By Lisa Cron

Writers are the most powerful people on the planet. Yes, you! You have the power to change your readers in a more profound way than almost anyone else they encounter. 

How? By allowing them to experience, first hand, the profound change your protagonist goes through in the pages of your story.  

Sounds like magic, doesn’t it? It is in a way. Here’s the scoop: Stories are the world’s first virtual reality. They allow us to vicariously try out difficult situations that might paralyze us in real life, the better to give us useful inside intel on how to best survive should those situations befall us. So sure, your reader might be devouring your novel while sitting in her most comfy chair, but biologically, that story has catapulted her out of her own life, and into your protagonist’s. And as your protagonist’s worldview changes, so too does your reader’s.  

But there’s just one caveat: for that magic to happen, you must actually tell a story. And the biggest problem with most manuscripts, as one freelance editor recently lamented, is that most of them “are just a pile of pages, not a story.”

Turns out that it’s relatively easy to write a pile of pages, but not nearly as easy to write a story. As the great Southern writer Flannery O’Connor once quipped, “most people know what a story is, until they sit down to write one.”

So, before you sit down to write another word, let’s first define what a story actually is. Then we’ll dive into three simple questions you can ask to ensure that you’re telling one.

What a story actually is – the nutshell version

A story is about one single external problem that grows, escalates and complicates forcing the protagonist to make a long-needed internal change in order to solve it (or not, if it’s a tragedy).

What is that one single external problem? The plot. What is the story about? The long-needed internal change the plot will relentlessly spur the protagonist to make. 

That’s why at the heart of every story is an irony: what the protagonist thinks will solve the problem and get her what she wants is actually the thing that’s keeping her from it. 

Here’s the secret: a story isn’t about whether or not that external plot problem is solved – Will the protagonist save her daughter? Rescue her brother? Keep the earth safe from evil intergalactic unicorns? Of course we care about those things, and we’re dying to know how they turn out. But what has us on the edge of our seat is how that external problem is gradually forcing the protagonist to change internally, giving her the insight and the strength to solve it. Readers are wired to track the internal change—the shift in how the protagonist sees the world, the shift in why they’re doing what they do.  

This means that you can’t start by simply envisioning the plot. First, you have to envision the internal change that the plot will force the protagonist to make.

If you’re wondering, Wait, what change? Change from what to what? Why? That’s exactly what these three simple questions will unlock. 

To be very clear: these are questions to ask about your protagonist’s impending internal change before you shove her onto page one of your novel. Right now, as far as she’s concerned, her life is probably going to go on just the way it always has; she has no idea about the deliciously dark and stormy night you have in store for her.  In other words, you’ve got her right where you want her.

1. What does your protagonist already want?

Every change we humans make is based on one thing only: how it will help us achieve our agenda. This doesn’t make us selfish – heck, your agenda could be coming up with a cure for insomnia (please). Or to bring a smile to everyone you meet (that’s sweet). Or to create an ad campaign that would convince people once and for all that cellulite is actually quite lovely (please, please). 

The point is, until you know what your protagonist will enter the story wanting, you can’t figure out what change she will have to make in order to get it.  So ask yourself: what, specifically, does my protagonist already want – whether she’s aware of it or not? The more concrete your answer can be the better.

2. What external change does your protagonist need to make in order to achieve her goal?

Here’s a maddening irony: we’re often completely oblivious to the very changes we need to make to have a shot at getting what we want. In fact, we tend to instead embrace our current iffy behavior, thinking it’s helping us. 

For instance, that ace copywriter whose dream it is to change how the world views dimply thighs? She really, really wants the big promotion that’s up for grabs because it means she’ll get the dimply thigh project, but she not only doesn’t tell anyone (even her boss) that she wants the job, she lets everyone else take ownership of her ideas, which of course they’re all too happy to do. If she doesn’t speak up soon, she’s going to get passed over again! 

Bingo! The ability to stand up for herself is the external change she needs to make if she wants to have a shot at her dream. Now the question is: why doesn’t she just speak the heck up for goodness sake? What’s stopping her?

3. What is keeping your protagonist from making this change, internally?

This is where you’ll strike gold! Because we’re about to leave the surface world—the world of what your protagonist does—and dive into the world of why she’s doing it. This is the layer that readers come for, the layer that brings your novel to life, giving meaning, urgency and conflict to every single thing that happens. What mesmerizes readers is your protagonist’s internal struggle, the one that leads, scene-by-scene, to the change they’ll have to make.

The question to ask yourself is: what deeply held belief is causing your protagonist to take such misguided action? Because as far as she’s concerned, she’s not making a mistake at all—she’s doing exactly what she should do, except that for some reason she can’t quite figure out, it’s not working.

For instance, maybe that ace copywriter doesn’t dare ask for the promotion she so dearly wants because she believes that pride goeth before the fall. And so if she has to tell her boss how much she deserves it, it will not only prove that she doesn’t deserve it, but that she is arrogant to boot. To her, that’s not a “belief,” it’s a fact.

Aha! That is the misbelief that your plot must now force her to question and overcome if she’s going to get what she wants. 

Now that you know the specific change your protagonist will have to make, and why it’s so darn hard for her, you can begin to create a plot that will spur her toward it every step of the way – whether she likes it or not. 

And here’s the bonus: by digging deep into your protagonist’s past to answer these three simple questions, you’ve already unearthed the story-specific info you need to envision the single escalating plot problem you’re going to throw her into. After all, you’d never toss her into a pile of pages, not when there’s a compelling story to tell.

Lisa Cron is the author of Wired for Story and Story Genius. Her 6-hour video course Wired for Story: How to Become a Story Genius can be found at CreativeLive.com, and her TEDx talk, Wired for Story, opened Furman University’s 2014 TEDx conference, Stories: The Common Thread of Our Humanity.

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Fact: In and of itself, the writing doesn’t matter.

Here’s another counterintuitive fact: Writers spend way too much time thinking about “the plot.” They lay awake into the wee hours wondering: is it externally dramatic enough? Is it fresh enough? Is something big happening? Do the plot points even add up? 

Fact: In and of itself, the plot doesn’t matter.

This isn’t to say that they don’t matter at all. Of course they do. But both the writing and the plot are secondary. Heartbreakingly, you can execute both beautifully and still have written a novel that is flat, uninvolving, and thus nothing but a bunch of things that happen. In other words, the fate of most manuscripts. Not because the writer didn’t give it her all, but because she focused on the wrong things. Not on purpose, but because that’s what the writing world has told her to focus on.

So, what should you focus on instead? The story. The story is not about the plot or the writing. The story is what gives the writing and the plot their meaning. It’s what makes them involving. What is the story about? The story is about how your protagonist changes, internally.  

Here’s a myth the writing world would have you believe: The narrative 
throughline—that is, the logic thread that binds the novel together—refers to the plot. No, no, no! The narrative throughline is the 
evolving internal narrative the protagonist uses to make sense of what’s happening in the plot.

Quite simply, the writing and the plot are there in service of your protagonist’s inner change, not the other way around. 

The question is: how can you be sure that the writing and the plot aren’t hogging the reader’s attention, boring her to tears? 

First, by focusing on what does rivet the reader, according to brain science, no less. Here’s the skinny: fMRI studies reveal that when we are grabbed by a story our brain instantly, innately searches first for the protagonist. Then it laser beams in on her inner narrative as she struggles, scene by scene, to make sense of what’s happening and what the hell to do about it, given her overarching agenda. In other words, we’re not focusing on the external “what” (the plot, the writing). We’re hungry for the internal “why.” 

Here’s a simple “proof” you can use to make sure you’re giving the reader what she comes for. And it’s not math, it’s psychology. It is how, as humans, we navigate the world. Each and every one of us is trying to bring our agenda to fruition, and so we’re constantly trying to decipher the “why” behind what other people do, the better to figure out if they’re going to help us or hurt us.

Okay, so how do you get that onto the page?

Here, step-by-step, is how it plays out: expectation, comparison, meaning, realization, conclusion drawn. This isn’t formula, it’s how the brain rolls. Let’s break it down:

Expectation

The protagonist goes into the scene expecting something that will affect her story-long agenda, and you need to let us know what that expectation is. On the page. Clearly. Concretely. Knowing what she expects is what gives us readers a yardstick by which we can gauge the emotional impact of what’s happening, and so experience the urgency. And since stories are about what happens when our expectations aren’t met, chances are the protagonist isn’t going to get what she expects. Or, if she does, it’s going to feel very different than she expected. And, always, it will bring unintended, unanticipated consequences.

For example, when Kamala’s boss, Rashida, calls her into her office, Kamala is exuberant because she expects that she’s about to get the promotion she’s been working toward for months. Walking to Rashida’s office, Kamala is picturing the relieved look on her mom’s face when she tells her that the extra money means they won’t be evicted next week after all. 

Comparison

But when Kamala doesn’t get the promotion, she’s going to think back to conversations she and Rashida have had about it over the past few months. Come to think of it, just yesterday Rashida told her the promotion was a done deal. Instantly, Kamala will scramble to figure out what the hell happened.

Meaning

Could it be that Kamala did something to somehow screw things up? She’d mentally race through a list of possibilities, but then . . . wait a minute, how come Rashida looks so uncomfortable, and why can’t she meet Kamala’s gaze? Hmmm . . .

Realization

Hey, wasn’t Rashida’s slacker nephew, the one who was just hired a month ago, angling for the position Kamala was about to get? She and Rashida had laughed over his hubris. But now, it’s blazingly obvious that Rashida buckled under family pressure and gave him the promotion instead.

Conclusion Drawn

Kamala has to admit that Rashida plays a good game, but she’s not trustworthy. Clearly, trusting people, even a good friend, to put hard work and fairness above family is foolish. Lesson learned. But since Kamala is just as dedicated to her mom as Rashida seems to be to her slacker nephew, now Kamala will have to undermine both the nephew and Rashida—because that promotion was hers, and she’s going to get it.

Notice how the conclusion drawn plays forward? But hey, does Kamala know for sure that the slacker nephew got her job? Of course not. The point is, when her expectations went belly up, she instantly tried to figure out why. What rivets the reader isthe meaning the character reads into what is happening—especially when they’re wrong. 

Because while it’s true that Rashida’s nephew got the job, it was only because Rashida knows he’ll blow it spectacularly in about a minute and then she can fire him and finally get her family off her back. But that’s not why Kamala was passed over. The real reason is because there’s an even bigger job coming up in a month that Kamala is perfect for, with way more money, too. But it’s top secret, and Rashida has been told she can’t breathe a word about it until then, which is why she seemed so uncomfortable. Uh oh!

Now, let’s take one minute and imagine that scene without Kamala’s internal narrative. It would look like this:

Rashida calls her into her office. Kamala goes in smiling. Rashida tells her she didn’t get the promotion. Looking gobsmacked, Kamala leaves her office. No matter how beautifully written, no matter how many sensory details were thrown in, no matter how polished the prose—who cares? Even though the plot point—Kamala doesn’t get the promotion—was met. Flat, flat, flat. Not even a well-placed metaphor would help, nor a bit of perfectly rendered body language. Why? Because without the internal narrative, we’re locked out of the story. 

Make no mistake: the story the reader comes for is the protagonist’s internal narrative—expectation, comparison, meaning, realization, conclusion drawn. Everything else is gravy.

Lisa Cron is the author of Wired for Story and Story Genius. Her 6-hour video course Wired for Story: How to Become a Story Genius can be found at CreativeLive.com, and her TEDx talk, Wired for Story, opened Furman University’s 2014 TEDx conference, Stories: The Common Thread of Our Humanity.

In her work as a private story coach, Lisa helps writers of all ilk wrangle the story they’re telling onto the page. For a library of her free myth-busting writing tips, and information on how to work with her one-on-one, you can find her at: wiredforstory.com

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The post Plot, Inner Change, Evocative Writing—What Really Rivets Readers? appeared first on WRITERS HELPING WRITERS®.

It is a truth universally acknowledged: you have to hook the reader right out of the starting gate. From the very first sentence your story must incite that delicious sense of urgency that makes readers have to know what happens next.

But what is it that actually hooks us? The answer is emotion. Every story, even the most rough and tumble, is emotion driven.

But we’re not talking about an emotion mentioned on the page — you need to make the reader feel the emotion herself, as if it were happening to her. Because it is. Studies have proven that when we’re absorbed in a riveting novel our neurons are firing as if we’re actually living the events on the page.

That makes sense, since the biological purpose of story isn’t to entertain, but to help us better navigate the world by understanding what makes people tick, ourselves included.

The bottom line is: if we aren’t feeling, we aren’t reading. And it sure doesn’t take long for our cognitive unconscious to get antsy and start thinking, hey since there’s nothing here I need to know, maybe I should just go check to see if that nice piece of cake is still in the fridge.

In other words, the reader has to feel something so strongly that they literally can’t resist finding out what will happen, even though that piece of cake is taunting them. For writers, that’s a tall order.

Especially because when we talk about emotion, it’s maddeningly easy to misunderstand what it really is, and thus how to get it onto the page.  Emotion doesn’t come from general external “dramatic” situations, nor is it expressed by body language, or whether a character is happy, sad, angry, or really, really cranky.

In fact, it turns out that emotion itself is very different than what we’ve been taught it is, which makes nailing it even more difficult. Emotion is not logic’s hotheaded nemesis. It’s not weakness. It’s not ephemeral. It’s not abstract.

Rather, emotion is what our survival depends on, and it’s far more fundamental than logic. In fact, it’s the basis of all logic, in real life and on the page.

By itself logic is objective, generic — it tells us what things are. Emotion is subjective, specific — it tells us what those things mean to us, and therefore what action we should take if we want to live to see the dawn (hopefully, metaphorically).

So it’s not surprising that, as neuroscientists have discovered, if we couldn’t feel emotion, we couldn’t make a single rational decision. Why? Because everything would be neutral. Can you imagine never feeling anything about anything? There would be absolutely no difference in how you’d experience seeing your beloved enter the room, and noticing your absolute worst enemy skulking behind the curtains. Yikes!

So okay, if the reader isn’t feeling, they’re not reading, but the question is, feeling what exactly? Where does the emotion come from? What does it look like on the page?

The first part is easy: Your reader is feeling what your protagonist is feeling, in the moment, on the page, as she struggles with the tough choice that every scene will force her to make, beginning with the very first scene. That part is simple.

Where does said emotion come from? It comes from the subjective meaning your protagonist is reading into the what’s happening, that is, how what’s happening is affecting her inside her head. It does not come solely from her body language. It does not come solely from her action. And it certainly does not come from the exquisitely beautiful, utterly unique metaphor you’ve created to illuminate the way her heart is pounding.

In other words, the primary ways in which writers are taught to communicate emotion are deeply wrong.

Give us nothing but body language, and you lock us out. We don’t care if she winced, cried, howled under the moon, with sagging shoulders or stumbled home with a slow, dejected step. No matter how beautifully rendered, by itself it’s surface, general – it merely tells us what she feels.

What we’re hungry for, what gives body language it’s meaning, is why she feels it, how she’s internalizing what happened, how she’s making sense of it, the conclusions she’s drawing as a result, how it’s shifting her take on things. It’s this internal process that we relate to, that we empathize with, and that’s where real emotion lies.

You may be thinking, wait a minute, didn’t you just tell us the reader wants to feel what the protagonist is feeling? But how will they know if we don’t tell them?

Here’s the fine print: although yes, the reader needs to know how your protagonist feels at every turn, that does not mean you need to tell us. As in:

When Marilyn’s mother died, she felt very, very sad.

Tell me that and I hear it, but I don’t feel it. As readers, we want to feel it as deeply as Marilyn does.

Prettying up the language and throwing in a lyrical metaphor or two won’t get you there either:

Hearing of her mother’s death, Marilyn felt an arrow pierce her heart and as it shattered, she sank to her knees, threw her head back, and keened beneath the cold crescent moon.

Admit it, that’s nothing more than a fancy way of saying, “When Marilyn’s mother died, she felt very sad.”

The secret is this: emotion is triggered by how the character makes sense of what’s happening, rather than mentioning the nearest big box emotion that neatly sums it up. The goal isn’t to tell us how the character feels so we know it intellectually; it’s to put us in her head as she struggles, which then evokes the same emotion in us. You can do it without ever mentioning an emotion at all.

Want an example? How about a passage from Celeste Ng’s 2014 debut literary novel, Everything I Never Told You, an award-winning New York Times bestseller, heralded as a best book of the year by NPR, Booklist, Amazon, The San Francisco Chronicle and more. In other words, it was a lauded literary novel that sold – and still sells – very well.

The scene in question takes place in 1966. Marilyn, a white housewife, has just learned of her estranged mother’s death. They hadn’t seen each other since Marilyn married her Asian college professor, James Lee, in 1958. And this Marilyn isn’t sad at all.

. . . By then she had not spoken to her mother in almost eight years, since her wedding day. In all that time, her mother had not written once. When Nath had been born, and then Lydia, Marilyn had not informed her mother, had not even sent a photograph. What was there to say? She and James had never discussed what her mother had said about their marriage that last day: it’s not right. She had not ever wanted to think of it again. So when James came home that night, she said simply, “My mother died.” Then she turned back to the stove and added, “And the lawn needs mowing,” and he understood: they would not talk about it. At dinner, when she told the children that their grandmother had died, Lydia cocked her head and asked, “Are you sad?”

Marilyn glanced at her husband. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I am.”

There’s nothing in the passage that mentions how Marilyn actually felt, and yet everything in the passage conveyed it. It ends with a send-up of the word “sad,” which is the dictionary definition of what we’re taught to expect in situations like this. Sad is the one thing Marilyn doesn’t feel; it’s also the word she hides behind, to protect both Lydia and herself from the far more complex emotions she is actually experiencing. You can feel Marilyn’s caution, triggered by a perfect use of body language – Lydia “cocks her head” – signaling she’s been listening and is paying attention, alerting Marilyn to the fact that she has to shield Lydia from the truth.

Plus, it’s a literary novel for heaven’s sake, yet notice that there are no twenty-five dollar words here. No lyrical language. No pretty metaphors. It was just us, in Marilyn’s skin, during what otherwise might be a very mundane moment – making dinner for her family – experiencing something profound.

You may be thinking, but hey, that scene was kind of plain. I didn’t feel all that much. And reading it here, out of context, as a mere snippet, that might be true. However, if you were in the midst of reading the novel, and came across that passage as a seamless part of a story-long continuum, a compelling piece of an internal cause-and-effect trajectory that you’d been experiencing since page one, it would pack a potent punch.

And yet writers are often taught that this is not the way to get emotion on the page, by well meaning instructors no less. Let me tell you a story. A few years ago I was giving a talk at a university in Pennsylvania. It was the third time I’d been asked to speak there, and I’d become friends with the professor who invited me.

When I spoke in her writing class, I read that same passage to her students, and made the same point. Afterward, she and I were having lunch before she dropped me off at the bus depot to head back to New York. She looked at me sheepishly across the table and said, “I have an admission. You know that passage you read in class from Every Thing I Never Told You? If one of my students had written it, I’d have told them it was too bland. I’d have asked them to pretty it up.”

I understood what she meant. We’ve been taught to look at writing as something separate from story. In fact, we’ve been taught that learning to “write well” is what makes you a good storyteller. Couldn’t be less true. It’s the internal emotional story – that begins on page one and evolves throughout via the protagonist’s internal struggle – that makes the writing beautiful. Meaningful. And, as in the case of the passage above, imbues even the simplest, humblest words with transcendent meaning.

The takeaway is this: Emotion on the page? It’s not a technique. Emotion is not communicated as a surface feeling — happy, sad, angry — nor is it expressed through neatly rendered body language. Emotion is a consequence, a by-product, of a deeply rendered inner struggle.

How do you get emotion onto the page? By letting us inside the head of your protagonist as she struggles with how to respond to an escalating problem she has no choice but to deal with. It really is as simple as that.

Lisa Cron is the author of Wired for Story and Story Genius. Her 6-hour video course Wired for Story: How to Become a Story Genius can be found at CreativeLive.com, and her TEDx talk, Wired for Story, opened Furman University’s 2014 TEDx conference, Stories: The Common Thread of Our Humanity.

In her work as a private story coach, Lisa helps writers of all ilk wrangle the story they’re telling onto the page. For a library of her free myth-busting writing tips, and information on how to work with her one-on-one, you can find her at: wiredforstory.com

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The post How to Get Emotion Onto the Page appeared first on WRITERS HELPING WRITERS®.

The problem is that writers often think that what pulls readers in is that perfectly written first sentence. The one that proves you’re a wordsmith. Because, of course, being a “wordsmith” is what defines you as a writer.

No, no, no.

What makes you a writer is the focused ability to relentlessly dig deep into your protagonist’s past, unearthing the specific material from which the story springs organically. Because it’s the story itself that makes the words potent. Not the other way around.

In other, um, words, it’s not the words. It’s what the words are saying that yanks the reader in. And what they’re saying comes from the story, NOT from writing technique, reader manipulation, writing rules or, heaven forbid, “love of language,” whatever that means.

The focus on wordsmithing is heartbreaking. It not only keeps writers from getting out of the starting gate, it keeps them from getting into it. Because if you can’t write a perfect opening sentence, what’s the point of writing a second sentence?

Here’s a welcome newsflash: The brain is far less picky about beautiful writing than we’ve been lead to believe. And that’s as true in literary fiction as in commercial novels.

So what does yank the reader in, what hijacks the reader’s brain on that first page, catapulting readers head first into the world of the story?

There are four things we’re wired to look for on the first pages that, in concert, create the world of the story, make the reader to care, and so — biologically — have to know what happens next. Because story isn’t for entertainment. Story is entertaining so we’ll pay attention to it, because we just might learn something we need to know about what makes people tick, the better to navigate this mortal coil without getting clobbered too often.

Here are the four elements that — even when the writing IS lovely, lyrical and beautiful — are what your reader is actually responding to.

What’s the Big Picture?

As readers, we know that a story is about how someone solves an unexpected problem they cannot avoid. That’s WHY we’re drawn to story – we want to see how someone will deal with the kind of problems we so studiously avoid in real life. We crave the “uh oh” that yanks us in. Not a mere momentary “uh oh,” but one that has legs – one that kicks off an escalating row of dominoes. Which is why we need a glimpse of those dominoes, of where this is going.

As one editor brilliantly said recently, “The first paragraph is a promise you make to your reader.” In other words: What is the overarching plot problem?

Here’s what that opening paragraph (sometimes only a sentence!) should convey:

• What’s the Context? What arena will this play out in? Think of it as our yardstick, our score card. If we don’t know what the specific ongoing problem is, we can’t make sense of what’s happening. We’re wired to look for causality in everything. If this, then that – it’s how we humans turn the chaos around us into a world we can kind of, sort of, navigate. Plus, without a clear context, we can’t anticipate what might happen next, giving us nothing to be curious about, and so no reason to read forward.
• Where’s the Conflict? Where is the specific conflict? Why is the problem hitting critical mass right now? We want to feel that jolt. That’s what gets our attention (not beautiful writing). Surprise rivets us. Don’t mute it, don’t make it “tepid,” don’t make the reader guess what you really mean – instead, let there be blood. Writers shy away from this, thinking it’s “over the top.” Here’s the truth: Over the top is what we come for. Whether in events, or in the depth of emotion seemingly mundane events can trigger.
• What’s the Scope? Where will this end? What is it building toward? What is the journey you want me to sign on for? The biggest problem writers have is that they hold back the specifics for a reveal later, thinking that will lure the reader in. Instead it locks the reader out. First, it implies we already care enough to want to know what’s going on. We don’t. Letting us know that Something Big is happening, but keeping it vague, implied, unclear, doesn’t make us curious. It makes us annoyed. Like the writer is toying with us. We can’t imagine what might happen next because we have no idea what is happening now. Or why. So why would we care?

The irony is that writers withhold the very information that would lure us in. Consider these very specific, utterly revealing opening lines:

Lydia is dead. But they don’t know this yet. From Celeste Ng’s debut literary novel Everything I Never Told You

It was a weirdly subtle conversation. I almost didn’t notice I was being blackmailed. From Becky Albertalli’s YA Simon vs. The Homosapien’s Agenda

Joel Campbell, eleven years old at the time, began his descent toward murder with a bus ride. From Elizabeth George’s thriller What Came Before He Shot Her

Lucy runs away with her high school teacher, William, on a Friday, the last day of school, a June morning shiny with heat. From Caroline Leavitt’s literary novel Cruel Beautiful World

The Takeaway: GIVE IT ALL AWAY! TELL US WHERE WE’RE GOING. TELL US WHAT’S HAPPENING. BE SPECIFIC. BE CLEAR. BE CONCRETE. And yes, I’m yelling, not at you but at that pesky voice in your head that often tells you to hold back, that says somehow holding back makes you a more sophisticated writer. Here’s the truth: giving it all away is not “unliterary.” It’s not clunky. It’s not over the top. It’s not too obvious. It’s the key to grabbing the reader.

The job of the first paragraph is to hook the reader by stoking that delicious sense of urgency. Now you have to follow through in order to hold them.

What Is Happening?

Once we know what the story problem is, we expect that first domino to topple, starting a chain reaction that we’ll ride all the way to the end. So, let the problem begin.

I’m betting that’s a piece of advice you’ve already heard. Leap into action! The problem is it implies that objectively “dramatic” action in and of itself is engaging. Couldn’t be less true.

I remember years ago reading the first pages of a manuscript – it was a historical novel set in the wild west. It opened with a woman trapped alone in a runaway stagecoach. The driver had been shot, the horses were running wildly, madly, the woman was screaming, and did I mention they were galloping along a sheer cliff edge, so at any minute the stagecoach could plunge to the valley below and . . . who cares?

The irony was that the more “specific” sensory details she threw in, the more beautiful her metaphors, the more intricate her rendition of the horror on that poor trapped woman’s face, the more it alienated the reader. I mean, with all those details it started to feel like there was going to be a test or something. Not that the reader wants that woman to die, but sheesh, you don’t actually know her, so your mind wanders toward things you do care about like, hmmm, I wonder if that brownie is still in the fridge, maybe I should just go check?

And here’s the thing, without the aforementioned context and scope, the above is dull, boring, and . . . a brownie did you say?

The Takeaway: Yes, immediate action is required. Something must be happening, absolutely. But action alone – regardless how objectively dramatic – won’t pull the reader in. It needs to be the action that kicks off the overarching problem that we’ve already been made aware of, and as important, it needs to be someone’s problem – which brings us to the next thing the reader is searching for on the first pages . . .

Who Is the Protagonist?

After all, the protagonist is the reader’s avatar in the story, the person in whose head the reader will reside. This is the person who the reader will be rooting for, whose point of view everything will be filtered through.

Make no mistake: everything that happens in the plot gets its meaning, and therefore its emotional weight, based on one thing and one thing only: how it affects the protagonist. Does it get her closer to her goal or further from it? Does it help her or hurt her? And — this is where your story really lies — what specific, subjective meaning is she reading into what’s happening, given her agenda?

The Takeaway: Without a protagonist, nothing means anything, and even the most “objectively” dramatic action falls flat because there’s no story, just a plot — otherwise known as “a bunch of things that happen.” Which is why as readers we want to meet the protagonist on the very first page.

Now comes the fourth element, the one that brings these three elements together and binds them in meaning:

Why Does What’s Happening Matter to the Protagonist?

Right now you could be thinking, Hey, that woman trapped in the stagecoach—I sure know why plunging over the cliff mattered to her. It’s because she doesn’t want to die. Duh! And that’s precisely why that isn’t what the reader is after. Because the reader already knows that no one wants to plunge to their death. So there’s nothing we can learn from that. It’s generic. Ho hum.

Rather, the answer to this question stems from something that writers often don’t focus on, let alone develop: What is the protagonist’s overarching agenda, the one she steps onto the page with?

All protagonists enter the story with an agenda — whether they’re conscious of it or not — and the plot is going to mess with it. The reason what’s happening on page one matters to the protagonist is because it’s going to throw a monkey wrench into their well-laid plan.

Want an example of an overarching agenda? Let’s circle back to the first two lines of Simon vs. the Homosapien’s Agenda: “It was a weirdly subtle conversation. I almost didn’t realize I was being blackmailed.”

That starts with a bang. We have a notion of where it’s going, the scope and the conflict. But the real question is how does being blackmailed affect the agenda Simon had before his dorky classmate Martin threatened him?

Here’s the story: Simon is gay, he’s in the closet, not because he’d get clobbered by anyone if he came out, he just doesn’t want things to change right now, because change is uncomfortable, even good change, and as a sixteen year old he already has enough inherent change in his life, thank you very much. But . . . he’s also fallen in love with a mystery boy, who he met on the school’s online message board. Neither knows the other’s real name. The boy, also in the closet, is Blue; Simon is Jacque. This is the first person who Simon has been able to open up to, and it feels amazing. His goal is to find out who Blue is and hopefully fall into his arms. THAT is the agenda Simon stepped onto page one with, already fully formed.

Martin accidentally discovers Simon’s email chain with Blue and decides to use it to his advantage. Martin wants Simon to help him get the attention of Abby, a girl Simon is friends with. Put in a good word, maybe invite him along when they get together. No big deal.

So why does the overarching plot problem – that Simon is being blackmailed – matter? Because it threatens to derail Simon’s agenda. If word gets out, it might not only spook Blue, but hurt him. And that’s the last thing Simon wants to do. So why not help Martin? Abby will never have to find out . . . right?

And there you have it, hooked and held!

The Takeaway: What’s the real secret of nailing the first pages? It’s this: All stories begin in medias res — Latin for in the middle of the thing, the “thing” being the story itself. So page one of your novel is actually the first page of the second half of the story. Because you can’t “give it all away,” unless you have “it” in the first place.

Which brings us back to where we started. Writing isn’t about starting on page one and wordsmithing forward. Being a novelist is about digging deep long before you get to page one and creating the first half of the protagonist’s story. Only then will you have a story to tell.

Lisa Cron is the author of Wired for Story and Story Genius. Her 6-hour video course Wired for Story: How to Become a Story Genius can be found at CreativeLive.com, and her TEDx talk, Wired for Story, opened Furman University’s 2014 TEDx conference, Stories: The Common Thread of Our Humanity.

In her work as a private story coach, Lisa helps writers of all ilk wrangle the story they’re telling onto the page. For a library of her free myth-busting writing tips, and information on how to work with her one-on-one, you can find her at: wiredforstory.com

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When other writers ask me if I’m a plotter or a pantser, I usually tell them, “I’m a little of both, but I’m also skip around.” By “skipping around,” I mean that I work on whatever scene I’m picturing clearest, even if it’s at the end and I haven’t begun Chapter One yet.

Yes, I write my first drafts out of sequence. With my current manuscript, the first scene I wrote appears one-third of the way through the story. Then I wrote the first chapter shortly afterward, followed by the climax scene a few weeks later. Now I’m in the process of “filling in the blanks” between the story’s middle and the climax. I even skip around when drafting my blog posts, including this one.

Sounds daunting, doesn’t it? But when approached in the right manner, non-sequential writing can be surprisingly productive and liberating. It’s not an unheard-of method, either. Fantasy author V.E. Schwab uses it (she calls it “connecting the dots”). So does writing coach and self-help author Hillary Rettig. Maybe it might rescue you during your next bout of writer’s block. (*gasp*)

Before we cover how to write first drafts out of sequence, though, let’s discuss why it can be beneficial.

The Purpose and Benefits of Writing Out of Sequence

Think back on a scene in your current story where the words flowed out of you. Why was writing that scene such a breeze? Were you visualizing it clearly, as if you were watching a movie? Had something in the real world made you so angry or impassioned that you needed to channel your emotions into that particular scene? Your being “in the flow” was likely a result of either scenario, or maybe a little of both.

Writing out of sequence takes advantage of such moments. As you work on a first draft of a story (or other piece of writing), you focus on the sections you’re most compelled to work on at that time. So if you’re struggling with Scene A but visualizing or “feeling” Scene B more strongly, you would skip to Scene B and return to Scene A later. That way, you allow yourself to stay “in the flow” so the writing goes smoothly, rather than forcing yourself to fight for every word. And more often than not, this intensely inspired state can deepen your concentration and help the word count soar.

Another benefit of writing non-sequentially is that it helps you work around – and even beat – writer’s block. By skipping to a section that puts up less resistance, you’re not ignoring the part that’s stalling your writing. Rather, you’re giving your subconscious time to process and solve the problem causing that resistance while you to continue to move forward. It’s an intimidating method, especially if you’re a perfectionist. But it works. I write so much faster when I skip around than when I used to write straight through from beginning to, and I wouldn’t do it any other way now.

Some Cautions About Writing Out of Sequence

While writing out of sequence can give you a much-needed productivity boost, it also has some drawbacks that you should be aware of:

1. “Forgotten” Scenes: Writing non-sequentially can make it tricky to remember the state of each section of the story. You might not recall which scenes you’ve already written, which ones you still have to finish, and which ones you’ve yet to start. That’s not always something your brain can keep track of on its own.
2. A Lack of Continuity: When writing non-sequentially, you run the risk of dropping subplots or important details you included in previously drafted scenes, or adding ones that didn’t exist before. Of course, this can also happen when writing straight through from start to finish, but it’s something to be mindful of when skipping around.
3. Additional Work for the Next Draft: A completed first draft is always messy. Writing out of sequence with reckless abandon, however, can make it an even bigger mess. So depending on how you approach “skipping around,” you might create more work for yourself come revision time.

So, How Can You Write Out of Sequence Without Driving Yourself Crazy?

With a little courage and a LOT of preparation. And by that, I don’t necessarily mean outlines. Writing first drafts out of sequence can work for plotters, pantsers, and everyone in between. Rather, the key here is to plan how you’ll approach this way of writing so that you’ll benefit from the heightened level of productivity without feeling too overwhelmed. So, if you’re willing to give non-sequential writing a try, here are some tips that can help.

Have a general idea of the story’s main plot points. You don’t need to know everything that will happen. Instead, begin with three to five scenes that are central to the plot, and dive into the one you feel most strongly about writing. If you’re a plotter, you may have more scenes to choose from because of the outline or notes you developed beforehand. And if you’re a pantser (a.k.a. an intuitive writer)? Think of these “jumpstart” scenes as the corner and exterior wall studs for a new house. Any later scenes will act as interior wall studs or floor / ceiling joists that will build the story out further. Dan Ciriello’s post on plotting for pantsers also has some great tips that pantsers can apply to non-sequential writing.

Track your progress. Before you start writing, establish a method for tracking your progress so you can avoid “forgetting” scenes. This can be as simple as a spreadsheet with color or acronym coding that shows which chapters are finished, which ones are still in progress, and so on. (The following image shows a screenshot of the tracking sheet I’m using for my current manuscript.) Then you can update the spreadsheet after each writing.

Highlight (or keep notes on) any unfinished areas. If you skip from scene to scene within the same chapter, use your word processor’s highlighter function to remind you of which areas need to be finished. For example, I use magenta highlighting to mark the last sentence I write in a scene before skipping to another scene or ending my writing session for the day. That way, the visual cue alerts me to where I left off – and with such a bright color, it’s impossible to miss! It’s also good to jot down notes of where you leave off so you know where to resume writing the next day.

Keep a list of changes that develop as you write. We’d like to think that nothing in our stories, from the major events to the minor details, will change from the moment we first think of them to the moment we write “The End.” But that’s rarely the case. And when you’re writing out of sequence, it’s even easier to lose track of those mid-draft changes. So as you skip around, maintain a list of these changes, as well as with any questions you think of or inconsistencies you find within the manuscript. You can then address these items when you revise the next draft – or, even better, turn it into a bonafide revision checklist.

Trust in your revision skills. Another reason why I write non-sequentially is my confidence in my ability to revise a manuscript or blog post and make the next (or final) version stronger. Believing in your revision skills isn’t a prerequisite for “skipping around,” but it definitely helps. The more you trust yourself to catch mistakes or weak points in your writing projects and then form and implement a plan to fix them, and the more experience you have with doing so, the more secure you’ll feel about saving the more challenging work for the next draft and focusing on “being in the flow” right now.

Give yourself permission. Perfectionism can be a HUGE obstacle to overcome. Being inflexible about where, when, and how you write, for example, can actually cause you to write fewer words, finish fewer projects, and be less productive in the long run. Practice compassion with yourself instead, and allow you and your writing process to change and grow over time. This includes being willing to give up more control than usual in the first draft and opening your mind to new and possibly more fruitful ways of writing. So if the idea of out-of-sequence writing intrigues you but that nagging voice in your head insists that you stick with a less effective process, stop and gently ask yourself why you’re so resistant and whether that resistance is helping or hindering you. And if it’s a hindrance, give yourself permission by saying (either out loud or silently), “It’s OK to try something new and see if it helps me be a better, more productive writer,” and see what happens from there.

If all else fails, switch to a different project. There might be times when, despite writing non-sequentially, you still find yourself blocked. That’s OK; it could be a sign that you need a break from that story. Other writers have done this. Isaac Asimov would switch between writing projects to maintain interest in his work. (Maybe that explains how he managed to write or edit hundreds of books and short stories during his lifetime!) So, instead of struggling through your WIP, try working on a different project for a short time or stimulating your creativity in other ways. That break could be exactly what your brain needs to become “un-stuck” and regain clarity – and excitement – for the previous story.

Have you ever considered writing non-sequentially? If you haven’t, do you think you’d try it? And if you have done it before, what was your experience like?

Sara is a fantasy writer living in Massachusetts who devours good books, geeks out about character arcs, and drinks too much tea. In addition to WHW’s Resident Writing Coach Program, she writes the Theme: A Story’s Soul column at DIY MFA and is hard at work on a YA/New Adult magical realism manuscript. Find out more about Sara here, visit her personal blog, Goodreads profile, and find her online.
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Today we take our fourth and final foray into writing by design. Here, we’ll tackle contrast, or light versus dark.

Contrast is essential to storytelling. When you tell a story orally, the sound of your voice weighs against the silence when you’re not speaking. On the page, the dark letter forms create a contrast against the crisp white of the paper. And even the digital document that contains your manuscript at its purest and most essential form boils down to a series of zeroes and ones in the depths of your computer’s memory.

But contrast goes beyond the mechanics of recording your story. The most interesting parts of your story are where characters, plot points, or thematic elements create contrast with each other.

And yet, contrast is a stylistic element often ignored in writing. This might be because you can’t see contrast simply by looking at one item by itself. You have to put two things together and watch how those story elements bounce off each other. Just as light can’t exist without darkness, to create contrast you need a basis of comparison.

Contrast Is Relative

In design there is a concept known as “relative contrast” which purports that an object will stand out or blend in depending on the context where it is found.

Take the image below. The small squares are the same shade of grey, but when placed against either a dark or light background they appear to be different shades. The human eye perceives the small square against the light background as darker than the one against the dark background. In other words, the context shapes how we perceive visual elements.

The same is true with story. In order for readers to resonate emotionally with the story, you need to create moments of contrast. Consider, for example, the heart-wrenching moment in The Hunger Games when Rue dies and Katniss honors her by covering her with flowers. This moment would not have nearly the same emotional impact if it weren’t happening against the violent backdrop of the Games.

Similarly, humor often gets its impact by playing off this contrast between light and dark. For example, in the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books, the humor often comes from the contrast between what the protagonist Greg Heffley writes in his diary and what we see actually happened via the doodles in the margins.

Contrasting Characters

In my previous post about Color Theory, I shared a technique for building conflict between your characters by placing characters who seem opposite each other in the same scene. When you force characters with opposing opinions or agendas to work together, it automatically creates drama in your story. Conflicting characters often bring out the worst in each other, which allows readers to better appreciate the characters’ good qualities when those glimmers of light flicker through.

You can also build character contrast by playing their actions against their thoughts or dialogue. When characters say or do exactly what they think, there’s no tension. When characters’ behaviors and dialogue is too on-the-nose, it’s boring. Instead, you can create tension by not having actions or dialogue match up exactly with a character’s thoughts or emotions.

These moments where you create layers of subtext will resonate with readers because it feels true to life. Rarely do real people say exactly what they mean. At the same time, you can also use subtext to put readers in-the-know while the character in the scene is oblivious to what’s actually happening.

For example, in the sitcom The Office, most of the storylines consist of the main character Michael Scott doing something utterly ridiculous and getting himself or his team into trouble. The humor comes from the audience’s heightened awareness of just how bad Michael’s choices are. We see how badly the situation can become, but Michael doesn’t see it. That contrast between the information we have as the audience versus Michael’s awareness is what makes the show funny.

In the Murky Middle

The one danger with contrast is when differences—the light versus dark—becomes too exaggerated and cartoony. When you jump from happy-go-lucky scenes with the “good guys” to dark brooding scenes with your villain, it doesn’t create contrast, it just makes your readers feel disoriented.

As a die-hard Star Wars fan, it pains me to say this, but the Endor section of Return of the Jedi has serious flaws in terms of contrast. This segment of the film makes it the weakest of the original trilogy in large part because it keeps bouncing between extremes of light and dark. On one hand you have the Ewok battle on Endor with all the comic relief characters in one place. At the other extreme you have Luke facing off against Vader and the Emperor. The jumps between light and dark are so extreme that it’s hard to take Luke seriously when he tells Vader “I sense the good in you.” Really? Vader is downright evil until the very end, so his transformation is a bit hard to believe.

Like anything in writing, the subtleties and nuances are far more interesting than when elements are pushed to a stereotypical extreme. Characters are more compelling when they are both heroic and deeply flawed. Scenes are more engaging to readers when they have both elements of light and dark intertwined.

As you develop and craft your stories, I encourage you to draw on rules of design to help inform your writing. Think about both the space your story takes up on the page, and the details that you know as the writer but that never make it into the finished book. Consider too how you can establish—and break—patterns in your story. Finally, think about how you can use color theory and relative contrast create more drama between characters and in your scenes.

Our job as writers is to craft an experience for our readers, making our stories truly immersive. This is what it means to write by design.

Gabriela Pereira is the founder of DIYMFA.com, the do-it-yourself alternative to a Masters degree in writing. She is also a speaker, podcast host for DIY MFA Radio, and author of DIY MFA: Write with Focus, Read with Purpose, Build Your Community (Writer’s Digest Books, July 2016). Join the word nerd community at DIYMFA.com/join.

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This is something I say to almost every writer: Make no mistake, there WILL be blood! No, I’m not referring to the movie. Or even to literal blood. But to the fact that if what happens in your plot doesn’t force your protagonist to struggle mightily internally – to ruthlessly challenge their most basic, painful and deeply guarded beliefs, to make them bleed — then even the most “objectively” dramatic event will be shockingly dull.

You want to hurt your protagonist, truly, madly, deeply, and with strategic precision. You want to dig into her past and find the thing that would cause her the most intense pain – emotional pain – and then . . . lean into it, hard. Double it. Triple it. And then imagine how you could make it even worse.

By making it worse, I do not mean throw a random external obstacle at her, or make what she has to do physically harder, or, if all else fails, simply make her reaction over the top. That’s external. That’s surface. And, maddeningly, that is the advice writers are often given. Things like (and I’m not making this up): “Hey, if your protagonist is mad at her boss, you could have her yell at him. But why not make it even more dramatic? Have her key his car in the parking lot. But why leave it at that? Instead, have her set his car on fire!”

Worst. Advice. Ever.

Why? Because it focuses solely on amping up the external. And much, much worse, unless setting the boss’s car on fire is something she’s been building to from the get go, unless it would force her to confront her escalating internal issue, unless it’s something that given who she is, she would do organically — it’s utterly and completely arbitrary.

Here’s the kicker: It’s not even believable!

Because the first question we, as readers, innately ask is: “Why would she do that?” And the answer isn’t, because she’s really, really angry.

Think about it, most of us have probably been super angry at our boss at some point in our lives. Really hopping mad. But how many of us would have set his car on fire? Not that we didn’t WANT to, heck, we might have envisioned it in great graphic detail, in slo mo, for days. But to actually do it? Well that takes a person with a specific background, a finely honed trigger point, and a deeply set agenda. And in the case of our fire starter, that background would then inevitably spur her to make the decision to torch her boss’s car.

For instance, perhaps her boss has been heckling her, in the same way her abusive, belittling father did, and she’s swallowed it, excused it, rationalized it, losing bits of herself along the way, because, she told herself, keeping her head down is the only way to get the promotion that she’s been slaving away for for years. The promotion that will prove to her dad that she is worthy of respect. The promotion that, she just discovered, her boss gave to his nephew, telling her that she never would have moved up anyway, because she’s too meek, because she never does anything daring, anything innovative, anything unexpected, and never will. Oh yeah? With nothing left to lose, that person very well might flip all the cards and go straight for the blow torch. And we’d know why.

So how do you, the writer, avoid inadvertently pushing your protagonist to do something she’d never, ever do? Here’s the secret: Your goal isn’t to go wide and broad, it’s to go focused and deep. Going wide means simply envisioning a “plot” – a series of external events — and so your protagonist’s job becomes to merely do what the plot dictates. Boring! And shallow. Going deep means creating a protagonist whose past dictates what she does, what she wants, what she believes, and most importantly: why. Thus your protagonist – all your characters – do things for their own subjective, personal reasons. THAT’S what makes a story believable. And here’s the beauty of it: by digging deep, the plot itself begins to emerge, because you know what would hurt her most, and chances are she’s brought it on herself.

That internal struggle – think: the emotional cost of each escalating decision the plot forces your protagonist to make — is where the blood comes from. NOT from bombs a bursting, cars a crashing, or dogs biting. After all, emotional pain is far more potent, life changing, and memorable than physical pain – regardless of how horrific said physical pain is.

That’s why your goal is to embarrass your protagonist, mortify her, force her to do something that, ultimately, is excruciatingly hard emotionally. In other words, the very things that paralyze us in real life.

And what’s killer is that because we so studiously avoid emotional conflict in real life, it can go missing in our stories, or be reduced to a very pale, tepid, easily resolved version of what would actually happen. Think: Hallmark Lite.

So you don’t inadvertently fall into this common trap, here are a few things to keep in mind, the better to deftly lure your protagonist into an escalating gauntlet of genuinely transformative pain. As Emily Dickenson so sagely said: A wounded deer leaps the highest.

• It’s about vulnerability. It’s about the things we hide, the things we don’t want others to see. What is your protagonist hiding that, slowly, through the course of the story, will be exposed? Why does he believe it must be hidden? We’re not talking about logistics here – like, he keeps where the treasure is buried secret because if he told anyone they’d dig it up and steal it. Duh! That’s surface. We’re talking about a closely guarded secret about how he sees things, especially himself. Here’s a dramatic example (often the secrets are subtler, more idiosyncratic) but, for our purposes, this works: Imagine a teenage boy with the skill to be the star quarterback – the coach, his bros want him, need him for the team, which has been losing, and he’s their only hope — but he envisions himself as a figure skater. In a skirt. Now, imagine how he thinks said bros would see him if they knew the truth? Imagine the lengths he’d go to to keep them from finding out, and – this is key – the pain he’d feel from keeping the secret, from lying, from longing to be who he really is. In other words, you know exactly what would be extremely scary, utterly painful and ultimately liberating for him.

• Force yourself to write those utterly painful, hard moments as they’re happening, and don’t leap over them. Don’t sum them up after the fact. Don’t have your protagonist tell us what happened. Let us experience it, in his head, as he does, in real time. Even if it’s a flashback. Our secret figure skater would have a lot of revealing past moments, which he’d call up in service of making the hard choices the plot would force upon him. Like the moment when he realized his true passion, and the moment when he realized how the world might see him as a result. Your job as a writer is to imagine the most painful thing that could happen to your protagonist, and then, go even deeper. I’m hitting on this hard because writers often skip gut wrenching moments because they’re, well, gut wrenching. Don’t. It should be hard. For you. It should hurt. You. In fact, if it doesn’t hurt you at least a little bit, you’re not doing it right.

• Finally, here’s a rule of thumb that will make your novel deeper, richer, more riveting, keep you on track as you write forward, and save you countless rewrites in the bargain: When you’re trying to figure out what happens next, don’t look to that external grab bag of objectively dramatic “Big Events” you could lob at your protagonist. Instead look into your story’s very specific backyard. There lies the answer to the question What would hurt, test, undermine my protagonist the most?

My advice? Keep your eye on the prize: Dig deep, down to where the blood is. Reap the blood. Put it on the page. That’s what the reader comes for. We’re hungry to see what would happen if we actually had to confront the truths about ourselves that we’re too afraid to reveal in real life, to see what it would really feel like, and hopefully change a bit, grow a bit, and maybe even feel a little less vulnerable. Giving us that vicarious experience is your job as a writer. It’s what makes you courageous. And what gives you incredible power.

Lisa Cron is the author of Wired for Story and Story Genius. Her 6-hour video course Wired for Story: How to Become a Story Genius can be found at CreativeLive.com, and her TEDx talk, Wired for Story, opened Furman University’s 2014 TEDx conference, Stories: The Common Thread of Our Humanity.

In her work as a private story coach, Lisa helps writers of all ilk wrangle the story they’re telling onto the page. For a library of her free myth-busting writing tips, and information on how to work with her one-on-one, you can find her at: wiredforstory.com

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If someone had asked me in my early days as a book coach what quality was most critical to a writer’s success, I would have said perseverance. It was the thing that most obviously separated the writers who made it from those who didn’t. After all, in order to succeed, you have to finish, and in order to finish, you have to stick with it, day after day, month after month, year after year, whether the writing is going well or not. Perseverance trumps procrastination and doubt – the two things that tend to derail a great many writers.

While I still consider perseverance to be paramount, another quality has risen to the top of my list of qualities critical to a writer’s success: the ability to receive feedback.

In my early interactions with a potential client, I can tell what their general stance is on feedback. They fall somewhere on the spectrum from closed and defensive on the one side and open and willing to learn on the other.

Closed/Defensive vs. Open/Willing to Learn

Someone who is closed and defensive thinks they already know it all. They are hyper protective of their idea and their vision and if they seek help at all, it is under the guise of wanting confirmation that what they have written is already great. They don’t really want feedback; they want a quick “win.”

But winning is not a place you arrive; it’s a way you behave. And the most successful writers behave with a growth mindset.

That’s the term coined years ago by Dr. Carol Dweck, a Stanford professor of psychology and author of the book, Mindset. A growth mindset is the opposite from a fixed mindset. It means you are flexible and open, always willing to learn:

“The passion for stretching yourself and sticking to it, even (or especially) when it’s not going well, is the hallmark of the growth mindset. This is the mindset that allows people to thrive during some of the most challenging times in their lives.”

Here’s what a growth mindset tends to look like in writers:

• The writer is open to improving. They are not afraid to look at their skills and to assess them. They acknowledge the areas where they could be better. They welcome honest feedback.
• The writer is willing to learn. They read in their genre to see how writers they admire approach a character or a scene or a structural element. They read books and blogs about writing to learn from wise teachers. They go to lectures, partner with other ambitious writers, seek out a coach to help them get strong.
• The writer wants to know how their work impacts their readers. They want the outcome to be effective and make an impact. They consider the end-goal of the work, not just how it makes them feel as they write.
• The writer works hard to bring their vision to life, focusing on the work and not on external measures of success. One of my clients recently finished a draft of a novel; it is her second, and her first did not sell. She was starting to feel closed and fearful about the new book, until she recognized that feeling, and made a switch. She began to focus on what she calls “the satisfaction of excellence.” The satisfaction of excellence has nothing to do with landing an agent, getting a big book deal, or making a lot of money. It has to do with mastering the craft.
• They are grateful for the chance to write, the time to write, the space to write. They are grateful for the people who support them and for their readers, no matter how small or large the number.

Good writing takes a very long time to develop – 10,000 hours spent trying to spin a tale or an argument, trying to find your voice. Having a growth mindset means that you don’t just sit alone during those 10,000 hours, banging away and ignoring the rest of the world. You seek to get better every time you write. You seek the satisfaction of excellence.

Jennie has worked in publishing for more than 30 years. She is the author of four novels, three memoirs, and The Writer’s Guide to Agony and Defeat. An instructor at the UCLA Extension Writing Program for 10 years, she is also the founder and chief creative officer of Author Accelerator, an online program that offers affordable, customized book coaching so you can write your best book. Find out more about Jennie here, visit her blog, discover the resources and coaching available at her Author Accelerator website, and connect online.

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Recently I hit a roadblock with my current manuscript. It wasn’t a typical “writer’s block,” though. Rather, I made an inspired decision first: My protagonist’s father would be the owner / manager of a home remodeling company. (I blame my love of home improvement TV shows for this!) Then came the stumble: Apart from those TV shows, which focus on the “external” aspects of construction and remodeling, I had no idea what’s involved in running such a business.

That’s when I realized, in order to get the information I needed, I’d have to talk to owners of home remodeling companies.

Yes, I freaked out at first. But it wasn’t the only instance where I interviewed people for this manuscript. (The story also involves characters of diverse backgrounds and/or struggling with mental illness.) Then again, informational interviews aren’t unheard of in the creative writing world. Authors, bloggers, and even poets turn to this journalistic form of research when books, articles, and documentaries aren’t enough. And when we find the right people, the knowledge they share with us can be invaluable.

So how should writers pursue these kinds of interviews? What should we do during the exchange so that the interviewee feels comfortable and respected? And, how should we demonstrate our gratitude for the other person’s time and generosity? Here are pointers for before, during, and after the interview that can make an initially intimidating experience more enjoyable and rewarding for everyone involved. These tips apply to all types of interviews, from in-person conversations to phone / video calls and email interviews.

Before the Interview

Brainstorm your questions. It’s important to confirm what you already know about the topic and what you need to learn before contacting potential interviewees. First, spend some time reviewing how the topic plays into the story. Then, develop a list of questions, paying close attention to how you word them. You don’t need to sound like an expert (that’s why you’re pursuing these interviews, after all!), but you should phrase the questions respectfully and use appropriate terminology you’re familiar with.

Use your network to generate a list of contacts. Start by asking friends, relatives, and colleagues if they know someone who’s knowledgeable about the topic. Even better, if one of your contacts has the right experience, ask if they would feel comfortable answering your questions. And if you need to broaden your search further, try posting a “call for help” on Facebook or Twitter, or use Google or LinkedIn to find professionals or experts and their contact information. You’ll be less likely to get an interview without the help or name of a mutual friend, but that won’t make it impossible. For example, I talked to friends who struggled with anxiety or depression for my mental health interviews, but I landed an interview with a local home remodeling contractor through a cold call.

Prepare talking points in advance. Before reaching out to these contacts, write down bullet points (or complete sentences, if you prefer) to help you remember what to say. Include a brief introduction of yourself, the name of the mutual friend who referred you to that contact, and why you’re contacting them. (So, yes, plan on saying that you’re a writer and why you need their help with research for your story.) That way, the other person will better understand how they can help you, and you’ll be more confident in delivering your pitch.

“Sweeten the deal.” When making these inquiries, offer something of potential value to your contact. It can be a mention in the novel’s acknowledgements, paying for the contact’s coffee or lunch (if you’re meeting them in person), or something else that’s appropriate. Not only will it show that you take yourself and your writing seriously, but it will also serve as a gesture of your appreciation for the other person’s time and knowledge. Plus, it could be the one detail that persuades your contact to say “yes.”

Be gracious and courageous. It’s easy to expect “no” from a potential interviewee (or to not hear back from them at all). But the only way you’ll guarantee you don’t land an informational interview is if you give up. So if one of your contacts turns down your inquiry, do your best to remain pleasant and thank them for their time, then move on to the next person on your list.

During the Interview

Maintain a professional appearance and attitude. The information you’re about to glean will help make your story more authentic, so treat the interview – and the interviewee – with the utmost respect. You can demonstrate this by dressing appropriately (think business casual) and speaking courteously in a calm, even tone. And regardless of how the interview will be conducted, ensure you arrive at the agreed-upon location, or are ready and waiting at your computer or with your phone, about 5 to 10 minutes early. This will also help you avoid the stress of last-minute rushing.

Be mindful of the interviewee’s time. Depending on everyone’s schedule, you might only have a short window (30 or 45 minutes) to talk to them. Do your best to stick to the planned timeframe, and prioritize your questions accordingly. Chances are that the interviewee will invite you to reach out them if you have more questions – and if they do, then follow up on that offer within a few days. As for email interviews, arrange for a target reply date that works for both you and the other person. And if the interviewee asks for more time, be flexible and honor their request.

Take notes and record the interview audio. No interviewer wants to lose their only copy of a transcript, or feel pressured into writing or typing quickly enough to capture every word. Play it safe by using an audio recording device as well as a notebook for writing (or a laptop, tablet, etc. for typing) short-hand notes. That way, you’ll have two copies of the precious interview and eliminate the stress of copying entire answers. Also, as a general courtesy, ask the interviewee if they’re OK with you recording the interview.

Pace yourself and the interviewee. No matter how much time you’ve scheduled for the interview, it’s important to not rush through it. Allow the interviewee to answer each question completely, and leave a brief silence as you finish your note-taking before moving on. This will help the both of you feel more relaxed and create an easy rapport between you.

After the Interview

Compile your notes and/or audio transcript. After interviewing the home remodeling contractor, I spent between 30 minutes to 1 hour for the next couple days listening to the recording and typing my handwritten notes and highlights from the audio. Doing this reinforced the facts I absorbed and created a single, convenient document I could later use as reference material.

Incorporate pertinent information into the story. If you’re inspired after transcribing the notes and audio, why not dive in and integrate your research into relevant scenes now? This might be more attractive if you plot your stories in advance and/or write your first drafts out of sequence. If you prefer writing scenes in order, you can certainly wait until you’re ready to do this.

Send a thank-you note. Whether you send an email or a handwritten note is personal preference. (My suggestion: Send a handwritten note if the interview was in person and the interviewee lives or works within driving distance, and an email in all other cases.) What matters more is that you share your gratitude for the interviewee’s time and generosity. So, in your thank-you, use your personal “writing voice” to ensure the message is genuine, and include one or two highlights from the interview (one thing you learned, a compliment on the interviewee’s friendliness or knowledgeability, etc.). Also, send the thank-you in a timely manner so that the interviewee receives it while the exchange is still fresh in their mind.

Add the interviewee to your book’s acknowledgements. This is the section where the author thanks their family, friends, agent, editor, and other people who were involved with the manuscript’s development. So it’s the perfect place to express your appreciation to the interviewee once again for their help. Plus, it never hurts to start writing that list early. You can also blog about your interview experience if the end result for the writing project won’t be a published book.

No matter how passionate you may be about your story, the thought of doing an informational interview for research can be nail-biting. But with a little common sense and a lot of determination, you can find people who will be willing to share their experience or area of expertise with you. And who knows? Maybe you’ll enjoy the actual interview more than you think you will. Just remember that these interviews will benefit your work as a writer – and that fact alone might be all the motivation you need to pursue them.

Have you ever conducted informational interviews for your writing projects? If so, what was the experience like? Also, what was the topic and the interviewee’s role or relationship with this topic?

Sara is a fantasy writer living in Massachusetts who devours good books, geeks out about character arcs, and drinks too much tea. In addition to WHW’s Resident Writing Coach Program, she writes the Theme: A Story’s Soul column at DIY MFA and is hard at work on a YA/New Adult magical realism manuscript. Find out more about Sara here, visit her personal blog, Goodreads profile, and find her online.
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Color is perhaps the most obvious—and in my opinion the most fun—aspect of design. It sets a mood and can inspire a feeling or set the tone for a piece of writing. You can use individual colors or a color scheme to capture the essence of your story without words. Think of it as a wordless summary.

I believe that each character in a story has a signature color that captures his or her personality. Truthfully, most characters will likely have palette of three or four colors to capture all their nuances, but to keep this analysis manageable let’s assume that there is one dominant color that best represents that character’s essence. In that case, you can use color theory to put your characters in situations that either create harmony or tension in your story.

Before We Begin, a Few Notes About Color

Associating colors with personalities makes sense, of course, because colors themselves have intrinsic meanings. Red, for example, means “stop” or “danger” in most western cultures. Orange is also an attention-grabbing color so it’s often used for warnings, like traffic cones or a crossing guard’s vest. Green suggests growth and life, and blue generally has a calming influence. If we want to use colors to represent our characters, we also need to consider that they already have a certain symbolism inherent in the pigment itself.

That’s hardly the whole story, though. Traditions and cultures also shape the inherent symbolism of color. In Western culture, for example, the color white implies innocence and purity. In other cultures, however, white—and not black—is the color of mourning.

Consider also how the words we ascribe to colors affect the symbolism. Green, for example, is a color that usually implies freshness or new life. Yet the phrase “green with envy” adds a more negative nuance to the color’s meaning.

When you combine a handful of colors, you get even more layers of nuance. For example, the color blue alone might symbolize peace and calm, but when you add red and yellow, and you get the primary colors, a palette that implies youth and is often used in preschool toys and products. If you take that same triad of colors and replace the yellow with white, you’ll get a patriotic color combination. When you pair colors together, their meanings can change or acquire nuance.

Introduction to Color Theory

Red, Yellow and Blue are the primary colors. They are called primary colors because you cannot mix any other colors together to get these three.

Not to get super-nerdy, yellow and blue are primary colors for pigment. When you’re talking about color and light, the primaries are actually red, green and blue but that gets us into the differences between the color of light and the color of pigment and that’s beyond the scope of this article.

Orange, Green and Purple are secondary colors. They are called secondary because you can make them by mixing two primaries. As we all learned in elementary school:

• Red + Yellow = Orange
• Yellow + Blue = Green
• Blue + Red = Purple

Colors that are opposite each other on the color wheel are complementary colors. These colors might appear to “clash” but they actually complement each other well and provide contrast. Each of the primary colors has a secondary color as its complement. In fact, its complement is the color derived by mixing the other two primaries.

• Red is complementary to Green.
• Yellow is complementary to Purple.
• Blue is complementary to Orange.

What does this have to do with writing?

If every character has a signature color that represents his or her personality, then one of the best ways to draw create tension is to put that character in a scene with someone completely opposite.

Let’s suppose your character’s signature color is a rich eggplant color. If you pair that character with another whose color is bumblebee yellow, then sparks will likely fly because the colors—and personalities—are so dramatically different. If, on the other hand, you want to create a more harmonious interaction, try putting your character in a scene with someone whose color is more analogous, like a deep emerald green or a feisty (but still compatible) fuchsia.

Years ago, I used to write extensive biographies, outlining every element of my characters’ personalities and obsessing over every obscure detail of their lives. The problem with that approach was that it took forever and when it came to bringing those characters to life on the page, monstrously long bios weren’t very effective.

I needed a more efficient method, which is why I started assigning a signature color to each of my characters. That color serves as a wordless bio. It is far less cumbersome than the written version and still captures the emotional nuances of that character’s personality.

Field Trip!

Take a half hour to go to a hardware store, and browse the paint aisle. Most stores give out free paint chip samples, so pretend like you’re repainting your house and grab a few. No wait, grab a handful.

Try to find the perfect paint color to represent the main character in your current writing project. If you’re really ambitious, pick out colors for each of your important characters, including your villain and members of your supporting cast.

Then lay out the colors you chose according to the color wheel. See where the contrasts are, as well as the harmonious combinations. Do you notice any tension or contrast you didn’t realize was there? What about relationships that are supposed to be in conflict, like your protagonist and villain? Are these characters aligned too harmoniously? If so, what can you do in the story to create a bigger rift between them?

If you’re really really ambitious, skip the paint store altogether and browse a fabric store instead, where you can play with color as well as pattern and texture. If you don’t have time to browse the stores, break out the markers, colored pencils or better yet, paints. Mix and match and play with color. The point here is to have fun and to use colors to capture the essence of your story.

If you prefer to play with color on a computer, Canva also has an interesting tool for that. Their Color Design Wiki explains different colors (including hex codes for digital design), the meanings of colors, and gives info about different color combinations. While this tool was created for graphic designers, it can also help spark ideas for characters and stories.

So far in this series, we’ve covered three design elements: space, pattern, and today color. In my next (and final!) post of this series,I’ll take a close look at one more design element: light.

Watch for this final installment coming up in a few months.

Gabriela Pereira is the founder of DIYMFA.com, the do-it-yourself alternative to a Masters degree in writing. She is also a speaker, podcast host for DIY MFA Radio, and author of the forthcoming book DIY MFA: Write with Focus, Read with Purpose, Build Your Community (Writer’s Digest Books, July 2016). Join the word nerd community at DIYMFA.com/join.

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Now you’re sure that the only prize you’ll ever win is as the worst writer who ever lived. Suddenly you’re positive that your prose is stiff, your premise mundane, trite even, and who the hell wants to read yet another love story anyway?

Cue the mean voice in your head – the one that sounds suspiciously like your second grade teacher – that asks what made you think you could be a successful writer in the first place.

It’s at a moment like that when 97 out of 100 writers give up. Yep, studies show that only 3 out of 100 writers ever finish so much as their first draft.

Are those successful three the writers who never once doubted themselves or their story? Hell no! In fact, writers who never doubt themselves or their work are the very writers who should. Because writing a novel is hard. It takes time. And you have to do it all by your lonesome. Truth is, every writer worth their salt eventually faces that dark night of the soul, and for some writers, that night is every night. It can be oddly comforting to know that it’s a club the vast majority of us belong to.

The question is: Since those doubts aren’t going to disappear, how do you keep going, especially when the mean voice in your head gets really loud? What will give you the strength to soldier on day after day, and the courage to dig ever deeper in the face of that nagging doubt?

The good news is that there are two questions you can ask yourself that will give you the ammunition to fight back. What’s more, the answers to these questions will help keep your novel on track. They’ll not only help you become one of the three out of a hundred writers who finish a first draft, they’ll also help insure that that draft really has the power to rivet readers.

The questions are:

1. What is my story’s point?
2. Why is telling this story, making this point, deeply important to me?

Let’s dive in and find out why.

What is my story’s point?

Turns out this is a question you need to ask regardless, because all stories make a point beginning in the very first sentence. What kind of point? A point about human nature, about what makes people tick and, most importantly, why.

Don’t worry, you don’t have to step out and tell the reader what that point is. In fact, that’s the last thing you want to do. Rather, this is the point your story will be building toward from the first page to the last. Which is why you need to know what it is before you begin writing, otherwise, how can you build a story that gets there?

When you first begin to zero in on your point, it can sound shockingly simple. Cliché even. Like: It’s what’s inside that counts. Or, diving a bit deeper: Even though it’s terrifying to show people who you really are, it’s only by being vulnerable, thus authentic, that you can be loved for your true self. Or, given our scary world: Technology is a double-edged sword, don’t trust it to have your best interest at heart. Yes, Alexa, I’m talking about you. Stop laughing.

Ask yourself: What inside intel am I giving my reader about how to best navigate this mortal coil? How do you want to change the way people see the world, and how they treat each other? Because make no mistake: as a writer you are one of the most powerful people on the planet, and your novel will have the ability to shift your reader’s worldview. Not by telling them what to do, but by allowing them to experience the plot induced scene-by-scene evolution of your protagonist’s worldview.

Once you’ve nailed your point, we can ask the second question. It’s the answer to this question that will keep you writing, even when the going gets super tough.

Why is making this point so important to me?

This is a far more revealing question than it sounds at first blush. Because the answer isn’t a simple, declarative sentence, like: My point is that no child should ever go hungry and it matters to me because, hey, I just told you, no child should ever go hungry. Very true. But not the answer. Why? Because it’s surface. Impersonal. Generic. And let’s face it, a tad self-congratulatory.

What you’re looking for is something much deeper, and closer to home. Something that costs you something. Perhaps the reason your story matters to you is because of something that happened in your past that you’re still grappling with. Almost always there’s a deeply personal reason. That’s gold.

Ask yourself: What, specifically, happened in my life that made this important to me? This will probably make you feel vulnerable. It may hurt. That’s what tells you you’re getting close. You might also find yourself angry. Perhaps it was an unfairness that you experienced. Or a deep inner fear. Or it might be something that happened to someone you love. And sometimes the reason you’re writing your novel is to keep you from doing something that might get you in trouble. Like Sue Grafton, author of the Kinsey Millhone mysteries, as reported in the Los Angeles Times in 1990:

“Sue Grafton’s homicidal urges surfaced in the middle of a bitter, six-year custody battle with an ex-husband. “I was so furious at him that I lay awake at night fantasizing how I could finish him off,” she recalls.

“Then I had the brilliant idea of using oleander as a poison . . . So I concocted the perfect murder plot. I imagined making copies of my children’s keys to their father’s house–we had joint custody at the time–so that I could sneak in and put powdered oleander in his allergy capsules. The next hay fever attack–no more ex-husband.”

But in the clear light of morning, Grafton came to her senses. “Of course, I knew I’d never get away with it,” she says with a laugh. “And since I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life in a shapeless prison dress, I decided to turn my homicidal fantasy into a mystery novel.”

So, yes, sometimes the reason it matters to you is because it’s what’s going to keep you out of jail. If that isn’t a powerful motivator, I don’t know what is.

The point is, knowing why you’re writing your novel is what will give you the courage to face down that mean doubting voice when it pipes up and tells you you’re bound for failure. It’s what allows you to turn around and say to it, “Maybe so, but I’m on a mission to change things, and to make the world a better place. So if my novel fails, it won’t be because I didn’t give it everything I had and then some.”

That knowledge is what will keep you writing. Whether it’s that you want to save yourself, like Sue Grafton, or save the world, or both. It’s what gives fuel to the grit it takes to write through those dark nights of the soul. Once you know why writing your novel is deeply important to you, those dark nights aren’t quite so dark. There’s a surprising – and liberating — feeling of power that comes from the knowledge you have the moxie to keep on going. And that, too, is worth its weight in gold.

Lisa Cron is the author of Wired for Story and Story Genius. Her 6-hour video course Wired for Story: How to Become a Story Genius can be found at CreativeLive.com, and her TEDx talk, Wired for Story, opened Furman University’s 2014 TEDx conference, Stories: The Common Thread of Our Humanity.

In her work as a private story coach, Lisa helps writers of all ilk wrangle the story they’re telling onto the page. For a library of her free myth-busting writing tips, and information on how to work with her one-on-one, you can find her at: wiredforstory.com

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Before I explain, let me say that time looping around on itself is a completely and totally different thing than a character going back in time to draw on an incident or memory from their past to make sense of their present. That’s backstory, or flashback, and you want that in your story.

In real life, our minds are constantly pinging around in time as we work to figure things out – pinging back to second grade, back to tenth grade, back to when we were twenty, that time in Denver with our Dad. In other words, the way we experience time in real life is not strictly chronological. Our brains are all over the place as we recall things and remember things, all in service of making sense of what is happening.

For your characters to feel 3D and real and alive, they need to remember and recall and process events the way real people do – pinging back in time then forward to story present. Jumping around time within the moments unfolding in story present, however, is confusing for the reader.

Those little time loops tend to look like this:

• We are going along with X action.
• Then suddenly we loop back to a A FEW MOMENTS BEFORE X action to learn some small nugget of information.
• Then we jump forward and proceed with X action where we left off.

The reason this is a problem is that it’s very hard on the reader. When time loops like that, we feel like we are being yanked around, and we are forced to think too hard – and not about the things we WANT to think about, like what’s going to happen or why people are doing what they are doing. We are forced, instead, to think about where characters are in time and space – to figure out the logistics. And it’s frustrating.

Let’s break down the time loop in one of Abby Mathew’s scenes (Abby is my co-host on the MomWrites podcast – thanks for sharing your work in progress, Abby!) You can learn how to spot the time loop – and then we can look at her revision to learn how to fix it.

Abby is writing middle grade fiction. The main action of this scene is the main character, Bernadette, having her first kiss with a boy while watching a movie at his house. The scene that follows has the boy’s mom driving Bernadette home (where she is trying to solve a mystery related to her dad, John Thorpe, and to the book Wuthering Heights):

Bernadette looked back at Logan, and saw he was watching the kissing scene, too. Before she could lose her nerve, she reached up and touched Logan’s cheek. He turned to her and just like the movie, their faces were inches from each other. Bernadette leaned in closer, and as their lips touched, she closed her eyes.

That moment someone flipped on the lights. The brightness assaulted their senses, and both of them sat back and covered their eyes.

“I don’t know that the two of you are ready for Wuthering Heights,” Mrs. Brock chuckled. “Maybe it’s time to take Bernadette home.”

NEW CHAPTER

Bernadette was thankful that she had left every light in the Thorpe house turned on. Being alone had unnerved her, so the house had been lit up like a Christmas tree since John Thorpe and Miss Amelia disappeared into their books. Conveniently, it made it look as if her father was home and Mrs. Brock didn’t ask any questions about Mr. Thorpe’s whereabouts. Mrs. Brock had driven Bernadette home with the promise that Logan could ride her bike back in the morning, and his mom had also agreed he could stay for the day.

Logan walked Bernadette to her front door, where they stood for a moment. Bernadette felt an odd mixture of embarrassment and happiness… and worry.

Do you see that time loop? The scene goes from the den at Logan’s house to Bernadette’s house, back in time to Logan’s mom’s car, then forward in time to Bernadette’s house.

The solution is to always make sure you are writing in a straightforward chronological way in story present. The clue that you have strayed from that path is often an info dump – the lines about Mrs. Brock and Logan and the bike just plop info down on the reader, and we don’t like that. We want to be present as the story unfolds.

The car ride is a great opportunity for Abby to let us into her character’s head and let us watch her embarrassment and worry unfold. Smoothing out the time loop, in other words, gives Abby the opportunity to simply write a better scene:

Her whole body laughed along, and Logan joined in, too. They shook the sofa with their laughter, and it felt good. Bernadette was relieved that she wasn’t imagining things, that Logan had wanted to kiss her. And the truth was, it was funny. Bernadette wiped her eyes so she could see Logan better, and decided to just go for it. She reached up and put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him on the lips.

“What’s so funn— whoa,” said Mrs. Brock, flipping on the lights.

Logan and Bernadette jumped to different ends of the sofa, but it was too late. Mrs. Brock definitely saw them kissing.

NEW CHAPTER

The car ride home was the worst. Bernadette would have preferred to find her way home in the dark on her bicycle. Instead she sat in the backseat of the Brock’s car, trying to avoid eye contact with Mrs. Brock in the rearview mirror. Bernadette was embarrassed that Mrs. Brock had caught Bernadette kissing her son. At least if she had ridden her bicycle home, the exercise might have helped to work out this angry feeling that was consuming her. It had been her first kiss, and instead of remembering a funny, romantic moment, she would forever remember a humiliating one. She kept her eyes fixed out the window, but she didn’t see the houses or the streetlights. Instead she saw the instant replay of Mrs. Brock’s stupid interruption playing on a five-second loop.

That reading experience is so much smoother for the reader. Since we don’t have to worry about where we are in time and space, we can focus on the story.

The next time you find yourself making a little loop back in time in story present, stop. Ask yourself if the important information is happening off stage – if you are just telling the reader what happened and dumping it in. If so, bring it onstage, in the order in which is actually happened, and let the reader move through time and space with the characters as if we were there.

Jennie has worked in publishing for more than 30 years. She is the author of four novels, three memoirs, and The Writer’s Guide to Agony and Defeat. An instructor at the UCLA Extension Writing Program for 10 years, she is also the founder and chief creative officer of Author Accelerator, an online program that offers affordable, customized book coaching so you can write your best book. Find out more about Jennie here, visit her blog, discover the resources and coaching available at her Author Accelerator website, and connect online.

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