Writing Advice

From Writers Helping Writers:

Show Don’t Tell

This one comes first, because if you want to create evocative and compelling descriptions, showing is the way to do it. Take this passage, for example:

Pain throbbed in my wrist. It radiated into my fingers. Tears sprang to my eyes.

On the surface, this description gets the job done because it adequately describes the character’s pain. But it’s not engaging. Lists seldom are—yet this is how pain is often described, as a series of symptoms or sensations. This isn’t how real pain registers, so it being described this way won’t read as authentic to readers.

Don’t stop the story to talk about what the character’s feeling. Instead, incorporate it into what’s happening. This keeps the pace moving and readers reading:

Cradling my throbbing wrist, I searched for the rope and loosed it from my belt. I drew a shuddering breath of relief to discover my fingers still worked, though the pain had me biting nearly through my lip.

This description is much better because it reveals the pain in bits and bobs as the character is going about her business. It uses words that describe the intensity and quality of the pain: throbbing and shuddering. There’s also a thought included, which is important because when agony strikes, our brains don’t stop working. The opposite is actually true, with our thoughts often going into overdrive. So including a thought that references the character’s mental state or physical discomfort is another way to show their pain to readers in an organic way.

Take Personal Factors into Account

The character’s pain level and intensity will depend on a number of factors, such as their pain tolerance, their personality, and what else is going on in the moment. Being aware of these details and knowing what they look like for your character is key for tailoring a response that is authentic for them. For more information on the factors that will determine your character’s pain response and their ability to cope with their discomfort, see the 6^th post in this series.

Adhere to Your Chosen Point of View

Whether you’re telling your story in first person, third person, or omniscient viewpoint, consistency is a must, so you’ve got to stick to that point of view. If the person in pain is the one narrating, you can go deep into their perspective to show readers what’s happening inside—the pain, yes, but also the nausea, tense muscles, and the spots that appear in the character’s vision as they start to black out.

But if the victim isn’t a viewpoint character—if the reader isn’t privy to what’s happening inside their heads and bodies—you’ll need be true to that choice. Stick with external indicators that are visible to others, such as the character wincing, the hissed intake of breath through clenched teeth, the weeping of blood, or the skin going white and clammy.

Consider the Intensity of the Pain

All pain isn’t created equal, and the intensity of the pain being described will often determine the level of detail. Excruciating, agonizing pain is going to be impossible for the character to ignore; because of their focus on their own pain, more description is often necessary. On the flip side, a lot of words aren’t needed to express the mild, fleeting pain of a stubbed toe or bruised knee. The severity of the pain can guide you toward the right amount of description.

Don’t Forget about It

Remember that pain has a life of its own. Some injuries heal fast, with the pain receding quickly and steadily. Others linger. Many times, healing is a one-step-forward-two-steps-back situation, with things seeming to improve, then a relapse or reinjury causing a setback. And then there’s chronic pain, which never fully goes away.

The nature of the injury will dictate how often you return to the character’s pain and remind readers of it. Minor injuries can fade into the background without further mention. But moderate and severe hurts will take time to heal. This means your character will be feeling the pain well after it began, and you’ll have to mention it again. But when you do, the quality and intensity will be less, and your description will follow suit.

Link to the rest at Writers Helping Writers

From Nail Your Novel:

The classic advice for authors, particularly indie authors, is to pump out a lot of books fast to build a big backlist and keep your readers interested. But that pace of writing and production doesn’t suit everybody.

Exhibit A, the introduction to my newsletter.

For a long time, slow-burn authors in the indie world weren’t getting seen or acknowledged. Most of the guidance was geared to fast producers. It seemed that if you didn’t put out several titles a year, and have a backlist that would fill a car boot, you wouldn’t be able to build a readership. What about the people whose work didn’t fit that pattern?

link to the rest at Nail Your Novel

From Anne R. Allen’s Blog… with Ruth Harris:

At a writers’ workshop, I once heard a beginning writer talk about how it had taken him almost all day to write a paragraph describing his character waking up in his bedroom upstairs and going to the kitchen downstairs to make breakfast.

“He made eggs and toast,” continued the writer.

“And then what happened?” I asked.

“He got some strawberry jam out of the refrigerator.”

Not much of a story, I thought. “The jam was poisoned?” I prompted.

He shook his head. “He found a body near the stove.”

Which meant the writer needed to beware the dreaded narrative-crushing, throat-clearing set up.

Which also meant he needed to learn how to write a compelling, effective transition sentence.

What is a transition sentence?

Transition sentences are the crucial bridges that link one thought to the next or one scene to the next.

Well-constructed transition sentences, unlike London Bridge, do not fall down. Instead, they structure a smooth-flowing story, ensure forward progress, escalate suspense or tension, and, in turn, create page-turning, can’t-put-it-down fiction.

We’re talking about the hard working sentences that move your story from here to there, from him to her, from good guy to bad guy.

The transition sentence seamlessly moves the reader from one character, scene, place or mood to the next.

For example:

“As up-and-coming country singer, Joe Bob Smith, knocked on the door of the Memphis company’s hottest hit maker, in cold, snowy Moscow, his sister, CIA super agent Daphne Smith, bundled in thick sheepskins, skulked along the wall surrounding the Kremlin.”

So here we are: all the way from Memphis to Moscow, from pop music headliner to tense thriller in a single sentence.

The transition sentence can also link one thought or mood to another:

“She loved him, but she was already late for work and he’d left the car’s fuel gauge pointing to empty. Which meant she would have to stop at the gas station first and would make her even later.

“Which also meant she wanted to kill him.”

Three sentences that shift the mood.

Whether the tone is mystery, thriller, or comedy depends on genre.

How to write a powerful transition sentence.

The transition sentence must be clear, simple, and direct as it moves the reader’s attention from one focus to another and provides the connective tissue that supports compelling narrative.

It might link AM and PM, Wednesday and Friday, Spring to Summer — or one place to another — from Memphis to Moscow, from the kitchen to the living room, or from one thought or mood to another.

“Leaving the hot, steamy kitchen and the winey beef stew for which she was locally celebrated, Linda Jones checked the mirror to refresh her makeup and tidy her hair. She wanted to look her best when the tall, Cary Grant lookalike United Parcel man rang her doorbell even as she fretted about what she could do to keep her husband from finding out about him.”

The well-crafted transition sentence can compress or expand time.

“As Henry Tailor gunned his silver Ferrari into merging traffic, he recalled the time almost fifteen years ago when he’d been dead broke. He’d vowed never to be poor again, and he’d lied, stolen and cheated to make his way to the top of the Hollywood heap as CEO of Colossal Pix.”

Link to the rest at Anne R. Allen’s Blog… with Ruth Harris

From Writers Helping Writers:

DESCRIPTION: A well-meaning priest, pastor, or other religious professional who exhibits moral weakness through a particular vice. Though he is acutely aware of his personal flaws, he continues to carry out his sacramental duties and takes his responsibility toward his charges seriously.

FICTIONAL EXAMPLES: Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale (The Scarlet Letter), Father Donald Callahan (Salem’s Lot, The Dark Tower), Friar Tuck (Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves), Imperius (Ladyhawke)

COMMON STRENGTHS: Cautious, Centered, Cooperative, Courteous, Diplomatic, Discreet, Empathetic, Generous, Gentle, Kind, Nurturing, Observant, Passionate, Patient, Persuasive, Private, Protective, Responsible, Spiritual, Supportive, Wise

COMMON WEAKNESSES: Addictive, Compulsive, Cowardly, Evasive, Humorless, Hypocritical, Insecure, Nosy, Self-Indulgent, Weak-Willed, Withdrawn

ASSOCIATED ACTIONS, BEHAVIORS, AND TENDENCIES
Struggling with personal demons
Being burdened with a dark secret
Having compassion for others
Feeling deeply compelled to serve God to the best of their ability
Feeling guilty about past mistakes or present weaknesses
Seeking redemption or forgiveness
Willingly making sacrifices for others
Being disillusioned by the cruelties and harsh realities of the world
Going to great lengths to keep his indiscretions secret
Being full of contradictions…

SITUATIONS THAT WILL CHALLENGE THEM
A situation that threatens to reveal the character’s vice
Encountering someone who challenges the priest’s beliefs
Being tempted in a new area…

Link to the rest at Writers Helping Writers

From Writers Helping Writers:

Understanding how story works means stripping it down to the basic mechanics that undergird storyform itself. At its simplest, story is protagonist versus antagonist. However, it’s important to understand the definitions. Although we most commonly (and usefully) think of protagonist and antagonist as vibrant, three-dimensional personalities, the functional reality is a bit simpler. Protagonist is the part of the story that drives the plot via a forward-moving goal. Antagonist is the corresponding part of the story that creates conflict by obstructing that forward momentum. So what are antagonistic proxies, and how do they fit into this mix?

It’s true that on a mechanical level, the antagonist is simply whoever or whatever stands between the protagonist and the ultimate goal. But when we start layering on all the enticing nuances and details that take story from a basic equation into a full-blown facsimile of real life, we start discovering a couple more rules of thumb.

One is that the antagonistic force needs to be consistent through the story. Just as the protagonist’s forward drive should create a cohesive throughline all the way through the story, from Inciting Event to Climactic Moment, so too should the antagonistic force present a united front that consistently opposes the protagonist for thematically resonant reasons.

But this gets tricky. As you deepen the complexity of your story in pursuit of that “facsimile of real life,” it can often become difficult to create logical story events and to keep the protagonist and the antagonist properly aligned throughout.

For instance:

• Your story might not feature a specific human antagonist, but rather a series of humans who oppose the protagonist at different levels and moments.
• Your story might not feature a human antagonist at all.
• Your story might play out on a large scale in which it simply doesn’t make sense for protagonist and main antagonist to meet until late in the story or maybe not at all.
• Your story is complex, as is life, and focuses on a system as the antagonist rather than a specific person or entity.
• Your story focuses on relational goals rather than action goals, in which case the antagonist might, in fact, be the protagonist’s greatest lover, friend, or supporter (more on that in a future post).

These variations, and many more, show how antagonistic proxies can come in handy. And what are antagonistic proxies? Antagonistic proxies are exactly what they appear to be: less important characters who stand in for the main antagonist. Really, the use of antagonistic proxies is quite intuitive. There’s a reason the henchman is a universal trope!

However, using antagonistic proxies comes with some pitfalls. The most important pitfall is that when you start adding in sub-antagonists without understanding the underlying function of the antagonist’s role in story form, you can end up struggling with a chaotic story structure or a plot and/or theme that feels like it’s being pulled in many different directions. The good news is that as long you understand the function of the antagonist, you can add as many antagonistic proxies as you need without derailing your story.

Link to the rest at Writers Helping Writers

From Writers Helping Writers:

What Is the “Lampshade” Technique

Believe it or not, the lampshade/lantern/lampshade-hanging technique is just this: Purposely call attention to a cliché, illogical, or contrived element, often in characters’ dialogue. By calling attention to something that threatens a readers’ suspension of disbelief, we’re essentially telling readers, “Yep, the story world thinks these elements are odd too. Just roll with it.”

The TV Tropes site includes many examples which point out how this technique isn’t new:

Sir Toby Belch: Is’t possible?
Fabian: If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.

— Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

In addition to simply using self-awareness to point out issues, lampshading can sometimes also take the opportunity to answer or justify how the situation makes sense. For example, to defuse readers’ skepticism or criticism of an event, a character might share further information after the fact, such as explaining unknown motivations:

Lampshade: “Yeah, I’m glad we won, but why did Klaus suddenly decide to help us?” Susan threw up her hands. “That makes no sense. He never wanted our team to win.”
Justification: Paula pointed down the field to the opposing team. “See that girl? Cynthia broke up with him last night—ugly scene from what I heard. Maybe he wanted her team to lose more than he didn’t want us to win.”

Depending on circumstances, lampshading can create moments that come off as winking, hilarious, clever (or too-clever-for-its-own-good), meta, lazy, handwaving away weak writing, etc. So we need to understand when lampshading will help or hurt our writing and story.

Lampshading Might Hurt Our Story When…

Lampshading done well helps keep readers immersed in our story, but lampshading done poorly risks pulling readers out of our story even more than if we had just left our writing alone.

Situations where lampshading can hurt our story or writing include:

• Our story’s style is serious or sincere, so even mild or well-done lampshading risks a tonal change of being too-clever, meta, or jokey.
• Our story’s narrative is strong and/or readers of our genre won’t question the plot tropes/clichés, so lampshading risks an impression of “apologizing” for lines or elements that readers may not even notice if we don’t point them out.
• The questionable elements are part of a strong emotional moment in our story, so lampshading risks undercutting—or at least interrupting—the emotions we wanted to evoke (such as in the game-winning example above).
• Our story naturally keeps readers at a distance—less engaged or immersed—so any lampshading, especially meta, fourth-wall-breaking, or too-clever-by-half moments (unless, of course, that’s the kind of story we’re trying to tell), risks preventing readers from taking anything seriously (e.g., if our characters don’t seem fully invested and care about the story’s events, readers might not care either).
• The questionable elements are part of a major or important moment in our story, so lampshading, with its “don’t worry about it” and “just roll with it” attitude, risks giving readers the impression that the moment isn’t important.
• There’s no story at all without the questionable elements, so lampshading that emphasizes the issue can make the entire story feel weak or “fake.”
• Our characters’ reactions are believable within the story world, so lampshading risks an impression that we aren’t confident in our writing, worldbuilding, or characters.

Most importantly, as alluded to in that last bullet point, we don’t want to lampshade something simply because we’re not confident in our writing. Once per story, we might need to move the plot along with a contrived situation that we’re not entirely happy about, and maybe that event could use a lampshade, just to keep things moving. But lampshading due to self-consciousness can feel defensive, like we’re trying to avoid any-and-all criticism or essentially apologizing for our work. Instead, we should fix the problem so we can feel at least somewhat confident in our writing.

Link to the rest at Writers Helping Writers

From The Daily Yonder:

Small-town crime is big.

There’s never been a time when readers of mystery and crime novels didn’t like stories in rustic and rural settings. James M. Cain’s 1934 crime novel The Postman Always Rings Twice was grabbed up by readers — and banned in Boston — for its torrid story of a murderous affair in a roadside California town.

Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot solved a murder in a small town in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd back in 1926. Even earlier, Arthur Conan Doyle put Sherlock Holmes and John Watson through their paces in a number of isolated estates and villages (small towns in the English countryside in particular have never suffered from a lack of fictional murders).

And, of course, Elmore Leonard brought the blueprint to the American West and the hills of Appalachia, as covered in our most recent edition.

But tales of small-town crime have become increasingly popular in recent years, and many books not only tell stories about murder and mayhem, but also about the kind of remote places that bear witness to those crimes.

One of the newest novels to explore this rich dramatic potential is Small Town Sins, published on August 1. It was written by Ken Jaworowski, an editor at The New York Times and is his first novel.

Jaworowski weaves three stories that only occasionally intersect: A nurse who befriends a dying teenager, a volunteer firefighter who finds and decides to keep $2 million, and a recovering addict who discovers new purpose — and a despicable target — after finding himself alone in the world.

Jaworowski said in an interview that there are reasons rural and small-town crime stories are so popular right now.

“There are a lot of rural stories out now — S.A. Cosby and Karen Dionne immediately come to mind — and I’d say that’s because they sell. Publishers want to make money, and rural readers are book buyers. I love New York City more than anything. I lived there for nearly a decade. But even I am a little tired of novels set in high-brow worlds populated by Yale graduates. So very few of us have been to a four-star French restaurant. But everyone has, at one time or another, been in a local bar. Readers can relate to such settings. And if your readers relate to your settings, it’s easier to draw them into the plot.”

Author Kelly J. Ford, whose new novel, The Hunt, is about a serial killer stalking an elaborate Easter egg hunt in small-town Arkansas, said in an interview there’s a universal appeal to rural crime stories.

“All small towns and rural areas have their eccentricities, but there seems to be a shared emotional experience that resonates and connect readers of these stories,” Ford said. “Even folks from larger towns or cities typically grow up in enclaves or neighborhoods, little universes with their own mythologies, criminals, and characters.

“There’s always that one family whose last name, when you hear it, whispers ‘Run.’”

A New Golden Age?

Some of today’s best practitioners of rural crime writing have been honing their craft for years. Next year will mark the 20^th anniversary of the publication of The Cold Dish, the first of author Craig Johnson’s Walt Longmire books. The series, now two-dozen books and counting, mixes humor, action, mysticism, and remote Western settings in its tales of modern-day Wyoming sheriff, Walt Longmire, who patrols one of the most sparsely populated areas in the United States. The books are the basis for the Longmire Netflix series. I love Johnson’s humor and always recall a detail that firmly established the books’ remote setting: In Longmire’s little town, cell phone service is dependable in just one spot in a particular parking lot.

Link to the rest at The Daily Yonder

From The Grammarly Blog:

In Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Slaughterhouse Five, there is a phrase that marks every death in the book: “So it goes.” The phrase is unavoidable, much like death itself, and it draws the reader’s attention to the book’s larger theme of inevitability.

The phrase “so it goes” is an example of a motif: a recurring story element with symbolic significance. Motifs direct readers’ attention to larger themes and engage them on an intuitive level. They are great tools for creating depth in your writing.

What is a motif in literature?

A motif (pronounced mow-teef) can be an object, image, sound, idea, or word. A couple of key qualities can help you determine if what you’re reading is a motif:

Motifs are repeated throughout the story. In fact, “motif” is a French word that translates to “pattern.” If you notice the same object, phrase, or symbol multiple times throughout the story, it’s probably a motif. 

Motifs point to a larger theme or concept. Oftentimes, a motif will recur in similar situations throughout the story. For instance, in the Vonnegut example above, the words “so it goes” always occur after a death is mentioned. Noticing what situations the motif appears in gives the reader insight into the larger message the author is alluding to.

What is the purpose of a motif?

The main purpose of a motif is to draw attention to a theme. Attentive readers gain access to a theme or underlying message by paying close attention to the story’s motifs. In this way, motifs can engage readers on an intuitive level. 

Writers may also use motifs for these reasons:

To enhance a mood. In Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events, the author hides the acronym “VFD” throughout the series to indicate the Baudelaire children are in danger. This creates an aura of suspense every time the reader notices the three letters in succession (e.g.: Volunteer Feline Detectives, Voluntary Fish Domestication).

To create symbolism. Typically, oranges are not associated with death or destruction, but in The Godfather, director Francis Ford Coppola creates a new symbol by repeatedly featuring oranges around scenes of death. For what it’s worth, the production designer has denied that the orange symbolism was intentional. Regardless of the filmmaker’s intentions, viewers have decided that oranges are one of the movie’s motifs.

Motif vs. theme

A theme is a story’s overall message or meaning. It’s what guides the narrative, causes characters to act a certain way, and gives the text a deeper meaning. Themes are typically broad and conceptual. Examples of themes in literature include mortality, good versus evil, corruption, redemption, and love.

Motifs, on the other hand, are elements that point toward that theme. For example, if a book’s underlying theme is about mortality, then an author might attach the motif of decay to their language (as William Shakespeare does in Hamlet). Every time the reader encounters worms, maggots, or skulls, they’re directed to reflect on the broader themes of death and mortality.

In short, a theme is an abstract concept that underlies the entire story. A motif is a recurring element throughout the story that points toward that theme.

Link to the rest at The Grammarly Blog

From Writer Unboxed:

What do you do when you reach a roadblock with your novel? Do you go for a long walk? Pour a glass of wine? Vent on social media? While all those things are helpful (at least to me), I like to go to a tried-and-true backup that I know I’m good at: short-story writing.

I got my start writing short stories in college, so they’re a comfort blanket for me. And I’ve found interchanging novel-writing with short story-writing provides a unique honing of writerly skills that I would otherwise lack if I only concentrated on my novel.

Here are some of the benefits writing short stories provide:

1. You learn to complete a story arc in a finite amount of time. And I mean that both figuratively and literally. When writing short stories that you intend to submit for publication, you often have to work within finite word counts. You have drabbles, which are 100 words or less; Flash Fiction, which is usually 300-1K words; and traditional short stories, which can be anywhere from 1k-7k words. (Anything longer is considered a “long” short story or a novella.) And because it’s not a novel, which can take months to years to write, you’re usually working on short stories over the course of a few days to a few weeks. This is especially true if you’re writing for a deadline-driven contest. You learn to increase your pacing and shorten your character arcs to a few thousand words. The skills learned by working on short stories can help your novel-writing chops by allowing you to get to the heart of your story faster, which in turn gives you more real estate to flesh out the characters and the plot instead of leisurely wandering your way to them.

2. It gives you a sense of accomplishment—and more. You can (usually) write several short stories in the time it would take you to write half a novel. This directly translates into fuel you can use to finish your novel in that it can serve to kickstart your motivation as you gain writing momentum. Getting your work published and out into the world gives you an ego boost that can help you survive the Imposter Syndrome doubt that comes from wondering if your novel will ever take shape/take off/ be successful. I use these small acceptance accomplishments to remind myself why I got into this business in the first place.

3. It can add to your writing resume. It’s a known fact that plenty of good writers get passed over by agents and editors and that rejections are inevitable, regardless of the writing quality. But publications in reputable journals and magazines can add substance to your query letters, and that may lead agents to take a closer look at your work. This may especially benefit a debut novelist seeking agent representation.

4. Submitting short story queries helps hone your query-writing chops. Trust me, after writing dozens of short story queries, or even hundreds, you can use what you’ve learned to write a knockout novel query. For example, writing short story queries helped me hone my professional voice when approaching someone for paid work. It taught me to perfect my elevator pitch, as I essentially provide one for each story I submit—again, do dozens or hundreds of these and you start to gain an ear for what works and what doesn’t.

5. It gives practice for following submission guidelines. While many novel-submissions usually just involve a basic query to the agent/publisher/editor, when someone requests a partial of your manuscript, you will need to follow their submission guidelines explicitly. I learned how to tailor my short story submissions to specific formatting guidelines just the way indie publishers and small presses demand—sure, the Shunn format is a good place to start, but not every house wants it the same way, and small details missed can get your submission tossed out. It’s important to carefully research the guidelines required for EACH manuscript submission and follow them to the T.

6. It provides a much-needed mental break. Wrestling with your novel WIP can lead to burnout. I’ve been there, and in the depths of my frustration, short stories gave me the space I needed to get into another world for a while, to handle a new set of characters that had different challenges than those I wrestled with in my novel. Or, on the other hand, you might find that writing a short story set in the world of your novel helps deepen your understanding of that world and its characters. As Amazon can attest, many a successful novella was written as a spin-off to full-length novels. They sell because fans want to know more about the characters they’ve come to love, and short stories and novellas provide that desired fix

Link to the rest at Writer Unboxed

From Writers Helping Writers:

In 1959, Carl Jung first popularized the idea of archetypes—”universal images that have existed since the remotest times.” He posited that every person is a blend of these 12 basic personalities. Ever since then, authors have been applying this idea to fictional characters, combining the different archetypes to come up with interesting new versions. The result is a sizable pool of character tropes that we see from one story to another.

Archetypes and tropes are popular storytelling elements because of their familiarity. Upon seeing them, readers know immediately who they’re dealing with and what role the nerd, dark lord, femme fatale, or monster hunter will play. As authors, we need to recognize the commonalities for each trope so we can write them in a recognizable way and create a rudimentary sketch for any character we want to create.

But when it comes to characters, no one wants just a sketch; we want a vibrant and striking cast full of color, depth, and contrast. Diving deeper into character creation is especially important when starting with tropes because the blessing of their familiarity is also a curse; without differentiation, the characters begin to look the same from story to story.

. . . .

Doomsday Prepper

DESCRIPTION: Paranoid and prepping for the end of the world, doomsday preppers have a very specific skillset, as well as access to resources that are in short supply elsewhere. Their knowledge and assets can be useful in certain scenarios, and these characters often become important contacts for the protagonist, supplying exactly what’s needed in the moment.

FICTIONAL EXAMPLES: Burt and Heather Gummer (Tremors), Hershel Greene (The Walking Dead), Howard Stambler (10 Cloverfield Lane), Dale Gribble (King of the Hill)

COMMON STRENGTHS: Adaptable, Alert, Analytical, Cautious, Focused, Independent, Industrious, Nature-Focused, Observant, Organized, Private, Proactive, Protective, Resourceful, Responsible, Thrifty, Traditional

COMMON WEAKNESSES: Fanatical, Nervous, Obsessive, Paranoid, Pessimistic, Rebellious, Stubborn, Suspicious, Uncooperative, Withdrawn

Link to the rest at Writers Helping Writers

From Writer Unboxed:

My second novel, which was released last March, is a coming-of-age story. The book’s protagonist is a sixteen-year-old boy. A few months before the publication date, I had a conversation with my publisher about whether the book should be marketed as a young adult novel or as adult literary fiction.

“It really could be either,” my publisher said. “I think there’s something in it for everyone.”

After weighing the pros and cons of each, we decided to go with adult literary fiction, partly because the novel contains mature content that some parents might find unsuitable for teenagers, and also because we felt that the book would have an opportunity to reach a wider audience as an adult novel.

I was happy with this decision until the book came out and one of its early readers, who also happened to be my father, sent me an email. “It’s a good book, but I don’t think it’s for the over-seventy crowd,” he wrote. “It’s hard to identify with a teenager at my age.” (For the record, he also gave the book a four on Goodreads 😐.)

I was considering asking my publisher if we could revise the book’s metadata when positive reviews started to come in, all of them from adult readers.

“I’m not a teenager,” one woman told me, “but I could really relate to the book’s main character. I’ve had some similar struggles in my life recently. I was rooting for him to succeed the whole time.”

By definition, coming-of-age stories portray a time in a character’s life when they’re undergoing a metamorphosis—in the process of becoming a better, more evolved version of themselves. For most of us, this development takes place when we’re in our late teens or early twenties. But life, especially over the past few years, doesn’t always stick to the rules. Big changes can take place in anyone’s life at any time whether we want them to or not.

If you asked someone to give you a list of their favorite books, it’s likely that at least one coming-of-age story would make the cut. Classic novels like A Catcher in the Rye, The Chocolate War, and The Outsiders occupy an eternal place in people’s hearts because we all know what it’s like when the phonies won’t get off our backs and the rich kids cheat to win.

One of my favorite novels is Peace Like a River by Leif Enger. Set in 1950s Minnesota, it’s the coming-of-age story of eleven-year-old Reuben Lands. The story is full of adventure, tragedy, poverty, hope, love, and miracles that feel true-to-life. I’ve read it a dozen times. Every time I read it, I’m reminded that it’s not just our circumstances that define our characters but the ways in which we choose to handle them. I’m also reminded that, if we’re open to it, it’s possible to grow and change as a person no matter our age.

Although it’s been widely read in high school English classes since it was published, Peace Like A River was intended for an adult audience.

Coming-of-age stories are universal. They occupy their own special niche in the world of storytelling. By showing us humanity at its very worst and at its finest, these stories bring to light the limitations and awesome potential that human beings possess. And because coming-of-age stories deal with themes like self-discovery, injustice, sexuality, class, and race they can also sometimes help us make sense of events that happened in our lives decades ago and the ways in which those things have become woven into our cores.

Link to the rest at Writer Unboxed

From Writers Helping Writers:

Pessimist

DESCRIPTION: This doom-and-gloom character believes that if something bad can happen, it will. They tend to focus on flaws and potential pitfalls and see every opportunity as a new way that things can go wrong.

FICTIONAL EXAMPLES: Eeyore (the Winnie the Pooh series), Marvin the Paranoid Android (The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy), George Costanza (Seinfeld), Sadness (Inside Out)

COMMON STRENGTHS: Alert, Analytical, Focused, Honest, Introverted, Meticulous, Observant, Pensive, Persistent, Resourceful

COMMON WEAKNESSES: Apathetic, Cowardly, Cynical, Fussy, Grumpy, Humorless, Inflexible, Inhibited, Insecure, Lazy, Martyr, Melodramatic, Morbid, Nervous, Obsessive, Paranoid, Pessimistic, Uncooperative, Withdrawn, Worrywart

ASSOCIATED ACTIONS, BEHAVIORS, AND TENDENCIES
Noticing even the smallest details
Identifying problems and risks before they happen
Avoiding potential trouble spots others may not see coming
Being cautious
Easily identifying things that need improvement
Planning ahead
Being thorough
Always seeing the glass as half empty
Frequently frustrating others with their constant negativity
Having only a small circle of friends

SITUATIONS THAT WILL CHALLENGE THEM
Having to share space with an extreme optimist
Facing a situation with unknown factors they haven’t had time to prepare for
Being complimented for their skills or abilities

Link to the rest at Writers Helping Writers

From Writers in the Storm:

There was a time when we believed more women suffered from the Imposter Syndrome than men did. Unfortunately, time has shown that no one is immune to these feelings. It happens to all creatives, including writers, to celebrities, to politicians, to tradespeople, and to stay-at-home parents. And the phenomenon has been around for a long time.

Examples:

Remember when Sally Field accepted the Oscar with her statement, “You like me. You really, really like me!” Yup. That’s a sign of that Imposter Syndrome. Aw, you say, she’s an actress, she doesn’t count. So how about Albert Einstein who said, “The secret of creativity is knowing how to hide your sources.” Or former President Woodrow Wilson when he said, “I use not only all the brains I have but all that I can borrow.”

Signs of Imposter Thinking

Imposter Syndrome is sneaky. It’s not always the same signs or the same way of thinking. Your brain is clever that way. It devises new ways to “protect” you. Here are some thoughts that suggest you have Imposter Syndrome.

• Diminishing your accomplishments by saying something like “it’s not a big deal.”
• You quit your job soon after a promotion that you felt you didn’t deserve.
• Creating a perfect story, aka perfectionism, keeps you from completing your work. 
• You procrastinate on things to be done. If it isn’t done, then you can’t be “found out.”
• Insomnia and migraines have been called symptoms of imposter syndrome as well. (Please, if you are having physical symptoms such as insomnia or migraines, seek medical attention to rule out other causes for those symptoms.)
• You look at another writer’s awards and accolades or best seller rank and think you will never be as good. You are suffering from comparison-itis, another form of imposter thinking.
• Writer’s Block has many causes. But it can be a sign of this syndrome, especially if your thoughts are leading you to believe this temporary stoppage means you aren’t a real writer. 
• Finally, in extreme cases, there are some who take refuge in more destructive behaviors like addiction to alcohol or drugs. Please seek professional therapy for these types of behaviors.

The Neuroscience of Imposter Syndrome

Psychologists have identified four main primal drives that helped all animals, including humans, survive. They are: fight, flight, feed, and mate. 

Few people dispute humans would not have survived much of the last two thousand years without our fight and flight mechanism. Fortunately, early humans developed a very strong, instinctual way of reacting to the threat of death that they lived with every day. 

This means that our brains instinctively give the highest priority to these drives. Instinctively, our brains look for reasons we must fight to survive first, and if fighting isn’t survivable, we instantly take flight. Once we no longer need fight-or-flight, our brains will prioritize feeding ourselves in order to survive. Finally, we mate to ensure our survival. 

Luckily, some of us have moved beyond the physical fight for survival. Many of us do not have to fight off a bear or lion or other imminent death threat. But even when we don’t have a physical death threat at our door, our brains still have that fight-or-flight instinct. So our brains look for the next “best” threat and turn it into a life-and-death issue. 

We may know logically that the “threat” is not that kind of situation, but we don’t start with our thinking-brain. We start with our feeling-brain. And we feel afraid. 

When we feel afraid, our brain kicks in the fight-or-flight instinct. We act to protect ourselves. Unfortunately, what we think is protective is not helpful in the least. But we don’t know it because our feeling brain tells our thinking brain what think and those thoughts become what we believe. Notice that there’s no logic built into our instincts. 

The good news is that we can do something. We can learn from our fears and eventually believe differently. 

Ways to Supercharge Your Writing Life Against I.S.

Stop the Argument

If the number one culprit responsible for how we behave is our feelings, how do our feelings usually manifest themselves? Self-talk. Our brains start a running dialogue that reinforces the fear of that death threat (real or not). To combat the Imposter Syndrome, we need to counteract that running dialog based on fear.

There are many ways to address our fearful, negative self-talk. First, we have to notice it. This might mean you need to meditate on the thoughts and feelings you are experiencing. Journaling may help or reading self-help books or courses. Always check the bona fides of any book or mentor or therapist before choosing one. Professional organizations are the best option for finding reputable sources of help. 

If your negative self-talk includes suicidal thoughts, to talk with a therapist now. If you don’t have one or cannot afford one, reach out to your nearest public health department, your church, or in the U.S., call 988 (English and Spanish). Outside the US, try this list of international hotlines. 

On the August 6, 2023 episode of the Writing Excuses podcast, actress and writer, Kirsten Vangsness, discussed Imposter Syndrome. She suggested you can stop the argument by acknowledging you are an imposter. She says she understands that there is a part of her that constantly is trying to destroy her. Knowing that, she can recognize that self-talk and learn how to deflect or defeat it.

By acknowledging that she is an imposter, Kirsten is embracing her fear. Sometimes, simply saying I’m afraid is enough to help diminish that fear enough so you can move through the fear. 

Link to the rest at Writers in the Storm

From Helping Writers Become Authors:

What are plot devices? Basically, they’re exactly what they sound like: events that maneuver the plot in particular directions.

All stories are built on plot devices. In truth, everything that happens in a story is a plot device. Story structure beats are plot devices. Character arc beats are plot devices. Plot devices are the little clockwork gears that make a story run.

This means plot devices are also one of a writer’s most important tools. Need to figure out a way to get two characters to show up at the same place at the same time? A plot device is your key. Want two characters to have good reason to hate each other? Plot device!

This isn’t a bad thing. However, the term “plot device” often comes with the negative connotations associated with poorly executed moments that feel contrived or like authors are manipulating events in order to make the plot do what they want.

Now, of course, all writers must “manipulate” the plot to some extent. After all, we’re not just responsible for creating the story, we’re also responsible for steering it. We know we need to get the characters from Point A to Point B, which means coming up with plausible plot devices to move them along the road toward the final Climax.

The trick is to do so in a way that honors the entire context of the story. Each event should arise naturally from the story’s cause and effect. Any time something in a story seems to exist solely to explain a previous event or further a future event, that’s the sign of a contrived plot device. By contrast, a successful plot device is one that seems to exist solely for its own sake—as if it were just as important as any other event—which allows it to seamlessly integrate with the rest of the story.

What Are Plot Devices? 8 Possibilities

This topic is on my mind right now, as I’ve been brainstorming my way around the need for a particular plot device in my fantasy work-in-progress Wildblood. Today, I want to talk about how you can recognize obvious plot devices and then how to troubleshoot your own process to determine whether or not the plot devices will seem contrived to readers.

To get us started, here are eight possible ways plot devices may show up in your story.

1. Event

At its simplest, a plot device is something that happens in your story. It could be a birth, a death, a robbery, a wedding, a dance-off, a scam—you name it. Most of the time, we refer to these events as “beats” or “scenes.” We usually only think of them as plot devices when they seem contrived—as if the only reason an event is happening is to either facilitate a different scene or to instigate a particular emotion in readers.

For Example: In Jupiter Ascending, the main characters are betrayed by a friend—an event that exists solely to facilitate certain subsequent plot developments and that is not supported by either proper build-up or motive or by emotional consequences after the fact.

2. Info

Anything that changes the plot moves the plot, something information is capable of doing all by itself. Any time a character learns something new, that’s a plot device. Readers will always trust that new information is important to the story. However, if that information exists only to be interesting in the moment, without being paid off later, then it is likely a poorly executed plot device.

For Example: This one is common in jargon-heavy or worldbuilding-centric stories, which often drop lots of info, not all of which is necessary either for advancing the plot or even just fleshing out the world. In the adaptation of The Witcher, the “cost of magic” (demonstrated by a girl’s hand withering after performing magic) is used as a device to inform the plot early on, but then dropped from the narrative when it becomes inconvenient.

3. MacGuffin

A MacGuffin, as Alfred Hitchcock famously called it, is a thing or person that inspires pursuit throughout the story. The falcon statuette in The Maltese Falcon is one of the most famous examples. A MacGuffin can also be a person or even just a bit of information. This is a powerful plot device, but it only works well when the MacGuffin is not incidental. It needs to be there for more than just a reason to keep the characters moving; it needs to offer meaning to both plot and theme by the end.

For Example: A popular MacGuffin in recent film was the Tesseract in the MCU, which characters pursued through multiple entries in the series. Ultimately, it was a successful plot device, since it remained important to the very end of the original plotline, when it was claimed by the arch-villain Thanos as one of the Infinity Stones.

. . . .

6. Plot Twist

A plot twist can be one of the most enjoyable types of plot device. It can also be one of the most abused. A plot twist should never exist just for the sake of the twist. It should be a natural and inevitable outgrowth of everything that’s come before and should matter to what comes after. If you could pull the twist without affecting the progression of the plot, you know you’re probably looking at a manipulative plot device.

For Example: For my money, one of the most annoying plot twists was the out-of-left-field reveal in The Avengers: Age of Ultron that Clint Barton/Hawkeye had a secret family. It doesn’t seem so bad in retrospect, since the franchise built on it in subsequent episodes. But at the time, it lacked any setup and felt super-manipulative.

Link to the rest at Helping Writers Become Authors

From Writer Unboxed:

Twenty-some years ago, while reading a published crime novel for enjoyment, I encountered a first sentence similar to this:

I marched through the restaurant at 5 a.m. Tuesday, ignoring the stench of the dead body and the unhinged sous chef who’d found it.

This sentence immediately popped me from the story. New at the time to story analysis, it took me a while to determine that my problem was with the word “ignore.” Instead of reading on, I sat and wondered, If our first-person POV character is “ignoring” something, why did she mention it? and Does one ever get to a point when one can simply “ignore” the stench of a dead body? and How do you ignore an unhinged sous chef? In the next line, when I learned she was a police detective, I thought, Would a police detective really “ignore” aspects of a crime scene, especially a stench that might inform her that the body had been decaying there since Saturday night, when the restaurant was last open? And if she can ignore these details, should we trust her to have the instincts to solve this murder?

Make no mistake, you do want to raise questions with the opening of your novel, but these were the wrong kind. You also want your opening to be memorable, but not for these reasons. I concluded that the author was implying that this character wasn’t really a very good detective. Having lost faith in the protagonist after just one sentence, followed by a paragraph that did nothing to salvage the situation, I set down the book.

Since then, I’ve learned that creative writing doesn’t have a lot of “rules,” save one:

Give the reader no reason to put down your novel.

It may well be that you’re such a mystery lover that you would have skipped right over this issue and continued on. Reading is subjective, after all. Even so, this one sentence offers up several aspects of craft worth thinking about.

Focus on what your character is doing instead of what she isn’t

I heard this advice early on in my creative writing journey and it has proven to be a worthy guide: Rather than write about what your character doesn’t do, identify what she does do. This will help the reader accumulate details pertinent to her characterization (as opposed to ruling out who she isn’t), while also prompting you-as-author to determine what your character wants in any given scene.

[If that feels like a challenge to your creativity, I too can picture a literary novel beginning with, “Leon Adamzcyk went out to feed his birds at the crack of dawn because he was not the kind of man who wanted to talk to his neighbors.” This could begin a list of other things that Leon Adamzcyk is not, ending this opening with the line, “Problem was, Leon Adamzcyk didn’t know who he was.” Thing is, your readers would know something: he cares about the birds.]

If the detective in the opening story is assigned to this case yet she immediately ignores its specifics, show us why by giving her an alternate scene goal. Maybe her ex owns the restaurant and her first priority is to make sure he’s okay. You can still orient us to the action in the room while she is pursuing that primary goal:

I entered the restaurant at 5 a.m. Tuesday morning and marched straight toward Jimmy’s office, swinging wide around the techs at the crime scene and holding my breath against the stench produced by a corpse at least two days old.

Adding a goal is such a slight change, yet it energizes the scene while at the same time showing her experience. I’d trust this protagonist more; she has a story to tell. Her actions—as opposed to what she is trying to avoid—raise better questions: Who is Jimmy to her? Is he there, or did he leave to avoid her? Did she not look at the body because she couldn’t bear it if it had been him, or perhaps because her emotions are so buttoned up that she saved herself inner turmoil by making sure he was okay first? What is he doing when she finds him: locking his safe? Pacing, his clothes rumpled as if they were yesterday’s? Their conversation would show how she feels about their relationship status and may suggest whether she trusts him or has long suspected his involvement in shady dealings—but it is sure to raise many interesting questions. She can then circle back to get the preliminary report from the crime scene techs.

What she wants to avoid, of course, are the stakes should she not achieve her scene goal—but those dreaded consequences will feel more potent once we find out what it is this detective wants. Let her actions betray this.

Link to the rest at Writer Unboxed

From Writers Helping Writers:

In 1959, Carl Jung first popularized the idea of archetypes—”universal images that have existed since the remotest times.” He posited that every person is a blend of these 12 basic personalities. Ever since then, authors have been applying this idea to fictional characters, combining the different archetypes to come up with interesting new versions. The result is a sizable pool of character tropes that we see from one story to another.

Archetypes and tropes are popular storytelling elements because of their familiarity. Upon seeing them, readers know immediately who they’re dealing with and what role the nerd, dark lord, femme fatale, or monster hunter will play. As authors, we need to recognize the commonalities for each trope so we can write them in a recognizable way and create a rudimentary sketch for any character we want to create.

But when it comes to characters, no one wants just a sketch; we want a vibrant and striking cast full of color, depth, and contrast. Diving deeper into character creation is especially important when starting with tropes because the blessing of their familiarity is also a curse; without differentiation, the characters begin to look the same from story to story.

But no more. The Character Type and Trope Thesaurus allows you to outline the foundational elements of each trope while also exploring how to individualize them. In this way, you’ll be able to use historically tried-and-true character types to create a cast for your story that is anything but traditional.

Snob

DESCRIPTION: Snobs look down on people below their own social or financial station. They often display an exaggerated sense of elitism and condescension because they believe they’re superior in some way.

FICTIONAL EXAMPLES: The Malfoys (the Harry Potter series), Lady Catherine de Bourgh (Pride and Prejudice), Tom Buchanan (The Great Gatsby), Regina George (Mean Girls), Frasier and Niles Crane (Frasier)

COMMON STRENGTHS: Ambitious, Centered, Charming, Confident, Meticulous, Passionate, Proper, Sophisticated

COMMON WEAKNESSES: Catty, Cruel, Fussy, Gossipy, Haughty, Humorless, Inflexible, Judgmental, Know-It-All, Materialistic, Nosy, Prejudiced, Pretentious, Self-Indulgent, Spoiled, Vain

ASSOCIATED ACTIONS, BEHAVIORS, AND TENDENCIES

• Having a strong sense of personal identity
• Not being easily swayed by the opinions of others
• Paying meticulous attention to detail
• Dressing stylishly
• Being self-possessed and appearing confident
• Being driven to achieve greater success and importance through self-development
• Having discerning tastes
• Having a deep understanding about their area of interest—art, fashion, literature, or even more mundane things, like coffee or wine
• Associating with people they believe are worthy of their attention
• Indulging in extravagant displays of wealth or personal achievement
• Putting others down—publicly or privately—because of a lack of personal taste
• Having a superiority complex
• Believing their friends or wealth makes them worthier or more respected than others
• Ensuring everyone around them knows how smart or accomplished they are
• Dropping names
• Attaching themselves to people who can improve their status
• Gathering sycophants and groupies
• Expounding on their opinion whenever possible
• Excelling at finding weak spots and attacking them
• Perfectionism
• Sucking up to others; brownnosing
• Congregating with other snobs who share their interests

Link to the rest at Writers Helping Writers

From Electric Lit:

Once at a party, I met an anesthesiologist. I’ve always been horrified and fascinated by anesthesiology, and I was a few wines in, so I cornered him.

“Where do we go?” I demanded. “When we go under, where do we go?”

He didn’t seem surprised to be accosted with this question. Instead, he moved closer to me. “Well, you are like a computer,” he said. He lifted an index finger and pressed it to the center of my forehead. “I’m just turning you OFF. I’m flipping a switch.”

I was furious. The answer was clever, but it meant nothing. It didn’t address my issue. It didn’t help me understand how he did what he did, or whether I was dying every time I went under.

Obviously, anesthesiology and writing are not the same. But novelists are also asked a similar question at every event, family gathering, therapy session, good date, or party: How did you write your novel? Over and over again. Writing a novel is wrapped in the same mystery, for most people, as going to the moon or going under anesthesia.

It’s not a question I can answer once or in one way—my relationship to writing changes as I get older, as I write more books. Some technical advice stays the same (i.e., the practices I cling to in order to finish the damn thing), but other, more existential questions fluctuate with time, my life experiences, and the political environment that encroaches on my existence. Still, here is my best crack at it: five easy steps for turning your suffering into a novel.

First You Must Suffer

It would help, for example, if your father has just died. Or, perhaps, you’ve just undergone an incredibly painful and traumatic spinal surgery. Both of my novels were directly fed by these two critical moments in life, times during which my understanding of the world around me was proven entirely wrong.

My new novel, Ripe, was written after my father died suddenly, an event that was followed shortly thereafter by the COVID-19 lockdown. My father was always telling me to write this novel—a novel about working in tech with lunatics. During the year I spent working in Silicon Valley, at the end of our phone calls, he would often say: Take notes on everything that is happening to you. One day you’re going to write a book about it and sell a million copies.

After he died, during lockdown, I was entirely alone with my grief. There was no looking away from it, there were no distractions, it was only me and the grief, which was six-foot-three, the height of my father, following me around, getting in my way, forcing guttural cries out of my body at all times of day. After a few weeks, I sat down and wrote the book he asked me to write. Ripe, even more so than my first novel, was born of grief and isolation, made in a moment in time that I’m not sure will ever happen again. But it was fuel inside of me, an agony I wanted to comprehend, make sense of, catalyze into something else, something useful, something he would be proud of.

Perhaps for some writers, like romance novelists, “Suffer” can be exchanged for “Fall in Love.” If you can write a novel without suffering, my hat is off to you. For me, the work is deeply driven by a desperation to understand the world around me.

Be Ruthless, Be Rude

We are raised (at least, I was) to be polite, kind, presentable. Often, the writing we want to do is the opposite. To write a great novel, you must be ruthless—ruthlessly honest about the people around you, the characters in your book, your perception of the world, your family, your coworkers, and, most of all, yourself.

Humanity is shown clearest in its ugliness. A character that is behaving terribly becomes suddenly understandable when you realize she is trying to have a child but cannot conceive. A depressed character might seem annoying on page one, until you realize she is pregnant and impoverished.

The writer Vidjis Hjorth has an excellent bit about this in one of her novels. Her character, who has herself just written a novel, is asked if the novel is real. The character responds that she is not interested in reality, but in the truth.

That distinction is an important way of securing freedom from the confines of what’s expected of us in our work. We have to be unconcerned about whether reality is reflected in the novel, and dedicated to ensuring our work is dealing in the sometimes beautiful, sometimes ugly truth of being human.

Link to the rest at Electric Lit

From Writer Unboxed:

The morning slides right off me, pooling into my cooling sleeves. Sunrise is an hour away, and already it’s close to ninety degrees, with humidity in an astronomical percentage. My body feels heavy. My brain feels heavier.

I’ve had few truly enjoyable early morning long runs since the summer began.

Some seasons are like that.

I have to remind myself of many things when I walk out the door, headlamp strapped on, hydration belt positioned on my hips, to begin my warmup of calf raises, high knees, and skip-strides. They become mantras as I slog through the miles, one at a time, the end so far removed from the beginning I can hardly imagine it.

As a (amateur) runner who logs anywhere from 55 to 65 miles every week just for fun (I know), I’ve learned a lot about writing from my long-distance running habit. It may seem strange to equate the two—one is incredibly active, the other not so much. But both use the same kind of persistent focus. Both require stamina and dedication. Both are incredibly difficult to finish strong.

Here’s what I’ve learned about writing from long-distance running.

Run the mile you’re in. Write the chapter you’re in. I don’t walk out the door for a twelve-mile run already thinking of the twelfth mile. The run would be doomed before it began. I focus only on the first mile. And then the next mile. And the third, and on and on and on.

So often, we start a story and we already can’t wait to get it done. Part of the excitement of writing is the vision we have for the end product. But if we keep our eyes focused on The End and how far we have left to go, instead of where we actually are in the project, we can easily lose our focus and our enthusiasm for the project. The finish line is so far away! We still have to get through the Fun and Games section! And the Bad Guys Close In! And the Dark Night of the Soul and everything that comes after and…maybe we should just quit. We’ll never make it.

It’s important to write the chapter we’re in. Resist the urge to measure how much farther you have to go. Find your stride in this chapter and watch the words, one after another, propel you along the path of progress.

Every day is different—some days are great, others are slogs. A coach I know tells his runners, “Today’s legs are not yesterday’s legs.” Meaning: We may not be able to perform today at the level we did yesterday.

We’ve all heard the saying “comparison is the thief of joy.” That’s true when comparing ourselves to other people, but it’s also true when comparing ourselves today to ourselves yesterday. Not every day will be a perfect productive day where we write two thousand perfect words. And we can’t put that kind of pressure on ourselves.

Some days we’re tired because we didn’t get enough sleep. Or we did too much people-ing and feel completely burned out. Or the kids are home for the summer and really like to talk and there’s no quiet corner in our house where we can find a minute to think, let alone write.

Some days are slogs. Some seasons are slogs. It’s important to remember they’re only days—or seasons. In the same way today’s writing isn’t the same as yesterday’s writing, tomorrow’s writing won’t be the same as today’s. So if you’re having an awesome writing day, be grateful. And if you’re not, have hope. Every day is a new day.

Endurance requires training. We don’t just decide we want to run fifteen miles and get out there and run a record-breaking fifteen miles without any previous running training. We also don’t just decide we want to write a book and then write a perfect book the first time we try. It takes time to build up the skills and focus to write an entire cohesive piece of writing—whether it’s an essay or a book or a short story. Nothing comes out perfect the first time.

We train. We study our craft. We develop the weaker muscles so we can write strong. We grow in our skills, and we never stop learning how to write better. Growth takes time and patience.

Sometimes you fall, but you get back up. Not everything goes the way we want it to. Sometimes our books are less successful than we’d like them to be. Sometimes we’re practically invisible. Sometimes critics say really difficult things. Sometimes we don’t know if we want to do this again. Sometimes we say the wrong thing or we take a wrong turn or we fail at something that mattered.

Falling down—making mistakes—are just opportunities for growth.

We’re human. We trip every now and then. We do our best to see the cracks in the sidewalk and all the uneven places, but no one is perfect. Let yourself feel the stun of the fall. Keep breathing. Peel yourself up from the pavement. Jog (or limp) back home. And get back out there tomorrow and do it all again.

You won’t love it all the time. Sometimes it’s too painful or it’s too dark or you’re so burned out you can’t remember why you started writing in the first place. I’ve been there. I’ve asked myself the questions, Why am doing this? Who really cares? What difference does it make?

During these difficult days, I fall back on routine. I sit down and write at the same time I always write, even if it’s the last thing I want to do. Even if all I’m writing today will be trashed tomorrow. Even if it feels like I will never ever love it again.

The hardest part is getting started. Once I get started, I feel better. I put one word in front of the other, and I make some progress, even if it’s just the progress of establishing routine and consistency. That’s important progress, too.

It’s okay to give yourself a break. I know I just espoused the virtues of pushing through resistance and writing even when you don’t want to…but there is a flip side. It’s okay to take a break. Sometimes we need a break. We’ve been overtraining, working too hard, skimping on recovery and time off. We don’t write our best when we’re burned out.

We also don’t write our best when we feel like we’re missing out on something important just to write (or run). In the same way I have to adjust my running schedules for things like birthday parties, holidays, book signings, special days with my family and friends, I also have to adjust my writing schedule for the same. Routine is good—and often necessary as a baseline. But we can’t get so obsessed with it that we lose sight of the delicate balance between work and play.

A change of scenery can be helpful. In the fall and winter seasons, I run in the dark. It’s hard to run in the dark every single day. And just when I think I don’t have it in me anymore, the seasons change and I get out at the same time, but it’s summer and the days are longer and I get to see the spectacular sunrise. It’s magical. And beautiful. And invigorating.

Link to the rest at Writer Unboxed

From Jane Friedman:

Writing a novel is all about making choices—dozens on every page. Choosing the right point of view (POV) is arguably the most influential choice a writer makes. And choosing first-person POV, well, that may be the most complicated choice of all.

Why?

Because when you build an entire story around the “I” voice, you commit to installing the reader deep inside a single skull. In the hands of a skilled writer, there’s no more fun place to hang out.

“I am the vampire Lestat.” So begins Ann Rice’s rollicking novel, and we quickly realize we are to be guided by an enormously entertaining and self-absorbed narrator with a sly sense of humor.

“Call me Ishmael.” Like Lestat, Melville’s moody anti-hero (a self-described “simple sailor”) takes us on a vivid tour of city streets with a dose of social commentary on the side, followed, in this case, by a harrowing boat ride to track down a whale.

Lestat and Ishamel are each in their own way enormously charismatic and deeply observant of the world around them. A lot happens to them; they are also agents of their own destinies, at least in some respects. These are wonderful skulls to occupy.

No wonder some of today’s best writers gravitate toward first-person because, as Anne Tyler says, “It can reveal more of the character’s self-delusions” than, say, third person.

But to effectively execute this elevated brand of first-person narrative, writers must navigate a complex set of rules and avoid any number of pitfalls that will turn a novel into a flat, dull expanse of prose. I suggest that first-person POV is the most misunderstood and also the most difficult voice to master.

Let’s explore some ground rules (not an exhaustive list!) and common pitfalls before turning our attention to whether writing in first-person is the right choice for your story. (Spoiler alert: It’s often not the best choice.)

Rule #1: Constraint

The moment you elect first-person POV, you relinquish the option to tap into an omniscient narrator who knows all, sees all, and can travel at will through time and space, or walk through walls, when called for. (This is ironclad unless you write a fantasy main character who possesses omniscient powers, but that’s the exception that proves the rule.) The narrator can only process information the way we do in the real world: through her senses. This rule straps the writer into an exquisite straitjacket.

Rule #2: Complexity

A first-person narrator can lie to himself and everyone around him, but an attentive reader will always know, or have a good guess, about what’s really going on. That’s because the first-person voice exists on two planes simultaneously. On one plane, the main character speaks his truth (however deluded) within the context of the story’s self-contained world. (Rule 1 requires this.) Meanwhile, the reader is analyzing the narrator’s motives and circumstances—and drawing conclusions about what’s really going on. The writer needs to be true to the narrator’s voice and situation while remaining aware of the reader’s craving for moral and emotional ambiguity and conflict.

While this rule also makes sense for third-person POV, it’s worth stating explicitly that using first-person doesn’t let a writer off the hook with respect to composing a layered, nuanced protagonist. Writing “I said…” or “I believe…” doesn’t equate to simplicity.

. . . .

Alas, writing drivel is easy to do when wrangling the first-person voice. Here are some of the POV traps writers often fall into while trying to master the form’s particular aspects of constraint, complexity, and character development.

Pitfall #1: Over-relying on the power of “I” 

The easiest error is to fall back on sentences that begin with “I” because, after all, you’re in the head of an “I” person. This is a prose-killing mistake. Imagine getting through an entire book with this cadence:

I walked into the living room, where both my sisters were already seated on the couch. I asked them who called this meeting. Sally said she did, but I didn’t believe her. I looked at Toni but she didn’t say a word. I couldn’t wait to get out of there, but I couldn’t leave just yet.

This passage lacks meaningful context and subtext; the “I” here is rather airless. We may technically be locked into one skull, but that’s all the more reason to craft a narrator with the power to imaginatively describe interior and exterior landscapes (physical and psychological) as well as to surmise (or project) what others are thinking and feeling in relation to one another as well as toward themselves. Doing so will help you to de-center your narrator’s consciousness, so that the scene isn’t all about, or only about, them. 

In The Fault in Our Stars, John Green accomplishes this by turning “I” into “we” in some scenes, which essentially pulls the camera back away from a perpetual close-up:

We had a big Cancer Team meeting a couple of days later. Every so often, a bunch of doctors and social workers and physical therapists and whoever else got together around a big table in a conference room and discussed my situation…

Pitfall #2: Sticking readers with a boring narrator

If you’re going to lock us into one skull, please let it be a very busy and interesting one. (If you make the first error, you’re likely to make this one, as well.) A dull narrator has banal thoughts, participates in low-stakes events or waits passively for things to happen, and doesn’t do enough to help us get to know other characters, let alone chew on the scenery a little. These narrators aren’t people, they’re weak filters for storytelling. (If they were my tour guides at an exotic locale, I’d fire them.) They lack a distinct point of view and aren’t sufficiently wrestling with their own conscience and the outside world. A boring narrator suffocates the reader and doesn’t do enough work on their behalf. We need people like Mark Watney in Andy Weir’s The Martian, whose fierce intelligence continually shines through while he’s trapped on Mars:

First, I put on an EVA suit. Then I close the inner airlock door, leaving the outer door (which the bedroom is attached to) open. Then I tell the airlock to depressurize. It thinks it’s just pumping the air out of a small area, but it’s actually deflating the whole bedroom.

Pitfall #3: Over-limiting what the narrator can know or do

This is so damn tricky. One head, one heart. Everyone else is unknowable and your narrator can’t, in fact, see through walls, so how is she to know a murder’s taking place in the next room? In fiction, we can draw on the heightened capacities of all five senses to generate hunches, incite a narrator to action, and create every shade of emotion. We can also deploy time, through flashbacks and other devices, to give our narrator scope to think, feel, and act. A narrator may, for instance, dream that a murder is underway in the next room, and awaken to the sound of muffled screams. Life offers endless possibilities for the “I” character to venture far afield, literally and figuratively. Even interior thought can be made as lively as a high-speed car chase, as in this passage from Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre:

What a consternation of soul was mine that dreary afternoon! How all my brain was in tumult, and all my heart in insurrection! Yet in what darkness, what dense ignorance, was the mental battle fought! I could not answer the ceaseless inward question—why I thus suffered…

If you choose first-person, you must let your character get out and about, so to speak, and avoid assuming that we only know what they (literally) see in any given moment.

Link to the rest at Jane Friedman

From Writers in the Storm:

Ah, the euphoria of holding one’s own book. Nothing compares, does it? In that moment, the months (or years) of writing, revising, editing, polishing, and finally publishing are in the rearview mirror. All we know is the joy of seeing our hard work compressed into pages and fitted with a stunning cover.

We dream of happy readers, bestseller lists, and maybe even awards.

And we can have these things…if we haven’t broken
 the cardinal rule of publishing.

As someone who studies storytelling from all angles, I can spot quickly when the cardinal rule has been broken, and every time, it guts me. Each book starts with untapped potential, ripe with the imagination of its creator, ready to bring something new and fresh to readers. But this one rule, when it’s broken, limits a book’s potential, keeping it from being all it can be.

So, what is this cardinal rule that stands above all others?

Don’t Rush.

Stories take time to write, and even longer to refine, especially as we’re all developing writers. We each have strengths and weaknesses and are building our skills as we go. Sometimes we don’t know what we don’t know, and so may not be the best judge as to whether a story is ready to move forward.

And yet, I see writers rush toward publication, skipping some of the necessary steps to ensure their book is as strong as it can be. And unfortunately, it ends the same way – a book that wasn’t ready, and the author feeling disappointment and disillusionment when their novel fails to gain traction with readers.

Rushing Burns Bridges

With more books than people on the planet, readers have endless choice. So, the very best thing we can do is give them an amazing experience when they pick up our book, because when we do, they’ll be back for more. But if we rush and the quality isn’t there, readers notice. Not only is it unlikely they’ll stick with us as an author, but they may also leave poor reviews that dissuade others from taking a chance on our book, too.

Rushing also hurts if we’re on the hunt for an agent or publisher. If we submit something that’s clearly not ready, that’s the end of the road with that agent or editor. And what if they remember us and our rushed manuscript if we submit to them down the road…will they be less inclined to ask for sample pages?

Rushing Can Be Expensive

When we rush, we seek out editing before a story is ready for it, meaning costs go up as there’s more to fix. A reputable editor should let the writer know if the project is not ready before they get in too deep, but this is an ethical line that you can’t count on everyone to follow. And if a writer doesn’t carefully vet their editor, they might end up with someone who isn’t skilled enough to offer the level of help needed yet is happy to keep billing round after editing round.

Most of us must budget carefully when it comes to our writing, and editing costs that balloon can fill us with frustration and guilt and may cause us to question our choice of pursuing this path.

Link to the rest at Writers in the Storm

From Jane Friedman:

There’s an endless supply of advice for writers. But when you come across this oversupply of often contradictory information, how are you to parse it and figure out which advice fits you—your story, your personality, your skills, and your writing style?

The process is surprisingly similar to figuring out which clothes work for your body and lifestyle. The best way to know if something fits is to try it on—just like you would try on a pair of jeans at Target. Because just like jeans, writing advice is never one size fits all.

Here are five things to do when trying on and evaluating the fit of writing advice.

1. Check your closet—what do you need?

Just like with clothes, you don’t want to waste your time or money on pieces you don’t need. When you jump to try every piece of writing advice or new writing tool you come across, you will likely end up spending all of your time doing that instead of writing.

If you already have a jacket that is in good shape and keeps you warm and works for your climate, you wouldn’t go buy a new $400 coat just because somebody said it was the best jacket they’d ever worn. The same goes for writing. If you already have an outlining method that works for you, why spend time learning different outlining methods? You don’t need them.

So, before you try out any writing advice, first think about your current writing life. What problems do you need to solve or hurdles do you need to get over? What are you struggling to get right on the page? What’s blocking your progress toward your writing goals? If the advice doesn’t aim to solve a problem you already have, ignore it for now.

2. Gut check: are you interested in this tool or piece of advice?

Just like when choosing clothes, we often have a visceral reaction to writing advice. When you first see it, how does your mind or body react? If you are immediately intrigued and picturing yourself in that sweater, great. Grab it off the rack and add it to your fitting room to try on. If you come across a writing method that turns on a lightbulb in your brain, get ready to try it out.

But if you immediately feel yucky when you come across it, it’s probably not for you. That gut reaction is often a solid judge.

However, if what you’ve been doing hasn’t been working, take a pause and consider why this new advice feels gross to you: Is it because you’ve tried it before and had a bad experience? Or is it making you uncomfortable because it’s so different from anything you’ve tried before, maybe even the opposite of what you’ve been taught?

Your gut feeling is important, but sometimes it’s worth considering new ideas, especially if the old ones aren’t working anymore. Listen to your gut but be willing to ruminate. Trying something that at first seems strange might be worth a shot.

3. Try it out.

You can’t tell if clothes fit your body unless you try them on. Writing advice is the same. Once you find something that seems like it might solve a problem and appears like it might fit, you must try it out. You can try it once or a bunch of times over a few days or weeks. See how it feels. Does it feel empowering or constricting? Does it feel authentic or forced? Does it inspire or bore? Is it moving you toward your writing goals or holding you back?

The key to trying things on is to truly try them and, if possible, try a few similar items so you can compare. Don’t just read the book or watch the webinar. If you need help planning your story or figuring out if it has narrative drive, make a Save the Cat outline and an Inside Outline. If you need help getting the words on the page without getting distracted, do some solo Pomodoro sprints and attend a writing group that does writing sprints together.

It might feel like too much time to spend when you just want to get an answer or a tool and move forward, but like grabbing the first pair of pants you see when you walk in the store and not comparing it with another size or style usually means you end up with a pair that you’re not 100% sure about. The first piece of writing advice you hear doesn’t always work out.

Link to the rest at Jane Friedman

From The Grammarly Blog:

Imagine arguing with a scarecrow. You can make any argument you want and the scarecrow won’t argue back. In fact, you can do more than make any argument you want . . . you can position the scarecrow’s argument any way you want, tailoring it into the perfect position for you to argue against.

When you make a straw man argument, you’re essentially arguing against an imaginary scarecrow. It’s an easy way to make your argument sound infallible—and that’s what makes it a logical fallacy. 

What is a straw man argument?

A straw man argument, sometimes called a straw person argument or spelled strawman argument, is the logical fallacy of distorting an opposing position into an extreme version of itself and then arguing against that extreme version. In creating a straw man argument, the arguer strips the opposing point of view of any nuance and often misrepresents it in a negative light. 

The straw man fallacy is an informal fallacy, which means that the flaw lies with the arguer’s method of arguing rather than the flaws of the argument itself. The straw man fallacy avoids the opponent’s actual argument and instead argues against an inaccurate caricature of it. By doing this, the straw man fallacy is a fallacy of relevance, because with it the arguer doesn’t engage with the relevant components of their opposer’s position. 

. . . .

History of the straw man fallacy

One of the earliest references to the straw man argument dates to Martin Luther. In his 1520 book On the Babylonian Captivity of the Church, he claimed that one of the church’s criticisms of him was that he argued against serving the Eucharist according to one serving practice despite his never actually making that argument. He described this criticism as “they assert the very things they assail, or they set up a man of straw whom they may attack.” 

Later recognition of the straw man fallacy as a distinct logical fallacy dates to the twentieth century. Generally, scholars agree that the term originated with the idea of setting up a simplistic imagined opponent that’s easy to knock down, like a scarecrow or a military training dummy. 

How does a straw man argument work?

A straw man argument is constructed by presenting an opposing position as a warped, extreme version of itself. There are a few different ways an individual might turn a reasonable argument into a straw man:

• Oversimplifying it: An arguer might regurgitate a complex or layered issue as a simple, black-and-white one.
• Focusing on just one part of the opposing argument: By doing this, the arguer ignores the various factors at play and, similar to oversimplifying the opposing argument, presents a tiny sliver of it as if that sliver were the whole thing.
• Taking it out of context: For example, an individual campaigning for better pedestrian safety measures might say, “cars are dangerous,” and their opponent could turn this into a straw man by claiming the campaigner thinks cars should be banned.
• Presenting a fringe or extreme version of an opposing argument as the mainstream version of it: For example, one might create a straw man by claiming that all vegans are opposed to all forms of animal captivity, including pet ownership.

Straw man arguments are used in a few different ways. In a live debate, one might be used in an attempt to back the opposing debater into a corner and force them to defend an extreme or unpopular take on their position. In a piece of writing, a straw man argument makes it easy for the writer to make their position look rational and appealing. By doing this, though, the writer is giving readers a biased look at the issue they’re discussing. When readers aren’t familiar with the topic, this can give them the wrong idea and prevent them from developing well-reasoned opinions on it. And when readers are familiar with the topic, it can make the writer look foolish and cause readers to take their position less seriously. 

Link to the rest at The Grammarly Blog

From CNBC:

For six years, I studied the habits and mindsets of some of the world’s most influential and successful people. I wanted to learn how they think.

In my new book, “Hidden Genius,” one person I highlight is Chris Voss. A key skill he mastered during his 24 years as one of the FBI’s lead international negotiators was emotional intelligence. The secret, according to Voss, is knowing how to listen and read people.

In 1993, for example, two men held three employees hostage at a Chase Manhattan Bank in Brooklyn, New York. Voss was the second negotiator on the phone with one of the bank robbers.

To resolve the conflict, he did three things that he says people with high emotional intelligence do when communicating with others, especially during sensitive conversations:

1. Speak Soothingly

In that 1993 negotiation, Voss used a technique that he calls “The Late Night FM DJ” voice: a declarative, soothing and downward-inflecting voice that is applicable in nearly every situation.

This tone of voice triggers a neurochemical reaction that calms your counterpart’s brain down. It then creates an involuntary response of clear-headedness in both parties.

“Genuine curiosity is a hack for emotional control,” he said in a 2018 podcast interview. “If you talk out loud in a smooth, calming voice, you can actually calm yourself down, too.”

2. Repeat statements as questions

Mirroring is an effective technique for building goodwill and gathering information. You mirror someone by repeating several key words they used in their last communication.

For example, if the bank robber says, “I had a really hard day because of all the stress I’m under,” respond with, “The stress you’re under?”

This keeps you present and emotionally sober while allowing the bank robber to continue talking.

3. Label the other person’s emotions

Voss then told the second bank robber, “It wasn’t your fault, was it?” and “You regret that this happened, right?” Both of these questions insinuated that the robber simply got roped into a bad situation.

Labeling is used to verbally identify and name your counterpart’s emotions. A good label would be responding with one of the following: “It seems like you’re in a stressful situation,” or “It looks like you’re unhappy with how things turned out.”

Link to the rest at CNBC

From Anne R. Allen’s Blog… with Ruth Harris:

Learning to write effective, believable dialogue is one of the toughest parts of learning to write narrative — whether fiction or memoir. We don’t want to simply transcribe the way people actually talk, with all the pointless “ums” and stammery filler-things we say in real life. But we also don’t want to write as if all our characters are English professors, speaking in complete sentences composed with perfect grammar.

What we’re looking for is believable dialogue not realistic dialogue. In fiction, we’re usually aiming for believability, not realism.

And dialogue tags! Dialogue tags are probably the biggest problem in newbie writing. Is “said” really invisible?” We want to show a little creativity, but avoid the “Tom Swifty” trap

Here are nine of the most common dialogue problems a new writer has to deal with — with some suggestions on how to fix them.

1) Big Chunks of Dialogue with no Action or Internal Thought

Talking heads are boring. Move the characters around and let them do something or feel something. We need action on the page.

I don’t mean “action” in the action-adventure sense. When Marlene is telling Bob she’s leaving him, he doesn’t have to jump out of a helicopter or stab a villain hiding behind the arras and she doesn’t have to slay a dragon or dance a minuet.

But the two of them need need to do stuff, even if it’s just clenching a fist or getting another beer. And we need to know what’s going on in their heads. Is Bob fighting back a tear? Is Marlene thinking about that little Beretta in her purse?

We don’t need a lot. Just something to give us movement and emotion.

You also don’t want to try to inject emotion with punctuation. Exclamation points are like jalapeno peppers. A few can enrich your work, but they they can easily overwhelm it.

2) Too Much Realism

As I said, realism isn’t the goal. You don’t want to keep an eavesdropping notebook and transcribe normal conversations word for word (although an eavesdropping notebook can give you some great ideas.) But mostly, in real life, people say really boring stuff.

“Hi Bob.”

“‘S’up Marlene?”

“Nothing much.”

“Gonna go to the…?”

“Dunno, you?”

“Maybe.”

“Gonna, um…?”

“Prolly.”

This is why we read fiction. It skips the boring bits of real life.

A fiction writer should aim to put “just the good parts” on the page, and that includes leaving out the normal pleasantries that people go through in real conversations.

3) Not Enough Realism

But we need the dialogue to hit a happy medium where it seems authentic.

This is why you should never let one of those AI robots loose on your novel without supervision.

If you use grammar rules for all dialogue, the third-grade dropout will speak as correctly as the lawyer or the librarian. So will the recent immigrant from Uzbekistan and the hairdresser from Queens. They’ll all sound exactly the same, and nobody will make any grammatical mistakes or use any kind of regional colloquialism.

There’s a word for grammatically perfect fiction: unbelievable.

You also have a problem when you let your characters say exactly what they’re thinking.

In real life, people seldom say exactly what they think. If your characters are revealing their souls in dialogue, it needs to be in a therapy session or major heart-to-heart with a significant other.

4) Reader-Feeder Dialogue: As-you-know-Bob

This is when your characters tell each other stuff they already know in order to fill in backstory for the benefit of the reader — aka “as-you-know-Bob” dialogue.

“As you know, Bob, we are in the lair of the Evil Queen who took our sister Marlene hostage after the battle of Curmudgeon and we have been seeking her for twelve long months…”

The writers of those CSI episodes often resort to as-you-know-Bobs to explain the science to the audience. It gets a little comical when two highly trained scientists are explaining to each other the basics of rigor mortis or how to detect cyanide poisoning.

This is another instance where “show-don’t-tell” is not always your friend. You can just tell us. Don’t put it in dialogue.

Link to the rest at Anne R. Allen’s Blog… with Ruth Harris

From The Poetry Foundation:

I like to ask people if they have a hyperbolic self-pity phrase they repeat to themselves for pleasure and comfort. One writer told me his phrase is, “You’re minor.” Another said, “For me it’s always ‘I wanna go home’ even when I’m already home.” My personal go-to is, “Nothing good ever happens to me.” This little sad-sack mantra really does seem to help. It makes my suffering theatrical. Children love screaming when nothing is wrong because something has been wrong, something will be wrong—don’t worry about the timing, just get your catharsis in when you can.

The logical leap between “Nobody likes me, everybody hates me” and “Guess I’ll go eat worms” is something I have thought about a lot. What impulse is being served? Does the speaker of these lyrics think worms are delicious (“big, fat juicy ones”)? Is it a bid for attention—is it supposed to make his enemies feel bad for him? Do the worms get you high? I go back and forth on whether the song is supposed to evoke death, the worms of the grave. But don’t the worms eat you? I think the worms are ultimately literal, a form of self-punishment. I think of Jude, in my favorite scene in Jude the Obscure, who feels so low he jumps up and down in the center of an iced-over pond hoping to fall in and drown. The ice cracks but doesn’t give, so Jude supposes he is “not a sufficiently dignified person for suicide.” What options now—what is even “less noble” than “self-extermination”? He decides to get drunk.

Bugs are useful figures in the literature of self-pity—bugs, that catchall category that includes insects and spiders and things with a thousand legs, any loathsome, creepy creature that dwells in the dirt under rocks or the slime of a drain. I once heard, anecdotally, not from an entomologist or anything, that stink bugs, an invasive species with “long, piercing-sucking mouth parts” as one pest management handbook puts it, are notorious for hanging out in spots where they are likely to get smashed and killed, such as a doorframe. Recently my husband found one perched on the edge of a tissue poking up from its box. “That’s convenient,” he said, using said tissue to crush it, then throwing the wad in the toilet. How Jude-like, these stink bugs. They must know they are stink bugs: a Kafkaesque nightmare.

. . . .

I have noticed a tendency in people, when they’re feeling rather bad, to deliberately make themselves feel worse—to dredge up all their grievances, past and present—as if, to justify bad feelings, they look for very good reasons. As Seamus Heaney writes, in his version of Sophocles’s Philoctetes, “People so deep into/Their own self-pity self-pity buoys them up.” It makes sense, in a way, this strategy—after I feel especially awful, I usually feel a little better. It’s akin to making yourself throw up as a cure for nausea. Self-pity is a strong self-cure. In a way, it is too reliable—you can get too good at self-pity. If it works when things aren’t that bad, it really works when they are bad. Or, you might say, when you most deserve the pity is when it won’t help.

Those who despise self-pity always offer perspective. In his essay “Why Bother?” Jonathan Franzen writes, “How ridiculous the self-pity of the writer in the late twentieth century can seem in light of, say, Herman Melville’s life.”

Link to the rest at The Poetry Foundation

From Women Writers, Women’s Books:

Most writers dream of penning their novels at a wooden desk in a sun-filled room with a view of the sea. That’s not where I long to be. I’m happy to be stuck in my damp shed in suburbia. This is the best place ever to find cracking storylines for my psychological suspense novels. 

Here are my top five reasons why…

Disappearing men!

I don’t mean I’m bumping them off – although obviously it’s nice plot-work when you can get it. What I mean is, in modern 2023 suburbia there’s a mass exodus of men onto the commuter train every Monday morning. Fourth wave of feminism? What’s that? Mosey on down to a suburban high-street near you on any given weekday and note it’s a man-free zone.

Granted, there’ll be the rare ‘male’ at a laptop or the glimpse of one squeezed into Lycra, but otherwise, there’ll be lots of lovely suburban women like me. As a writer, I feed off them. We’re getting together and we’re talking. Really talking. We’re putting the world to rights. We’re psychologically profiling, therapizing and pulling each other back from the brink of insanity. And we’re doing all this while we work from home, feed the dog, pretend to do the housework and shape the next generation into decent citizens.

We’re an all-female community of over-sharers. We’re connecting emotionally. We’re honing our empathy skills left, right and centre. We’re qualified to write PhDs on the human condition…. Or maybe just a little psychological suspense novel or two? This genre demands a strong emotional connection with the reader. It’s essential they relate to or sympathise with the main protagonist’s plight. Without that, there’s no suspense and no readers.

The playground assassin.

Okay, so we’ve established that there are no men about. This extends to the school gates, where us women swarm together again to pick up our kids. Sadly, it brings out the worst in us. We don’t want to be there. We’re sleep-deprived, harassed and resentful. But we want the best for our kids, so we go through the motions. And it’s high stakes. There’s a hierarchy, there are factions, there’s competition and there’s bitching. All of it hiding behind a lovely wave and a smile and an invite to the PTA fundraiser. We are not wearing our heart on our sleeves. We’re hiding that shit. We’re superhumanly two-faced. We’re complex. And we make brilliant antagonists or unreliable narrators! Is that woman a murdering, cheating bitch who just drowned her husband in the swimming pool? Or is she a sweet kind mum who bakes cookies and remembers to donate to the foodbank every Tuesday? The thing is, she’s both. And she’s the one who’s the most interesting to chat to for five minutes while we wait for our kids. She’s the best fodder for a good suspense yarn. So, head to your local primary school for some fantastic characterisation inspo.

Secrets behind clipped hedges.

While we’re disputing the height of our neighbours’ Leylandii or blocking planning application for their dormer windows, we’re sleeping with each other’s husbands or being beaten by our own. Our beautifully maintained front-drives and shiny new doors are the ideal front for hiding shocking secrets. Who’d have thought that Pete next door – such a lovely man! – would’ve taken an axe to his poor wife’s head? Only last week I was talking to him about his hydrangeas! A secret is an essential ingredient in psychological suspense fiction to up the tension. The perfectly ordinary suburban house is the best secret-keeper ever, and they don’t give them up easily. Nor should a good psychological suspense. 

Link to the rest at Women Writers, Women’s Books

From Writer Unboxed:

Are you a people watcher? Silly question. This is a blog site for fiction writers. As people pass by, you undoubtedly imagine who they are. What they’re up to. The story that will follow. That’s how your mind works. Am I wrong? Probably not.

Now, everyone forms impressions of passersby. For most people that’s where it stops. Teen shoplifter. Mom in a hurry. Off duty cop. Lost deliveryman. Are those first impressions accurate? Perhaps, perhaps not.  What’s important is that an impression is formed quickly. Science shows that first impressions are made within seven seconds, sometimes in as little as one tenth of a second. It doesn’t take long at all for us to decide what we might expect from a stranger.

The same is true for the opening lines of a novel. Very quickly, readers form an impression of the tale ahead. They rapidly know what to expect. They have a solid expectation of the experience that they are about to undergo. So, lacking an actual person walking past, what is the basis of for the reader’s first impression? What triggers its formulation? There’s only one thing that can do that: the words on the page.

There is of course the jacket or cover. Plus, the flap copy or back cover copy. Not to mention the novel’s category, shelving, blurbs, and so on. Packaging has gotten the consumer as far as opening the volume, but then the consumer begins to read and that’s where the rubber—as it were—hits the road.

Have you ever read a few lines of a novel and put it straight back onto the bookstore shelf? It’s not your thing. But wait…how do you know? You could be wrong. Nevertheless, there are certain words on that opening page that send signals that light you up, turn you off or, if nothing else, cause you to judge a tale’s nature and relative appeal. Certain words tell you what to expect.

Those words are what I call a novel’s promise words.

Promise Words and Their Signals

What are the promise words in your WIP’s opening?  To understand what they are and how they work, let’s take a look at some key words from the opening lines of some published fiction.

Here’s a list of promise words from one opening:

Grief…solitary…islands…graves…alone…avoid…waving from a distance…hurrying away…ghosts exist…the ghost of myself…

What kind of novel do you think that is going to be? A rom-com? Hardly. A ghost story? A sad story? A memory piece? What kind of protagonist will we meet? The life of the party? Um, no. The words suggest it will be a main character who is grieving, solitary, alone.

Do you agree? The impression that you’ve already formed sets your expectations for the novel. You know what kind of experience you’re in for. It’s either an experience that you want for your weekend reading or one that you’re going to return to the bookstore shelf. All on the basis of a few words.

Here’s a second set of promise words:

Shaker Heights…summer…children…burned the house down…gossip…sensational…fire engines…lunatic…something off…hopeless cause…

Well, now. What kind of tale is this going to be? A quest fantasy? Probably not. A suburban story? A tragedy? Involving madness, fire and fate? If that’s your guess then you could be right—but are you? Actually, you don’t know. You’re judging on the basis of just a few words. You have only an impression, and that’s my point.

Here’s a third set of promise words:

Carriage…Bookseller’s Row…spell…mystic signs…elegant buildings…clean streets…anywhere but here…bargaining season…no hope…a grimoire!

Pretty obvious. A fantasy but not Medieval. More likely a Gaslamp Fantasy. About what kind of protagonist? A witch or magician? Sure. But a protagonist you’re going to like?  Well, if you like tales with carriages, booksellers and spells in it then probably so. Also, notice the promise words elegant and clean. They don’t suggest either a dark tale or a dark protagonist, do they? No, I didn’t think so.

Let’s try one more:

Doorbell…writing…important scene…shelter from the rain…standing face to face…electric charge…make a wish…longing…happily ever after…

Let’s see, a horror novel? Undoubtedly not. You probably don’t need to guess hard to know in which section of the bookstore you are standing.  Is the tone and feel of the tale in your hands romantic? Light? Fun? You could be right; you could be wrong. However, really, you already know don’t you?

What matters in each case is that the writer has set down promise words and from those you have not only conjured an impression but rendered a judgment, and possibly agreed (or not) to a contract with the author. Buy this book and this is what you’re going to get.  Stick with me and this is the experience that I will deliver to you. Are you in?

All on the basis of a few promise words.

Link to the rest at Writer Unboxed

From Writer Unboxed:

Every story is told from a point of view (POV). Who is telling the story determines the story that can be told, because it determines what the reader can know about actions, characters, events, thoughts, and motivations. The more limited the viewpoint, the more limited the reader’s access to information and the more personalized that information is. The more diffuse the viewpoint, the more comprehensive the reader’s access to information, but also the less personalized that information is. If you want to write a sweeping historical saga, a close first person viewpoint might not be the easiest. If you want to write an intimate story of personal transformation, distant third person will make your work harder.

What POV should your story be in? If the story is told through more than one character’s viewpoint, which character should be telling which scenes? Asking these simple questions can provide a strategy for editing and refining as well as drafting a story.

I am revising a work in progress from distant third person to close third person POV. I’ve already written a post about how writing in closer third person breathed more life into the characters and how that changed the story. In my revisions, I also discovered that sometimes the problems with a chapter or a scene stemmed not from whether it was ‘close enough’ third person, but whether it was being told by the wrong character. I solved several of those problem scenes by rewriting them from a different character’s POV.

The first step in that revision was choosing which character should be telling the story or scene. Particularly for complex scenes with many characters and many interwoven plot details, the best POV character was not always obvious. Each knew pieces of the story puzzle, but not all; each was there for their own reason, but didn’t know why some of the others were there.

I developed two questions that helped me determine which character provides the best POV for a scene. One question is about the emotional impact of the scene, the other is about the information needed to understand the scene.

Emotional Impact.

Which character is the most affected by the events of the chapter? That character is a good candidate to provide the point of view because their viewpoint can add the most emotional engagement to the actions and events.

Critical Story Information.

Which character knows the most—the actions, events, and information—and can reveal to the reader the essential story elements necessary to understand what’s happening in the scene and to follow the story arc into the next? That character is a good candidate to provide the point of view because they can directly impart that information to the reader as the story unfolds.
While it’s obvious that telling the scene through the most emotionally affected character keeps the stakes high, if that character can’t tell the reader the information necessary to understand what’s going on in the story, then the author has to find another way to impart that information. Those ‘other ways’ are often places where the writing breaks down. The necessary information is offered to the reader through head hopping (temporary shifts in POV), through often intrusive narrative or expository sequences, by (not always believable) fortuitous plot circumstances, or by some other contrivance. How many scenes have you read where some coincidence or red herring character imparts the missing action or information necessary to lead the characters to the next step in the plot? (Don’t get me started about Tolkien and eagles.) In any story, a couple of these coincidences are believable, but they are noticeable, and after awhile they become glaring.

Link to the rest at Writer Unboxed

From Publisher’s Weekly:

It’s almost a cliché that spy novels should be dark, gripping, ambiguous. Espionage, after all, is the shadowy business of stealing high-stakes secrets, of manipulation, deception, and betrayal. But after six years of spying for the CIA—then writing my first spy novel—I found the profession was defined by something more fundamental: the enduring weight of unanswered questions.

When I arrived in Baghdad as a first-tour case officer in November 2004, Iraq had the grim distinction of being the most dangerous place on Earth. More than 800 American soldiers had been killed at that point. Ambushes against U.S. military convoys were fouling up roads; mortar shells and rockets rained down daily on the Green Zone. Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, the ruthless leader of al-Qaeda in Iraq (AQIZ), was ploughing a rapid course of destruction, responsible for more bombings, beheadings, and attacks than the world could count. My job was to find and recruit informants who could help dismantle al-Zarqawi’s network.

The violence in Baghdad was staggering. We wore armor and carried weapons; we spent most of our time hunkered down in the Green Zone, making harrowing, fleeting trips into the Red Zone in heavily fortified vehicles to pick up sources. Some nights I slept in the CIA station, which was safer than my trailer. I celebrated New Year’s in a bunker, waiting out a rocket attack.

A few months into my tour, I learned that one of my informants was remotely connected to an alleged AQIZ-affiliated terrorist. We’ll call him Qasim. He was one of the military’s most wanted targets, suspected of participating in the 2003 bombing of the UN headquarters in Baghdad. Miraculously, my informant helped track Qasim down. In a seemingly unwinnable war, this felt like a huge victory.

We brought Qasim in for questioning. He admitted nothing—but we expected this. Detainees often stonewalled, sometimes reciting “72 hours” (the length of time they could be held without evidence). When dawn crept under the door, the military cuffed Qasim’s shaking hands and transported him by helo to a detention facility. The truth, I felt confident, would come out eventually.

My tour ended, and I returned to D.C., bringing back infinite particles of dust, tailspins of panic from loud noises, and a compulsion to escape traffic jams. A colleague at Langley, I learned, had questioned Qasim at a different detention facility. He was still incarcerated, still hadn’t cracked. People were starting to doubt his guilt. Or maybe it was just me.

Years passed, and my uncertainty grew. I replayed Baghdad in my mind like an unfinished sentence. Some days, I wondered whether we’d gotten it wrong. The “war on terror” was messy, imprecise. Mistakes were certainly possible: people were operating under difficult, shifting conditions, erring on the side of our national security. I didn’t blame anyone—but the irresolution plagued me. I’d escaped to a quiet place, to paraphrase Graham Greene, only to find silence shouting in my ear.

Link to the rest at Publisher’s Weekly

From Writers Helping Writers:

In 1959, Carl Jung first popularized the idea of archetypes—”universal images that have existed since the remotest times.” He posited that every person is a blend of these 12 basic personalities. Ever since then, authors have been applying this idea to fictional characters, combining the different archetypes to come up with interesting new versions. The result is a sizable pool of character tropes that we see from one story to another.

Archetypes and tropes are popular storytelling elements because of their familiarity. Upon seeing them, readers know immediately who they’re dealing with and what role the nerd, dark lord, femme fatale, or monster hunter will play. As authors, we need to recognize the commonalities for each trope so we can write them in a recognizable way and create a rudimentary sketch for any character we want to create.

But when it comes to characters, no one wants just a sketch; we want a vibrant and striking cast full of color, depth, and contrast. Diving deeper into character creation is especially important when starting with tropes because the blessing of their familiarity is also a curse; without differentiation, the characters begin to look the same from story to story.

But no more. The Character Type and Trope Thesaurus allows you to outline the foundational elements of each trope while also exploring how to individualize them. In this way, you’ll be able to use historically tried-and-true character types to create a cast for your story that is anything but traditional.

Lover Archetype

DESCRIPTION: Lovers are passionate, sensual, and devoted, seeking the bliss of togetherness and love. They live life in full, show their heart in relationships, and focus on building closeness and intimacy with those they care about. Often this involves a romantic partner, but it can also manifest as strengthening core bonds with friends or family, making them feel loved and valued. Gone too far, emotions can become volatile, leading to obsession. 

FICTIONAL EXAMPLES: Romeo and Juliet (Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet); Lady and the Tramp (Lady and the Tramp); Ross Geller (Friends); Alex Forrest (Fatal Attraction)

COMMON STRENGTHS
Affectionate, Charming, Empathetic, Flirtatious, Focused, Friendly, Generous, Gentle, Kind, Loyal, Nurturing, Passionate, Patient, Persistent, Persuasive, Playful, Protective, Sensual, Uninhibited

COMMON WEAKNESSES
Addictive, Controlling, Extravagant, Foolish, Frivolous, Gullible, Impulsive, Irrational, Jealous, Melodramatic, Needy, Obsessive, Oversensitive, Perfectionist, Possessive, Subservient, Worrywart

ASSOCIATED ACTIONS, BEHAVIORS, AND TENDENCIES

• Being tuned into the emotions of others
• Showing attentiveness and thoughtfulness
• Accommodating loved ones and their needs
• Seeing the best in someone
• Seeking closeness and intimacy
• Showing closeness through honesty and trust
• Showing love through gifts, words of affection, acts of service, touching, and quality time
• Encouraging others to open up and share their feelings
• Displaying jealousy of rivals
• Being envious of another’s close bonds or loving relationships
• Yearning for (and seeking out) the perfect loving relationship
• Close contact with others, frequent touching
• Being sexually adventurous
• Striving to make a good impression with others
• Thinking carefully to say the right thing
• Daydreaming and fantasizing about someone they are involved with
• Paying compliments
• Being an admirer of beauty
• Caring about what others think about them
• Being a people pleaser
• Becoming obsessed with fixing relationship issues and erasing distance
• Working to lift the spirits of loved ones
• Going out of their way to be kind and helpful with loved ones
• Experiencing life to the fullest
• A willingness to try new things
• Protectiveness of loved ones
• Putting others first (sometimes to a fault)
• Being an optimist and being energized by others who are like-minded
• Being hit hard by betrayals and broken trust
• Love-bombing (being too affectionate or attentive)
• Being comfortable with emotional sharing
• Encouraging others to share their feelings
• A loved one setting boundaries or asking for space
• Discovering a loved one has lied or kept something from them

SITUATIONS THAT WILL CHALLENGE THEM

• Knowing another has a closer relationship than they do with someone they care about
• Being asked to keep a relationship secret and private
• Trying to build closeness with someone who has a lot of barriers and emotional shielding
• Relationship break-ups
• In laws with biases or prejudices against the character that prevent closeness
• Loving someone with differing preferences (level of affection, comfort zones, sexual needs, communication styles, etc.)

Link to the rest at Writers Helping Writers

From The Right Practice:

Road trips yield great stories. Why? Because a road trip forces you, your family, your friends, or your characters into uncomfortable and new situations. Add to that the potential for various complications and conflict, and you have all the ingredients for a terrific story. 

Whether you want to write the story of a road trip you took, or one you’re planning, or a scene from your work in progress that involves a road trip, you can use the elements of plot to help you. (See our full guide here.)

Start with a character who has a goal, and then let the complications and conflict ensue. Bring their actions to a crescendo of crisis (will they make the best bad choice to get what they want?) and deliver the climax and denouement.

A road trip has a built in external goal: you want to get to your destination, usually in a specific way for a specific purpose. But all those details can get hijacked by internal conflict, car trouble, wild roadside stops, and any other complication you can dream up. Give it a try!

Twenty-one Road Trip Writing Prompts 

1. My original prompt was simple: Write about a road trip.

You can still do that one. But here are twenty more to take for a drive. (See what I did there?)

2. A parent and adult child have to take a road trip to sort out important family business. What happens?

3. Two co-workers have to drive to a work event one state away, but the trip goes terribly wrong.

4. A group of college seniors embark on a final road trip before graduation, but at the beginning of the second day, they pick up a hitchhiker who looks a lot like one of their professors who died the year before. 

5. A newlywed couple borrows a travel trailer and sets off on a cross-country roadtrip, when…

6. A young twenty-something trying to get home makes the mistake of stopping at…

7. An older couple has to move closer to family and takes a route that has some unusual memories.

8. A multi-family caravan road trip is derailed when a sink hole drops them into another dimension.

9. A motorcycle road trip through the Rocky Mountains turns deadly when…

10. A photographer sets out to capture pictures of the last five family-owned motels along a historic route when they discover…

11. A child convinces their grandparent to drive a thousand miles to return to a family home, but when they arrive, they are shocked to find…

Link to the rest at The Write Practice

From Writer Unboxed:

To frame today’s subject matter, let me first give you a little background about me: I’ve been making my living as a novelist since 2007 and am now seven books into a career that’s had some wonderful highs (three NYT bestsellers and a TV-series adaptation, to name a few) as well as some crushing lows (my third novel, Exposure, was DOA in hardcover and sold so poorly that the publisher decided not to give it a paperback release). I’ve written women’s fiction, biographical-historical fiction, and general fiction, first with Ballantine Books, then with St. Martin’s Press. All of which is to say that I’ve been swinging my pickaxe at the rocks for a long time, now.

Here’s something I’ll bet you already know: for most of us mortals, writing a novel is hard. It’s damn hard, and it usually takes a long time, even if we’re able to work on it daily for hours at a stretch. Months of work. Years, sometimes. Maybe we’ve had rejections or disappointments with previous efforts, which makes choosing and writing a new novel even more challenging. How best to do it? This issue has been on my mind for a lot, lately, and came up in a conversation I had with Therese Prima—i.e. Therese Walsh—this spring. We are both currently “between books” and were discussing what it takes to make it through the long and arduous journey from premise to (ideally) publication.

As many writers do, I find story ideas everywhere I go and am forever making notes for later reference. Interesting people I’ve seen someplace form up as interesting possible characters. Interesting situations I witness become intriguing plot possibilities. When I am in between books, I feel itchy, unsettled. I need to know what’s next for me.

. . . .

So I’m perpetually exploring new story prospects—even to the point, sometimes, of drafting ten or twenty thousand words derived from the initial spark of interest, hoping for flames. In the process, I evaluate the prospects and try to determine whether they seem to be the “right” next book for me. And because I make my entire living from my novels, “right” has to take into account factors like publisher expectations, reader expectations, and career trajectory, as well as being sufficiently intriguing to me.

The course of my career has seen me writing from what’s felt like divine inspiration as well as from “Oh, sxxx, my deadline is looming, better come up with something soon.” I am capable of writing a publishable book from a place of what seems to be a “logical right choice” and have done so, but time has taught me that my best successes each arose from a place of real passion. Actually, more than passion: Obsession.

If you’ve experienced this, you know the feeling: it’s as if the story has chosen you and not the other way around. As if you’ve been enchanted. When you’re writing, you disappear into the world you’re rendering. Hours pass without your being aware of it. You emerge from the work confused for a moment as to where and when you are.

Link to the rest at Writer Unboxed

From The Write Practice:

What is tone in writing and why does it matter?

Tone is key to all communication. Think of the mother telling her disrespectful child, “Watch your tone, young man.” Or the sarcastic, humorous tone of a comedian performing stand up. Or the awe filled way people speak about their favorite musician, author, or actor. Or the careful, soft tones that people use with each other when they first fall in love.

Tone is communication, sometimes more than the words being used themselves.

So then how do you use tone in writing, and how does tone influence the meaning of a writing piece?

In this article, you’ll learn everything you need to know about how to use tone in all types of writing, from creative writing to academic and even business writing. You’ll learn what tone actually is in writing and how it’s conveyed. You’ll learn the forty-two types of tone in writing, plus even have a chance to test your tone recognition with a practice exercise. 

. . . .

Definition of Tone in Writing

Tone in writing refers to both the writer’s feelings and attitude towards the subject and the audience and how those feelings are expressed. Tone is one of the elements of writing, and writers convey their tone through word choice and syntax. Like tone of voice, it helps set the mood of the writing piece and influences the reader interpretation.

Examples of tone can be formal, informal, serious, humorous, sarcastic, optimistic, pessimistic, and many more (see below for all forty-two examples)

Why Does Tone Matter in Writing

I once saw a version of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream in which the dialogue had been completely translated into various Indian dialects, including Hindi, Urdu, Bengali, and more. And yet, despite not knowing any of those languages, I was amazed to find that I could follow the story perfectly, infinitely better than the average Shakespeare in the park play.

How could I understand the story so well despite the fact that it was in another language? In part, it was the skill of the actors and their body language. But one of the biggest ways that the actors communicated meaning was one thing.

Their tone of voice.

Tone is one of the most important ways we grasp the meaning of what someone is saying. If someone says, “I love you,” in an angry, sneering way, it doesn’t matter what their words are saying, the meaning will be completely changed by their tone.

In the same way, tone is crucial in writing because it significantly influences how readers interpret and react to the text. Here are a few reasons why tone is important:

1. Tone conveys feeling. The tone reflects the writer’s attitude toward the subject and the audience, helping to shape readers’ perceptions and emotional responses.
2. Tone can help readers understand the meaning of the text. A well-chosen tone can clarify meaning, making it easier for readers to understand the writer’s intent and message.
3. Tone is engaging! As humans, we are designed to respond to emotion and feeling! Tone can help to engage or disengage readers. A relatable or compelling tone can draw readers in, while an off-putting tone can push them away.
4. Tone sets the mood. Tone can set the mood or atmosphere of a piece of writing, influencing how readers feel as they go through the text.
5. Tone persuades. In persuasive writing, tone plays a significant role in influencing how convincing or compelling your arguments are.
6. Tone reflects professionalism. In professional or academic contexts, maintaining an appropriate tone is crucial to uphold the writer’s authority.

. . . .

42 Types of Tone in Writing Plus Examples of Tone

Tone is about feeling—the feeling of a writer toward the topic and audience. Which means that nearly any attitude or feeling can be a type of tone, not just the forty-two listed below.

However, you have to start somewhere, so here a list of common tones that can be used in writing, with an example for each type:

1. Formal: This tone is professional, dignified, and somewhat detached.
   • Example: “Upon analysis of the data, it’s evident that the proposed hypothesis is substantiated.”
2. Informal: This tone is casual, friendly, and conversational.
   • Example: “Hey folks, today we’ll be chatting about the latest trends in tech.”
3. Serious: This tone is solemn and sometimes urgent, not intended to be humorous or entertaining.
   • Example: “The implications of climate change on our future generations cannot be overstated.”
4. Humorous: This tone is light, funny, and entertaining.
   • Example: “Why don’t scientists trust atoms? Because they make up everything!”
5. Sarcastic: This tone involves saying something but meaning the opposite, often in a sharp or cutting manner.
   • Example: “Oh great, another diet plan. Just what I needed!”
6. Optimistic: This tone is hopeful and looks at the positive side of things.
   • Example: “Despite the setbacks, we remain confident in our ability to achieve our goals.”
7. Pessimistic: This tone is negative and tends to focus on the worst aspects of situations.
   • Example: “Given the declining economy, it’s doubtful if small businesses can survive.”
8. Urgent: This tone creates a sense of immediacy or importance and may call the reader to take immediate action.
   • Example: “We must act now! Every moment we waste increases the danger.”
9. Objective: This tone is unbiased, neutral, fact based, and direct . It’s often used in scientific reports or news articles.
   • Example: “The experiment concluded with the subject showing a 25% increase in performance.”
10. Subjective: This tone is personal, biased, and full of the personal opinions and feelings of the author. It’s often used in opinion pieces or personal essays.
    • Example: “I’ve always found the taste of coffee absolutely heavenly.”
11. Respectful: This tone shows admiration or respect towards the subject. It’s used when talking about venerable individuals or institutions.
    • Example: “We owe our success to the ceaseless efforts of our esteemed team.”
12. Irreverent: This tone deliberately shows lack of respect or seriousness. It’s often used in satirical or controversial pieces.
    • Example: “So much for their ‘revolutionary’ product. It’s as exciting as watching paint dry.”

Link to the rest at The Write Practice

From Nail Your Novel:

If you read my newsletter you’ll know I’m fond of horse riding. And sometimes a moment from the horsing life can bring an unexpected realisation about writing.

I was riding in the woods with a friend. We had an unplanned detour that involved scrambling up a bank. My friend laughed that her horse seemed to pause and say to her- ‘Really? You want me to go up there?’ Yes, she said, and he did it. Much later as we ambled home, she was chuckling about the bank moment. ‘I don’t want to anthropomorphise,’ she said, ‘but it was so funny the way he seemed to stop and ask me.’

‘Is that anthropomorphising?’ I said. ‘Or is it just riding?’

Hmm, we thought. And we felt very wise.

What’s this got to do with writing?

Right now I’m working on a follow-up to my travel memoir Not Quite Lost. I have a folder full of rough pieces. They’re raw ideas, the flock of birds that took off from the gunshot. Now comes the work. Tackling a muddle that somewhere has a usable idea.

And to find the useful stuff, I often have to write more muddle – scenes or anecdotes I know I’ll end up deleting, or might edit down to one line.

I used to find this a bit dispiriting. It seemed wasteful and laborious, but there was no other way. The muddle before I found the clear direction.

Now, I’ve realised I’ve started to feel differently. I’m more accepting of it. I know I’ll be deleting a lot, and wincing from time to time as things strike the wrong note. But now I don’t mind. I’m eager to write some muddle and see where it takes me.

And maybe ‘muddle’ is the wrong word for this process. I’m going to rename it.

It’s a conversation.

Writing is a conversation. A conversation with the reader about your characters or your subject or your theme. And before you are ready for the reader, you have another conversation – with the material – and that is just as involved. That conversation might last for hours or months or years. That’s where you make it its best self.

Link to the rest at Nail Your Novel