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I’ve found that the greatest threat to us writers is not the well of creativity running dry or time running out before we can finish our latest work or some other writer stealing our million dollar idea. The greatest threat to us lives within us. It is our own fear.
We need not bow to fear. If we can survive its initial surge, it will pass and we can get back to work unhindered. Here are three ways I survive the surge of fear.
It’s that time of year again! Time for endless cups of coffee, ink-stained fingers, and scattered pages of manic notes. While NaNoWriMo is a fun, exhilarating time for thousands of writers, it’s also daunting. Some of us still have school or full-time jobs. Thanksgiving and Christmas are right around the corner. How in the world are you supposed to find the time to squeeze in your writing?
Some of you may have noticed that the esteemed Mr. Gaiman is my favorite living author. Even if he’s not everyone’s cup of tea, it’s hard not to notice him: books, graphic novels, award after award—the man is prolific and very good at what he does. So when I realized he had eight rules of writing, you better believe I beelined to read them. And guess what? They’re fantastic … with a few explanations. Read on for more.
A couple weeks ago, I attended an author talk with Colson Whitehead at Politics & Prose in D.C.
The author has been writing novels for 18 years, but recently he’s been getting a lot of attention because his new book, The Underground Railroad, was inducted into Oprah’s coveted Book Club. The book is about the escape from slavery to freedom in the antebellum south, but it also has fantastical elements—a literal underground railroad that exposes the protagonist to different worlds at each station.
Here are five tips I gleaned from his talk.
We all know that feeling. You’ve been slaving over a story. You’re twitchy with caffeine. Your family hasn’t heard from you for hours, or even days.
But then you finish!
If you’re like most writers, you’re thrilled. You’ve just poured your heart and soul into this and you want some sweet affirmation after all your hard work.
So as you share your work, you ask a seemingly innocent question: “Is it good?”
This question may seem harmless enough. But this is a dangerous question, and if you want to become a better storyteller and write stories that actually ARE good, you need to stop asking if your work is “good” and pursue a much different route.
As writers, there is no replacement for reading as a practice to become a better writer, but studying film or television can be just as instructive.
Ultimately we’re building models for our own work by asking one critical question. What if that one question could make you a stronger reader, viewer, and ultimately writer?
This is a question I hear a lot: How do I start my story? The answer is simple, but not easy. Got your diving mask on? Here we go!
Have you ever used a word for years — like, maybe during your thesis defense or in a high-profile report for work — then realized one day that you had it totally wrong? That big word you thought was making you look so erudite was, in fact, working against you. Turns out, coif is not the same as coiffure, and you never even realized it.
No one is immune from this, neither journalists nor poets, essayists nor novelists. The problem often stems from our natural inclination as writers to grab hold of an exciting new word and just run with it. Not only do we end up using words just plain wrong, our enthusiasm leads to overuse as well.
By slowing down just a little bit, recognizing common pitfalls, and inserting some deliberate practice into your vocabulary usage, you can turn this trend around.
One of the key signs of a well-written character is when the reader is able to identify them with a single line of dialogue. It’s that feeling of I’d know that character anywhere. How are authors able to perfect this art? By finding their voice.
The standard rule is this: “show, don’t tell.” Instead of telling your reader that Jane is “sad,” show the reader by describing Jane’s demeanor, her tears, etc. You’re supposed to allow the reader to experience Jane’s sadness with her.
But in a 80,000 word manuscript, chances are you’ll do at least some telling. The temptation to “tell” usually arises when you need to share background information, summarize events, or provide context for what’s happening.
