intent being communicated even more clearly and vividly. Control is overrated. While most published authors have a story or two about a cover they didn’t like or some misdirected branding, the skills of experts being applied to your book is usually a wonderful gift. If you do self-publish, hiring an editor, a cover designer, and other services would be wise.

There’s another kind of publishing that claims to be similar to self-publishing but isn’t: vanity publishing. That should be avoided and is discussed in depth in a later chapter.

Chapter forty-one

Publishing: Money

It’s common to think that successful writers—that is, writers whose books are available in shops nationwide and reviewed in major media—are rich and famous. But only the most famous and bestselling authors fit that stereotype. There are many, many successful authors who don’t support themselves by book sales alone. Even writers who do make enough to support themselves have to deal with how sporadic the payments can be.

But however much or little money is involved in your publishing experience, you should absolutely understand how that money flows. Let’s take a look.

A writer’s pay is based on royalties, which are a percentage of your book’s sales. The exact percentage is specified in your contract and is something your agent might negotiate. There might be different percentages for different formats, say 10% on hardcovers and 7.5% on trade paperbacks.

Let’s say you have a 10% royalty on a $15 book. That means for every copy sold, you get $1.50. Royalties are paid at regular intervals, typically quarterly. If your book sold 5000 copies in that time period, your pay would be $7500 (with 15% of that going to your agent, which will be discussed in a later chapter).

An advance is a portion of your expected royalties paid ahead of time. It’s short for “an advance on royalties.” The size of your advance will depend on how many copies your publisher thinks they’ll sell. If they feel confident that they’ll sell at least 100,000 copies, they might feel comfortable offering you a $150,000 advance. If they think they’ll only sell 2000 copies, they’re more likely to offer something in the range of $3000.

The advance might be paid out in fractions at several milestone points, for example, one-third upon signing the contract, one-third upon the publisher accepting your edits, and one-third on publication day. Again, these details will all be specified in the contract.

Let’s say you got that a $3000 advance, based on the expectation that your book would sell 2000 copies. That means for the first 2000 copies sold, you wouldn’t receive any additional money, because you’ve already received those royalties. Then from copy 2001 onward, you’d receive your 10% royalty on each copy sold. Whether you get an advance or not, you always get the full amount of royalties in the end.

What if your book doesn’t sell the expected number of copies the advance was based on?

Reaching the point that your book sells the number it was expected to (as defined by your advance) is called earning out. It’s a good thing, and your publisher will be pleased. But even if your book never earns out, you still keep the entirety of your advance. Any loss is the publisher’s gamble to bear, not yours.

You may sometimes read about the rare cases when someone does pay back an advance. That won’t be for a published book that didn’t sell well; it will be for an established author or celebrity who sold a proposed or unfinished manuscript and didn’t complete it to expectations.

If I’m going to get the same money anyway, why does an advance matter?

First of all, it matters because you need to pay the rent and publishing can take a long time. But even if you don’t need the money, the more money the publisher has pre-invested in you the more your book will be prioritized in-house (that is, within the publisher as you compete with other books of theirs coming out at a similar time). At any publisher, there are limited resources. Some of their books will get a lot of attention, marketing, and publicity, and others less. The bigger your advance, the more you’ll get.

A publisher that offers no advance at all may be in a precarious financial position. Do they have enough resources to publish your book well?

What if my book goes on sale? How much will I be paid then?

This will all be specified in your contract. A royalty rate based on cover price means you get the percentage based on that no matter what the book actually sells for. Exceptions, like book-club editions, may be written into your contract with different rules.

Sometimes small publishers will woo authors with high royalty percentages based on net, not cover price. Net means after the publisher’s expenses and depending on how they interpret their expenses you can end up never getting paid at all. This is something to be wary of. The vaguer a contract is, the more there’s potential for a writer to be taken advantage of.

Even if the higher percentage is based on cover price, you should consider the number of books you’re likely to sell, based on that publisher’s past achievements with books like yours, or typical sales of self-published books like yours. Getting a high percentage of very few sales will likely be less than a moderate or small percentage of many sales.

Are there any downsides to a big advance?

If investment and expectations for your book are really high, it can be harder to fulfill those expectations.

If book A is expected to sell 5000 copies and given a small advance, it will be considered a big success if it sells 15,000 copies. While if book B is given a huge advance and expected to sell 100,000 copies, it could be considered a failure in-house if it only sells 15,000.

Same number of sales, but different standards for success and failure. Your advance sets the bar.

This doesn’t mean you should reject or reduce a high advance if you get offered one. The advantages well outweigh the risks.

Can writing replace a day job?

The income from writing is typically sporadic. Unless you have a popular series, or a partner with a reliable income, it’s likely you’ll need to continue your day job at least part-time, if not full-time, even after being well-published.

While some writers have a dream of being able to give up their day jobs and write full-time, others have found that their jobs provide stimulation and interaction, which can be a healthy counterpoint to the solitary writing life.

Some people have found that changing their job to something more compatible with their writing life makes almost as dramatic a difference as completely quitting would. Some writers find it satisfying to use their writing skills in their jobs, and feel it keeps them sharp; other writers prefer a job that contrasts with writing and feel that their writing energy would be used up by a writing-focused job. Some prioritize finding work with a schedule that allows for more clumped-together days off for writing; some prioritize the balancing contrast of work that’s social or physical. Some writers teach writing, and the interaction of teaching can be very rewarding.

Chapter forty-two

Publishing: Marketing versus Promotion

Most writing requires a lot of alone time; it’s no surprise that a lot of writers are introverts who really enjoy solitude as a part of life. I certainly do!

So it’s a source of dread to many writers that they may have to participate to some degree in the marketing and publicity of their published books.

This chapter will help you understand what marketing and publicity are, how they differ, and what they’re trying to accomplish, so you can figure out how you can best participate in them.

Let’s start with a common myth:

MYTH: Big publishers take so long to put out books because they don’t care unless you’re famous.

TRUTH: Big publishers do take roughly a year to bring out a book, because they put effort into editing and marketing. Taking less time than that can mean important steps are missed.

What is marketing?

It's a common mistake to think that marketing and promotion/publicity are the same thing.

- Promotion, also called publicity, is the one most people are familiar with. It happens just as a book comes out; it’s aimed at readers and is very visible. Articles, interviews, blog posts, podcasts, social media, and ads can all fall under that heading. They’re meant to reach readers and urge them to buy the book. Sometimes publishers assist with this, but often authors bear the brunt of this with very little help, even if they’re with very big publishers.

- Marketing, on the other hand, happens behind the scenes, and it happens months before a book comes out. It’s aimed at bookstores, reviewers, and media, and is invisible to the general public. The publisher meets with bookstore buyers, trying to convince them to carry their books and place them prominently. The publisher sends copies of the books to reviewers; they’re sent so far in advance that the real books aren’t ready, so they send uncorrected proofs. These are called Advance Reader Copies, or Advance Review Copies (ARCs), or sometimes Advance Reader/Review Editions (AREs). The publisher tries to persuade various media to cover the book or author in the week the book comes out. Many reviewers and media sources have six-month lead times to even consider it. Even small book bloggers can prefer a substantial lead-time before publication day to consider adding a book to their to-be-read pile. Once a book is no longer new, many media and review sources won’t consider covering it at all.

An author alone, or a small, inexperienced publisher, can find effective marketing difficult to replicate.

MYTH: Unless you’re a bestseller, authors at big publishers get very little support.

TRUTH: While many authors at big publishers are left responsible for their own publicity, every book at a big publisher will get at least some marketing. Just getting into the chain bookstores is an accomplishment with a lot of effort behind it.

Of course, not everyone has the option of choosing a big publisher. But you have the option of what you choose to aim for. And if you do work with a small publisher or self-publish, you can use this knowledge of what marketing is to help you support your book’s launch to whatever degree you’re able.

Word of mouth

Word of mouth is when people recommend a book to their friends, and their friends recommend it to their friends, and suddenly it seems like the book is everywhere. It’s the most coveted reader draw of all, but it isn’t directly controlled by publisher or author efforts. Sometimes the magic just happens; sometimes the magic fails. But good marketing and publicity efforts make the magical word-of-mouth more likely to happen.

Chapter forty-three

Vanity Publishing

One of the best things about commercial publication is that someone else is saying your book is wonderful, not just to you but to the world. It’s reassuring, it allows you to retain an air of modesty, and it’s an objective fact that no one can dispute, even if they’ll never read your book themselves: the industry has declared that it’s good.

The strong desire to have a publisher, any publisher, is something that vanity publishers make use of to profit at the author’s expense.

What is vanity publishing and should I choose it?

Vanity publishing is when an author pays a publisher, and it should be avoided. Here’s how it compares to other models:

Commercial publishing, large and small:
The author gives the book rights to the publisher, and the publisher gives the author money.
End result: the publisher has the book; the author earns money.

Self-publishing:
The author pays for services (editing, formatting, cover design, printing) while retaining all the rights to their book.
End result: service providers have money; author has the book and all future earnings.

Vanity publishing:
The author pays for publishing and gives book rights to the publisher.
End result: the vanity publisher has the money and the rights to the book, author has neither.

It’s not a good deal!

Because vanity publishers don’t call themselves vanity publishers, you have to look at their practices. There are several ways a vanity publisher gets money from authors:

- If you’re asked to pay a publisher, this is vanity.

- If you’re asked to go “co-op” and pay for part of the publishing process, there’s a good chance that this is vanity. And it’s possible that actually they’re not contributing anything at all.

- If a publisher doesn’t ask you to pay anything but requires you to buy a certain number of copies of your book, that’s backdoor vanity. Commercial publishers sell to readers, not to the author. There are many sad stories of authors with hundreds of expensive books filling up a garage or spare room.

- If a publisher doesn’t ask you to pay anything to them but requires you to use specific associated services from which they benefit, that’s another form of backdoor vanity. They might say something like, “you’re not paying for publishing, you’re paying for marketing!” Likely the amount requested is inflated and you actually are paying for publishing (and the company’s profit as well). Sometimes the publisher hides the relationship between the publisher and the service.

If you just want a book printed, pay a printing service. Don’t give up your rights for nothing.

But what if I really want a publisher and I don’t mind paying?

A commercial publisher puts effort into editing and marketing because they need to sell books to readers; that’s where their money will come from. A vanity publisher’s financial loop is closed as soon as the author pays. They don’t need to do anything beyond producing the books; the books’ quality and whether they’ll ever sell onward is of no interest. Reaching readers is not part of their financial system.

Even if you don’t mind paying, you still want readers. Vanity publishing is not a great way to get them.

How can I tell the difference between a vanity publisher and self-publishing services?

This can be tricky, as some vanity presses call themselves self-publishing services.

It’s all about control. Who controls the publishing process, the company or the author? Are you, the author, the final arbiter of all decisions? Then you’re self-publishing. Or do you have to ask permission from a publisher you’ve paid? That’s vanity publishing.

Some people are attracted to the idea of giving up control. They’ve written something, and now they just want it out there! But while this can feel appealing as you envision a perfect book coming off the press, the reality can be hugely disappointing. Vanity press authors have had to deal with quality issues, overly high book prices (how many people are going to pay $30 for a 150-page novella?), and outright errors (including misspelled author name!). If you’re self-publishing, you control the price. You can choose a different printing service and improve the quality. You can correct the text. But if you have to ask your publisher if they can please make these changes, and they can say no, the lack of control stops looking so good.

But they love my book!

Vanity publishers may say they love your book, but they may not even have read it! They may say they chose your book, but they may accept literally everything they’re sent, or if they reject certain genres or formats or lengths, it’s not on the basis of quality. Vanity publishers need as many authors as they can cope with because authors are their customers; acceptance by one, sadly, is not the mark of approval they try to make authors think it is.

If you’ve vanity published in the past, this chapter is not a criticism of your savvy or of the quality of your book. Vanity publishers are experts at persuasion, and many talented people have been won over by them. Good manuscripts have been published by vanities alongside manuscripts that were not yet ready.

But, for the future, you have better options.

Chapter forty-four

Agents

If you want to submit your work to the biggest publishers, you will probably need an agent.

Even if a big publisher allows unagented submissions, your work is more likely to catch their attention if it comes from an agent the publisher trusts, especially because the agent will target a specific editor within the publisher who they know wants this sort of book.

What an agent does:

- Typically represents you for your career, not just a single book

- Submits (and hopefully sells) your work to quality publishers

- Negotiates your contracts

- Sells and negotiates other rights, like film rights and foreign language rights

- Assists in difficulties between you and your publisher

- Some agents help editorially to prepare a manuscript for submission

For this, they receive 15% of whatever deals they make for an author. (Exception: foreign deals are often paid at 20%, because they split it 10/10 with a foreign agent.) Authors do not pay agents anything apart from this percentage, which will be paid directly to the agent by the publisher. If the agent doesn’t sell your work, they don’t get paid anything. Agents are incentivized to get you a good deal.

MYTH: You’ll be better off keeping that 15% yourself!

TRUTH: An agent will likely get you a deal significantly better than that 15%, not just in money but, more importantly, in a beneficial contract that protects you well.

How do I get an agent?

First of all, your manuscript should be finished and polished. It’s only in exceptional circumstances that unfinished fiction or unwritten memoirs are considered. In contrast, non-fiction is often sold on proposal.

Querying an agent typically means sending an email or electronic form (each agent has their own preference) describing your book. Then the agent decides if they want to read your work, and then if they want to represent you.

Querying agents can be a long, hard slog. Some successful authors found an agent right away or even had multiple offers to choose from; other successful authors have stories of how agonizingly long their agent search went on, with many dozens of rejections. If your search is a struggle, take heart.

If you’re querying agents, don’t query publishers at the same time (unless you have some specific connection, like a publisher asks to see your work after you win a prize). If you do get an agent in the future, they’ll appreciate having a clean slate to work from. If you’ve already submitted the book to publishers, it’s awkward for the agent to try to submit it again. If it’s been rejected, the agent may not be able to submit it again even if they want to.

If you do get an offer directly from a good publisher (as in the prize example above), get an agent before signing any contract. Send an email with “offer from [name of publisher]” in the subject line.

Some people say that consulting a lawyer regarding a contract is as good as or better than consulting an agent, but in the case of literary contracts this is generally not true. Unless the lawyer is specifically experienced with publishing, they won’t know the arcane ins and outs of what makes a publishing contract advantageous or exploitative. An experienced agent will.

Which agents should I query?

Look at books similar to yours and that have made it in the way you’d like to make it. This means looking at the shelves of your local bookstore and at current books in your local library. It means seeing what’s being reviewed in media outlets you respect. Who agented those books? Look in the author’s acknowledgments, and on the author’s website. Once you’ve identified agents who have a good track record of representing books like yours, submit queries following the instructions on their websites.

Some writers use agent directories, and while these can be a handy resource you should be cautious. They’ll often summarize an agent’s preferences and contact information, either of which can have changed by the time it went to print. You should rely only on an agent’s website for current instructions.

But more importantly these directories don’t vet agents for quality and experience. Just as it’s easy for someone to call themselves a publisher and start advertising to writers, the same is true for agents. If an agent isn’t experienced, they likely can’t help you, even if they’re earnest and really love your work. Signing with an inexperienced agent can lead to heartache and wasted time. And if they submit your manuscript far and wide, then a new, better agent you get in the future may not be able to. The opportunity for that manuscript can have been spent.

Remember we talked about how you shouldn’t expect a publisher to do any better for you than they’ve done for their previous books? It’s the same with agents. If they haven’t sold a book to a big publisher before, they probably won’t sell yours to one.

But then how do agents start? Surely everyone has their first big sale. Again, it’s the same as with publishers. Agents progress through a form of apprenticeship.

There are three kinds of agent worth approaching:

- An established agent who has successfully sold multiple client books to significant publishers

- A junior agent who is themselves new but is part of an established agency that has sold multiple client books to significant publishers

- Someone who is new to agenting, but has worked in commercial publishing for years (for example, an editor from HarperCollins switching careers)

What does a query include?

Each agent’s website will tell you what they’d like to see. Most of them will want the following:

Your genre refers to the subject grouping your book belongs in. For example, would it go in the crime section, or romance, or horror, or sci-fi? If you don’t see an obvious fit among common genres, terms like “literary” or “contemporary fiction” or “women’s fiction” may fit. Google books like yours and see if you can find out what genre they’re under. Agents typically represent only some genres and are clear about saying so.

Book length is described by word count, not page count. Your word processing program should tell you the total number of words in your manuscript. A typical length for a novel is 80,000–90,000 words, but some genres and some publishers go shorter or longer.

The most important part of wooing an agent is an engaging description of your book’s premise, typically one to three paragraphs. “Description” or “premise” or “blurb” or “plot” all mean the same thing in a query: describe the setup and beginning of your story. It’s similar to the kind of description on the back of a book used to entice readers, but without self-complimenting claims like “the funniest book you’ll read all year” or “a masterful drama.” Look back at chapter 21 for advice on how to fine-tune the way you describe your book.

The least important part of wooing an agent is the bio, which means telling them about yourself. This is your chance to tell them about any publishing credits, prizes, or writing education you have. You might also tell them something about any expertise you have relevant to your book, for example, if you share a special skill with your main character or have intimate experience with your setting. If you have something interesting or impressive to say here, great! It can help you. But don’t worry if you don’t have much. Discovering a brilliant new writer is a joy for agents, and it’s the book that matters most.

Some agents, though not all, request a full synopsis. Unlike a premise/blurb, which tells the setup of the book so that someone will want to read it to find out the ending, a synopsis is longer and tells the book’s whole plot, including the ending. Agents have read many, many promising manuscripts that started wonderfully, fell apart in the middle, and ended poorly. Those requesting a full synopsis want to be sure that something works well as a whole story before investing time in reading it. Synopsis length varies; a common length is about two pages. Obviously, in that small a space you can’t list everything that happens, but you can give an overall arc.

They may ask to see part of your book, maybe just a few pages, or a few chapters, or the whole thing.

Submit to several agents at once; no need to wait for a rejection before moving on. Some writers find it helpful to query in small batches, so they can fine-tune their submission materials if they’re not getting a good response.

Chapter forty-five

Rejection and Celebration

Imagine going into a bookstore. You’re surrounded by hundreds, possibly thousands, of books. Most of them are good, even if they’re not all to your taste; of the many that are to your taste, you couldn’t possibly read them all. You want a book for your upcoming vacation, maybe even a few books. You browse and select, then bring your choices to the register. Imagine the cashier now demanding that you explain your cruel rejection of every other book in the store, in detail.

Wouldn’t you be surprised? Might you stammer and explain that you’re not saying those unchosen books are bad per se, just that you only need so many and the ones you chose stood out for various personal reasons?

That’s what it’s like for agents and publishers. Yes, some of the books they reject are, in their opinions, not good enough; but many of the rest are good, just not what they’re looking for right now, or good but too similar to some others that they already have. Just like you bringing your purchases to the counter, they’re not deeming everything else absolutely unworthy; they’re just picking what they personally want to work with, for complex and possibly quirky reasons.

Rejection is not a declaration of intrinsic lack of value.

Facing rejection

It’s very common for an anxious mind to turn any single, specific rejection into a blanket value judgment, but, truly, one rejection doesn’t mean all future submissions will end in rejection. Even several rejections don’t necessarily mean that; it’s common for eventually successful books and authors to have been rejected several or even many times.

A rejection means that one person or company won’t be representing or publishing your book, and that’s exactly all it means. Luckily, there are many agents and publishers. While some books are fought over, others—some of them later big successes—have exactly one champion, at the end of a discouraging process.

So persevere, if this is something you continue to want. I personally know many writers who considered quitting just before their biggest hits.

But what if you persevere, keep a healthy attitude, do your best, and in the end you still don’t have an agent? Or if you have an agent, and they tell you they’ve done their best, but they weren’t able to get your manuscript a publisher?

I can’t tell you if you should self-publish, or change goals to a smaller publisher, or set this manuscript aside for now. You’ll have to make the best decision you can, with advice from people who have read your work and ideally have some experience on which to base their opinions.

I will tell you that setting a book aside is often a great thing to do. Sometimes a book doesn’t represent the better writer you’ll become and it’s best to let it go, for now at least; future you may be grateful. Maybe you’ll move on to new stories or even a new genre; maybe you’ll revisit the old idea later. I know writers who have revamped early rejected manuscripts into better versions that they eventually do sell; they needed to grow in skill before they were able to do the idea justice. Taking the time for that growth can be the best thing to do.

Setting a manuscript aside is not necessarily a form of surrender. It can be a strategic move forward for your career as a whole. Remember: you can revisit this manuscript later, and, even if you don’t, everything you learned from writing it will come through in your next manuscript, and so on, and so on.

Rejection hurts, but it can be what pushes you to become a better writer.

Sharing

Rejection feels extra painful if you see no options between your work being published and your work going completely unread. If your options appear binary, rejection means your work remains utterly unshared, which, when you’re ready to share, is a terrible frustration.

It’s to a writer’s benefit to have outlets for sharing their work at all stages along the way. Things like: having class homework that’s discussed by your fellow students and commented on by your teacher; having a trusted writing group or partner with whom you exchange reading each other’s work; entering well-respected contests; participating in local open-mic readings, group anthologies for local interest groups or interested friends, or being part of online special-interest communities that are a ready audience for excerpts (and in which you’re an active audience member for others). What about collaborations, with other writers or perhaps with an artist?

Having these release valves along the way makes a writer less desperate, which helps them make wise decisions about agents and publishing.

Celebration

What if you get an email, call, or letter from a respected agent or publisher (or movie producer, or media figure...) that isn’t a rejection? Celebrate! Even if it’s just a step along the way. Don’t ignore being longlisted while you wait to see if you become shortlisted; don’t downplay an agent’s request for your full manuscript while you wait to see if they like it. Every step forward deserves acknowledgment and joy as it happens.

And what if you then don’t get shortlisted, or get shortlisted and don’t win, or the agent doesn’t want to represent you, or they represent you but the book doesn’t sell? Should you feel embarrassed to have celebrated? By no means. Having moved forward is never failure, even if you don’t make it all the way to end of that particular road at this time.

And those good-news emails, phone calls, letters? Look for more to come. The next one could be what you’re hoping for.

Chapter forty-six

The Professional Rollercoaster

When an author has a book coming out, their publisher wants them to help get it mentioned in the media. Authors are asked to write essays and blog posts, to do interviews on radio shows and podcasts, and to do written Q&As. The subjects of almost all of these are the authors themselves.  What inspired you to write this book? How did you become a writer? What is your writing process? Writers are asked to talk about this, engagingly, over and over. They share anecdotes and encouragement. For most of us, these interviews and personal essays are our source of learning about the professional writing life.

But what we learn from them is skewed. These pieces are written in the context of promoting a new book. Writers are choosing anecdotes that show them at their best, in order to attract new readers. They tell the truth, but they carefully choose which true details to share and which to withhold. They want potential readers to see them as confident and successful.

Sometimes, these personal anecdotes do reveal career challenges, but if so these challenges are usually in the past. After all, the reason the writer is in the media at that moment is because they have a book coming out! So any stories of writing difficulties, agent difficulties, or publisher difficulties are behind them and have been overcome.

This gives people the idea that being a published author consists only of rosy, ever-increasing success. There may have been challenges, but they happen only at the start of a career and are finished now.

While some writers do experience that kind of success, success that starts with a bang and keeps going, or that starts with challenges but then goes up and up and up, other successful writers experience unpredictable highs and lows in seemingly random order, through no fault of their own. Successful, talented, hard-working writers can experience ups and downs that don’t match the typical promotional success story.

Because of the pervasiveness of the promotional success story archetype, successful writers facing setbacks often feel uniquely alone and ashamed. That shame leads to them keeping their struggles quiet, and this perpetuates the cycle of only one kind of success story being heard.

The truth is, someone can get an agent, and then later leave that agent, or be dropped by that agent. Someone can be published by a big publisher and have moderate success, then be dropped by that publisher for not being a massive success. In fact, that’s extremely common; and it’s also common to then be picked up by a different big publisher, sometimes with a genre change along the way.

Another common experience is that an author can be in a great position with their publisher, but then their editor leaves the company for a job elsewhere; the book will be assigned a new editor, often one without the passion and personal investment of the editor who chose the book in the first place. Without a champion in-house, the book suddenly gets less marketing support, and makes less of a splash (perhaps much less) than it could have.

Because these mid-career dips aren’t typically publicly discussed, when it happens it can feel like you’re the only one. It can feel like you’re a unique failure, experiencing a downturn that no “real” writers experience, that no “successful” writers experience.

That is simply not true. Real, successful writers experience downturns, rejection, and career struggles, even after terrific reviews and being displayed on front tables in the big chains.

It can be disheartening to hear that. I realize I’m taking away from you the fantasy of “once I achieve being a well-published author then my career will be fixed at that elevated place.” Though some do achieve and maintain massive success, it’s much more common for a successful writer’s career path to be a secret roller coaster.

If that ever happens to you, I hope you’ll think back to this “disheartening” lesson and feel comforted. Chances are, if you reveal your supposed failure to your writing peers, you’ll get nods and commiserations in return. For me, much to my surprise, those nods and commiserations came from people I hugely admire, with wonderful careers. The fact is that wonderful careers can include messy challenges, not just at their beginnings but throughout their arcs.

Part 8: Your Future

Chapter forty-seven

Writing Groups

Writing is notoriously solitary, but it doesn’t have to be.

There are classes. Some meet in person, some meet online; some are graded, some are not. They may focus on a specific element of writing, like a certain genre or skill, or they may be generalist courses covering a wide foundation.

There are also different kinds of groups that meet to practice aspects of writing without a formal teaching element, though they may have a leader.

Some groups meet to literally write together, which helps them keep to a disciplined routine. Usually, people drawn to a group like this are self-motivated and working on a specific project.

Some groups meet to do exercises together, practicing skills and techniques. This can be a great group for someone who wants to practice writing in general and learn from trying different things. It doesn’t need to require writing outside of the meeting.

Some groups meet to share work with each other and critique it. This requires writing and reading outside of the meeting.

Groups can be as large as a dozen or as small as a pair. (Or larger than a dozen, but that can become unwieldy.)

Do any of these attract you?

Should you take a formal course?

If you’re considering taking a course or studying for a degree in creative writing, here are some aspects to consider:

What books are on the reading list? Are any of these the kind of writing you want to do yourself? Do they seem to support the genres you’re most interested in?

If the teachers are published authors, see if you can find interviews or essays where they talk about their writing styles and philosophies. Are you excited to learn from these people?

What do previous students say about the course? Are the things they praise in positive reviews things that are important to you?

What interaction will there be, with the teacher(s) and with other students? While sometimes it’s just right to have a more private experience, where you get only teacher feedback and the lectures are asynchronous to fit around your schedule, more often it’s to the student’s benefit to be part of a group that meets together at the same time, whether in person or online. Interacting with lectures, discussing concepts and books, asking questions, and getting to know other writers at the same stage as yourself are wonderful things. Finding your writing peers is one of the best things you can do for yourself.

What if you’re young?

If you’re a teenager looking at bachelor’s degrees and wondering if you should study creative writing full-time, I have a slightly different answer than to someone middle-aged wondering if they should do a certificate, first degree, or master’s course.

First of all, everyone who feels the urge to write should write. Self-expression is inherently worthwhile. And if you have publishing aspirations, you should learn to write well, which you can do in many ways: by reading a lot, by studying writing advice from reliable sources, by participating in online workshopping or in-person writing groups, and by writing a lot, collecting rejections, and improving through experience.

Most of the time, my answer to someone firmly in adulthood who feels drawn to follow their dream of writing by taking a course or degree is this: if the course supports the kind of writing you want to do, is well taught, and you can afford it: yes! Yes, by all means. Guidance, interaction, and structure can be just the things to help you discover your personal writing goals and hone your talents. Typically for adults, such courses (even many master’s courses) are part-time, which means there’s balance with other things in their lives.

My answer to young people looking at full-time creative writing study is slightly different. Quality writing involves developing a strong point of view and having something to say. Some young people have this early, but most are still figuring themselves out. For someone who is still exploring their personal voice, an intense course that requires the production of high-quality, strong-voiced writing for critique and grading week after week can be more destructive than encouraging, especially the grading. It could be more helpful to grow as a writer on the side for a while first, at your own pace, while you study something else (or work, or take care of family, or whatever it is that life puts in front of you). In fact, studying something else that fascinates you, or growing through work and life experiences, is a way to fill yourself with things to write about.

I’m a big believer in following your dreams if you can, and if “studying writing at university” is your immediate dream, it could well be the perfect thing for you to do. Some young students thrive and shine. Just know that if your long-term dream (at any age) is to “be a writer” there are many different routes to that. A degree in creative writing is just one possible path.

Chapter forty-eight

Wish List

When I was younger, I supported my creative work by working as a project coordinator at a web design company. My job wasn’t my passion; it was just to pay the rent, and the work I loved—writing—was relegated to evenings (if I wasn’t exhausted) and weekends. This is a pretty typical situation for creative people.

As I got to know my work style, I realized that I needed time to get into my writing headspace. And once I was in the zone, I could stay in it for a long time. This meant that getting my free time in small lumps—like two-day weekends—wasn’t very helpful, because by the time I recovered from the work week and transitioned into my creative self, the weekend was almost over. I work better in long stretches.

I squeezed my budget as tight as I could, got rid of my car (no more paying for parking or insurance!), and asked to go part-time at work, down to three days a week.

The standard way to work three days a week would have given me four days a week to write. Brilliant! Long weekends! But knowing that even longer stretches would be better, I divided it up differently: I worked Monday to Thursday for three weeks (so four days a week), then the fourth week I didn’t work at all, giving me a full ten days in a row to write each month. (For anyone confused, working three days a week for four weeks would have added up to twelve days of work; I arranged to work four days a week for three weeks, which also adds up to twelve, and left each fourth week free.)

Knowing the way my creativity was best supported enabled me to pursue a solution that met my specific creative needs.

Your turn

It’s important to get to know yourself and ask: what will help you write?

- For some people, the scarce thing is time. They might wish for childcare, or time off work. They might wish for regular writing time (daily or weekly) or for one-off time (a week away on their own to do some intense writing or editing). What kind of time do you wish for?

- For some, the scarce thing is private space. They might set aside a space at home to be specially theirs, perhaps all the time or at certain times of day, like when a roommate works a certain shift. Or they might make a routine that includes working at the local library or cafe (the cliché is real!). They might write in their car in the company parking lot during lunch break. Where could you find the space?

- For some, encouragement is what’s scarce. Some people are lucky to have writing friends they can see in person or meet with online. Others find fellow writers on discussion boards online or take a class. Some aspiring writers attend conferences or even just one conference, and then build on relationships made there. Where could you find encouragement?

- For some, ideas are scarce. Perhaps reading more will inspire you. Perhaps learning something new, or researching something of special interest, will inspire you. Figuring out what you want to say through writing is a challenge for some; what might help you be brave in this way? Where could you find inspiration?

- For some, a laptop or a more ergonomic desk setup can make all the difference. Is there any equipment that could make a big difference in your writing life? No gadget will make us better writers, but they can make the physical act of writing more comfortable or more portable. What tools could help you?

- For some, structure and routine are needed. For some, self-discipline might be enough, working at specific private times (like a scheduled daytime babysitter once or twice a week). Others will benefit from more accountability, like a writing partner or club or class. What kind of routine might you try?

The more specific you are about what will help you, the more you can brainstorm about how to make variations of them possible. Most people can’t create ideal circumstances; that’s something you could chase forever and blame for never getting started. But taking even small steps to acknowledge the way you think and work best can make a big difference.

Chapter forty-nine

The Beauty of the Work

A dear friend of mine saved long and hard to be able to buy a house. The only house they could afford in the city where they wanted to live was in terrible shape, and they did as much as they could themselves to make it livable. They tore down rotting cabinets and pulled out defunct appliances, demolished an old glass conservatory extension and pulled up the superficial brick patio beside it. They worked on it for months while continuing to live in their rental, working at their normal jobs, and looking after their two small children, hiring experts only for the jobs that were truly beyond their skills.

This friend had a choice to make. There was a living room and a kitchen. There were just enough bedrooms upstairs for the family. Also, a bathroom upstairs, and a small room with a toilet and sink downstairs. All of these rooms seemed necessary. But where would she write?

This question could have had many answers. She could have gone out to write in a coffee shop or a library. She could have commandeered the living room or kitchen table while the kids were in school. She could have set aside a corner of her bedroom. All of these are fine answers.

But she had her eye on the little “cloak room” as the old-fashioned term calls it: the little toilet room by the front door. While they were demolishing, they pulled out the toilet, the sink, the tiles; this little cubby was going to become her writing room.

The house has recently been finished, and this room is the most beautiful little space. It fits a small antique desk and a big yellow armchair. She painted the walls a wonderful dark green and she filled the tiny windowsill with little shells and vases she’s collected over the years. It feels like a tiny magic forest. There isn’t room for many books; most of those are in the living room. But here she’s fit the books she’s written and the books she’s teaching, up at eye level as you enter.

It feels like a sacred space, an embodiment of what she values and what she wants to do. She prioritized this because writing is beautiful and valuable and deserves space and time.

Not everyone has the opportunity to tear up a bathroom and turn it into a little study, but we can all take the spirit of that and treat writing as the valuable act that it is.

If you aren’t able to have a special place in your home, perhaps you can regularly visit a special place elsewhere, like a library table in front of a window, or a shady tree under which you lay a blanket.

Maybe you could write in a beautiful notebook or with a special pen. You could make a plain notebook beautiful with stickers or a favorite quote; you could ask a friend with good handwriting or artistic talent to decorate the front cover for you by writing or drawing something, or do that yourself. Perhaps you have a beautiful object—a stone or postcard or little box—that you could carry with you and put next to your papers or computer as you write, wherever that is.

Your work is special. Physical mementos of that specialness can help you remember how important it is, and how much you deserve to express yourself.

Onward!

This book has been a whirlwind, alighting on many different topics, articulating about each what I feel are their most essential and sometimes most surprising aspects. One could spend many, many more hours exploring all or any of these—and I hope you will as you continue daydreaming, planning, playing, pushing yourself, discovering yourself, respecting the self you discover, and, of course, expressing yourself: writing.

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Menna Van Praag, Sophie Hannah, Lizzie Speller, and Kristen King for their encouragement and support.

To Simone Chalkley at All Your Proofreading for editing, to Susan Grossey for her publishing expertise, and to Calah Singleton for her editorial insight.

Thanks to Michelle Cornish and the team at WOW!, and Ova Ceren of Excuse My Reading, for creative promotion.

Thanks to Gavin, Samuel, and Westcott for eagle-eyed proofreading. As always, thanks to my agent Cameron McClure. And thanks to ALLi, the Alliance of Independent Authors, for advice.

Most of all, thanks to all of my students along the way who have taught me so much.

Author photo by Rafal Lapszanski

CCWC logo by Alice Jago

Cover photo from iStock

Cover made in Canva

Interior (paperback): “Inspire” by Book Design Templates

Interior (ebook): “Finch” by Atticus

About the Author

EMILY WINSLOW is the author of a series of crime novels and a memoir. Her books have been published by Random House, HarperCollins, Allison & Busby, and Shanghai Translation Publishing House.

Her novels (The Whole World, The Start of Everything, The Red House, and Look For Her) have been called “brilliant” (The Washington Post), “vivid” (Parade magazine) and “dazzling” (Shelf Awareness). Her memoir, Jane Doe January, is “meticulously constructed and ultimately terrifying” (The New York Times), “potent” (Kirkus), and “compelling” (Bustle).

She grew up in the U.S. and now lives in Cambridge, England teaching for the University of Cambridge and for Cambridge Creative Writing Company.

www.EmilyWinslow.com

www.CambridgeCreativeWritingCompany.com