0.00 Introduction
I’ll always remember the first time I got real feedback on a manuscript.
Ever since childhood, I’d penned stories for myself in secret, never comfortable or confident enough to believe they were worth anyone’s eyes. I’d spent my schooling years being told by teachers and professors that I was a decent writer but had sparse opportunity to nurture that skill. As the student always paired with the jock who couldn’t so much as indent a paragraph, I felt saddled with the burden of educating others when I was there to learn, myself, and grew to resent those “peer review” sessions. I’d mark up their typos and scratch in thoughtful suggestions to their margins, point out the strengths of their essays, and by the time we swapped back, all I saw was the same unmarked page I’d handed them. My partner would mutter something like, “It was good,” which apparently released them of all obligation. The imbalance frustrated me to no end. How in the world was I supposed to build up any confidence in my writing when all I had was my own words staring back at me? In that void of insight, I fostered a paranoia that anyone who said I could write was lying to me. Compliments were cop outs, tossed around to spare my feelings or spare themselves the effort.
Fast forward a handful of years, when I’d at last given myself permission to write out loud, finish a story and timidly place it in front of others, I connected briefly with some friend of a friend who knew an editor. She didn’t read within my genre, wouldn’t have picked it up by choice, but she offered a few glancing notes on a sample of my work nonetheless. I braced for the sting of reality—or worse, more empty compliments—only to be faced with something phenomenal: feedback. Not scathing or belittling, not this drop of a shoe I’d dreaded all my academic life, just simple, honest feedback pointing out a small handful of issues. I dove back into editing my book, euphoric from the thrill of at last having a sense of direction.
The sheer impact a few kindly worded pointers had on my writing was astronomical, and that is a gift I hope to offer people any time I read for them.
What strikes me most about that memory now is thinking about what may have been helpful to me back then when I was starving for insight. Most people don’t have a built-in writing group and community to immediately fall into when they delve into fiction writing; it takes years to find trusted peers and decent beta readers, years to develop a craft. Most of the prospective clients I see passing through my inbox have no idea how to engage an editor, never even heard of a beta reader. All they have is a manuscript and the assumption that it’s my job to shape it into an award-winning novel. This isn’t to disparage those writers; you don’t know what you don’t know. And that’s exactly the purpose of this blog.
If want to write books…
If you’ve started a hundred and one drafts but can never seem to finish anything…
If you’re bursting with ideas, but the blank page intimidates you out of trying because what if it turns out bad? (It probably will. It’s supposed to.) What if you don’t know how to make it better? (You’re not alone!) This blog is for you.
Maybe you’ve finished a draft (hell yeah!) but the thought of editing this thing? Is that even something you’re supposed to do? Isn’t that someone else’s job? How do you begin to teach yourself?
You could be writing for you alone, to prove to yourself that you can—I was once this person. You could be itching to self-publish and share your stories with friends and loved ones, or build your career at your own pace. Your dream of all dreams may be to query a literary agent, get representation, and become traditionally published like all your favorite authors.
Hobbyist or career-aspiring, everyone begins at that same place: with the seed of a story, a love of the craft, and the desire to make something out of nothing. It’s you and the page (or the computer, if you’re digitally inclined). Writing is an incredibly lonely process, and its communities can sometimes foster environments where asking the “stupid” questions feels ostracizing. This is an intimidating craft! In theater, you have lights and props, costumes, and the power of an ensemble. In film, you can lean on the swell of cinematic music or the sweep of stunning visuals. Writers rely on words alone. With nothing more than letters, they must convey the thrill of a story entirely in a reader’s head.
Is it any wonder then that it’s the art form people can be the most self-conscious about when they aren’t immediately great at it? They’re only words, and you use words every day! You’ve consumed books and movies and series, consumed stories all your life. Shouldn’t this be easy? Shouldn’t you KNOW the rules?
The reality is no. Even for people who read voraciously, creating good books is not an inherent skill we’re born with. It is as much a craft as learning to paint, and just like painting, you have to start with some smudgy blobs that don’t look much like what you had envisioned. You wouldn’t expect yourself to be cranking out landscapes like Monet or Van Gogh right away, so if the first draft of your first book isn’t groundbreaking, maybe cut yourself some slack. There is an adage that “You can’t edit a blank page,” and that a first draft’s only purpose is to exist. In my circles, we practically chant the words “Let it be bad” like a mantra.
Because just like painting, writing is a process of putting down layers and subsequently covering them up with something better. You have to put down some cruddy colors, some clunky sentences, some contrived dialogue, some derivative ideas before you can go in with a finer brush and carve out the details. It is the slow chiseling of a marble slab into something recognizable, to mix my own art metaphors.
The point is no one can tell you what to write or even how to write the story in your head—that’s between you and the page—but it sure doesn’t hurt to have a roadmap. I wanted to create a hub for writers hungry for the “what now?” A place to reference whether they are stuck in the middle or stuck with a finished draft, unsure of how to proceed. I wanted to make a blog that could offer that same light bulb moment I received when at last I got the gentle advice that I needed. There are no stupid questions here, no beginner’s mistakes that I haven’t fallen into face first. I will detail them to you proudly.
Whatever stage of the process you’re in, my hope is that this blog will have an offering. As a resource and a reference point, a place to dig deep into the how’s and why’s of writing fiction, to skim for what you like or to read post-to-post. Let it be a place to seek some possible answers to questions you’re afraid to ask, or to teach you which questions to ask in the first place.
My greatest hope is that somewhere along the way, you’ll give yourself permission to throw some dull and blunted words onto your canvas, knowing you have the tools to sharpen them.