Joan Didion’s award-winning memoir The Year of Magical Thinking begins, not ends, with death. It is the sudden loss of her husband that launches her into the “year of magical thinking.” The story starts the second her husband’s life ends, and at that very moment the first parameter of the story is (very tragically) set.

When attempting to translate a significant portion of your life’s story, it is crucial that you set limits early on and decide which portion of your life will prove to be the most colorful, provocative and representative of the story you wish to tell. If you don’t set limits early in the writing process, your story can easily get out of control, meander and become completely disorganized. A well-crafted memoir will encapsulate a specific story that fits somewhere within the larger framework of your life.

This post is an excerpt from literary agent Paula Balzer’s Writing and Selling Your Memoir. Balzer is the founder and owner of The Paula Balzer Agency. She represents writers of memoir, popular culture, journalism, and fiction, including Oscar-award-winning writer of Juno, Diablo Cody, author of NYT bestsellers Pledged and Quarterlife Crisis, Alexandra Robbins, American Idol judge Randy Jackson and author of cult classic Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster Bobby Henderson. Purchase her book here.

Thankfully, not all memoirs are written under such dark circumstances (although if you are an avid reader of the genre, you know by now that a good number of them are). The sudden and dramatic death of Didion’s husband provided an obvious beginning to her story. But do all life stories have such clear starting and, for that matter, ending points? Unless your story begins when you received an unpleasant diagnosis, the day your spouse left, or—on the brighter side of things—when you won several hundred million dollars in the lottery, memoirs often start with more of a whimper than a bang. The same is true of endings. Some memoirs end with complete resolution, some leave us at a comfortable middle point, and others leave us hanging. How do you know when to end a story that might still be going on?

[Memoir or Novel? 8 Issues to Think About Before Writing Your Own Story]

Setting these kinds of parameters isn’t about blowing your reader away with a gripping first page or wrapping up a complicated memoir with a perfectly poetic ending. It’s about sorting out your story before you find yourself buried in so many details—memories, ideas, facts, tangents, anecdotes—that you can’t dig yourself out.

Without having a clear framework in mind before you begin your story, you risk losing sight of why you started writing your memoir in the first place.

1. Find Your Moment of Discovery.

How does a writer decide where to begin when a life story is so full of laughter, conversations, friendships, adventures, tragedies and day-to-day memories? Knowing how to literally begin telling a story is a huge challenge for any writer—whether your story opens the day you leapt out of an airplane, or starts more subtly, at the moment you began to realize that your marriage was over. With the latter example, do you start with a description of what you were thinking? Or maybe with the conversation you had with your husband when you woke up that day? Maybe that moment came while you were watching the clock, waiting for your husband to come home on your anniversary. Or maybe it was the morning he stopped asking you if you wanted a second cup of coffee.

As a memoirist, it’s important that you take a step back and recognize when your personal journey began. This is your moment of discovery, and it sets the first parameter of your memoir. I realize this sounds a bit grand, but I promise it’s not as dramatic as it seems, and thinking along these lines when planning your memoir will prove to be incredibly helpful.

The moment of discovery is the key moment signaling that the memoirist’s story has begun. In her memoir A Three Dog Life, Abigail Thomas recalls her own moment of discovery:

Monday, April 24, at nine forty at night, our doorman Pedro called me on the intercom. “Your dog is in the elevator,” he said. The world had just changed forever, and I think I knew it even then.

“Your dog is in the elevator.” After her doorman spoke these words, Abigail learned that her husband, who was out walking the dog, had been hit by a car and had sustained a traumatic brain injury. Her memoir is a moving and eloquent account of her life with a man who lives in the continual present. While I’m sure the author wishes she had never heard those words, it is her skill as a memoirist that enables her to recognize them as a moment of discovery. It was that sentence that signaled the beginning of her new life, as difficult as it may be.

What makes Thomas’ moment of discovery so astonishing is that it is such an incredible mixture of ordinary and bizarre. Although she had not yet learned about the accident, the situation immediately suggested to her that something was desperately wrong. Several connections must have been made in her mind at once for her to realize that this simple scenario—her dog returning home alone from his walk out on the city streets—was just the beginning of a tragic and dramatic story. She was able to trace the beginning of all the massive changes she was about to experience back to this one particular moment.

Not only does this moment of discovery provide the first parameter of her story, but it is also engaging, powerful and meaningful, and it draws the reader in right from the beginning.

2. Don’t Search for Something That Isn’t There.

Perhaps you’ve chosen to write about your bucolic upbringing in a small town in Iowa, where everyone loved each other. After winning a football scholarship, you became the town doctor, beloved by all, and you married your high school sweetheart and eventually had four kids who are even more wonderful and noble than you.

Sounds pretty picturesque, right? So should you start digging through your family files to see if you had any aunts who might have lived in the attic for a spell? Or ask around to see if you’re related to any devil worshippers or ax murders? Do you need to get arrested in order to make your memoir marketable?

No, no and no.

The parameters you set for your story may be very personal and subtle, or they may be big and unmistakable. But remember, this isn’t about drama; you just need to stay focused and work within the boundaries you’ve chosen. If you’ve decided that four years in the life of a small-town doctor will make for a great memoir, there is nothing wrong with opening your story with a scene from your waiting room. It doesn’t need to be the scene of a grisly accident. It just needs to fit the story you plan to write.

[Are you writing a memoir or an autobiography? Click here to learn the differences.]

3. Work With the End in Sight.

Perhaps one of the biggest challenges of memoir writing is knowing when to end your own story. Some memoirs will have natural endings, such as when a battle with a long illness ends, when a person leaves a difficult situation, after a particular decision is made, or even after a trip has ended. But when a situation is ongoing, how do you possibly decide when it is appropriate to end your own story? While it may seem counterintuitive to know how to conclude a book before you’ve truly gotten into the thick of things, I’m a firm believer that when writing a memoir it is best to work with the end in sight.

One of the biggest advantages to memoir writing is that you usually have access to most of the materials right up front, since the story is largely composed of your own memories. Because memoirists have the advantage of knowing everything they have to work with, you can start to envision where you would like your story to go and to plan how to reach that ending point.

I think it’s important to remember that the ending of a memoir means the ending of this particular story. With memoir writing, it is the author’s job to place this parameter appropriately in the story to give the reader closure. While the memoirist’s story may change the very next day, or maybe the following week, or several years from now, at some point a decision needs to be made about how much of the story is appropriate to relay in this book.

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So if your memoir cannot be wrapped up easily at an obvious point in time, try answering the following questions when making a plan to tie things up:

• Is there an ongoing theme in my memoir that can come full circle in my ending? Is there a memory or event that I can use to demonstrate this?
• Is there a specific age or year of my life I want to end with? (If so, be sure you know why—how does this play into your memoir as a whole?)
• Was there a decision I made or an action I took at some point in my story that changed the direction of my life?
• Was there an internal change that took place? An emotional response to something that happened that played a key role in my story?

As a memoirist, you face many considerations when writing your story: how to structure it, what events to include or leave out, what tone and voice you should employ, and more. But perhaps the most important considerations are the parameters for your memoir. Setting these parameters—making these decisions—before you sit down to type will ultimately save you time and will result in a story that is centered, focused and compelling to read.

Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog, online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift book Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Sign up for Brian’s free Writer’s Digest eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

When I moved to India in 2010, I didn’t consider myself a travel writer. I was a freelance essayist who wrote about family and social issues. Travel was a way to escape the mundane and perhaps fill a memory card or two with pictures along the way. I had a vague yearning to someday pen a memoir or novel, but at the time my desire was only that; no book was burning its way from inside of me, and I assumed that’s how it would remain as long as my children were young. What I did know was this:

This guest post is by Jennifer Magnuson who won the Oregon Journalism Education Association’s Pica Stick Award for Outstanding Journalism in 1988 while taking summer seminars at Southern Oregon State. Her work has appeared in Brain, Child and Bitch magazine, along with various websites including Mamazine, The Imperfect Parent, Sanity Central, Top Blog Magazine (now Blog Nosh), and her own blog, Get in the Car. Get in the Car was nominated for best humor blog in the 2007 Blogger’s Choice Awards. In 2008, Jennifer was approached by Nickelodeon to help launch their parenting website, Parents Connect. She blogged about her experience in India at peanutbutterandnaan.net. Jennifer recently returned from Abu Dhabi and now lives in Oregon with her husband and five children.

I wanted to document our time living and traveling overseas so that our experiences as newly-minted expats would not soon be forgotten. The twelve-and-a-half hour time difference made communication with the United States difficult, so I created a private blog to share stories with friends and family back home.

As the months passed, I realized that the act of writing about that which was all around me enabled me to see and remember details I might miss with a camera, or – more precariously – my own memory. The more I wrote, the more I noticed, and the more I wanted to continue to observe and create a record for posterity. It was a delicious cycle for a writer; having suffered my fair share of writer’s block I was delighted to discover that being surrounded by the unfamiliar was perfect fuel for what I call writer’s lust. Wanderlust, of course, is often the precursor.

[Learn about Freelance Writing: 10 Ways to Satisfy Editors & Land More Assignments]

Life in India meant coping with frequent brownouts that rendered technology obsolete; instant gratification and high speed internet often fell by the wayside, necessitating the purchase of my first notebook from an artist cooperative in the former French Colony of Pondicherry, on the Bay of Bengal. Bound in handmade paper the color of saffron and embossed with the golden outline of a lotus flower, it was a wise purchase. Resuming the practice of writing in longhand was more than a way to write when the electricity went out; the cadence of putting pen to paper became a metaphor for the pace of life in India as I adjusted to the slower cultural flow of life outside of the United States.

I still carry this notebook, now lovingly tattered, alongside iPads and laptops to Europe, The Middle East and everywhere in between. The act of recording the beauty that is born from the sheer otherness of places far from home is now my primary concern, the method is always secondary.

As the years pass, it has also become clear to me that a beautifully bound travel album isn’t enough to memorialize an experience. With each year that slips behind me, my recollections become as sepia-toned and blurred as the pictures themselves.

I hold in my hand a picture of a street vendor in India squatting next to a hand-woven basket of peanuts. But without my travel journal, would I remember that the nuts were roasted in red sand? Would I remember the small, wiry man and how he ran, barefoot, to catch up with our moving car to toss us a hot, steaming bag as we slowly navigated the crowded streets of Faridibad? In ten years – five, even – will I recall how, after greedily shelling nuts, the peanuts stained the tips of my fingers ocher, how this made me feel like an Indian bride fresh from her mehndi ceremony? Had I not scribbled my observations in my journal, I’m certain I would have forgotten how the air smelled of kachoris; how they dripped with clarified butter onto hissing coals, the aroma of spiced lentils and vegetables fried golden brown sending a beckoning finger of scent into our car.

One of the stories I shared via the blog made its way into the hands of a literary agent (with whom I shared a mutual friend), and when I returned home to Nashville, TN she asked me to write the first two chapters of what was to become my first book, a travel memoir about our time in India called Peanut Butter and Naan: Stories of an American Mom in the Far East. My belongings, along with the notebook, were still on a boat en-route to America. I began writing the chapters, confident that my recollections would suffice. It wasn’t until I finally unearthed my notebook from the last of the packing crates that I realized how much had escaped me in a few short months. A random flip to a page confirmed this.

[Memoir or Novel? 8 Issues to Think About Before Writing Your Own Story]

I am going to see the Taj Mahal with someone I hardly know these days – myself. Our car hurtles past a semiarid landscape punctuated with splashes of red, gold, and fuchsia bougainvillea climbing implausibly over stone walls surrounded by dust and rocks. Peacocks perch themselves on boulders, sharing space with the cows, ducks, horses, chickens, and occasional monkey that make up the incredible roadside wildlife found in this region.

We whiz past towering white-stone temples with tinny Hindi music bleating from loudspeakers affixed to spindly turrets with a little wire and luck. It’s such a contrast with the southern state of Tamil Nadu, where I live, where temples sprout up between concrete buildings on every street in a riot of colors and faces and arms, every towering inch a jumbled mass of gods and goddesses. We wind through the village of Faridibad, whose aesthetics are more like those of my temporary Indian home with its piles of trash, water buffalo, and hogs alongside each other in the muck. Street dogs with long, sad-looking teats (which look disturbingly familiar and cause me to straighten up from my slouch) push tiredly at bright cans and boxes, unmindful of the potential slaughterhouse of cars just feet away.

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Nearly every word from this journal made it into my revised chapter, now part of the book. I had forgotten these small details, and even if I weren’t journaling with the intent of publication, I am content knowing these notes forever cement the vignettes of my travel in a way a picture cannot.

As much as I adore my travel photos, a camera limits me to what I see through the viewfinder. Journaling expands how much I notice, enabling me to absorb my surroundings in a way a photograph cannot. Not only does travel writing help create a time capsule of sorts, it fosters my ability to remain present, allowing for the transformative nature of travel to encompass all of my senses. And, as a writer, I am better able to place a reader in scene if I have remembered to capture the ephemeral details such as the scents, sounds and feelings of a particular moment.

I hold another photo in my hands, this one of my youngest, a baby at the time, sitting on a veranda in the sleepy beachside town of Mamallapuram, India with a red plastic bucket on his head. What would I remember, ten years from now, had I only this memento? That he played in the sand with his one bucket brought over from the United States? My journal entry from that day tells a different story.

We are finally here. It has the air of a place forgotten. Our relative solitude underscores the feeling that we have somehow stepped into another time. The air is thick with dragonflies – they are enormous, zipping around like bright blue helicopters. Henry and I are relaxing on the veranda while Bob and the older kids chase down an elderly man leading his herd of goats along the beach. It is high tide. I lost sight of them after they passed the brightly-colored canoes that dot the shoreline just beyond the palm trees. Henry and I need to investigate.

Without my journal, I fear the photo, dusted off years from now would just be baby Henry, adorable in his red plastic bucket hat. And so, when my travels take me from home, I am quick to remember that each beautiful photograph I take has its own story, begging to not be forgotten, and the pages of my journal whisper, take me with you. Remember.

Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog, online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift book Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Sign up for Brian’s free Writer’s Digest eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

When I started giving interviews about my memoir, The Body Tourist, I got a lot of fairly standard questions. The book is about the six years following my “recovery” from anorexia nervosa. Recovery is in quotation marks because, as the reader discovers early on, despite the fact that I have left the hospital and landed a job as a counselor at a halfway house for drug and alcohol addicts, I am nowhere near recovered. The memoir takes an unflinching look into all the areas in which I am unwell, including my inability to weigh in the triple digits, my distorted ideas about the line between counselor and client, and my struggles with how, whether, and why to eat, be sexual, own a bed, have friends, go back to school, and stop playing games with recovery.

This guest post is by Dana Lise Shavin, whose essays have appeared in Oxford American, The Writer, The Sun, Fourth Genre, Puerto del Sol, and others, and she is a lifestyle columnist for The Chattanooga Times Free Press. She is the author of a memoir, The Body Tourist (Little Feather Books). Learn more about her at Danashavin.com.

In early interviews, the questions I was most often asked were around the facts of my anorexia itself: How long did it take you to realize you were still ill? Why was it so hard for you to meet your basic needs? Where were your parents when it started? All of these were good avenues of inquiry, but along the way one interviewer asked a question which really stuck with me: “Was writing your book cathartic?”

To which I said both yes and no.

The yes part of my answer had to do with finally getting my story of brokenness and survival out of my head, onto the page, and into the world in the form of a book. I felt immeasurable relief at no longer being pregnant with my tale, or with the burning need to tell my tale. Story told, book published, I could move on. I could write other stories, focus on other goals, have other thoughts for that matter. Cathartic? You bet.

[Memoir or Novel? 8 Issues to Think About Before Writing Your Own Story]

The no part of my answer had to do with what I’d learned in the process of writing a book that dealt with painful issues, raw emotions, and no shortage of embarrassing personal details. I learned that the wish for catharsis may be what motivates us to write in the first place—the need to express something, to come to terms with feelings or emotions or events, to get something out of our system so that we can begin healing. But the process of it—the raw emoting, teeth-gnashing, and breast beating—is the province of our journals. On the other hand, writing—by which I mean the constructing, shaping, revising and refining of the story—which can take many years of focused study and work—is the province of craft.

We should be careful not to confuse the two. Otherwise we doubly lose out.

Think about it: if you were to write in your journal with an eye toward craft—paying attention to word choice, sentence construction, how to best recount the events of the day or the contents of your heart with the proper distance and narrative stance—you would lose the opportunity to muck around unfettered in the supreme muddiness of your own unrefined sentimentality, or thoroughly enjoyable lake of self-pity, or unbridled bitching or brainstorming. All of which can and often does lead to, or clear the way for, important insights and ideas.

[Learn the 8 Essential Elements of a Nonfiction Book Proposal]

Likewise, if you allow the craft of writing to get bound up or confused with your need to emote or rant or divest yourself of pain, what ends up on the published page (if it manages to get published, that is) will read like something that belongs in your journal. You won’t have proper distance from your material, and your readers will feel as if they are reading your diary. And not in a good way—chances are, that unrefined sentimentality, self-pity and bitchiness will come across as exactly that.

So how best to write about the personal, painful events in our lives? First ask yourself what your purpose is. If it’s to garner sympathy, wrong a right, or begin the process of healing, tell it to your journal first. Get it out of your system. Way out. When you’re no longer Velcroed to your emotions, when you’re ready to explore your story with an eye toward uncovering not just your own truths, but the universal ones that good writing inevitably reveals, you will truly be free to craft.

And won’t that be cathartic?

In the middle of writing your memoir or thinking about writing it?
WD’s Memoir Writing Kit is 6 items rolled into one bundle
at a steep discount. This kit gives simple, yet in-depth instruction
on crafting a great memoir  and getting it published.
Order now from our shop and get the huge discount.

Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog, online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift book Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Sign up for Brian’s free Writer’s Digest eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

There’s an unspoken perception of bestselling authors that reminds me of the 1987 vamp flick, Lost Boys. You know, the one with Kiefer Sutherland in his pre-Jack Bauer days when mullets were still en vogue.

The film’s tagline was, “Sleep all day, party all night. Never grow old, never die. It’s fun to be a vampire.” Ah yes, the eighties. Good times.

Replace the vampires with marquee authors and you might get something like, “Write all day, play all night. Never go unnoticed, collect fat checks. It’s fun to be a bestseller.”

This guest post is by Kevin Kaiser, who has helped authors and publishers reach over 20 million fans worldwide. His online community, 1KTrueFans, helps writers find their voice, build an audience from scratch and create for a living.

Follow him @1KTrueFans.

The thing is, there is a dark side to being a bestseller. There are secrets they don’t share publicly.

I know because I’ve worked inside the Publishing Machine for nearly a decade, advising multi-million dollar bestsellers and publishers on everything from creative development to grassroots marketing. I’ve been equal parts strategist, editor, and counselor.

Bestsellers carry secrets, and if they were to share a few it might be these.

[Did you know there are 7 reasons writing a novel makes you a badass? Read about them here.]

Expectations Change Everything

A New York Times bestselling novelist once told me, “You’ll never be as free as you are at the beginning. It’s easy to forget how to take risk and write as if no one is watching.”

She went on to explain how success creates a cycle that few authors know how to handle expertly, especially when recognition comes early.

Everyone loves the popular kid. In that way, life (and publishing) is a lot like high school. But, the popular kid is expected to not only stay popular, but to do a better trick next time so they can become even more popular.

Publishers expect it (who doesn’t want to be the popular kid’s parent?), retailers expect it, and readers expect it, too. Expectations can feel unrelenting and I’ve seen the pressure it brings to authors who feel the weight of it as they sit down to create.

Truth is, they don’t know why something becomes popular. No one does. But in a day when publishing decisions are made based on two to four weeks of sales performance, and not the long-term promise of an author, expectations are everything.

The best of the best superstar authors at work today offer you a rare look behind the scenes in The Writer’s Digest Interviews: Bestsellers. Including Sue Grafton, Anne Rice, Nicholas Sparks, Khaled Hosseini and more.

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Fear Doesn’t Take Hush Money

Success begets success and opens doors that were previously closed. It’s true and it enables you to “trade up” to higher social circles and opportunities. But even that too is a twin blade.

I’ve watched time and again as authors who were once large fish in a small pond find success. But inevitably, they find themselves surrounded by others who have sold more books than them, command a vastly larger platform, and might have even been on Oprah.

Like the rest of us, they often slip back into the comparison game. The tendency to play the game always leads to self-sabotage and fear. Fear of missing out, fear of not being successful enough, fear of being found out as a fraud.

No amount of money will quiet those fears, which is why refusing to play the game at all is so important. Authors who log decades of prolific output create their own rules, and the most important one is childlike in its simplicity.

[Learn important writing lessons from these first-time novelists.]

Only one thing really matters.

If there’s one core lesson that has embedded itself deeply in my psyche, it’s that doing the work is what matters most. It is the point. The point isn’t having written, as many are so fond of saying, but the actual activity of creating that matters most.

You see, once you’ve released a story into the world it no longer belongs to you. The reader brings their world to the edge of yours and what they experience from there is a process we don’t control.

Doing the work for the sake of it truly is the staying power. It’s the love the craft, our surrender to the art of exploring and illuminating new ideas that matters most. Of course, recognition and compensation are nice, but the shine wears off quickly. Every success carries within it the seeds of suffering.

[Do you underline book titles? Underline them? Put book titles in quotes? Find out here.]

Act Like No One is Watching

Take my friend’s advice, no matter where you are in your writer journey. Write as if no one is watching. Write as if no one will ever read it or judge your work. That’s where the magic lies, and that is ultimately what readers want to experience, too.

I might change one thing. You’re never as free as you are right now, and the beautiful thing is that you can choose just how free you really are.

Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog. Purchase his popular gift book Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Sign up for Brian’s free Writer’s Digest eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

As a former motion picture executive and current instructor of fiction writing, I’ve heard too often the incorrect definition of a sympathetic character. It is not necessarily someone we like. It is not necessarily someone we admire as a doer of good deeds. We follow characters with interest and compassion when we have a deep understanding of their feelings, their motives and their personal history. Simply put, to be sympathetic is to be understood.

This guest post is by Lisa Lieberman Doctor, author of the writing book, Accidental Poetry: Improve Your English Through Creative Writing and the novel The Deflowering of Rhona Lipshitz. She has been working with writers since 1977. Over the years she has served as: a development and production executive at Universal Pictures, Warner Brothers, TriStar Pictures (where she was Vice President of Robin Williams’ company, Blue Wolf Productions) and several independent production companies; a staff writer on ABC’s General Hospital, where she was nominated for a Daytime Emmy and Writers Guild Award; an expert witness in motion picture copyright law; and a writing instructor at the UCLA Writers Program; the California State University; The Esalen Institute; The University of the Balearic Islands; and the TV Writers Fund For The Future. For more info, visit lisadoctor.com.

Create people, not characters. This was Hemingway’s advice to authors, and I humbly concur. It’s long been my belief that when writers connect to their characters through their own dark emotional colors of shame, fear and anger, they’ll find not only a rich common ground, but also that which motivates their characters’ behavior and therefore makes them understandable to readers. Over the years, I’ve compiled several hundred writing exercises for the protagonist to answer in his own voice, each one designed to reveal these forbidden emotional colors. Questions like, when have you been held hostage by your own fears? Or, when has fear stopped you from moving forward? Or, what old wounds have not yet healed? I ask writers to get out of their protagonist’s way and function as a court reporter might do, transcribing onto the page the words of the character in that character’s first person voice, without judgment or censorship from the writer. Once this task is completed—and it often takes a series of prompts to achieve the goal—the writer has a clearer picture of the protagonist’s internal issue, the inevitable result of a faulty belief system created in childhood that has prevented the character from lessening the heavy burden of shame, fear and anger. Of course, most of the anecdotes and feelings expressed in the protagonist’s words belong to the writer. This is a good thing; it means the writer has found the profundity of shared emotional truth and can now imbue the protagonist with the same level of emotion.

[Learn important writing lessons from these first-time novelists.]

I’ve used this practice thousands of times during my nearly forty year career of working with writers, and the results are equally satisfying to them and to me. Recently, a successful writer of romance novels took my course, “Deepening The Characters We Create,” in order to move from the plot-driven romance genre to literary women’s fiction. After a focused curriculum of exercises whereby her protagonist and important secondary characters underwent a series of probing questions, she sold her literary novel in the genre she’d been hoping to conquer.

I’ve also found that the exercises work well to alleviate writers block. More often than not, when novelists get stuck, it’s because they don’t fully understand the emotional issue of their protagonist. At this point, I offer specific exercises designed to shake the character—this emerging person—into a new level of self-awareness. I might ask, for example, what do you not want people to know about you? The exercise focuses both author and character on the previously unspoken emotional issue that serves as the engine, driving the central story problem forward.

The prompts have been a mainstay in my role as instructor for novelists and screenwriters. And then, serendipitously, I discovered a new use for the exercises.

[Get Query Help: Click here for The 10 Dos and Don'ts of Writing a Query Letter]

Several years ago, I accepted a position teaching English at a university in Spain, and was hit with a revelatory thought: what if I took my compiled writing exercises, designed to deepen protagonists along their journey, and applied them to new speakers of English, allowing these new speakers the opportunity to write with depth and meaning in a language that was new to them?

I asked my students in Spain to answer the questions in their own voice, writing from their heart. Questions such as, do you yearn for what seems impossible? And, when has compassion for others changed your life? To my delight, what might have been embarrassing or too revealing in their native language became fun for them in English. It was remarkable; writing in a language they were in the process of learning took away the fear of exposure. They wanted more and more prompts to try, and they relished sharing their words with the group, thrilled that they could be understood with their limited English vocabulary. The words were beautiful, filled with truth, and instantly relatable. I put my writing prompts into a new book and called it Accidental Poetry: Improve Your English Through Creative Writing. How exciting it’s been to find an additional purpose for the exercises.

I bring my long list of writing exercises to every workshop I lead, both at home and abroad, and I find a use for them every time, whether it’s alleviating writers block, improving English language skills, or deepening fictional characters. As Mr. Hemingway suggested, we must connect our own truths to the fictional beings we create, and then get out of their way in order to allow them to become people whose feelings and motivations we understand.

90 Days to Your Novel is an inspiring writing
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Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog, online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift book Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Sign up for Brian’s free Writer’s Digest eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

It can strike while you’re working on any piece, anytime, anywhere. You’re writing along like butter, and suddenly a stomach-wrenching jolt slams you up against a concrete wall. That thunderous voice in your head rebukes: “THAT’S THE WORST, MOST HORRIBLE, STUPID PHRASE SINCE . . . .” And you’re paralyzed.

This guest post is by Noelle Sterne, author, editor, writing coach, and spiritual counselor. She has published more than 300 pieces in print and online venues, including Author Magazine, Fiction Southeast, Funds for Writers, Children’s Book Insider, Inspire Me Today, Pen & Prosper, Romance Writers Report, Transformation Magazine, Unity Magazine, Women in Higher Education, Women on Writing, Writer’s Digest, and The Writer. She has also published pieces in anthologies, including Chicken Soup for the Soul books; has contributed several columns to writing publications; and recently became a volunteer judge for Rate Your Story. With a Ph.D. from Columbia University, Noelle has for over 28 years assisted doctoral candidates in completing their dissertations (finally). Based on her practice, she is completing a handbook addressing dissertation writers’ overlooked but very important nonacademic difficulties. This book, Challenges in Writing Your Dissertation: Coping with the Emotional, Interpersonal, and Spiritual Struggles, will be published by Rowman & Littlefield Education in 2015. In her book Trust Your Life: Forgive Yourself and Go After Your Dreams (Unity Books, 2011), Noelle draws examples from her academic consulting and other aspects of life to help readers release regrets, relabel their past, and reach their lifelong yearnings. Her webinar about the book is on YouTube.  Noelle invites you to visit her website: trustyourlifenow.com.

Take heart. Such a message doesn’t have to plunge you into a full block. Recognize it for what it is—your ever-present inner editor, often old programming, maybe residue of parental strictures, telling you you shouldn’t be writing, you’ll never be a writer, and you might as well go sell burner phones (if that’s not your day job already).

Like all of us writers, I’ve experienced this forbidding voice many times. But its fearsome fireworks, like those of the Wizard of Oz, mask its instability. And, as Dorothy and her friends proved on the yellow brick road, the terrifying presence is vanquished by taking one step after another and trusting that you’re on the right path.

When I first heard the inner editor’s deafening, dismissive voice, it stopped me cold. First I sat staring at the blank screen. Then I wandered hopelessly around the house, like an orphan in a canyon. My current project lay abandoned, drafts yellowing and computer files corrupting.

I longed for a savior on a white Ipad. But realizing that only I could break that catatonic state and pierce through my paralysis, cowering I continued.

As I punched out the offending words (or phrases or clichés), the dread voice continue to intone, and as usual I almost froze. But from some subconscious forest, the excalibur appeared. It charged me to type one more word that calmed, commanded, and cut through the hailstorm of criticism. The word: FIX.

I’ve found that this innocent three-letter word triggers a palliative magic that renders the inner monster powerless and keeps me writing.

Why?

1. It tells me that what I’ve just written isn’t typed in cement.
2. It reminds me that this is only the first draft, or the fifth, or fifteenth.
3. It assures me I’ve got as many shots as I want.
4. It reminds me I can go back, and where to go back, any time to fix
5. It acknowledges that I know, I know already, that this word/phrase/cliché is much less than my best.
6. It admits that this might not be my finest hour, but so what?
7. It gently confirms that the writing process is one of trial and error, coaxing and courting, boldness, patience, and courage.
8. And, most miraculously, it shows me I can trust my mind.

How?

Writing FIX at the offending passage does more than buckle the inner-editor giant at the knees. It also, mysteriously, releases my imprisoned creativity.

After I type FIX, two seconds or two minutes later, as I’m deep into the next paragraph, my eyes flit back up the screen. With hardly conscious thought, like apples bobbing up in water, new words surface. They’re invariably better than those first horrific ones, and sometimes even the right ones.

For example, a few lines back, that orphan simile came rather easily. But the words directly before it ignited the inner ogre’s abuse:

I mope around like an orphan . . .

I feel like an orphan . . .

I wanted to run for the coal cellar. Yet, swallowing and following my own advice, I weakly pecked out FIX. Three lines and barely five minutes later, the right phrase popped up, and I wandered hopelessly no more.

You’ve probably already thought of your own examples, even if your methods are different. Maybe you just haven’t given yourself credit. Now you can FIX that.

So, the next time you hear your own version of the frightful condemning inner editor’s voice, just greet it with a FIX. This little word enables you not only to keep going, meeting your word or minute count for the day. It also, astounding, sets your creativity free. And you’ll be thrilled to discover greater confidence in your mind, your abilities, and your work. Accept the process. You’ll see that you can FIX anything.

Lately, I’ve been reading quite a lot of excellent published fiction. Books that make me cry; stories that make me ache. I love those stories, the ones that unexpectedly grab hold of something deep inside of you and yank. And there it is; you suddenly feel vulnerable, as though the author knows what he or she can’t know. Books can do that.

This guest post is by Jonathan Friesen, an author, speaker, and youth writing coach from Mora, Minnesota. His first young adult novel, Jerk, California, received the ALA Schneider Award. When he’s not writing, speaking at schools, or teaching, Jonathan loves to travel and hang out with his wife and three kids. His latest YA novel, Both of Me, was released December 2014.

Not all, though. Some, while well crafted, have as much chance of touching my heart as a dishwasher repair manual, and I think I have discovered why. In most fiction, the final layer of the onion, the mental state of each character, is left unpeeled, mainly because it is painful to do so. Delving into the mental health of characters is dangerous, as it will serve as your own mirror, but to ignore the exploration is perhaps more damaging still, relegating your otherwise excellent work into the pile of works featuring “hard to relate to” protagonists. For here is the fact: the vast majority of your readership have at one point experienced, or are experiencing now the effects of mental illness, and that likely is the most emotionally-charged point of their lifetime.

[Learn 5 Tools for Building Conflict in Your Novel]

3 Reasons Writers Exclude the Mental Health Aspect of Their Characters

1. Misunderstanding of scope.

According to the Mayo Clinic. Mental illness refers to a wide range of mental health conditions that affect mood, thinking and behavior. Depression, anxiety disorders, eating disorders and addictive behaviors all fall into this list. Mental illness too often conjures up images of incoherent babbling and rubber rooms, but with increasing frequency, society is realizing just how prevalent these conditions truly are. Our own children struggle, our parents struggle … we struggle. When mental illness moves from “them” to “us,” and we understand that the panic attack in eighth grade or the binge eating in college plants us firmly within the mainstream of the human race,with all our mental fragility, we start to see that unless we address theseissues in our characters they are incomplete. The presence of a possible mental health condition in your character is likely a thought you may have entertained, although perhaps without the stigma-forming term mental illness. Has your protagonist ever broken down emotionally? Mentally? Has your character experienced a mental or emotional death? Likely so, and that is probably one of your story’s most gripping moments, but not for the reason you might think. I’ll wager it’s not your fantastic writing or the tense situation. Breakdowns grip readers when readers connect to them personally. All this speaks to the universality of mental struggle.

2. Motivations based on situations.

Motivation is one of the most discussed elements in writing, and for good reason. The “why” of things opens up new dimensions of character depth. Seven books ago, while writing my debut YA novel JERK, CALIFORNIA, I was told I needed an external motivation and an internal motivation for my characters. Being a beginner, I took the advice as gospel, plunking down two motivations for each character, one based on external situations, the other on a logical internal goal. That was all fine, until I thought about my own life, especially my teen life, when panic attacks, epilepsy, O/CD and Tourette syndrome were my lot.When in the throes of mental illness, my motives were not so clear cut, andnothing I did was logical, at least to my observers. Sometimes my motives were singular. During a panic attack, there was no external motivation. My brainheld me captive, demanding I get out of the room. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t have to. The compulsion was real and raw and unrelenting. Other times, when a kid would mock my Tourette tics, my motivations for immediately cracking jokes were myriad. Humor shifted the focus from my jerks to my jokes; filling the air with words silenced others’ condemning voices; jokes gave me time to plan my escape and think of a good lie to explain what was seen; making people laugh felt like control, something I felt nowhere else I my world, etc. How much more dynamic and nuanced are characters become when their motives are rooted in our shared mental struggles, our shared humanity. How emotionally charged our writing can become.

[Get Query Help: Click here for The 10 Dos and Don'ts of Writing a Query Letter]

3. Misrepresentation fears.

This is a valid concern. Just as I would never write Moby Dick (my knowledge of whale oil in all its forms is too minimal) it would be easy to say, I can’t address this condition or that. I don’t know how it feels. I do not agree that this disqualifies you, but I myself have also shied away from topics, but never completely. I’ll explain. If you have never experienced a down day—if every day is better than the day before—you probably are not the one to write a novel in which on every page, the main character is in the dark place of bipolar 1. But even you, Ms. It’s a Wonderful Life, could bring mental illness to bear in the motivations and decisions of your characters. Think of this dynamic like an earthquake.Millions of people in Southern California feel the earth move. That is shared experience. Some tense, some flee, some feel crushed, some experience confusion. No two responses are alike. Mental illness affects each so differently. You might be a fortunate one never to feel your mind betray you, but you HAVE felt the conditions that cause so many others to crumble. You have felt the ground move. You can explore that shared experience, and from thatplace begin to understand why others might come a bit unglued. My latest novel, BOTH OF ME, includes a main character with DID, Dissociative Identity Disorder. I have not lived with two different identities within my brain, alternatelytaking control and each completely unaware of the other. But I have felt the ground shake. I know what it is like to hide a secret from myself. To wear different masks for different audiences. To feel both love and hate for the same individual. I more than did this character justice.

Do not be afraid to explore the mental health realities of your characters; be afraid not to. Yes, it might make the ground shake under your feet, but in the end, the shared humanity you portray will only make both you and your novel stronger.

Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog, online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift book Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Sign up for Brian’s free Writer’s Digest eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

Q: Sometimes I see “everyday” as one word and sometimes I see it as two (“every day”). Are both correct? Is there a difference? —Karen S.

The English language is tricky sometimes, and this instance is a perfect example—yes both “everyday” and “every day” are correct, but they can’t be used interchangeably. While they ultimately mean the same thing, they have different functions.

“Everyday” is an adjective that describes an object. My work clothes are separate from my everyday clothes. Around our office, fax-machine meltdowns are an everyday event.

“Every day” is an adverbial phrase (where “every” is actually acting as an adjective describing “day”). I start every day by giving my wife a kiss. Also, don’t tell anyone but I watch “The View” every day.

If you’re still in doubt, use this little trick to keep it straight: Try to substitute “each and every day” in the place of the “everyday/every day” in question. If it works, go with two words. If not, it’s one word.

Want other Grammar Rules? Check out:
Sneaked vs. Snuck
Who vs. Whom
Lay vs. Lie vs. Laid 
Which vs. That
Since vs. Because
Ensure vs. Insure
Home in vs. Hone in
Leaped vs. Leapt

Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog, online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift book Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Sign up for Brian’s free Writer’s Digest eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

There are many elements writers need to pay close attention to when creating a fictional world. There’s setting, plot, pacing, voice, imagery and so on. Everything is important, everything counts. That said, one of my favorite places to focus my writing attention is on my characters.

How do your create a good character? Well, the short answer is that she has to be believable. I tell my students and the people I mentor that this means a fictional character has to closely resemble a living person.

This guest post is by Anne Leigh Parrish, author of What is Found, What is Lost. Her debut story collection, All The Roads That Lead From Home (Press 53, 2011) won a silver medal in the 2012 Independent Publisher Book Awards. Her second collection, Our Love Could Light The World, (She Writes Press, 2013) is a Kirkus Reviews recommended Indie title, and a finalist in both the International Book Awards and the Best Book Awards. She is the fiction editor for the online literary magazine Eclectica. She lives in Seattle.

Keep in mind, a character doesn’t have to be nice, or moral, or a pillar of the community. Decent people with no flaws or vices don’t usually make for the most interesting reading. But nor can a character be all bad, with no redeeming traits. In other words, a character has to possess one essential element: complexity.

I don’t mean to suggest that a character should be hard to read (in fact, you don’t want them to be), or super mysterious, or generally murky and unclear. You want the reader to know what makes your person tick, what gets them up in the morning and what wakes them up at night. Your reader needs to know what your character wants, what he’s afraid of losing and willing to fight for.

Motivation

Once you know what motivates your character, you can flesh her out, so to speak. Keeping with emotional or psychological aspects of personality, think about what makes your person feel guilty, or embarrassed, angry, even terrified. Your plot will bring out these reactions, so it’s important that your character react accordingly. A wooden character who feels nothing isn’t going to cut it, I’m afraid. On the other hand, a character that goes to pieces all the time can be just as dull – unless, for example, he uses his melt-downs as a way to manipulate those around him.

[Here are 10 Questions You Need to Ask Your Characters]

Aesthetics

Now let’s move on to the physical person. The obvious question is, what does she look like? Some authors tend to give a lot of details to the reader – height, hair color, eye color, and so on, but that’s never worked for me. When I read a short story or a novel, I like to fill in the missing pieces for myself, because this keeps me engaged and interested. Keeping that in mind, I give only one or two items the reader can hang an image on – a crooked nose, a missing tooth, a small red mark on one cheek, bitten down-finger nails, a limp, a tendency to slump, mumble, laugh at sudden moments – the list is pretty long, if not endless. The important thing is to mention whatever handful of traits you’ve chosen strategically throughout the piece, sort of as reminders about the person. Someone he’s meeting for lunch can think to herself, there’s that gappy smile again, the one that made me fall for him in the first place, or, I wish I didn’t love that gappy smile so much.

Idiosyncrasy

Along with psychology and the physical reality of a fictional character are gestures or habits. Maybe these come out under stress. Maybe they’re a sign of happiness, or anticipation. I love those characters of mine who convey what they’re feeling by doing something we’ve seen them do before – like biting a lip, or twirling a strand of hair. The first time this happens, of course, you need to tell the reader what’s up. If a long period of time passes before the next gesture, and the reader hasn’t yet had a chance to see this has a habit, you’ll need to remind them. Sally always pulled her hair when she lied, or When Davie got an idea, he leaned forward and snapped the fingers of his right hand. I think it’s gestures like these, almost more than any other aspect of a fictional character, that really brings someone to life.

In sum, a fictional character must resemble a living person. Figure out what makes her tick, what he wants and is willing to fight for. Give readers a few solid physical details, and let them fill in the blanks for themselves. Lastly, endow your person with some habits and gestures that will appear more than once, and suggest an emotional state or experience.

Happy writing!

Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog, online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift book Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Sign up for Brian’s free Writer’s Digest eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

Sometimes it’s a lone writer who’s been putting off a story idea for too long, and decides it’s now or never. Sometimes it’s a pair or a group determined to find out what they can achieve by sharing self-imposed deadlines and strong pots of coffee. Sometimes it’s peer pressure or curiosity about National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo.org), that challenge that rallies ever-increasing numbers of writers around the globe every November to band together in pursuit of a 50,000-word “win.”

This article is by Jessica Strawser, editor of Writer’s Digest. For more great writing advice, follow her on Twitter @JessicaStrawser.

Book-in-a-month challenges take all forms, fueled by all stripes of writers with all manner of motivations—make the most of that time alone in a borrowed cabin, hunker down for the winter, stop procrastinating, have something ready to pitch at that conference, prove to yourself you can do it, prove to someone else you can do it, get a fresh start—and in this hyperconnected age of 24-hour fingertip resources and networks, of tiny portable keyboards and glow-in-the-dark screens, they’re more popular than ever.

What do writers really glean from these write-a-thons? What have those who’ve set out to achieve the seemingly impossible learned, good or bad, and what advice would they share with others thinking of setting out with that same single-minded focus? We asked the WD writing community, and responses came in waves—with refreshing honesty, admitted mistakes, tales of redemption, palpable pride, self-deprecating humor and, above all, contagious enthusiasm. We’ve collected an array of the best insights here—one for every day of the month—along with a roundup of resources offering more help along the way. Because who knows? It’s so crazy, it just might work.

1. Embrace a new mindset.

After working five years on perfecting a novel, I sent out a round of queries, received some requests for the full manuscript, but ultimately was rejected every time. I’m not one to give up, but I also knew my novel still wasn’t right. I decided to shelve the manuscript and start a new book. That date was Oct. 30, 2010.

For years friends had been trying to get me to participate in NaNoWriMo. I didn’t want to spend five years writing my next novel, so I decided this time I’d give NaNoWriMo a shot, but without putting pressure on myself—either I’d complete 50,000 words in 30 days or I wouldn’t. That November was crazy busy: I was chairing a big awards banquet, raising two boys and juggling a host of other responsibilities that I couldn’t set aside. But writing is my dream. So, on Nov. 1, I set out to write 1,667 words a day.

The results were amazing. I forced myself to write with a new mindset (no editing, not even for misspellings), and the more I just let the words pour forth, the better my story became. It was easier to keep track of plot and I was able to delve deeper into my characters because I was spending time with them daily. I ended that first 30 days surpassing 50,000 words, and, despite hosting two major family holidays among other commitments, I used that momentum to complete the first draft of my 90,000-word thriller by early January. That novel has since been revised numerous times and is currently being read by four literary agents at top agencies considering it for representation.

[21 Fast Hacks to Fuel Your Story With Suspense]

I’ve participated in NaNoWriMo every year since, and now share what I’ve learned from writing quick first drafts. I teach a “How to Write a Novel in 30 Days” seminar at The Carnegie Center, Joseph-Beth Booksellers and Kentucky libraries. Also, I’ve helped establish a new event—the Overnight Write-In—which I’ll host for the second year at Joseph-Beth Booksellers in Lexington this November for local NaNoWriMo participants.

I had no idea in 2010 that so much would happen just because I embraced a challenge to write 50,000 words in 30 days. My life has improved, as has my writing. What do you need to do to pursue your dream? Give yourself a 30-day gift, and as the folks at NaNoWriMo proclaim, “write with literary abandon.”

Jennifer Hester Mattox, Paris, Ky.

2. Answer yes.

Before you jump in, think about it long and hard. Do you want to spend hours sitting in front of your computer? Do you want to have characters and plot twists swirling around in your head at every turn? Do you want the daunting task of placing the perfect words in each and every sentence? Do you, at times, want to smash your head against your keyboard? If your answer is yes, and not a mousy yes, but a standing-on-the-couch-Tom-Cruise yes, then maybe you’re just crazy enough to write a novel in a month.

Jocelyn Frentz, Calgary, Alberta, Canada

3. Do the math.

Daily or weekly word count goals help you track your progress toward your end-of-month goal, regardless of whether you average the same number of words every day. For instance, NaNoWriMo challenges participants to write a 50,000-word novel, and provides word count trackers to help you log and measure your progress as you go—but it’s worth noting that in most genres, 50,000 words doesn’t constitute a commercial book-length manuscript. So no matter when your write-a-thon takes place, know what you’re setting out to accomplish. A rough draft of a draft? A full-length manuscript? Then do the math. For an 80,000-word novel, for instance, that’s 2,666 words/day for 30 days—or, if you prefer weekly goals, 20,000/week for four weeks.

Writer’s Digest

4. Plan to make sense.

My advice is simple: Plan ahead and outline. It’s possible to write 50,000 words in 30 days, but what is really difficult is having a finished product that really makes any sense. When you’re in the heat of the moment trying to crank out thousands of words every day it is very easy to get off track. That’s where your planning and your outline can save you.

Andrew Setters, Cincinnati

5. Just start—and keep going.

NaNoWriMo? It looked like a text message. What the heck was it? I discovered the challenge just two days before Nov. 1, opening day. I had no idea what I would write about, but I was determined to do it, just to see if I could.

This was 2009, and my first time writing any length novel in any length of time, let alone 50,000 words in one month. Up to then, I’d written a few magazine articles, a how-to book, a children’s book and untold numbers of unpublished short stories. And now for something entirely different.

I did finish that year, and went on to finish every year since. You never know what you can accomplish until you try. Everyone tackles the job in a different way, some with a meticulous plan or a detailed outline—but not me. Here’s my advice: If you have an idea in mind, it helps. Otherwise, pick it out of the air and start writing. The key is to keep writing and let everything else fall by the wayside. Turn off your phone. Disconnect the TV. Buy paper plates; send out for pizza or stock frozen tacos, whatever—just don’t take time to cook. Or clean. Or shop.

[Learn the 4 Successful Approaches You Should Consider for the First Chapter of Your Novel]

Get those words onto your page and count them each day. And kick that persnickety editor out of your head. To hell with spelling, punctuation, the precise word, the perfect reference (and I’m a copy editor by profession!). What you need right now is the story and nothing but the story, no matter how outlandish or unorganized.

I wrote a lot of junk, and stuff that had possibilities. What was in 2011 a 51,000-word story-in-the-rough has grown to a 71,000-word novel that will be on its way to an agent soon. But even if you don’t get that far, there is satisfaction in meeting the challenge and finding that you can do it.

Jenny Garden, Seattle

6. Go all in.

Passion will get you started, but discipline will see you through. The only way to succeed is to set a schedule, write like mad and never stop, even if you despair. Get your first draft finished before you pay attention to your feelings, because—in the early stages—most of your feelings will steer you off a cliff like a GPS for lemmings. The first words will rarely be your best, and the fear of bad writing often keeps writers from the initial click on the keys. But writing is like jumping into a cold lake: You squirm less once you’re all in.

Rev. Dr. David McDonald, Jackson, Mich.

7. End a writing session only when you know what’s next.

During my first two Novembers of novel writing, most of my time was spent cajoling characters instead of penning the daily words. But sometime between my second and third year, I discovered words of wisdom from author Scott O’Dell that changed everything: At the end of a writing stint, stop before the ideas run out. Write a sentence or two about what happens next. Next time your fingers meet the keyboard, you already know where the story is headed.

S.B. Roberts, Orlando, Fla.

8-9. Do what it takes to make it feel real. Fill the sandbox, then make castles.

I worship at the altar of NaNoWriMo. Anytime someone says, “I’ve always wanted to write a book,” I tell them about it.

So often this writing stuff can just feel pretend. It exists in solitude. Some of it exists only in my head. The only thing I have to show for years of work is a huge Word document. Sometimes when I do try to share it with people I feel crazy. So one gift of NaNoWriMo is its tangibility. It’s a concrete, external goal. There are pep talks. You watch your word count widget grow. You share the experience with others. There are rewards. I have a NaNoWriMo poster hanging in the stairwell of my house. It says things like, “The world needs your novel.” NaNoWriMo helps it feel real. NaNoWriMo helps ideas become things.

NaNoWriMo also reminds me of this superpower I keep forgetting I possess. One year I committed potential NaNoWriMo suicide and on Day 8 started over with a new idea. I wrote 10,084 words in one day. It made me feel like I could do anything. I managed to win that year, too.

While being reminded of your superpower is important, I think the biggest takeaway is remembering that you’re not done when you hit 50,000 words. Bask in the glory of victory. But don’t leave it alone forever. Rewrite. Edit. Fix it. Finish it. NaNoWriMo helps you fill the sandbox. It’s up to you to build castles.

Emily Echols, Fort Polk, La.

10–11. Find your rhythm. Learn as you go.

I’ve always wanted to be a writer. One day, I’d actually do it—write a complete story. I just hadn’t done it yet. I had plenty of ideas, and many starts, but no completion. Then one day my 10-year-old daughter was given an assignment to write a 15,000-word novel for NaNoWriMo. I was encouraging her, letting her know that she could accomplish anything if she set her mind to it, when I thought I should put my word count where my mouth is and join her. If she could write a book in one month, then why couldn’t I, a grown woman who has aspired to be a published author my whole life?

I had a lot of theoretical time on my hands as a stay-at-home mom, but let’s just say some things suffered. There was no from-scratch pasta sauce that month. November is also the month of my daughter’s birthday, and of course Thanksgiving is an unfortunate timing issue. But I plodded ahead. I was surprised to find that my biggest challenge was finding my writing rhythm. I didn’t have that much creative gasoline when everyone was awake, but after they went to bed I could accomplish anything, and I did. I didn’t, however, sleep much, and one of the things that keeps me awake and engaged is eating and drinking while I write. I put on 10 pounds that month, but I wrote the story—all the way through to that ever-elusive ending. (Sadly, there is no one-month path to publishing … NaNoPuMo, anyone?)

After that first year, I convinced a friend to join me, so I would have a partner to meet and write with in the daylight hours, far from food temptations. I plan to be successful at this writing gig, and I don’t want my jacket photo to look like Jabba the Hutt.

If I can do it, so can you! It helps to have a general idea of your story and characters before you begin, but once the clock starts, get cracking! Don’t fret over word choice or character names. Don’t reread and edit. If you decide to change your protagonist’s nationality 1,000 words in, just do it and move ahead. You can fix it when you sit down with a smile to read your completed draft a month later, red pen in one hand and giant latte in the other (nonfat, of course).

Angela C. Lebovic, North Barrington, Ill.

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12. Don your painter’s smock.

My first finished book is thanks to NaNoWriMo. The experience was a whirlwind of creativity, as I was forced to put aside my Inner Critic and Grammar Nazi (a rowdy bunch that like the last word). By the end of the 30 days, I had a manuscript of which I realized I could only keep less than half, but that was OK. I’d learned a lot about story building. I knew exactly how I wanted to edit my manuscript—and I did, over the next couple months. Forcing yourself to write 50,000 words in 30 days is a bit like putting paint into a shotgun and pointing at a blank canvas. Something will stick, but there’ll be a lot of clean-up.

Himani Shah, Scottsdale, Ariz.

13. Claim every spare minute.

I’d been thinking about this fantasy/thriller trilogy idea for about a year, but hadn’t written anything, not even notes. One day, though, I just felt the overwhelming need to start writing. I didn’t set a deadline of a month, but that’s how it played out.

[Here are 10 Questions You Need to Ask Your Characters]

If you’re like me and work full time, you might be hard-pressed to find time to write. What I did was write at every opportunity. I wrote during breaks at work, on the train in the morning and evening, and—just between us—occasionally at my desk when my manager wasn’t looking.

In the past, I’d spent too long overthinking chapters, characters and plots, to the point of making my stories convoluted. My month-long power session produced far better work, and was the best thing I ever did with my writing.

Gregory Paul Burdon, Melbourne, Victoria, Canada

15–20. Build Your Bookshelf (Resources for Writing a Book in a Month Include …)

15. Book in a Month: The Fool-Proof System for Writing a Novel in 30 Days by Victoria Lynn Schmidt, Ph.D. (WD Books): This book takes an interactive approach to help you complete your
write-a-thon step by step, with expert instruction accompanied by spreadsheets to track your progress.

16. Fast Fiction: A Guide to Outlining and Writing a First Draft Novel in Thirty Days by Denise Jaden (New World Library): Jaden’s books Losing Faith and Never Enough began with NaNoWriMo, and in Fast Fiction, she shares what she’s learned to help you speed-complete a rough draft you can revise into publishable shape.

17. First Draft in 30 Days: A Novel Writer’s System for Building a Complete and Cohesive Manuscript by Karen S. Wiesner (WD Books): Award-winning author Wiesner is a big believer in detailed outlines—and she’ll show you how to create one that will keep you on track for a month and beyond. Includes worksheets, day-by-day planners and brainstorming exercises.

18. No Plot? No Problem! A Low-Stress, High-Velocity Guide to Writing a Novel in 30 Days by Chris Baty (Chronicle Books): The new revised edition of NaNoWriMo founder Chris Baty’s guide is stacked with how-tos, week-by-week checkups and trademark motivation to help you cross the finish line on schedule.

19. Write-a-Thon: Write Your Book in 26 Days (and Live to Tell About It) by Rochelle Melander (WD Books): Melander teaches the muscle mechanics of writing at a marathoner’s pace. Chock full of brain-stretching exercises, this book will have you running to keep up.

20. Write Your Novel in a Month: How to Complete a First Draft in 30 Days and What to Do Next by Jeff Gerke (WD Books): This comprehensive guide embraces the process start to finish, from shaping your preliminary ideas to exploring next steps for your completed draft.

Kenneth McNulty, Writer’s Digest Intern

20. Tap into a network.

When I started getting serious about writing, one of the first things I did was seek out like-minded individuals. That’s how I discovered NaNoWriMo, in 2009. I love the idea of banding together with others poised for the same goal. Our competitive streaks help us shine. I’ve met some of my best friends and most trusted literary advisors as a result of participating, and can promise you my writing success (with the publication of my NaNo books Modified Flight Plan, the true story of a triple amputee pilot, and Walk Me Home, about the last execution in Nebraska) is in a large part because of the discipline I learned by undertaking the book-in-a-month challenge.

Lisa Kovanda, Lincoln, Neb.

21. Work ahead.

The trick is getting extra words in the bank early. Things always pop up as the month goes on. You will also be more burnt out by the end of the month, meaning that both the quality and quantity of your writing may suffer.

Michael Young, Eagle Mountain, Utah

22. Silence your editor.

NaNoWriMo is a marvelous tool for the über-editor. Normally I edit my words in my head before the poor things can even get on my computer screen, so it was very freeing to just get it all out because of a deadline.

Tricia Pimental, Zambujal, Portugal

23. Gain insight into your past—and future—writing process.

The first year I participated in NaNoWriMo, I learned:

1) My usual slow pace didn’t make my writing more   thoughtful or grammatically correct. I whipped out 25,000 words in a month, and darned if they weren’t just as good as the 27,000 words I’d previously spent a year and a half on.

2) I should know more about science if I’m going to set my story on another planet.

3) Although I didn’t make the 50,000-word goal, 25,000 still made me happy.

The second year I participated, I learned:

1) Having an outline helped.

2) Setting my story in the here and now eliminated the need for research (which consumes precious writing time).

3) Apparently 25,000 words/month is the fastest I can go!

Marie Millard, Rohnert Park, Calif.

24. Unplug.

That’s ridiculous, I thought. One month to create a story that had been brewing in my mind for years. But what kind of a writer am I if I didn’t accept a challenge?

And it was a challenge. Forcing myself to write when I wasn’t feeling “inspired” was my biggest obstacle. I would berate myself every second I stared at that blinking cursor. It would be a half hour, an hour, as my eyes darted back and forth between the screen and the glow of the TV.

But I soon discovered that just typing away was the key. The more I typed out my grocery list, my “I hate myself, I’m not a real writer” notes, and quirky-things-I-could-be-tweeting-right-now tangents, the more the words just came. And out of the nonsense came a thoughtful sentence, and then another, and another. I had to sift through a lot of garbage to find a few treasures. But I found them.

[Did you know there are 7 reasons writing a novel makes you a badass? Read about them here.]

You know how they say you need to unplug? Well, they’re annoyingly right. Turn off the TV, the iPhone, the Internet, all of it. If I needed a break I picked up a book. Every time I read, I got an idea for what to write next.

Write anything, write everything. Read what you love. And in the end know that you are a real writer. You always had a story to tell. And it may take longer than a month. But you can do it!

Pamela Delupio, Lakewood, Calif.

25. Collaborate.

My co-author Erin McRae and I wrote our first novel (a 70,000-word gay romance) in a month. We didn’t do it as part of NaNoWriMo, and in fact told no one about it.

Having each other as an audience kept us going, and wanting to be able to share it with others kept us going fast. We did the next two drafts in a month each as well, and then submitted. Our book was published by Torquere Press in September, and the publisher has bought its sequel.

My advice: Find someone to work with as a first audience even if you aren’t collaborating, and don’t tell anyone but your partner about it until that draft is done. Sharing it with others is your reward for the work.

Also, if you do have a co-author, find one in another time zone! I was in Europe for my day job for a big chunk of our writing cycle, while Erin was in Washington, D.C. With the six-hour time difference, one of us was working on the story at almost all times.

Racheline Maltese, Brooklyn, N.Y.

26. Don’t force methods that don’t work for you.

I had fallen behind early with my word count, and then started obsessing with trying to catch up. Halfway through the month I asked, “Is this about numbers or words?” There is value in monitoring word count, if not setting word count goals. An apt comparison is running, where one may set out to run four miles a day, but some days runs may be shorter (or longer) based on how the runner feels on the trail. I’m beginning to believe it’s best to write from scratch for a set period each day, a stream of consciousness download, and then to return to works-in-progress and revise, revise, revise.

Jim Breslin, West Chester, Pa.

27. Write fearlessly.

If NanoWriMo taught me anything, it was to not be afraid to try.

Kait Heacock, Brooklyn, N.Y.

28–29. Entice your muse with whatever will make the process enjoyable. think of yourself as a conduit for your story.

In February 2014 I finished the fourth book of my Amazon bestselling series Whill of Agora. I’d been tossing around another story idea and was eager to start the project.

I wanted to try to write the book in 30 days. My plan was 2,000 words a day minimum, and February was a great month to attempt such a feat, as it can reach -20 degrees here in northern New York. I outlined my ideas (most of which never made it in—my work tends to take on a life of its own and not conform to my plans) and made myself comfortable at the kitchen table with my laptop and Bob Marley playlist.

That first week I drank 21 coffees and wrote over 26,000 words, averaging 3,800 a day. The following week I wrote another 24,000 words, averaging 3,400 a day. By now the plot was getting thick, as were my character worksheet folders. I was writing 6–10 hours a day, getting up early so I could do most of my writing while my daughter was in school. (If I work too much while family is around I feel like I’m neglecting them, even though I write full-time.) When I started to lose steam, it would keep me going to log onto the Kindle author boards’ “2,000 words a day club” to find (and offer) motivation.

I finished the book in 18 days at 70,000 words—not a heavyweight, but a good size for my genre. I self-published The Windwalker Archive, Book 1, Talon, on May 7, 2014. As I write this it is No. 4 in Amazon’s Children’s Coming of Age Fantasy Books Kindle store.

My advice: Lure your muse out with some chocolate and pinot noir, grab a hold of her, and tie her to your desk until you are done. Show up every day with your goal in mind and do not leave until you’ve surpassed it. Don’t try to create the story—listen, and let it be told through you. When you take the responsibility of creating the story out of the equation, it becomes quite easy. You are simply a conduit.

Michael James Ploof, Brushton, N.Y.

30. Know that the end of 30 days really marks the beginning.

In September 2010, the idea for a novel fell onto my lap. Knowing NaNoWriMo was six weeks away, I stockpiled mental notes, developing character profiles, plots, conflict. I’m a morning writer. Once my day job invades my head, the brainpower and willingness to work on fiction dries up. So on the evening of Oct. 31, I set my alarm for 4 a.m., excited to write a novel in a month.

Some mornings I managed at least the average number of words I needed to hit 50,000. Others, I struggled and vowed to make it up the next day. Every day, I marveled at the twists my story took from the sparse outline in my head. I typed the last word—58,313—on Nov. 29. Success!

But what I wrote wasn’t a novel. Sure, it had a beginning, middle and end, it had a theme, and yes, the main character’s story had an arc. But it was disorganized, overly ambitious, repetitive and, for some reason, full of foul language.

Four years later, Men of Sorrows is longer, structured, less repetitive, less cuss-laden. And it has a theme readers can relate to: How far will a person go to make life seem worth living?

There has been one deleterious effect of the 30-day-novel exercise: I can no longer sleep past 4 a.m. And what’s worse, I don’t even need an alarm. I spend my early mornings now writing my synopsis and elevator pitch, and researching agents to try to get Men of Sorrows published. Maybe when that happens, I can finally get up after the birds do.

Stephen D’Agostino, New York, N.Y. WD

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For more tips on writing a book in 30 days, click here.

Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog, online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift book Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Sign up for Brian’s free Writer’s Digest eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

Occasionally I talk to school children about writing. I begin by asking them how many sheets of paper it takes to write a novel. They guess, and suddenly they very much want to know the answer. No matter what their guesses are, they’re always shocked and horrified when I unveil the foot-high stack of handwritten yellow pages that make up the rough draft of one of my novels. They’ve just experienced suspense and a payoff in its simplest form.

This guest post is by bestselling author and writing authority Elizabeth Sims. She’s the author of seven popular novels in two series, including The Rita Farmer Mysteries and The Lillian Byrd Crime series. She’s also the author of the excellent resource for writers, You’ve Got a Book in You: A Stress-Free Guide to Writing the Book of Your Dreams, published by Writer’s Digest Books. Click here to order now.

When I ask what you need to write a story of suspense, inevitably one kid yells, “Put in a bad guy!”

Good advice, if obvious. The fact is, stories in all genres need suspense: Readers must stick with you to the end, and suspense is the foremost element that keeps them turning pages. Likewise, when you’re trying to write your way through to that teetering stack of a finished draft, a quick injection of suspense is a great way to keep your story’s engine fueled. Suddenly, you’ll very much want to write on to find the answer.

Here are a bouquet of ways to do just that, beyond the excellent suggestion of putting in a bad guy.

1. Point a finger.

Mary Renault’s historical novel The Persian Boy starts with a cataclysm: The death and destruction of the protagonist’s family and home. Before dying, his father screams the name of his betrayer. Well, guess who the Persian boy will meet up with later … much later?

This powerful scenario can work to create and maintain suspense in any genre. Any kind of betrayal will do: financial ruin, a broken heart, a lost opportunity.

2. Pull a false alarm.

“The Boy Who Cried Wolf” is not only an instructive moral fable, it’s a nail-biter. As soon as you learn of the shepherd boy’s plan to get attention by screaming that a wolf is attacking the sheep, you just know a real wolf is bound to show up sooner or later.

You also know that the townspeople won’t like to be made fools of. Nobody does, which is why this technique works, whether in a sleepy town, a Wall Street office or an emergency room.

[What are the guidelines for formatting a manuscript? Learn here.]

3. Build an oubliette.

Medieval lords would sometimes construct a simple pit below the castle floor, into which they would throw any captive they’d prefer to just forget. (Oubliette is French for forgotten place.) No screams could penetrate the heavy lid, and the screams were short-lived in any event.

Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado” involves a blood grudge, settled when a man tricks his enemy into joining him in his wine cellar, then bricks him up in a cranny there. The suspense lies in wondering what Montresor has up his sleeve, as he lures Fortunato ever deeper into the catacombs.

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4. Plant a hazard, then wait.

Taking the concept of the oubliette a step further, in Charles Portis’s True Grit, outlaw Tom Chaney describes a snake pit into which he threatens to toss our heroine Mattie Ross. Then lots of other stuff happens. Eventually Mattie manages to shoot Chaney, but gets knocked backward by the recoil of her Colt.

The heart-clutching moment comes with the tumbling Mattie’s realization: “I had forgotten about the pit behind me!” The beauty is that the pit has been lurking in the back of readers’ minds all along.

Show us your hazard, then put time (and action) between its introduction and its use.

5. Make panic your friend.

Although causing a character to panic can be a cheap way to gin up suspense—the victim stumbles and falls, letting the killer overtake him—people sometimes do legitimately panic, and you can exploit that.

A believable way is to build a character who is flawed, especially a person who displays flawed judgment early on. Thus a panic move not only will be plausible, but somewhat expected. That anticipation alone can be suspenseful, and then when it happens the reader experiences a payoff—and a craving for more.

[Here are 10 Questions You Need to Ask Your Characters]

6. Water a plant.

Growth can be incredibly suspenseful. Think about it: You plant a seed and you water it. Will it be a stalk of wheat, or a vine of poison ivy? Horror novels from Rosemary’s Baby to The Bad Seed to Carrie and beyond have made use of this simple technique.

Watching a character develop over time can be suspenseful, especially if that character is a child with a pronounced pedigree: a mass murderer’s son conceived during a conjugal visit; a squeaky-clean politician’s daughter. Will this toddler turn out to be a drug-addicted prostitute, or a Nobel laureate?

7. Withhold the right stuff.

Keeping information from the reader can be a cheap trick, but there’s a right way to do it—by playing fair.

In his novella The Valley of Fear, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle keeps the secret of Birdy Edwards’ identity from the other characters and from the reader—but everybody’s given the same information. Characters and readers alike have a chance to interpret the clues, so when you come to the payoff, either you’ve figured it out already and your suspicions are satisfyingly confirmed, or it’s a breathtaking reveal immediately followed by, “Of course! I should have known!”

Withhold substance, but give tantalizing information.

8. Banish someone.

The ancients invented this one, which figures large from the Bible (God throws Satan out of Heaven) to modern tales (troublesome kid gets sent to boarding school, dysfunctional narcissist gets kicked off the island).

What’s so great about banishing a character? We know he’s still out there. The malefactor broods on his punishment, grinds his axe and plans his revenge.

If you use an omniscient narrator or multiple-character POVs, you can flip back and forth from the banished to the peacefully complacent tribe, ratcheting up the tension by contrasting what everybody’s doing and thinking.

9. Rip it from the headlines.

The daily news is a terrific place to get ideas for suspense. Recently at a writing conference session I brought the morning paper (yes, it was a town that still has one) to show how easy it is to get story ideas.

As we worked, I realized that you really can find suspense in practically every section. Will the local skating pair make it to the Olympics? What if one of them is having an affair with the coach? Here’s an ad for a lost camera. A reward is involved. What images might be on that memory card? A happy family picnic? Maybe. Maybe not.

10. Fray an end.

One of my Hollywood friends recently told me of a simple, much-used movie trick to create a mood of suspense in an interior shot: Leave a cupboard door open. This visual cue suggests that things are unsettled, not composed, in need of attention.

On the page, little odd things that are not quite in order can create a subtle sense of tension in any scene. Think dangling apron strings, a guttering candle, a loose window latch, a jammed copy machine.

11. Fake ’em out.

The guard steps away for an illicit smoke, and we just know the homicidal maniac will escape. You could write it that way, but how much better would it be to bring the guard back a few minutes later to find all is well? Perhaps the second time the guard hears something, goes, “Oh, my God!” and races back, only to find the prisoner lounging peacefully in his cell.

As in the related yet subtly different example of crying wolf, obey the rule of three. On the third go—gone! Better still, because readers might be ready for the fake-out, have the payoff up the ante: The guard returns to find not only the prisoner gone, but the cell full of the bloody bodies of the warden and his family.

12. Stash someone.

In Shakespeare’s Hamlet, the nosy but basically OK guy Polonius hides behind a tapestry to eavesdrop; when
he makes a sound, Hamlet stabs the tapestry wildly, believing he is stabbing his enemy Claudius. The terrible mistake is one of the great heart-clutching moments
in literature.

In the still-popular children’s classic Harriet the Spy, young Harriet discovers how useful simply hiding is: You can watch and listen, undetected. You must wait. Suspense is inherent in such a situation: What if you sneeze? What if a dog comes along and detects the candy bar in your pocket?

Hiding can, like many of the examples in this article, be used figuratively. A character can hide behind a stolen identity, a lie or even the fog of war.

13. Seat a pigeon on a stool.

It’s no mystery why so many cop stories and thrillers feature informants. A change of heart or—more commonly—fear of jail has caused many a criminal to drop a dime. It gets most exciting when they hit the streets wearing a recording device, under orders to gather incriminating evidence.

A friend familiar with law enforcement tells me that today’s wires are essentially undetectable. But there is still excellent tension inherent in an informant trying, with all her sweaty-palmed guile, to get the goods on hoods.

14. Put a mask on it.

I love to use disguise and impersonation in my novels because: 1) Suspense begins to build the moment you show a character preparing for the ruse; and 2) It can be funny to construct a fish-out-of-water scenario where, for instance, a private detective brazenly impersonates a homeless drunk, or a reporter tries to pass as a plainclothes nun.

We expect a professional undercover agent to do pretty well at escaping detection. But when it’s an amateur entering a dangerous situation, your readers will be on the edge of their seats from the get-go.

[Learn the 4 Successful Approaches You Should Consider for the First Chapter of Your Novel]

15. Amp the unknown.

The unknown is a time-honored suspense component, especially useful for horror, sci-fi or paranormal. Stephen King, for one, has built a colossal career by using the unknown, primarily manifested by the paranormal, typified by his gripping novel The Shining.

But I think one of the greatest examples of the unknown as a suspense-builder is in Charlotte Brontë’s gothic romance Jane Eyre. At last Jane has escaped the miserable Lowood charity school, to work as a governess in a mansion with a most sexy master. But—there’s something weird going on in that attic! And that drives the suspense all the way to the end.

16. Put a symbol to work.

I enjoy a good symbol or two in a story, and it’s even better if the symbol incorporates suspense. Look to nature: Natural processes are inexorable, and they’re understood by all humans instinctively. A beautiful lake can represent the water of life, or it can symbolize something more unsettling if, for instance, your story begins in autumn, the first frosts skimming the lake with morning mists, eventually to transform the water into something cold, hard and dangerous.

17. Flip the hourglass, then flip it again.

In his café-society thriller A Season in Purgatory, Dominick Dunne skillfully works with time for maximum suspense. From the start we know a murder occurred many years ago, and we know the murderer will be exposed, because the narrator is describing a criminal trial. But then we’re transported back to the real beginning, where everybody is young and cute and—notably in the case of the victim—alive.

How was the crime committed, how was it hidden, how was it exposed? We won’t be satisfied until we flash forward again to the conclusion.

18. Double down on debt.

Any good gangster knows that you do people favors before asking any from them. Because when people are in your debt, you can more easily persuade them to do something for you.

This technique can work in any scenario—a political boss and his constituents (or underlings), a nasty sibling rivalry, a group of friends on holiday at a health spa.

I kept your secret, now you keep mine. Capisce?

[Learn important writing lessons from these first-time novelists.]

19. Isolate ’em.

Isolation of a select character or group of characters intensifies the most ordinary circumstances into suspenseful ones. Consider all those closed-room murder mysteries by Agatha Christie, as well as stuck-on-a-boat adventure tales such as Jack London’s The Sea Wolf and Yann Martel’s Life of Pi.

Plays can be great venues for the isolation breed of suspense—by default we have characters in close proximity to one another onstage, and we know rats in a cage will fight eventually. How else might you create isolation—which, by the way, can be temporary? How about a stuck elevator, a sudden storm, even a flat tire?

20. Throw a monkey wrench.

When you use an accident in an overt attempt to try to write yourself out of a jam, your readers will squawk. In public. In their reviews on Amazon. On Goodreads.

The fact remains, however, that accidents do happen. And a sudden, unexpected disaster instantly ramps up tension. Plausibility is the key.

It’s certainly plausible for a young, green getaway car driver to panic and crash into a hotel … maybe even the same one that’s hosting the police chief convention, forcing the gang to separate as they flee on foot. It’s plausible that the mob capo will insist that the assassination be moved up a day when his daughter goes into labor with his first grandchild, in spite of the fact that the groundwork hasn’t been properly laid yet.

21. Get your head into it.

My routine for developing notes, ideas and a working outline for a Writer’s Digest article is to spend the day at a large urban library. In the case of this article, after completely losing myself in my subject of suspense, I broke for a nice little lunch at a nearby bistro. A fruit fly got too enticed by my glass of Rioja and drowned therein.

Fishing out the micro-corpse, I looked around furtively and wondered, “Oh, God, how will I dispose of the body?” I swear to you, for a moment I really felt I had something to hide.

This is exactly the frame of mind you as an author should cultivate, by living and breathing your writing. If you do it, you’ll have a great chance your readers will stick with you, breath bated, to the end.

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Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

Now that we’re more than a week in to the new year, I can already see some of those resolutions starting to fade (I ate a giant bag of Doritos last night—so much for the calorie counting!). That’s why it’s important to get help whenever possible to keep your goals in site (I had my wife take the other bag of Doritos to work today, otherwise it was a goner).

Writers often have a tough time staying on our diet—you know, the one where our goal is to burn as many words as possible onto the page each day. That’s why we’re here to help with 365 writing prompts to provide inspiration every day of the year. Maybe some days you have a great story idea–then skip the book that day. But on other days when you struggle to find a starting point, this book will provide you with clever, fun and thought-provoking story starters designed to help you get the most from your writing.

One question I’ve received is: Can you sell a story based off writing prompts? The answer is absolutely! It’s all in how you, the writer, take these ideas and spin them into the most amazing stories you can. Perhaps one could even lead to a chapter in your book (or a subplot)? Who know. Either way, it’s nice to have a book like this for that rainy day where writer’s block tries to stop you from reaching your writing goals.

Order now and start writing today!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I better get back to writing so I can burn off some of those Doritos calories. (Don’t worry, I washed my Nacho Cheesy hands first, I swear.)

Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog, online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift book Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Sign up for Brian’s free Writer’s Digest eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

I thought short stories stopped being relevant for professional writers decades ago, when mainstream magazines such as The Saturday Evening Post stopped publishing fiction; I equated short fiction with those finger exercises piano students do before they graduate to real music. If you’re serious about a career in fiction, you write novels … right?

Wrong. Short stories are having a revival in the digital age. As book marketing guru Penny C. Sansevieri wrote in The Huffington Post, “Short is the new long. Thanks to consumers who want quick bites of information and things like Kindle Singles, consumers love short.” It seems the short story is back—on an iPhone near you.

Here are nine factors working in favor of a short story renaissance:

Guest post by Anne R. Allen, author of seven comic mysteries and co-author of How to Be a Writer in the E-Age: A Self-Help Guide, written with Catherine Ryan Hyde. She is a former actress and stage director, a graduate of Bryn Mawr College, and lives on the beautiful Central Coast of CA, near San Luis Obispo—the town Oprah called the “happiest town in the US.” Visit her blog at annerallen.blogspot.com.

1. Small, portable screens are changing the way we read.

“The single-serving quality of a short narrative is the perfect art form for the digital age. … Stories are models of concision, can be read in one sitting and are infinitely downloadable and easily consumed on screens,” bestselling short-story writer Amber Dermont told The New York Times. 

Cal Morgan of Harper Perennial agrees. “The Internet has made people a lot more open to reading story forms that are different from the novel,” he says.

When Amazon in 2011 launched its Kindle Singles program—which publishes works of fiction or creative nonfiction of 5,000–30,000 words—it sold more than 2 million short titles in 14 months. Today, it’s further promoting short fiction with a Short Reads section—where customers can choose stories from the Singles library by the length of time required to read them—and Day One magazine, which showcases short fiction from new authors.

[Freelance Writing: 10 Ways to Satisfy Editors & Land More Assignments]

2. Anthologies are hot.

Multi-author anthologies are a great sales tool, and they’ve been reborn in the e-book space, where they’re inexpensive to put together and provide wide visibility. While digital-only anthologies usually don’t pay and often donate proceeds to a charity, if you can get a story featured alongside well-known authors in your genre, you’ll be paid in publicity that would be hard to buy at any price.

Print anthologies are also a fantastic way for newer authors to break onto bookshelves; there are still plenty of staples, such as the Chicken Soup series, being stocked in stores in droves. Multi-author collections vary in prestige—the venerable Best American Short Stories is a solid bestseller every year, packed with the top names in literary fiction—but getting your work into any anthology vetted by an editor and chosen through a submission process will look great in your bio and draw fans to your other work. You can find calls for submissions to anthologies on sites such as Duotrope (duotrope.com) and Writer’s Relief (writersrelief.com), in the classified sections of magazines such as WD, and through simple Internet searches.

3. Publication identifies you as a professional.

If you’re on a career track, you need to show agents, publishers and reviewers you’re serious. Placing stories in respected literary journals will do that. Years ago, placing stories was tough. Fiction had vanished from most mainstream magazines. Even no-pay literary journals were fiercely competitive and expensive to buy. Now, most journals are available online. They have larger readerships and you don’t have to pay a fortune to read them to find out what the editors want. More publications focus on genre or flash fiction, not just literary work. And there are showcases for short fiction where you can start building a fan base before you publish a novel, including Wattpad (wattpad.com), which allows all users to upload their stories, free for other users to read; and Readwave (readwave.com), which shares “3-minute stories” written by users.

Use the 2015 Novel and Short Story Writer’s Market guide to find
hundreds of publishers, literary agents, and contests
waiting to hear from you. Purchase now and get
access to an exclusive Writer’s Digest webinar.
Order here.

4. Networking with short fiction editors can further your career.

Editors at small magazines often have connections in the publishing world. I found my first publisher because one of its editors volunteered for a digital literary magazine that accepted one of my stories. The litzine went under before my story appeared, but the editor asked if I had any novels he could take to the small publishing house where he worked. Two months later, I had my first publishing contract.

[Get your creative juices flowing by trying this 12-Day plan of simple writing exercises.]

5. Filmmakers buy rights to short stories.

Just as indies are re-invigorating publishing, they are also the lifeblood of the film industry. While big studios concentrate on huge comic book spectacles, many emotionally rich, award-winning films are coming from small-budget indies, such as Larry Yust’s adaptation of Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery,” Chandler Tuttle’s 2081, based on Kurt Vonnegut’s “Harrison Bergeron,” and Steph Green’s onscreen retelling of Roddy Doyle’s “New Boy.”

6. Online retailers favor authors with more titles.

The more titles you have in an online bookstore, the more visible you are. Most writers can’t turn out more than a couple books a year, but they can write and publish short stories and novellas in between.

7. Short fiction contests can build your bio.

Contests are easy to find and enter in the Internet era. C. Hope Clark’s Funds for Writers (fundsforwriters.com) and Winning Writers (winningwriters.com) are good free sources for vetted and free contests, and established publications (including WD) often sponsor competitions that provide opportunities for authors in all genres. A win or even honorable mention looks great in a query or bio. Some of the biggest awards in literature are still for short fiction, sometimes offering a prize as high as a standard novel advance, as do the Pushcart and O. Henry Prizes.

8. Shorts keep fans engaged and draw new ones.

Forward-looking agents encourage authors to self-publish short stories—especially
when writing a series. Shorts keep fans interested while they’re waiting
for the next book, and a free story in between is a great marketing tool. Consider writing a couple of shorts about your main characters while you’re working on the novel. It may get you through a tricky spot in the big work and give you a salable product for later. (Also, many great novels started as shorts. A story about a minor character may expand into a novel of its own.)

[What are the guidelines for formatting a manuscript? Learn here.]

9. Today’s short stories make money and hold their value.

Per word, a story can make more money than a novel. Not only does it take less time to write, a Kindle Single often sells for the same price as a novel-length e-book, and it can be repurposed many times. Some large magazines still publish short fiction, and publications such as Asimov’s, Ellery Queen and Woman’s World still pay top dollar for genre stories.

Short stories are great for practice, too. Learning to write short can keep your prose from getting flabby. You shouldn’t give up on your magnum opus, but try a few ideas out in short stories. You’ll be grateful you have inventory when opportunity comes knocking.

Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

*********************************************************************************************************************************

Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog, online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift book Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Sign up for Brian’s free Writer’s Digest eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

Over the past year I posted articles on this blog that covered everything—from grammar to writing better characters to getting published and more. Here’s a cheat sheet linking to what I consider the 50 best articles that can help you reach your writing goals. My goal is to help you move your writing career forward, and, by making this easy-to-reference guide, you’ll have a chance to bookmark it and have a one-stop place to help you have a successful year of writing.

Here’s to your best year of writing! ~Brian

8 Articles on Starting Your Novel

4 Approaches for the First Chapter of Your Novel

7 Ways to Create a Killer Opening Line For Your Novel

Important Writing Lessons From First-Time Novelists

7 Steps to Creating a Flexible Outline for Any Story

The Keys to Good Science Fiction & Fantasy Storytelling

Writing Dystopian Fiction: 7 Tips

How to Destroy Your Initial Idea (& Make Your Story Better)

How to Harness Creativity to Empower Your Writing

9 Articles on Structure, Plot and Character

The 7 Tools of Dialogue

The 5 Essential Story Ingredients

The 5 C’s of Writing a Great Thriller Novel

Novel Writing: 10 Questions You Need to Ask Your Characters

Write Better: 3 Ways To Introduce Your Main Character

3 Things Your Novel’s Narrator Needs to Accomplish

The Pros and Cons of Writing a Novel in Present Tense

When Flaws Go Too Far: Avoiding Unlikeable Characters

5 Moral Dilemmas That Make Characters (& Stories) Better

5 Articles on Nonfiction Writing

25 Tips To Make You a Better Nonfiction Writer

5 Lessons I Learned From Writing A Memoir

8 Ways to Prepare to Write Your Nonfiction Book in a Month

Memoir or Novel? 8 Issues to Think About Before Writing Your Own Story

9 Ways to Crack Into Major Markets With Personal Essays

2 Articles About Grammar

Alright vs. All Right

Are Subjects Joined by “And” Singular or Plural? – Grammar Rules

6 Answers to Frequently Asked Publishing Questions

How Long Until You Can Follow Up on Query Letters?

Do You Have What Publishers Really Want?

How Book Advances Work – A Simple Explanation for Writers

What Writing Expenses Are Tax Deductible?

What Are the Guidelines for Formatting a Manuscript?

Will Publishers Buy a 200,000-Word Novel?

5 Articles on Freelance and Copywriting

What Magazine Editors Want (& Don’t Want)

The Secret To Writing Stronger Feature Articles

Copywriting: A Crash Course for Writers Looking to Break In

Is a Freelancing Career in Writing Feasible?

8 Strategies to Build Your Freelance Writing Career

4 Articles on Finding an Agent

How to Write the Perfect Query Letter

8 Unexpected Lessons From Working with a Literary Agent

5 Things Writers Should Ask Potential Agents

How to Be a Writer Literary Agents Want

3 Articles on Publishing

The Pros and Cons of Publishing With a Small Publisher

How to Sell Your Picture Book

Is It My Writing or Is It My Editor?

5 Articles on Finishing Your Novel (and Other Advice)

How to Finish That Novel

6 Lessons Hemingway (& Others) Can Teach Us About Being a Writer

8 Reasons Every Book Needs a Business Plan to Achieve Success

3 Writing Tips from Brat-Pack Star-Turned-Writer Andrew McCarthy

5 Writing Lessons Inspired by Famous Writers

3 Articles on After the Book is Finished

6 Things to Keep in Mind When Gathering Testimonials/Book Blurbs

How to Make the Most of Any Writing Conference

9 Steps to an Effective Virtual Book Tour

You are there. You see it. You’re a writer, so, of course, you want to write about it. Now what? Writing fiction springing from an actual event, maybe one of your own personal experiences, requires a finesse for your reader’s benefit, your friends’, your enemies, and yourself. There is a way to handle the truth because you’ll begin as if you are wearing kid gloves, but suddenly they will plump into boxing gloves, and before you know it, you are ready to deliver that punch right to your beloved, old auntie’s face.

Guest post by Lorie Ann Grover, author of Hit and co-founder of the influential site readergirlz, where she is a visible advocate for teen literacy and activism. In addition, she is the author of three acclaimed novels: Hold Me Tight, a VOYA pick; On Pointe, a Bank Street College Best Children’s Book of the Year; and Loose Threads, a Booklist Top 10 Youth First Novel, and a 2003 Washington State Book Award Finalist.

1. Begin with the truth.

Truth is stranger than fiction, so there is certainly much to mine. Each of my contemporary novels sprang off the pages of my own life. Consider writing that first draft close to what happened, what you saw, and what you felt. Capture it.

2. Get permission.

Are others involved and do you want to stay close to the facts? If you know this is the case, run and get permission. Do your best to describe that this will be a work of fiction with strands of truth woven through it. Explain to those involved that they will see themselves reflected, but it will be as if they are standing before a curved mirror in an amusement fun house. You might offer assurance their story could be a great benefit to readers. If they are willing to have you share the essence of what happened to them, go forward and write.

However, if you think the final work will be far from the truth, get to writing first. If you aren’t sure and just the thought of asking permission is hindering your process, begin to write with the intention to either:

• ask the involved parties in the future, knowing you may be denied permission to publish your work, or
• be firm in your design to spin the story far away from the facts.

3. Take pause.

Whether you’ve written a first draft of the facts or are simmering on what truly happened in your mind, take a step back. Once the story is caught in your net, as a writer you have an opportunity to now ask: how could it be made better? What is the theme burning beneath it, and what can I do to feed the flames? Behind my novel, Hit, was the true story of my daughter’s best friend who had been struck by a vehicle in a crosswalk. But the writer in me begged the question: what if instead of a stranger hitting her it was someone she knew? And then I ramped up the tension in my version of the story and made that person a grad student teacher she was crushing on. (It did take two years and several drafts for this plot point to rise to mind.)

[Do you underline book titles? Underline them? Put book titles in quotes? Find out here.]

4. Let go.

Let the story run, bettering the facts or leaving them completely behind. This is the draft where you open your hand and let go. You are able to silence the voice saying, “That’s not what happened!” And you let your characters run. Let them run through their own blossoming story.

5. Fact can feel fake.

One caveat to be aware of is that not all facts are believable. The best, juiciest fact may not make it into your story because again, truth is stranger than fiction. When I wrote Hold Me Tight, I was not able to include that the man who molested me was soon afterwards in a car accident and paralyzed from the waist down… the waist down. My novel would have felt contrived and unbelievable had I included this. Be ready to lay those facts aside with a settled satisfaction that you know what truly happened.

6. Share the work’s completion news.

Finally, your draft is done and ready to be submitted. Consider letting the people involved in your story know you have completed your work. Even if you didn’t need to ask for permission to write the book, be kind and give those who inspired your story a chance to process the thought that you have written about the event. On occasion, I will share my text with those involved after the work sells, following copy-editing. It is a chance for them to wrestle through how I’ve changed what happened, and it gives them an opportunity to come to terms with the fact others will be reading the material. It helps your little, old auntie prepare herself for that punch.

Writing from personal life offers rich material. With a few cautions, permissions from yourself and sometimes others, you may write a story to be shared far beyond the few people who lived the moment. That can be rewarding to many readers. So, be brave. Write, and let your story run.

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The Weekend Book Proposal. Jam-packed with proven strategies,
sample queries and proposals, and more, this book is a must-have.
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Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog, online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift book Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Sign up for Brian’s free Writer’s Digest eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

One of the biggest bugaboos in manuscript submissions is when the author doesn’t properly introduce the protagonist within the first chapter. Readers want to know quickly the protagonist’s sex, age and level of sophistication in the world of the story, and they want to relate to the character on an emotional level. Readers’ interest in the protagonist has to be earned, in other words.

If we like a character, then we want to see her do well and we’re willing to follow her around and invest our time and interest in rooting her on in her struggle. But it’s important we know some essentials about the character so we can get to like her. The trick is to avoid stand-alone description or exposition and to instead show your character in action.

This guest post is by Les Edgerton, author of fifteen books, including two about writing fiction: Hooked (Writer’s Digest Books) and Finding Your Voice (Writer’s Digest Books). He also writes short stories, articles, essays, novels, and screenplays. Follow him on Twitter @HookedOnNoir.

1. Keep physical description minimal.

A character’s physical description—unless markedly different than the norm—does relatively little to draw the reader in. The character’s actions, or details such as his occupations and interests, are much more useful. The readers will furnish a perfectly good description on their own if you simply let them know that the Uncle Charley of your story is a butterfly collector, or the elderly toll-gate keeper on the Suwannee River. Doing so will accomplish more than 10 pages of describing hair and eye color, height, weight and all of that kind of mundane detail.

My own writing contains very little description of any of my characters—it’s virtually nonexistent—yet for years I’ve asked readers if they can describe a character I pick at random from my stories, and invariably they come up with a detailed description, no matter which character I choose. When I tell them I haven’t ever described the character mentioned, they’re surprised, and some swear that I did, even going so far as to drag out the story and skim for where I’ve included the description. They never find it.

The point is, physical descriptions of characters are overrated and the poorest way to give the reader a mental picture of your character. Physical description is valuable only if it actually means something in the story: For instance, a character with a pronounced limp—a limp that is crucial to his person—runs the Boston Marathon and wins.

[Did you know there are 7 reasons writing a novel makes you a badass? Read about them here.]

2. Characterize through action.

Bestselling British writer Nick Hornby starts his novel How to Be Good by taking us through his protagonist’s inciting incident, revealed in an action that is contrary to her normal behavior and personality.

I am in a car park in Leeds when I tell my husband I don’t want to be married to him anymore. David isn’t even in the car park with me. He’s at home, looking after the kids, and I have only called him to remind him that he should write a note for Molly’s class teacher. The other bit just sort of … slips out. This is a mistake, obviously. Even though I am, apparently, and to my immense surprise, the kind of person who tells her husband that she doesn’t want to be married to him anymore, I really didn’t think I was the kind of person to say so in a car park, on a mobile phone. That particular self-assessment will now have to be revised, clearly. I can describe myself as the kind of person who doesn’t forget names, for example, because I have remembered names thousands of times and forgotten them only once or twice. But for the majority of people, marriage-ending conversations happen only once, if at all. If you choose to conduct yours on a mobile phone, in a Leeds car park, then you cannot really claim that it is unrepresentative, in the same way that Lee Harvey Oswald couldn’t really claim that shooting presidents wasn’t like him at all. Sometimes we have to be judged by our one-offs.

Wow! Don’t you wish you’d written that? I sure do!

While we are being taken through her story-problem-creating crisis, we learn a great deal about protagonist Katie Carr. First, she comes across as surprised and amazed at her own behavior, which she herself views as diametrically opposed to the kind of person she is. She’s just not the type (at least in her own mind) to blurt out her desire for a divorce to her husband over a phone. The implication behind the words is that she’s fairly dumbfounded that she’d even consider a divorce, much less announce this over the phone. The readers suspect that they’ve perhaps come across an unreliable narrator, and unreliable narrators almost always carry the promise of at least some fun (for the readers) in a story. It’s exciting to try to figure out the truth of a character from the clues the author provides.

Or, it may be that this really is her true character and that it took a cataclysmic event (her marriage breakdown) to force it to the surface. In either event, this opening promises an intriguing read and it does so by showing the character in action. She’s saying she’s a woman of no surprises—that she lives her life in a conventional and probably even boring fashion—but then she performs a totally unconventional (for her) action. Who wouldn’t want to read on to find out why she’s acted in this way? Quite a few couldn’t resist—this novel ended up a New York Times bestseller.

[Want to land an agent? Here are 4 things to consider when researching literary agents.]

3. Instill Individuality and Depth.

A very different example of establishing the protagonist’s character from the start is found in crime novelist Michael Connelly’s Lost Light:

There is no end of things in the heart.

Someone once told me that. She said it came from a poem she believed in. She understood it to mean that if you took something to heart, really brought it inside those red velvet folds, then it would always be there for you. No matter what happened, it would be there waiting. She said this could mean a person, a place, a dream. A mission. Anything sacred. She told me that it is all connected in those secret folds. Always. It is all part of the same and will always be there, carrying the same beat as your heart.

I am fifty-two years old and I believe it. At night when I try to sleep but can’t, that is when I know it. It is when all the pathways seem to connect and I see the people I have loved and hated and helped and hurt. I see the hands that reach for me. I hear the beat and see and understand what I must do. I know my mission and I know there is no turning away or turning back. And it is in those moments that I know there is no end of things in the heart.

What makes this opening different? Well, it’s by a brand-name author with a sizable audience already in place. Michael Connelly’s books have made the bestseller lists at least 19 more times than I’ve hit a grand-slam walk-off home run at Yankee Stadium as a member of the Bronx Bombers. This means he can write just about any opening he wants and it’s going to get published. It also means that in the hands of a writer without a ready-made audience such as Connelly enjoys, opening with the protagonist’s bit of philosophy might not work, if not done well. It could easily come across as sentimental or self-indulgent.

There is, however, another factor at work here. Connelly writes detective novels and his protagonist, Hieronymus Bosch, is a character he uses a lot. Nineteen times, in fact. One reason a series character becomes popular is because of some bit of individuality that endears the character to the readers and makes him interesting. One of Bosch’s quirks is that he is a deeply philosophical man. He’s not just a guy who runs around solving crimes. He chooses to investigate only crimes that he has a philosophical interest in, usually an aspect of something he perceives as a character flaw in himself. Solving the crime is a way for Bosch to work out his own psychological problems. Which is the reason that Connelly’s novels transcend genre and can be considered literary as well as popular. They are as much about the inner psychological life of a character as they are about the crime to be solved.

We can see from the beginning that Bosch is a detective with a deep soul and a thoughtful, reflective mien. What the author chooses to reveal about his character is telling. This is a character worth knowing better—a character with depth.

We can also see from the beginning that there’s trouble ahead. The narrator has already told us he’s about to be engaged in a dark struggle, a struggle as much against himself as against his onstage adversary.

And so we read on. As will your readers, should you craft such a beguiling opening.

Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

*********************************************************************************************************************************

Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog, online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift book Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Sign up for Brian’s free Writer’s Digest eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

In explaining why he wrote his novels, the great writer Joseph Conrad once told his readers that it was so they could “glimpse the truth for which you have forgotten to ask.” These words no doubt resonate with many writers, but especially with those of us who choose faraway places and times for our settings, for often we are presenting realities the reader has never before imagined.

Guest post by Eliot Pattison, who has been described as a “writer of faraway mysteries,” a label which is particularly apt for someone whose travel and interests span a million miles of global trekking. An international lawyer by training, he is the author of three acclaimed mystery series. His Edgar award-winning Inspector Shan series explores his deep concerns for the people of Tibet and has been translated into over twenty languages around the world. Soul of the Fire, the 8^th book in the series has been selected by Publishers Weekly as one of the 20 best mysteries of 2014.  For more information, visit: www.eliotpattison.com.

It is hugely exciting to sit before the blank palette, or blank pad –yes, I still ink my first drafts in longhand—and begin to translate those unfamiliar worlds. But it is also a sober responsibility. Writing novels set among a distant people involves the same challenges as writing historical novels. Those of us who embrace those challenges not only must construct engaging storylines and characters, we must also create a world that is faithful to fact while still capturing the reader. Our audience trusts us not to mislead them about that world. In my Shan novels I have to weave together the threads of an obscure, traditional and very spiritual culture with those of a modern militaristic, often tyrannical government. If I exaggerate aspects of that world I breach that trust with my readers, so I am fastidious about keeping it real through my own experience, research and staying up to date on Tibetan affairs. My latest novel, Soul of the Fire, very much reflects events that are still breaking news. The danger of such efforts, however, is that they can overwhelm the story. There’s a fine balance here, in several dimensions. Becoming too much of a reporter turns the book into a sterile, impersonal account. Leaning too heavily on the cultural content turns it into a work of anthropology.

[Freelance Writing: 10 Ways to Satisfy Editors & Land More Assignments]

Those of us who work in this milieu have to bring the reader into that foreign culture, or distant time, in gradual, subtle ways, building on convincing, and engaging, characters. To be successful I have to ease my readers into that world, let them learn about it because they want to become part of my character’s treacherous, exhilarating journey. I want them to smell the incense on the altar and hear the boots of the secret police, but most of all I want them to feel the fear, to hunger for justice in a world where it is constantly denied, and to share simple joys through eyes they had never before imagined.

[Here's a crash course of tips for writers looking to break into copywriting.]

Long ago I discovered there are truths that cannot be dissected or reduced to journalistic accounts. It took much longer for me to understand that some truths are so evasive that only fiction can make them believable.

Boost your proposal-writing skills and chance of publication with
The Weekend Book Proposal. Jam-packed with proven strategies,
sample queries and proposals, and more, this book is a must-have.
Order it now and have your proposal finished in 48 hours!

Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog, online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift book Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Sign up for Brian’s free Writer’s Digest eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

By Brenda Janowitz

The most important part of your novel is the part that will never been seen by the reader.  It’s the part that’s just for you.  It’s the part that only you know.  Well, you and your character, that is.

It’s the character study.  You simply cannot write a good novel without knowing your characters inside and out.

This guest post is by Brenda Janowitz, author of Scot on the Rocks, Jack with a Twist and THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB. Her work has also appeared in the New York Post, Publisher’s Weekly, Long Island Woman Magazine, Mom.me, Hello Giggles, and xoJane. You can find her at brendajanowitz.com and on Twitter at @BrendaJanowitz.

There’s so many ways to do a character study.  It can be a letter your character writes to a friend, it can be a confession your character makes to her shrink, or it can even be a list of things you want to know about her.

Sometimes, when I’m away from my computer, I imagine my character walking around with me.  Long line at the drug store?  Hmm, how would my character react to that?  Friend late for lunch—would my character wait, or just walk out in a huff?  Car cut you off in traffic?  Would my character yell out loud, or take in it stride?

[Get your creative juices flowing by trying this 12-Day plan of simple writing exercises.]

Some writers like to tackle character studies before writing even a word of the book.  But for me, I like to dive into a book and just start free writing, figuring things out as I go.  Then, when the dreaded writer’s block inevitably sets in, that’s when I’m able to take a step back and think about what I’m writing.  There’s no need to step away from your computer—in fact, I find that when I’m blocked, walking away from the keyboard is the worst thing I can do.  It reinforces the idea that I’m blocked.  And writing begets writing, so don’t stop.

Novelist Gillian Flynn wrote the most quoted part of her blockbuster, GONE GIRL, as a character study.  (http://www.vulture.com/2014/10/gone-girls-gillian-flynn-on-cool-girls.html)  The “cool girl” speech was something she wrote when she was blocked, and it made its way into the finished product.

But your character studies don’t have to make their way into your WIP.  In fact, some people think they shouldn’t.  In my current WIP, my character studies became part of the first draft.  I felt it was important to give the reader the back stories on my enormous cast of characters, to fully flesh out all of the players.  My wonderful editor, Brenda Copeland, recently sent this great Stephen King quote to me:

“The most important things to remember about back story are that (a) everyone has a history and (b) most of it isn’t very interesting.” —Stephen King

I love that quote!  So, we cut the backstories.  Each and every one of them.  And it hurt.  Man, did it hurt!  But, you know what?  Their backstories didn’t change.  They just made their way into the narrative in a more organic way.  Because of those character studies, I know my characters inside and out, and I think that when an author really knows her characters, truly knows them at their core, that comes out in the writing.

[Writing a Hero's Adventure story? Here's a simple template you can apply to your own work-in-progress.]

With that in mind, here are the top 10 questions you need to be able to answer about each of your characters:

1. How old is she?  (And how old is she mentally?  Is she a 40 year old in the body of a sixteen year old, or vice versa?)
2. Did she have a happy childhood?  Why/why not?
3. Past/ present relationships?  How did they affect her?
4. What does she care about?
5. What is she obsessed with?
6. Biggest fear?
7. What is the best thing that ever happened to her?  The worst?
8. Most embarrasing thing that ever happened to her?
9. Biggest secret?
10. What is the one word you would use to define her?

What are some of your own questions that you ask yourself when it comes to character?  What do you think every author needs to know about her characters?

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Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog (The Writer’s Dig), the online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift book Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
Sign up for Brian’s free Writer’s Digest eNewsletter: WD Newsletter

I’ve been told to chill. “Don’t worry. Be happy,” they say. “It’s all good.”

I appreciate the cool, laissez-faire attitude, but I grew up alongside apathetic Gen Xers who were the first Internet trolls, the first gamers, the first Goths, and the first speed-metal heads who blasted Metallica’s For Whom the Bell Tolls. Now, Gen Xers might be considered dystopian downer dudes as we creep into middle age, but perhaps that sentiment will change when the government starts cutting up EBT cards and kicks us off the free, bitchin’ Santa Monica debt wave we’ve been riding for the last couple of fun-filled decades where “money for nothing, growth for free” pervaded. Like Jeff Spicoli (played by Sean Penn) saying, “I can fix it” when he smashes up Jefferson’s Trans-Am in the film Fast Times at Ridgemont High, governments often give us the same line with foreign and economic policy as they wander through the turnstiles of Congress passing the baton to the next set of anointed who continue making syrupy promises about our future. As the middleclass lives out the tale spun by Stephen King’s Thinner, we might find ourselves picking up a dystopian novel to relive our despondent youths. In other words, if you feel angry about the current political milieu, then you just might be a dystopian author.

This guest post is by Roderick Vincent, author of the upcoming Minutemen series about a dystopian America. The first novel, titled The Cause, was just published by Roundfire Books on November 28th 2014. A globetrotter, he has lived in the United States, England, and the Marshall Islands, and now resides in Geneva, Switzerland. His reviews and short stories have been published in Ploughshares, Straylight (University of Wisconsin, Parkside) and Offshoots (a Geneva publication). For more information, visit: www.roderickvincent.com.

In most cases, the dystopian genre explores a fictional future, tapping into present fears about the path society currently travels.   The art is in imagery of the not yet invented but easily imagined. It’s not a surprise the dystopian genre is often lumped together with science fiction (check out Amazon’s browse categories) where technology plays a crucial role. Robotics, nanotechnology, advanced artificial intelligence, cloning, and all other derivatives of advanced, imaginable technology are often used as colors on the canvass painted into a reader’s mind. In George Orwell’s 1984, the all-seeing Big Brother uses the telescreen. In Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, reproductive factories of the future are used to produce a limited number of citizens preordained to a caste-world void of pain.

1. As you’re writing dystopian fiction, think about how to take current technologies and extrapolate. When you have a vision of what that might look like, ask yourself how it changes the society that does not yet exist.

Other dystopian novels avoid the technological aspect, but drive one forward with a central theme (book burning with Fahrenheit 451, ultraviolence with A Clockwork Orange, and the cycle of revolution to despotism in Animal Farm).

[Want to land an agent? Here are 4 things to consider when researching literary agents.]

2. Discover what the central theme is and then explore it with indefatigable passion.

Better dystopian novels have two things in common:

3. The narrative pushes internal events to an extreme. Drive the plot forward so that at the climax, there is a big sense of doom. How are the characters taking us there? In dystopian, a lot of times resolution of the central conflict comes in death (The Road, 1984), but before that a force exists inside the story driving the reader towards the second crucial element:

4. The inherent message within closely associated with a burning fire inside the author’s stomach. In Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake, corporate domination led by biotech companies pushing the envelope of manufactured microorganisms (the theme) causes the inevitable collapse of mankind. The message: man is too smart for his own good; unfettered technological advancement without ethical consideration will have disastrous consequences. In The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, reality TV is pushed to a violent extreme (the theme). The message: gladiator games appealing to the masses distract from the true nature of the world within the thirteen districts. The Surveillance State in George Orwell’s 1984 is all pervasive (the theme). History is rewritten to suite Big Brother’s needs, and the nation is in a perpetual state of war (any of that sound familiar). The whole book is one big message warning us about the nature of totalitarianism.

[Here's how to turn traumatic experiences into fuel for your writing.]

Why do readers latch on to such pessimistic, futuristic novels instead of utopian works? Why are we dystopian downer dudes/dudettes? Perhaps the reason lies in what Nietzsche said, “If you wish to strive for peace of soul and pleasure, then believe; if you wish to be a devotee of truth, then inquire.”

5. Dystopia seeks to uncover truth in the morass of the present by projecting the problems of today into the future and amplifying them. When the author is successful at doing this, the writing immediately becomes more relevant.

Let’s face it, utopia is a bore. As readers, we sense utopia as innately unachievable. Humans aren’t wired for stories without conflict, and perfect-world scenarios are a bigger lie than the leap of faith it takes to jump us into dystopian futures. Likewise, we’ve lived the horrors of dystopia through two world wars. We’ve seen the gas chambers smoking, the walking skeletons griping barbed wire fences clinging for their lives, the groupthink and fascism, the thought control.

6. When writing in a dystopian genre where the future usually isn’t so bright, one can draw on horrific examples of the past for macabre imagery. Keep in mind, almost all dystopian fiction uses stark, depressing imagery within the prose. What is crucial is to create something unique that will stick in reader’s minds.

[Here's a great article on how to structure a killer novel ending.]

Much more based in the reality we know and understand, dystopia magnetizes a reader’s sense of fatalism when we speak of hopelessly deadlocked politics and looming social and economic problems we all see habitually. The battlefield spreads itself wide and far in dystopian novels, where the imagination can dive into futuristic minefields. Considering the current political landscape and where we seem to be headed, a resurgence of the adult dystopian theme is inevitable (young adult seems to be already saturated and lacks a certain tie to the present in most cases).

7. The key to writing great dystopian fiction is to entrench yourself in current affairs. Does it piss you off? If so, then the fire in the belly will help you create great prose. Can you transfer it to paper? After each passing day, the narrative lie becomes the inkling of truth. Militarization of the police force, Ferguson, Edward Snowden and his NSA revelations, BigDogs, Petman and advanced robotics, crony capitalism and a ballooning kleptocracy in a perpetual state of war are all spicy ingredients for the next dystopian stew. Will you be the one to write it? I don’t know, but you as the author have a chance to say something, to slam home a point, so don’t let the opportunity slip away. How do you see the world differently and how can you express that through your characters without writing a diatribe on your beliefs? Therein lies the art of dystopian fiction.

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Brian A. Klems is the editor of this blog (The Writer’s Dig), the online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift book Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

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One of the easiest ways to learn what makes a good, standard query letter is simply to see an example of one that does its job well. If you write fiction or narrative nonfiction, a query letter is your first (and often, your only) chance to get an agent interested in reading (and, with hope, signing) your work. You should put just as much care and attention into crafting and polishing your query as you did into your manuscript. After all, if your pitch doesn’t hit its mark, your book will never leave your desktop.

The main objective of a query is simple: Make the agent care enough about your protagonist and your plot that she wants to read more.

Following is a successful query for a middle-grade novel that led to me first requesting this full manuscript and later signing on to represent the author, Dianna Dorisi Winget. Her debut book, A Smidgen of Sky, went on to sell to Harcourt and hits shelves this fall.

No matter what you’re writing—fantasy, thriller, sci-fi, romance—or whether you’re writing for children or adults, there’s a lot you can learn from this example about conveying characters clearly and getting an agent invested in your story in just one short page.

—by Mary Kole

Example of a Query Letter

Dear Ms. Kole,

[1] According to your agency’s website you’re actively seeking middle-grade fiction, so I’m pleased to introduce my novel, A Smidgen of Sky. [2] This novel won me a scholarship to attend the Highlights Foundation Writers Workshop at Chautauqua. It was also awarded honorable mention in the Smart Writers W.I.N. Competition.

[3] A Smidgen of Sky is the story of ten-year-old Piper Lee DeLuna, a spunky, impulsive dreamer, whose fierce devotion to her missing father is threatened by her mother’s upcoming remarriage.

[4] Everyone else has long accepted her father’s death, but the fact that his body was never recovered from his wrecked plane leads to Piper’s dream that he might one day reappear and free her from the secret guilt she harbors over his accident. Her stubborn focus leaves no room in her affections for her mother’s fiancé, Ben, or his princess-like daughter, Ginger.

[5] Determined to stop the wedding, Piper Lee schemes up “Operation Finding Tina”—a sure plan to locate Ben’s ex-wife and get the two of them back together. But just as Piper succeeds with step one of her plan, a riot breaks out at the prison where Ben works, and suddenly nothing seems sure.

[6] Since middle-graders care deeply about things and people and love to daydream about their future, I think readers will identify with Piper Lee and find her an appealing heroine as she learns that you can both cherish the past and embrace the future.

[7] This story, set in the coastal region of Georgia, runs about 33,000 words and is somewhat similar in tone to Kate DiCamillo’s Because of Winn-Dixie.

[8] I’m a 1990 graduate of the Institute of Children’s Literature and my work has been published in U*S* Kids, Child Life, Columbia Kids, True Love, Guide and StoryPlus.

Thanks very much for your time. I have included the first ten pages and look forward to hearing from you.

Truly yours,
Dianna Winget

Agent Comments on Query Letter Example

[1] This is pretty basic personalization, but it shows me that Dianna did her research. In your query, make it clear that you’ve done your homework and are querying this particular agent with good reason. Agents like to see signs that you’re a savvy writer who is deliberate about the submission process—that bodes well for your working style, should we partner with you in the future.

[2] It’s unusual to lead with accolades, but in the children’s world, the Highlights Chautauqua workshop is a big deal, so this got my attention. If you have similar achievements, by all means, shout them from your opening paragraph! If not, just dive right in and start telling me about your novel.

[3] In setting up your story, you absolutely must convey a sense of what your main character wants most in the world, and of what’s standing in her way, as Dianna does here. We care about Piper Lee right away
because we know what she cares about, and this is key.

[4] We get a good sense of Piper’s character here; it’s important that your query not just flatly tell us about your characters, but show us who they are. The conflict (another essential element of all compelling fiction) rises when the fiancé and future stepsister are introduced. Dianna does a great job of establishing her protagonist’s denial, and she’s already built a lot of tension when she hints at what will soon shatter it. This further demonstrates that her story is driven by strong character motivations—just as any good page-turner should be.

[5] This gutsy scheme teaches me even more about Piper Lee. It’s also bound to have some disastrous consequences, and that’s exactly what agents want to see in a novel: strong actions, strong ramifications, and lots of emotions tied to each.

[6] This is a bit of self-analysis that I wish writers wouldn’t indulge in when writing queries. Dianna could’ve easily left this paragraph out (especially the vague “since middle-graders care deeply about things and people”) and let the strength of the story speak for itself. Of course you think the book is thematically resonant and that readers will love it—you wrote it! So refrain from editorializing. That said, this still makes this letter a great example to show here—because it’s proof that even a query faux pas won’t result in an instant rejection. If you sell your story well enough, agents will overlook small missteps.

[7] This simple sentence is a great and concise summary of necessary information. When you query, be sure to include the stats of your manuscript (genre, target audience, word count, etc.) and any relevant comparative titles—with a caveat: Be sure to highlight a comp title only if it helps the agent get an accurate picture of the style of your story and if it doesn’t smack of delusions of grandeur. Claiming you’re “James Patterson meets Dan Brown” is useless. Dianna’s comparison here was quite apt and, again, made her seem savvy—and realistic.

[8] The bio paragraph and sign-off are short and sweet, and that’s really all we need. If you’ve hit on the basics well and conveyed the essence of your story and why it’s a good fit for that particular agent, you’ve done all you can to entice us to request the full manuscript.

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It’s hard to imagine Ernest Hemingway sitting down at his desk every morning to tweet and blog before, say, diving into a new chapter of The Sun Also Rises. … Or is it? While such a revered author seems as if he would have been far above joining the social media scrum of pet photos and one-liners about Miley Cyrus’ latest antics, he did have a good handle (for a mid-20th-century guy) on what we now call “self-branding.” Hemingway—and many other writers known as much for their personas as for their books—knew how to present the kind of image that makes a lasting impression. It’s not a stretch to envision exactly what we’d see on @papahem’s Instagram (pics of him and F. Scott Fitzgerald tying one on at a Gertrude Stein party, perhaps?). And his famously terse style would have made him an ace on Twitter.

Here are six lessons Hemingway and the other all-time greats can teach us about the modern concept of personal branding.

Photo by A. Jesse Jiryu Davis

This gust post is by Jennifer Keishin Armstrong, who spent a decade on staff at Entertainment Weekly, co-founded SexyFeminist.com, and now writes for several publications, including Glamour; O, The Oprah Magazine; Fast Company; and New York’s Vulture.com. Her history of “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” Mary and Lou and Rhoda and Ted, was published in May.

1. Know what your individual writing style says about you, and lean into that.

Hemingway’s writing is characterized as no-nonsense and muscular (The New York Times’ 1926 review of The Sun Also Rises called his style “a lean, hard, athletic narrative prose that puts more literary English to shame”), traits that mirrored his image as the ultimate masculine scribe. (In real life, he was known to respond to criticism with a good old-fashioned punch, and to fish with a machine gun to scare away tuna-eating sharks.) The takeaway for post-Millennium writers? Be yourself, on the page and off. Embrace that persona, and be consistent. If you’re funny in your prose, use humor in your blog posts, social media updates, presentations, readings—everywhere you’re presenting your public image. Same goes for the serious, laid-back, brassy, girly or gruff.

2. Throw great gatherings.

Gertrude Stein was known as much for her Paris literary salons, which included such guests as Hemingway and Ezra Pound, as she was for her unique prose. Gatherings are how you make connections and become known among your peers, who will in turn help promote you and your work. But you don’t need a great Parisian pad to pull it off. A modern-day Stein could organize regular readings with talented colleagues, plan meet-ups at conferences, or host impromptu Twitter discussions or Google Hangouts with fellow authors—anything that puts you in great company.

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3. Live your work.

Fitzgerald and his subject matter were one and the same, and he was famous for it: He won uppercrust wife Zelda’s heart by becoming a literary success (shades of Gatsby), and the two became notorious for their partying ways (shades of all of Fitzgerald’s work). In today’s terms, that means that if you write books about seeking spirituality, you should be blogging about your week spent at an ashram or your month on silent retreat; if you write about socialites, post social media updates live from the Upper East Side soirées you frequent. (Just don’t take it all too far: Fitzgerald’s success allowed him to marry the woman he loved, but it also eventually drove him to alcoholism, debt and an early death.)

4. Be witty.

Dorothy Parker’s quotes (“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to”) are popular Tumblr memes for a reason. She sharpened her wit, and helped her words go “viral” by hanging with other writers at the Algonquin Round Table—where her colleagues heard her bon mots and then passed them on via their own writing in The New Yorker and other publications. These days, being like Parker is easier than ever: Simply broadcast your own witticisms—and make sure the right people see them and share them. Cultivate a following by retweeting, complimenting, tagging and otherwise engaging with names both great and small.

[Get Query Help: Click here for The 10 Dos and Don'ts of Writing a Query Letter]

5. Corner a market.

In early 19th-century England, Jane Austen wrote about the personal struggles of women on the lower end of the landed gentry—essentially upper-middle-class ladies—like no one else. By doing so, she distinguished her work, the legacy of which would only grow with time, translating surprisingly well to modern-day formats (Clueless and Bridget Jones’s Diary are among the many contemporary takes on Austen). If you become a go-to source for stories (real or fictional) about a specific time, place, class or social group, your following may be large or small—but it will be loyal. The readers who devour your work will be enthusiasts who talk it up to friends online and in real life.

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6. Make yourself scarce.

Then again, on the flip side to all this, becoming a mysterious recluse has its privileges, as J.D. Salinger proved. … Of course, this approach requires that you first write a novel as brilliant as The Catcher in the Rye. Do that, and you’re free to sign off of all social media and swear off interviews, thus cultivating your mythic persona.

For the rest of us, though, there’s always Twitter.

Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

The Writer’s Dig is edited by Brian A. Klems. the online editor of Writer’s Digest and author of the popular gift book Oh Boy, You’re Having a Girl: A Dad’s Survival Guide to Raising Daughters.

Follow Brian on Twitter: @BrianKlems
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How, strategically speaking, should you begin your novel? When a reader reads your first chapter, what should she find?

There are four primary approaches for beginning a successful novel. Probably more, including some highly experimental ones, but these are the classic main four. Run your story idea through the filter of each of these and see if one of them feels right for your book.

This post is by Jeff Gerke, an award-winning editor of fiction and non-fiction and the author of six novels, five non-fiction books and the co-author or ghostwriter of numerous other books. He is the author of The First 50 Pages and Write Your Novel in a Month, which is excerpted in this piece. Visit him at jeffgerke.com.

1. The Prologue Beginning

A prologue is an episode that pertains to your story but does not include the hero (or includes the hero at a time well before the story proper begins, when he’s a child). It might not be “Chapter 1” per se, but it can serve as a legitimate opening—if it works.

For example, the film Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (I often use film and television examples when I teach because they illustrate so perfectly the concepts of storytelling and are so universal) begins with a prologue in which two of our main heroes first meet each other as children. Our heroes are onstage, but they’re not at the age they’ll be for the story proper.

Mulan begins with a prologue that establishes the villain, the stakes and the ticking time bomb. The action is contemporaneous with the scene that introduces our heroine, but she is not onstage, and she does not become aware of the danger until deeper into the story.

Game of Thrones (the HBO series based on George R.R. Martin’s novels) begins with a prologue showing less-than-minor characters discovering a new danger in the land. Ghostbusters begins with a prologue showing a nonprimary character who sees a ghost, which provides the need for the Ghostbusters to form. The 2009 version of Star Trek begins with the arrival of a terrifying new enemy vessel that can destroy whole fleets, and our heroes haven’t even been born yet.

In these cases, we see some of the ways a prologue-style opening can help your story. These examples also illustrate why it’s one of the most popular ways to open a novel. A prologue can establish why things are as they are in the world of your story, and why the character is the way he is when the main action begins. And a prologue can even hint at or reveal the danger that will soon sweep over the hero’s life.

[Want to land an agent? Here are 4 things to consider when researching literary agents.]

As you probably know, we’re in disputed territory when we talk about prologues. Many fiction experts tell writers never to write a prologue, while others (like me) say prologues are great.

The Anti-Prologuers argue that: 1) No one reads prologues; 2) Prologues are just dumping grounds for backstory; and 3) Prologues prevent you from getting to the main action of the story.

The Pro-Prologuers (Pro-Loguers?) contend that: 1) 95 percent of fiction readers do read prologues; 2) Any portion of a book that is a dumping ground for backstory should be cut—not because it has the word prologue at the top but because telling instead of showing is lazy writing; and 3) Prologues allow you to set the right tone for your novel without having your protagonist onstage doing something heroic.

Can beginning with a prologue engage your reader? Yes. Can it be done so poorly that it disengages the reader? Also yes. It’s not an issue of right or wrong. If your prologue engages the reader, it’s a good thing, and if your prologue disengages the reader, it’s a bad thing.

2. The Hero Action Beginning

In a hero action beginning, the hero is onstage, doing something active and interesting related to the launching of the core story (it need not involve explosions and car chases, but it certainly can).

Groundhog Day begins with Phil Connors onstage giving a (sarcastic) weather report. WALL-E begins with WALL-E onstage doing his daily routine of garbage collecting and compacting. Juno begins with Juno walking through the neighborhood, drinking SunnyD, on her way to the corner store to buy a pregnancy test. Nearly every James Bond story begins with 007 performing some amazing derring-do. What About Bob? begins with Bob going through his neurotic morning rituals.

The hero action beginning is the other most common way to begin a story. Only the rarest of story ideas can’t manage a hero action beginning. Unless your hero is catatonic or incarcerated in a hole or the like, I’m certain you can come up with something interesting for him to do at the start of the novel.

[Did you know there are 7 reasons writing a novel makes you a badass? Read about them here.]

But remember to ask yourself how much of a stretch is it to show that action. And would a prologue (or some other approach) help you more than a hero action beginning? Now you’re thinking strategically about your story—an excellent and essential thing to do.

Some books lend themselves naturally to a hero action beginning. If the protagonist is a superhero when the story begins, you can start the novel by having her save the earth. If he’s a football player, show him on the field in a big game. If she’s a karate champion, show her winning a tournament.

But if your hero isn’t a hero yet or isn’t yet in a position to show it—or if you simply prefer to establish your villain and time bomb in a prologue—perhaps the hero action beginning isn’t right for your book. Mulan begins with a prologue because the protagonist isn’t yet in any kind of heroic capacity. Mulan is feeding chickens on the family farm—not necessarily an interesting introduction. The writers could’ve invented a way for her to be heroic at the outset, but they chose not to, and I agree with their choice.

Don’t force a hero action beginning. We all could make up something for our heroes to do as the book begins. But if it feels like a stretch or a cliché, choose another approach.

3. The In Medias Res Beginning

In medias res is a Latin phrase meaning “in the middle of things.” It’s one of the less common ways to begin a novel, but it can definitely be effective.

With in medias res, you start at a point deep in the story, show a bit of activity to intrigue the reader, and then jump back to an earlier, quieter part in the story. It’s the opposite of the prologue beginnings that show an early episode from the hero’s life. In this case, you show a later episode, and then you hit the rewind button and spend some or all of the rest of the book catching up to that moment.

Battle: Los Angeles begins with U.S. military helicopters flying over a Los Angeles under attack from alien beasties. We see the faces of some soldiers in the helicopters, but we don’t know who these people are. We’re just getting the uh-oh feeling about what we’re seeing, and then the movie skips back 24 hours. It’s a good distance into the plot before we get back to that helicopter moment. And when we do, this time we know what’s going on and who those people are. That’s an in medias res beginning.

The film version of One Day (based on David Nicholls’ novel of the same name), starring Anne Hathaway, uses the in medias res beginning. It opens with Anne’s character happily riding a bicycle through the streets of Paris. Then we jump back about 20 years. It’s a long time before we catch up to her joyride.

Why isn’t in medias res used more often? Part of the reason is because it can be perceived as a gimmick. Sometimes it gives readers that same ripped-off feeling they get when they read a novel that begins with a dream. It can also sacrifice suspense for that whole portion of the story until you catch up with the first moment.

Think about it: If you see the main character alive and well in what you now realize is a future moment, how nervous are you going to be when she gets into danger? I mean, you know she lives, right, at least up to the in medias res moment? An in medias res opening can deflate the tension the way a hole deflates a tire.

One benefit, however, of in medias res is that once you do catch up with that opening moment, especially if it’s taken a long time to get there, the reader is given an injection of fictive adrenaline. Before now, everything has been relatively safe. It’s been within the protective confines of story time when you know the hero is fine. But when you get to that moment, and especially when you surpass it, everything changes. Dramatically.

[Understanding Book Contracts: Learn what’s negotiable and what’s not.]

Now that you know these soldiers and see what’s been happening on the ground, all of a sudden you don’t know if you want them flying in to attack. Now that you care about that Parisian bicyclist, you’re concerned about what’s going to happen to her when she rounds that corner.

The payoff of the in medias res beginning is that thrilling moment of angst you give your reader when you reach that point and go beyond it. The tension shoots through the roof.

Consider your story: Is that the sort of risk/payoff pathway you’d love to send your novel and your readers on? The risk is that you may bore your readers if things are too slow before you catch up to that opening moment. The payoff is that breathless feeling of performing without a net that you give readers who stay with you. The choice is yours.

4. The Frame Device

The final major way of beginning your first chapter is to use a frame device. In this, your story is bookended on the front and back (and usually a few instances in the middle) by a story that is outside the main story. The primary tale is framed by this other story.

The Princess Bride (the novel and the film, both of which were written by William Goldman) is a frame-device story. The movie begins with a kid playing a video game. He’s staying home from school because he’s sick. His grandfather comes over and offers to read the boy a book to pass the time. Whenever he reads the book, the movie switches over to the main story, a fantasy swashbuckling adventure. Throughout the story, we cut back to the grandfather and boy, where we get commentary on the story and see a bond developing between them. Then it’s back to the fantasy world. The movie ends in the modern day as well.

Another example of a film that uses the frame device is Titanic. The story the audience cares most about is the historical tale of Rose and Jack and Cal onboard the doomed ocean liner. But we access that story through the device of an old woman (Rose) in the present. There’s a minor story going on in the modern day—they’re searching for a jewel she had while on the ship—but the real drama is the historical part. Now and then during the story we cut back to Old Rose, and the movie also ends with her, but our interest is in the other set of circumstances.

Would a frame device work for your story? One reason to consider a frame device is that you’re concerned a modern reader simply wouldn’t care deeply enough about your primary topic. If it’s too far removed from where they are in their lives, you might use a frame device to show someone very much like the reader (a kid playing a video game, for instance) coming to enjoy the main tale. Show someone like us getting involved in the story, and maybe we’ll go with you as well.

Another great thing about the frame device is that you can use it to make large jumps in time in your primary story. If you need to jump 10 years, just cut back to the frame story and have the narrator say, “It went pretty much like that for the next 10 years. Until finally …” and then return to the story. The frame device can act like a DJ transitioning between songs.

Why don’t authors use a frame device more often? I think it’s because it sometimes involves people who are out of danger and out of the action, which isn’t especially engaging. The instinct of most writers is to skip the frame and go straight to what’s inside it, and I agree. But there are good reasons to use a frame device in certain situations, and if you show movement or growth in the frame story, too, you can achieve something special.

Consider your choices, and then choose the beginning that fits naturally with the story you want to tell. If you approach your first chapter from a strategic standpoint, you have a better chance of maximizing your novel’s potential—and engaging the reader from the very beginning.

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For several years I labored in the agent fields, trying to harvest one for my book on helping doctoral candidates finish their dissertations. My approach, I was sure, was new, based on my longtime practice of coaching doctoral students and editing their dissertation drafts.

I also knew from much research, and the students themselves, that the traditional dissertation-writing handbooks largely ignored the major subjects of my book—the emotional and interpersonal troubles students come up against in achieving this difficult goal. These aspects can trip them up as much as not knowing the right chapter headings or correct scholarly jargon.

In my quest for an agent, I mined the writing annuals, sites, reviews, and interviews for anyone with a hint of graduate education and interest in self-help. Amassing a thick file, I wrote to every one of them. All I gleaned were a few compliments and plenty of good lucks.

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This guest post is by author, editor, writing coach, and spiritual counselor, Noelle Sterne, who has published more than 300 pieces in print and online venues, including  Author Magazine, Funds for Writers, Children’s Book Insider,  Inspire Me Today, Transformation Magazine, Unity Magazine, Writer’s Digest, The Writer, and Women on Writing. With a Ph.D. from Columbia University, Noelle has for over 28 years assisted doctoral candidates in completing their dissertations (finally). Based on her practice, her handbook addresses dissertation writers’ overlooked but very important nonacademic difficulties. Challenges in Writing Your Dissertation: Coping with the Emotional, Interpersonal, and Spiritual Struggles will be published by Rowman & Littlefield Education in 2015. In her book Trust Your Life: Forgive Yourself and Go After Your Dreams (Unity Books, 2011), Noelle draws examples from her academic consulting and other aspects of life to help readers release regrets, relabel their past, and reach their lifelong yearnings. Her webinar about the book is on YouTube:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=95EeqllONIQ&feature=youtu.be  Noelle invites you to visit her website: trustyourlifenow.com
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Dogged Doing

I kept at it, following all leads. I also continued to rethink the book and refocus the premises. I reflected on how many of my clients not only shared their emotional turmoils and relationship problems with me (dissertations often, unfortunately, precipitate divorces) but also admitted that they needed a more spiritual approach in their torturous graduate school journey. After repeated academic sucker punches, they would gingerly assert their faith in a power higher than their dissertation chair.

Spirituality and scholarship don’t often mix. Some of the nursing journals publish a few articles on spiritual qualities and practices (nurses are, after all, helpers and healers). But such a topic for dissertation help in academic circles is generally frowned on or completely shunned.

Today, though, the spiritual is popping up everywhere else, with spiritual-oriented books making bestseller lists, spiritual-themed movies making box office history, and even meditation techniques making the Internet homepages and supermarket magazine covers.

Clients shared with me much personal evidence on the effectiveness of spiritual techniques. I reflected too on my own use of spiritual practices to help students solve the problems their doctoral committees threw at them. So, heartened (and praying), I summoned the courage to incorporate another component in my book in addition to the emotional and interpersonal—the spiritual.

I revised the outline, reworked the chapter synopses, refined the introduction, and restructured the entire proposal. And wrote to more agents.

Nada.

Practitioner, Practice Thyself

Never mind, I thought. As I advised clients, I told myself to keep affirming success. And as I also advised clients, I kept visualizing myself working on the book daily. I also revisited the buoying words of one graciously rejecting agent: “You’ll publish this book in no time.”

During a meditation session, an idea surfaced: switch gears from submitting my proposal to agents and go directly to academic presses. This may not seem like an astounding revelation. But please understand: as a primarily nonacademic writer I’ve always craved an agent—the undisputable symbol, I’ve believed, of finally gaining credibility as a writer.

Following my inner guidance and doing more research, I drew up a list of academic publishers, all reputable, all stalwart. Each had its own proposal guidelines, and I dutifully filled in the blanks and sent the first out.

Speed Emailing

From here, things happened unbelievably fast. You probably won’t believe the chronology, so I chronicle the specifics.

• Tuesday night, 7:17 pm: sighing, back aching, I emailed the proposal to the first publisher.
• Wednesday morning, 8:52 am (seeing address and suppressing incipient elation): I opened the email from the vice-president/publisher asking me how this book would be different from the other three they most recently published, and another due out in two months.
• Wednesday afternoon, 12:29 pm (more research, no lunch): Drafted my reply and checked for typos. Sent!
• Wednesday afternoon, 1:28p: (between gulping sandwich bites and guzzling water): Opened his email: “Very convincing.” I then read, holding onto my desk chair arms so I wouldn’t faint, that they wanted to offer me a contract. “Delighted to have you as one of our authors.” I let go of the chair arms and floated to the ceiling.
• Wednesday afternoon, 1:30 pm: Two minutes later, surprised, I opened this email. The sandwich stuck in my throat. The projected length, he said, would make the book too big and expensive for the very audience I was aiming at, graduate students. And the original title was too long and amorphous and lacked good searchable words. He asked me to suggest alternate titles that “reflect the book’s purpose.” I slid under my desk chair.
• Wednesday evening, 7:41 pm: All day avoiding the latest request, and incidentally attending to a couple of clients’ dissertations, I finally squeezed out three alternate titles. Sighing mightily, I agreed to cut the book length and sent off the email.
• Thursday morning, 8:17 am: He thanked me for agreeing to cut the text and suggested another alternative to my three alternative titles.
• Thursday afternoon, 3:20 pm: After ruminating and chewing on the edges of several research books, I suggested yet other alternatives to his alternative alternative titles (was this a verbal pissing contest?). And waited.
• Friday, 10:00 am: He chose one of the alternative alternatives with a modification.
• Friday, 2:32 pm: I agreed with his choice and suggested a slight remodification (couldn’t appear a complete marshmallow).
• Friday, 2:46 pm: He thanked me and considered it settled. He added,
• “Ready to go, then!” I stood on my desk chair and shouted.
• Friday, 4:06 pm: From his associate, in my inbox appeared a passel of forms, information, tips, and THE CONTRACT. I ran into my husband’s office screaming and jumping to the ceiling.

* * * * * *

How Long?

All this took place in less than a work week—faster than I could ever have imagined. Well, let me correct that: less than a week—and several years. My proposal had to “sit” before I was ready to see it anew and change my focus. I also had to be ready to take the daring leap to include what I consider a major facet of my work, the spiritual.

I knew too that the many proposal revisions had increasingly brought out my expertise in the subject, and my passion for the project became evident. I believe the publisher liked these qualities, as well as my quick replies. I commend him too, an academic publisher, for not being put off by my audacious inclusion of the spiritual. His responses bolstered my conviction that during the many steps to book production we would have a simpatico relationship.

As I now absorb the miracle of this lightning proposal-to-contract, from under my desk I drag out the carton of materials, and from my computer open the windows of swelling collection of files, notes, and articles. And the work begins.

P.S. A bonus: One of the agents who had complimented the work earlier invited me to keep her informed. On Contract Friday, once I simmered down, I wrote her with the news. She then agreed to represent me! So, my toiling in the agent fields bore serendipitous—and wonderful—fruit!

Don’t be boring. That’s it. The shortest article you’ll ever read on how to write for television.

Okay, so maybe there’s a little more to it. You want to write a TV show. Start with the right format. Find a copy of a teleplay – from a book on TV writing or look on Google – pick a show you like and you’ll probably be able to track down a sample script. Invest in a good scriptwriting program – I like Movie Magic Screenwriter, but other writers prefer Final Draft. (Yes, this sounds insanely obvious, but occasionally I see scripts in the wrong format and that screams “unprofessional.” And while we’re talking about unprofessional, double-check your grammar and spelling. If people see your/you’re used incorrectly on the first page there’s a good chance your script will get tossed straight in the loser pile.)

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This guest post is by award-winning writer and producer Ann Lewis Hamilton has written for TV and film. Her TV credits include, among others, “Haven,” “The Dead Zone, “Grey’s Anatomy,” “Saved,” “Providence,” “Party of Five,” and “thirtysomething.” She was twice nominated for an Emmy award, and was the winner of a WGA Award and the Humanitas Prize. She grew up in Staunton, Virginia, in a house full of typewriters – her grandfather was the editor of the local newspaper where her father worked as a reporter and her mother wrote for the society page. Ann’s goal was to write and draw for MAD magazine, but instead she graduated with a BA from the University of Virginia and an MFA from UCLA. Expecting is her first novel. Visit her at www.AnnLewisHamilton.com.
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Story.

Be original. Be fearless and take chances. Write something you’re passionate about. Don’t make the mistake many networks do – “Hey, Homeland is a big hit, let’s make another show exactly like Homeland.” If your favorite show is Walking Dead, that’s fine. But don’t write a version of Walking Dead. Write something different, something that will stand out.

Outlines.

I would rather be dipped in a vat of boiling Velveeta cheese than write an outline. But the sad truth – although they’re tedious to do, you need them. I usually start with a short description of the show I’m writing – “Kenna, an average high school student living in Los Angeles, wakes up to discover she has the ability to fly.” (I made up this as an example. I’m not saying it’s is Emmy-worthy, in fact it’s pretty sucky.) The structure of an hour TV episode has changed over the years – from three acts to four, to five acts with a teaser. Let’s go with a teaser and five acts. With the teaser you want to hook an audience – a high school girl can suddenly fly? Whoa. Now dive into your acts. A lot of set up in the first act – Kenna’s family, her life at home, at school, her friends. Does she keep her ability to fly a secret? Look carefully at your act outs – end each one with something that will make the audience want to come back. If you figure out your act outs and your amazing ending, the script writes itself.

No, it doesn’t. Only in a dream world. As much as we’d like it to, a script never writes itself. But having a solid outline helps.

Characters.

When I was starting out, a very smart studio executive gave me a list of things to ask about each character. The list is on an index card next to my computer and I still use it. What is a character’s long-term goal, short-term goal. What is a character most afraid of. Biggest secret. Who do they love the most, hate the most. If you can answer these questions, you’ll be able to understand your characters.

Dialogue.

Listen to people talking. Write down things you hear people say. When you’re writing, say your dialogue out loud, even if your pets and children look at you like you’re insane. “Mommy’s a writer,” remind them. If your dialogue sounds clunky and formal, rewrite it. Don’t give your characters too many words or dialogue actors can play like, “I’m sad and gloomy.” Subtext is always better than text.

Looking to write a TV script (or movie script, for that matter)?
Check out Final Draft 9, software that helps you format your script and more.
Order it from our sister shop, The Writers Store at a heavily discounted price.

Description.

Less is more. Remember Kenna, our flying high school girl? What does her bedroom look like? Messy, clean, movie posters? All pink or all black? Don’t go on and on. Aim for short and sweet.

Description of characters. Less is more. Attractive, missing one leg, too many tattoos. 20ish. Mid-30s. Some writers use actors as comparison – “A Jennifer Lawrence type.” I don’t like that. I prefer to let the reader imagine the character in their head.

Scenes.

Don’t forget that each scene has a beginning, middle, and an end. That sounds basic, but it will help when you write.

Write your script for an audience. Be entertaining, let the people reading your script enjoy the experience. Try to surprise them – remember the goal is to keep them turning the pages. You want them to get to the end and say, “Wow, this is awesome. It should be a TV series.”

And you never know. It can happen to you if you keep writing and rewriting. (And don’t be boring.)

Thanks for visiting The Writer’s Dig blog. For more great writing advice, click here.

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