Some version of this question comes toward the end of almost every personal essay class I teach. We’ve already discussed interrogation and discovery as we write. We’ve thought about beginnings and endings. We’ve considered scene, summary, and reflection. We’ve explored where to find ideas. We’ve spent time engaged with various writing prompts. Now in these final moments of class, participants will raise their hands and ask questions that may not fit neatly into everything else I’ve shared.

“What about writing about the people we love?”

If we write about our experiences, at times, these stories will intersect with others, often people we like and love. Perhaps friends and family. Maybe spouses and children. Sometimes teachers and neighbors. Even co-workers and our favorite barista. These people show up in our work, and their voices speak into our journeys of discovery on the page.

We are complicated. The people in our lives are complicated. The way we relate to and interact with the people in our lives is complicated. I think these writers really want to know: “Can I ensure my family and friends will engage positively with their place in my stories?” or “What is mine to tell and what is not?” People are searching for rules, boundaries, and outside opinions as they consider whether or not to share a story publicly. I understand because I have certainly been in their position.

Usually, I encourage the class to first write the story without thinking about other people’s responses. There will be time later to consider this concern. Trepidation about how a loved one might react to our words can often function as an internal critical voice. In the presence of that voice, we can struggle to write the words.

However, once we’ve written our story, the weight of the concern remains. How do we tell the truth of what we’ve lived but also honor and care about the people we love?

Here, I offer a few thoughts for after the story is on the page. These ideas are by no means some sort of checklist. Instead, these three areas might help you consider the true stories you want to tell. And the impact those true stories may have on people you love. In addition, I offer questions to consider as you are thinking about your unique situation.

Purpose

When others show up in your work, consider why they are part of the story and what you hope to accomplish by including them. Sometimes, of course, these answers are straightforward. For example, a sister is part of a story because she was there. How she responded to the situation changed an aspect of how the narrator views life. However, if you’re writing about another person to showcase a particular behavior—elevating them in a glowing light or exacting some form of revenge—well, that may not really be a story.

Questions you might consider:

1. What is my goal? Why have I come to the page to tell this story and to tell this story now?

2. Am I writing purely from a place of (fill in the blank with the emotion: anger, sadness, guilt, shame, etc.)?

3. How does the presence of this person in the writing serve the work?

Power

Power dynamics in relationships are constantly at play, sometimes in clear, noticeable ways (think child and parent, employee and employer, marginalized and dominant culture). However, these dynamics often exist in many other ways. Even as writers, we can yield forms of power because we are in positions where we can craft stories about other people.

When I write about others, I like to consider the possible existence of a power dynamic that skews in my direction. Such a power dynamic doesn’t necessarily prevent me from sharing a particular story. However, it can impact how I shape the story, how many details I reveal, what tone and voice I bring to the page as I write, the words I select, etc.

Questions you might consider:

1. What are the power dynamics between the person I mention and me? (there may be multiple) Am I in a position of power?

2. What responsibility might I have toward what I reveal about this other person because of my position of power/the power dynamics?

Permission

I rarely think you need permission to write a story from your life that includes the presence of others. However, it matters to me that the people I care about know when they are part of my work. As a result, with my close family members (my parents, my sister, and my husband), I will invite them to read essays where they appear. I ask them to share if they have concerns about what I’ve written. If they have concerns, we have a conversation, and I (note that I did not write we) determine if I will make changes and, if yes, what changes. At this point in my life, though ,I find that writing in a way where my family feels a sense of respect from me is more important to me than the story I tell. (This may not be the reality for everyone).

In addition, I will often not use names or identifying details without permission for friends and other family who intersect with my words. If their presence reaches the scale of close family members, I will invite them to read and share concerns as I would with close family members.

Finally, with my children, their presence will, at times, appear in my writing. However, I generally no longer write essays that center around elements of their story and experiences. I’ve decided that they still aren’t at an age where they will accurately voice concerns that may be their concerns in ten years.

Questions you might consider:

1. What do I think about letting the other person read my words and raise concerns? If this is a problem for me, am I comfortable pursuing publication in the absence of this conversation?

2. If someone has concerns, how will I handle the situation?

These policies have worked for me and helped me identify boundaries for how I write about others. However, every writer is on a journey to find their particular boundaries and policies—that may or may not change over time. I offer these thoughts as additional ideas as you discern what works for you, your relationships, and your writing life.

Further Reading

Please see the following for a variety of opinions and a larger discussion about ethics when writing about other people.

“Ethical Advice for Writing About Friends and Family” by Elisa Gabbert

https://electricliterature.com/ethical-advice-for-writing-about-friends-and-family/

“Writing About Others” by Annette Gendler

https://www.washingtonindependentreviewofbooks.com/index.php/features/writing-about-others

For more on how Patrice approached writing a fictionalized version of a personal story, please listen to her interview on Episode 421 of the DIY MFA Radio Podcast!

Patrice Gopo is an award-winning essayist. Her work has appeared in a variety of publications, including Catapult, Creative Nonfiction, and Charlotte Magazine. She is the author of All the Colors We Will See, a Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers selection. Her debut picture book is All the Places We Call Home. Patrice lives with her family in North Carolina.To connect with Patrice, you can find her on her website and subscribe to her newsletter here.

The post After the Story Is on the Page: Writing about People We Love appeared first on DIY MFA.

Even if we fail miserably, I suppose we can’t help but try to define introversion, since quiet nuts are hard to crack. But in doing so, others misunderstand us further and miss the point. 

So, what is the point? 

The point is, introverts are merely more thoughtful and their thoughts are loud even if they appear quiet. In the time they are not speaking, they are listening and observing, taking notes of the subtleties and nuances in human relationships and life’s oddities. 

Even if not the first to speak up, they are potentially sitting on a powderkeg full of funny ideas that would make a great collection, once polished and put on display. And that’s just step one in our quiet quest for world domination. We might even be capable of more, given the chance to prove it.

Is a tongue-tied, self-conscious artist still capable of making art? Undoubtedly. And further still, is a “quiet” person capable of writing humor? Absolutely!

Read on, fellow introverts and curious extroverts, about how writing humor is something introverts do best:

On being “quiet” vs “loud”

Studies now show that this “quiet type” is only one of the four types of introverts. Being introverted doesn’t necessarily mean shying away from the spotlight. Any thoughtful introvert will tell you that this initial definition does not, in fact, define who they are in the slightest. 

Susan Cain, for example, has been vocal about the fact that introverts are not shy. Others have also said if they are reticent, it’s for a good reason. And finally, I know the author of Don’t Underestimate the Quiet Ones (They’re the Ones Who Actually Think) would be insulted by the insinuation they are only selfishly “concerned with their own thoughts and feelings and not external things.” Many introverted people even admit they are more extroverted than people realize.

If you are an introvert who might still have misgivings about humor writing or whether you are capable of it, you would do well to learn how being “quiet” can benefit you. In my previous article, Writing Humor When You Don’t Think You’re Funny, I dispelled the myth that humor comes naturally to funny people and they never have to work hard or try. 

Famous humor writers collectively admit to being anxious and questioning when trying to write humor and assert that it requires a lot of introspection and time spent. Thinking and listening are two key traits necessary for writing humor. Without them, you essentially lose the ability to express yourself honestly, and without introspection you can’t provide the comedic element of self-deprecation. 

And if you are often the one speaking, it’s more than likely you are not listening. Humor writers, such as David Sedaris, make their living listening, overhearing, and people-watching.

They call it “observational” humor for a reason.

Examples of funny introverts

When people often think of humor and comedy, they think of stand-up comedians. They think of being on a television show or in a funny movie. They burn these iconoclastic images of what is funny into their brain and assume every single one of those people is an extrovert in real life. To be funny is to be a clown, willing to embarrass yourself to get a laugh. To be loud and audacious is to be funny, right?

According to Scott Dikkers, the #1 New York Times bestselling author of “How To Write Funny” and the founding editor of The Onion, “Jerry Seinfeld, Robin Williams, Conan O’Brien, Ellen DeGeneres, Mitch Hedberg, Steven Wright and Richard Pryor are just a few famous comedians who are or were introverts. The list of behind-the-scenes writers and other comedy professionals who are introverts is probably even longer. It might be easier to make a list of the comedy professionals who aren’t introverts.” How is this possible? Many of the people on that list have been considered loud and outgoing by many of their peers, some even unbearably so. Dikkers also wrote about succeeding in comedy as an introvert  if you would rather take his word for it.

How being an introvert feeds into comedy and fosters it

Now that you may have dispelled your own misgivings about whether you can be both introverted and funny, it’s time to “get out there” and further dispel the myth that introversion = laziness.

The most obvious way a budding humor writer can work on their craft is by writing humor, which in itself is a reclusive act. But they can also benefit by interacting with other humor writers. They can observe Youtube videos, Twitter, and other social media interactions, and other ways they “perform” and create without having all eyes on them at all times.

Improv can also help an introvert be better able to think on their feet. Comedian Steve Hofstetter wrote an amazing book about how his introverted nature changed forever when he started taking improv classes. This book points clearly to how improv is a great medium for introverted people and reshapes their thinking about how to be funny.

Improv can get the funny ideas and thoughts out more quickly for a more reticent introvert. But one of the greatest benefits is learning how to collaborate in a creative process and how it fosters communication. It is a tenant of improv that there isn’t just one funny person in the group stealing the show, but everyone actively works together to be funny as a whole. This can be a beneficial practice in helping extroverted and introverted people coexist within the same funny sphere. 

But fellow introverts, I implore you to not attempt to shove yourself into a box where you are uncomfortable and don’t fit. Rather, find the thing that works for you.

Catharsis for introverts

Introverts consider themselves…introverted, for lack of a better word. For example, a person might prefer to maintain a level of personal comfort to chaotic performance schedules but still enjoy performing. They might initially recoil at the thought of public speaking but then actually be good at it.

So, what do you call a person who does not actively seek out and feed off attention much the way extroverts tend to? Or someone who can burn out from extended periods around other people? A drag? Can a person like that have a sense of humor or even be funny? Of course!

On the surface, introversion seems counterintuitive to humor. But contending with all of this new information, is it?  Could it be that humor is a tool introverts use to cope with how their introversion is interpreted or how they interact with “external things”?

In order to accept that we can be both introverted and funny, we have to dispel some myths about what is “funny.” In the next installment, I hope to share three simple ways for all writers (even introverts) to start writing humor. After that, I hope to define humor as a genre and the evolution of it historically. Stay tuned!

Amy Ayres has three novels in progress and is querying two. When she is not in her office writing about terraformed planets, multiple personalities, and Irish folklore, she is hanging with her awesome tech-savvy hubby, stepson, and RubyCat. Visit amymarieayres.com. You can sign up for her Newsletter where she sends out motivational tips for new writers and her special brand of humor. You can also find her on Twitter and Instagram.

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Writing guru Donald Maass uses the metaphor of a canvas. Like strokes of paint, bigger stories are built by adding elements, with each element a fresh opportunity for readers to connect. Cracking a story world open expands your universe as a writer; the only limit is your own creativity. What elements should you add, and how many are too much? Overshoot and readers will be glad to tell you. But by then it may be too late.

What makes a bigger story?

In addition to being created, the “bigness” of a story can be found. Every story has the potential to be bigger than what’s on the page. Because anything found must exist before you can find it, you may have to experiment with different ways of writing it. But when it’s written, how do you find your story’s bigger meaning? And can that meaning evolve?

A case in point is my true-crime Cold Case Story. The murder of Denver-area housewife Betty Frye in 1973 is very personal to me because it happened on the eve of my marriage to her son. In 2001, I fictionalized it in my first mystery novel, Quiet Time. But Betty’s story dogged me. In 2005, Quiet Time suddenly became the catalyst for reopening her case and reindicting her killer.

Cold Case stories are always bigger than they seem.

Over the years and many formats, I grappled with Betty’s bigger story. Quiet Time was written in third person and highly fictionalized, but back then the protagonist’s voice—the story’s bigger meaning—was mine. Despite massive changes over two dozen drafts, however, and the publisher’s demands for more changes to distance the mystery from the murder, enough meaning survived to catalyze a cold case. There had been something true about it.

When the cold case was over, I got the official files from 1973 and 2005. Wading through thousands of pages of transcripts and reports, audiotapes of witness interviews, and crime scene photos, I kept a dated first-person log of my trek as a research and reference tool. Where I had questions, I went beyond the record and interviewed witnesses and forensic experts myself. Finally in possession of the facts, I tried writing Betty’s story as third-person true crime. But purged of my voice—still, at that stage, the meaning—the story was flat and small.

How you can remold a story to make it bigger:

To recapture the dynamism of Betty’s story, I returned to the log. There were too many elements; the canvas was so big the story’s meaning was lost. But rereading the log, I was struck by how Betty herself had been continually remolded to suit new narratives after she was killed.

So I took a leap of faith and turned to a blog. In first-person posts limited to a tight 500 words, a path emerged. Now I saw Betty’s story was bigger than a suburban housewife’s murder—lots bigger than me, and bigger even than her.

Cold Case Story is the story of a cold case: the far-reaching effects on a family when a killer walks, and how a woman’s life and death can be hijacked by competing narratives when the man who killed her finally winds up in court. And how justice is bigger than any of us, the biggest story of all. 

Stephanie Kane is a lawyer and award-winning author of four crime novels. Born in Brooklyn, she came to Colorado as a freshman at CU. She owned and ran a karate studio in Boulder and is a second-degree black belt. After graduating from law school, she was a corporate partner at a top Denver law firm before becoming a criminal defense attorney. She has lectured on money laundering and white collar crime in Eastern Europe, and given workshops throughout the country on writing technique. She lives in Denver with her husband and two black cats. Extreme Indifference and Seeds of Doubt won a Colorado Book Award for Mystery and two Colorado Authors League Awards for Genre Fiction. She belongs to Mystery Writers of America, Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers and the Colorado Authors League. Follow Stephanie on Facebook.

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They’re both ambitious undertakings that require consistent, focused effort over a longer period of time. They both require a special kind of dedication and optimism. And neither once comes without its setbacks. But that’s why we take on these challenges: to prove ourselves. To accomplish something. Oh, and to maybe achieve fame and fortune if we’re good.

If you want to be one of the rare few that writes a novel, you can learn a lot from the process of running a marathon to improve your writing. 

1.   It’s more of a mental challenge than you think

Obviously, writing a novel is a cerebral pursuit, much more so than running. But both activities challenge you mentally, especially if you have to find a way to keep going when all reason tells you to stop. In fact, the hardest part of running a marathon, in my experience, was convincing myself the entire time not to stop just because it was hard. 

The very same internal struggle happens for many writers. Maybe you worry that everything you write is trash. Maybe your brain tries to convince you to go do something easier. But you must develop the mental strength to overcome those self-defeating thoughts. You must get started anyway. A common piece of running advice is to just commit to ten minutes. At that point, you’re warmed up, and you’re more likely to keep going. The same holds true for writing. Even if you don’t feel like starting, just sit down to type for ten minutes. You’ll likely find your groove and move past the negative thoughts. 

2.   Planning and preparation will increase your chances of success

Just like there are pantsers who sit down and write a whole novel “by the seat of their pants,” there are also a handful of people who do a marathon with very little training. In the case of the former, many let their messy, pantsed drafts sit for years because they’re too difficult to fix. As for the latter—you can’t walk for two weeks after the race. 

Of course, there are outliers in both cases, but you’re likely to get a better outcome in writing and running if you prepare. Learning how to write a novel, coupled with researching your subject, developing your characters and world, and creating an outline will make writing your first draft a smoother process. Similarly, building up your mileage slowly, following a training plan, and learning about proper nutrition, will help you get across the finish line in better shape and with a time you can be proud of. 

3.   There are no shortcuts

A marathon is 26.2 miles—no more no less. A book is tens of thousands of words. As much as we’d like to make both easier, they are simply not. And there’s no way to shortcut the distance or the process. Preparation makes you better equipped to handle the difficulties, but if you want to achieve either goal, you’re signing up for a long process. 

However, throughout that long process, you’ll learn a lot. You’ll tweak your running form to become more efficient, or you’ll establish a writing routine that helps you get into a state of flow. You’ll try different things and determine what works and what doesn’t. You’ll get faster or you’ll dial in your writing voice. Despite the challenges and frustrations, you’ll come to appreciate going the long way. You will come out a much better writer or runner because of it. 

4.   The last stretch is the hardest part 

Once you get through the first 20 miles of a marathon, the last 6.2 feel like, well, another marathon. Even if you haven’t hit the wall, your body and mind are depleted at this point. You’re close to the end, but not close enough. This is the hardest part. The same goes for editing your novel. This is where the real work begins. There are a number of loose threads that feel like they may never come together. You’ve spent so much time with your idea that you begin to worry that it’s boring—at least you’re getting a little bored with it. And you still have to fix your character arc. This is the point where you must decide if you will continue. 

When you hit this stretch, either in running or writing, it’s time to “dig deep.” Runners often talk about “remembering your why,” the reason why you decided to run a marathon. This is equally important in novel writing. To commit to such a lofty goal, you must have a reason driving you. Do you have an important message to share with the world? Or a story that you just can’t let go? Tap into your why to keep you going. 

5.   Completing it is a rare and special accomplishment

So many people say they want to run a marathon or write a novel; so few actually achieve either. If you’ve completed a manuscript or gone the distance, you are exceptional! Even if it’s a bad experience, it’s still a cause for celebration. You’ve achieved a rare feat. 

Finishing my first marathon and my first novel made me want to cry happy, relieved, exhausted tears. At the same time, I wasn’t fully satisfied with my performance in either. 

That’s the thing: many people will be happy to cross the accomplishment off the bucket list—one and done. Then there are those of us for whom one is not enough. We finish and say, “I’m proud that I covered the miles or wrote that many pages, but I bet I can do it better. Let’s try it again.” 

I believe that’s the key to success in both marathoning and novel-writing. The insatiable desire to see how well you can do, and the determination to stick with the pursuit until you become better. Despite all the obstacles that may come up in your journey, if you master your mindset, prepare, resist shortcuts, remember your why, and you don’t settle, you can achieve your dreams. 

Heather Campbell is a book coach and editor helping writers cut through self-doubt and confusion to finally complete the novel they always dreamed of writing. When she’s not immersed in fiction, she’s running in the fresh mountain air of Colorado or snuggling with her rescue dog, Chase. Find out more at www.thewriterremedy.com and follow her on Twitter and Instagram!

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At dusk I listen to the birds tucking in for the night. Their chatter is loud but not quite as loud as the morning. Hearing the birds wind down from the day signals my mind to likewise slow down for the night. My stress levels calm down on days my internal clock is synced to birdsong at dawn and dusk.

I feel like a part of my day is missing if I don’t hear the birds sing. I start the day relaxed and centered, and my observational skills are sharper. This is the perfect time to start listening. Spring is prime time for males to show off in hopes of attracting a mate. Birdsong is in full swing.

Why does birdsong relax the brain?

Our brains love predictable patterns. Knowing what is next in a pattern helps settle the mind into a groove so that everything is in sync. An example is the A-B-A pattern in music. Even if you aren’t a musician you subconsciously learn and anticipate what comes next with the structure of verse-chorus-verse. Fractals in nature, such as the repeating patterns of the leaf mimicking the structure of the tree, relax our minds in a similar way.

Tai Chi is also a restorative series of repeating patterns. I learned and now teach the forms by repeating these patterns. With each repetition a new circuit is created in the brain. Over time muscle memory takes over. This frees my creative energy to flow and my brain to percolate ideas in the background. My students love the soundtrack of birdsongs I play during class.

Birds create their own songs with a set series of patterns. When you listen to birds in your neighborhood you get familiar with these patterns and anticipate them. The white winged dove always sings woo-woo-ho-hoo. The pygmy nuthatch sings in monotones of peep-peep-peep. The owls talk across the trees by saying hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo, hoo.

On days when I am stuck or life events have pulled me away from writing, listening to birdsong hits the reset button and reframes my mind in a setting outside my inner monologue. The birds don’t care if that sentence didn’t work or I’m behind on a deadline. This time spent simply listening anchors me in a present place. It also gives my brain a rest to process and connect ideas.

How does listening to it help my writing?

I started this daily ritual after hearing nature writer David George Haskell advise other nature writers to go outside and just listen before writing a single word. It is now as much a part of my life routine as it is my writing routine.

I’ve learned from observation that birds start singing at dawn, get louder at daybreak, and go quiet when the sun is fully up. With daily practice I now anticipate who will be singing first and when others will join in the chorus. The curve-billed thrasher is the last to sing. Once he goes quiet, so does everyone else.

I love mysteries, and solving puzzles of bird behavior sparks my imagination. When the birds suddenly stop singing I look for clues to solve the mystery, such as a hawk on top of a nearby lamp post or a sudden shift in the weather. Connecting these cause-and-effect elements in nature translate to developing subplots that drive the main plot forward.

Listening to birdsong improves concentration. Your brain adapts to focus on just one thing. At first you only hear the main notes. After you recognize this pattern you’ll start to hear the in-between notes too.  Many characters and plot developments in my book were inspired by observing what was happening in the landscapes around me.

Paying attention to birdsong also helps with world building. You notice things you often overlook: the plants and trees in your area, the weather conditions, daylight or darkness, what the wind is doing, or how sound travels in different conditions. Taking in these details subconsciously helps your brain with the setting of your story.

Listening also helps with story structure. Starling songs are the shining example. Like a three-act story arc, their songs have a beginning of tea kettle-like whistles, something improvised in between, and a whistled crescendo at the end. The improvisation of a curve-billed thrasher might seem without any structure at first. In time, though, you learn the patterns and inflections of this bird’s song and the story he is telling. Sometimes these stories are warnings, and other times they are news reports.

We share 50 genes with birds related to vocal learning. Young birds learn songs from adult birds in the same way that human infants learn words from human adults. Both learn by a repetition of sounds, leading to a sequence of sounds that communicate meaning.

What are some best practices in listening to birdsong?

Ideally you want to listen sometime between dawn and sunrise. If this doesn’t fit in your morning routine you can also listen at dusk. Start with one bird and listen to that one bird’s song for a couple of weeks. Over time you will hear other notes in the song.

Once you are familiar with this one bird, start paying attention to the other layers of birds’ songs. With each day of practice you’ll hear who joins in at what time. Imagine their world. What are they saying, and why? Once you are tuned in to birdsong, you will hear it everywhere!

If weather prevents you from being outside, you can find wonderful soundscapes on Soundcloud. While writing I concentrate best when listening to soundscapes. I mostly listen to places familiar to me but occasionally I try something new. Bird songs from other parts of the world can sound so foreign that it’s like listening to science fiction.

Remember that it takes 30 days to create a habit. Right now is the perfect time to begin. Start with simply walking outside at a set time each day and listening. In time you will know who is singing what and why. Let the birdsong sync your mind and awaken your senses. 

Ambre Dawn Leffler is a Tai Chi instructor, gardener, and weather geek who writes about vegetables, seasons, communing with nature, and the interconnections of mind/body. She loves trees and cherishes time in their presence. Learn more about her tree time, garden residents, and wellness practices at her website ambredawnleffler.com and seasonal inspiration from her newsletter.

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That was my first encounter with Dr Ruth Galloway, the protagonist of my mystery series set in Norfolk. No other character has appeared to me in quite such a dramatic way. Yet creating people is one of the most important jobs for an author, perhaps the most important. Without Ruth there would be no books; all the action – crime-related and otherwise – comes from her being who she is. Character is plot, I tell my creative writing students, and plot is character.

So how do we create complex characters? Sometimes your protagonist does materialise in front of you but, in most cases, you will have to do the alchemy yourself. And you will have to do it over and over again because you don’t just need a protagonist, you need an antagonist and all the characters in-between. A friend used to work for the long-running TV series Midsummer Murders (top tip: don’t go to an English village, especially if there’s a fete on) and she was told that, at the end of an episode, there needed to be four people still standing who could have committed the murder. That’s a lot of lives to fabricate. So here are some things to consider:

Determine their Names

When you christen your character think why they are called that. Is it a family name? A saint’s name? Who decided on it? Do they like their name or do they always use another? Do their parents insist on calling them James when they prefer Jim? In a crime novel, this could be a sneaky clue, because who would link jovial Jimmy to sinister Uncle James, mentioned only in chapter one? But, even if it’s not crucial to the plot, a name is instant backstory. A student told me that he and his brothers were all named after kings because their mother thought it meant they would be successful in life. Another was named after a football ground, presumably for the same reason. My real name is Domenica de Rosa which tells you that my family were Italian and Catholic, also that they had run out of inspiration after three daughters and so called me after a day of the week. Instant backstory. 

Remember you have to live with them

Jane Austen famously said that, in Emma, she was creating a heroine ‘whom no-one but myself would much like’. I think ‘but myself’ is significant. 90,000 words is a long time to spend with someone you dislike. Remember, also, that readers don’t have to like your characters but they do have to feel something for them. If you follow your character’s feet, you are following their life’s journey and so are the readers. Tension comes from caring if someone lives or dies. If readers don’t have any connection to your characters, your books will have no suspense, no matter how clever the plotting. 

Beware the German Funk Trap

I’m indebted to screenwriter Frank Cottrell Boyce for this phrase. In short: never give your character interests instead of personality traits. Throwing a lot of quirky hobbies at a silhouette does not mean that it becomes a human being. For instance, where a character’s feet takes them in a story is in itself a unique quality. Musical taste is another unique quality. Could you sustain an interest in German funk for thirteen books? Choose a quality that you can relate to. I made Ruth a Bruce Springsteen fan for a reason. I never have to look up one of his lyrics because they are all written on my heart.

Remember their backstory

Kazuo Ishiguro said, ‘Many of our deepest motives come, not from an adult logic of how things work in the world, but out of something that is frozen from childhood.’ Make sure that you know what happened to your characters before you met them. It doesn’t matter if you never use this backstory, your book will be richer for the knowledge.

Do the math(s)

Who would have thought that writing books required so much maths? I feel like I’m always subtracting a person’s birth date from their death date and coming up with -3. Make sure that your character is old enough to do the things necessary for the plot: marry, have children, drive a car etc. If you’re planning a series, it’s worth thinking about the age your protagonist will be at the start. This is not to say that you shouldn’t write about older characters. I’ve just written a book (The Postscript Murders) where many of the cast are over eighty. These people have lived a long time, they have lots of backstory.

Follow the feet

I didn’t know where Ruth was going so I had to follow her. When you have given your character a name, look down at their feet. Are they wearing stilettos or trainers? How far have they walked that day? They are going somewhere. Follow the feet. 

ELLY GRIFFITHS is the author of the Ruth Galloway and Brighton mystery series and the stand-alone novels The Stranger Diaries and The Postscript Murders. She is a recipient of the Edgar Award for Best Novel, the Mary Higgins Clark Award, and the CWA Dagger in the Library Award. She lives in Brighton, England.

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Write about a time period that you love or has some significance for you because you will be doing a lot (a lot) of research.  

I chose the three historic time periods for A Witch in Time based on my personal interest in Belle Époque France, my obsession with Hollywood in the 1930s and my personal experience growing up in the 1970s.  By now, I’ve probably read almost every history book from those time periods, but those hours immersed in research were labors of love for me.  For A Witch in Time, I have an entire bookshelf for the three periods and find that I tend to think in those time frames for all future novels so I might get multiple novels from my initial research.  By contrast, as a reader, I love historical fiction based on time periods that aren’t of interest to me.  For example, one of my favorite historical fantasy writers, Nicola Cornick, often writes time slip novels during the Elizabethan period.  It’s not one of the time periods that I actively work in, so this distance actually allows my brain a bit of time to indulge, rest and “enjoy” her books and admire her craft. 

Write small, big and universal.

This is one of the best writing hacks for a historical writer. Strategically pick a few areas to research so you don’t get overwhelmed.  For example, start with the big, over-arching historical details of the period. What were some of the major political and social themes going on?   How would those have impacted your characters?  This exercise can be different if you’re writing a book on the fictional version of Richard III versus a commoner living during that time. You don’t need to bite off every piece of history from the time period.  Remember, you’re not writing a non-fiction history book. 

After the big major themes, you can write small.  What is the typical day in the life of your character?  How did people dress or wear their hair?.  Think about the food of the time.  Were people hungry?  Were certain things rationed?  Drink?  Music?  Art?  Those are all important aspects of daily life.  What was the price of theater ticket?  A glass of wine?  Find one or two things (tangible and small) and write everything about them. 

In my novel, The Ladies of the Secret Circus, one of the best writing hacks I discovered was simply finding a cookbook called, The Found Meals of the Lost Generation: Recipes and Anecdotes from the 1920s Paris by Suzanne Rodriguez-Hunter. The author was specific about what foods were trendy during the time and the ingredients that were available.  In my research I also found a nice detail about all the poor artists stealing both food and silverware from the Café de la Rotonde in Montparnasse. 

These tiny details actually make the time period authentic and tangible.  In this phase of my writing, I actively search Pinterest boards for research use them as notebooks for each of my novels.  If you’re looking for an example of how tiny, daily details can really define a time period, I recommend Barbara Pym’s Excellent Women (1952) which makes even the most mundane elements of post WWII British life fascinating. 

Some extra writing hacks: pick a universal topic or detail and write it.  As a modern-day guest at the Roosevelt Hotel in Los Angeles, I took special note of the smells and sounds of the hallways. Since it was an old hotel, I could imagine that many of the senses involved were the same then as they are now, so I used these details in the scenes where Nora lives there in A Witch in Time.  In another example, eating French Onion soup probably hasn’t changed much since the turn of the century in Paris, so I used soup in The Ladies of the Secret Circus where Cecile and Emile have their first date.  When placed in an historical fiction piece, a universal detail can take on the antique aura of the time period.  Make sure the detail fits first.  If the item wasn’t invented yet, then obviously you won’t want to use it.  It’s a bit of a cheat, but there are just some things that haven’t changed much and readers will actually be drawn to familiar details they know. Your writing is a balance between identifying timeless, universal truths and serving as a tour guide to another time period.

More bonus writing hacks:  an overlooked aspect of an historical fiction is the setting.  Try to find an old photo or a painting of the place you’re writing about and write every detail you see in it. Think about how the place felt, smelled, sounded.  Trust me, you will use this “sketch” somewhere in your description of your setting.

What you read while you’re writing is really important. 

When writing, your reading list should be prescriptive to your goals. I’m such a fan of writer Philipp Meyer and recall him telling The New York Times, that he has an exhaustive reading list developed to address his current writing goals, saying that, as writers, “you have to treat your mind the way an athlete treats her body.”  Set writing goals for the book your working on and try to balance your reading list for craft elements you’re trying to work on to improve your craft. My next book features many late 1960s gothic romance features, so my reading list includes, the old Victoria Holt romance novels from that time period.  For A Witch in Time, I read Emile Zola’s L’Assommoir.  These books help get the language right.  Figure out what “style” you want your book to be and begin a reading regime to match.  This also extends to music of the time period and films (if they exist) of the time period.  “Trapeze” was very important to my research for The Ladies of the Secret Circus and films from the 1930s (William Powell and Carole Lombard in particular) were so helpful in “hearing” the language of the time for A Witch in Time.

You need a story that is timeless. 

This is probably the most important thing so I saved it for last. Yes, you’re writing an historical fiction novel, but you must throw all that out and flesh out a good story—a story of solid plot and character that transcends the historical timeline you are going to build around it.  Your characters have to feel “real” regardless of the time in which they live. Don’t have a full plot?  Think like a screenwriter and write down 8-10 key scenes you need in your book and let those “frame” the narrative so you don’t wander. 

At the end of the day, it’s the story that drives the book, not the history. 

Constance Sayers is the author of A Witch in Time. A finalist for Alternating Current‘s 2016 Luminaire Award for Best Prose, her short stories have appeared in Souvenir and Amazing Graces: Yet Another Collection of Fiction by Washington Area Women as well as The Sky is a Free Country. Her short fiction has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

She received an MA in English from George Mason University. She lives outside of Washington D.C. Like her character in The Ladies of the Secret Circus, for many years, she was the host of a radio show from midnight to six.

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While what worked for us might not work for others, here’s how we did it. Here’s how we decided, in our late forties, to try something new—in the words of Brene Brown, daring greatly—and ended up as published co-authors and closer friends than ever.

We worked and we talked and we worked some more.

We talked about everything

Day after day, while our kids were at school, we sat side-by-side. Some days we talked more than we wrote. Other days we wrote more than we talked. Some days it was a 50-50 proposition. But what we came to realize was that even when we were talking, we were working. Writing together meant talking about the articles and books we were reading. It meant talking about our feelings, about our friendships and our parenting and our worries. And of course, we talked about our characters, our plots and how to develop our writing skills.

To stay healthy, we aimed to move our bodies at least five minutes every hour. Some days we walked to town to do an errand. Other days we walked the dog. Some days it was so rainy we walked around and around the dining room table. Some days one of us resisted, and it was up to the other to persist. (“It’s been 55 minutes—we have to move!” “No, not now, I’m in a flow.” “Swimsuit season is around the corner.” “Who cares….” “Being too sedentary will kill you.” “Oh fine.”) We came back refreshed, and we wrote. Writing together sounds tough, but it needn’t be.

It can be fun.

We had so much fun

Most days we laughed while we wrote. Some days we laughed so hard we pushed the limits of our fragile bladders, ever-so-slightly damaged from childbirth. On a whim one day we googled “urinary leakage in mothers,” and we laughed again. But this time the laughter was colored by the reminder that we were in a new phase of life. We leaned into the idea of ourselves as wise women, did a few kegels, and wrote some more.

Some days we were so organized! We brilliantly planned and prepped our respective family dinners before we began writing. Together, we gathered our ingredients, rinsed and minced and stirred them, and victoriously filled our matching crockpots. We set the cookers for five hours, and then turned to our novel. The aromas of chili powder, cumin, and garlic intensified as we wrote. When the timer went off, we rejoiced that dinner would be a success, even if our words that day were not. (And success was defined loosely, as in: No matter how the concoction tasted, at least we would not have to revisit the question “what’s for dinner?” until tomorrow.)

Our characters were never far from our minds, even during the hours we tended to our families. Each night, we looked forward to that blissful moment when our kids were “studying” and our husbands were watching TV. We slipped away to resume our exhilarating text-storms about the fun new plot points we’d work on in the morning. 

It wasn’t always easy

From time to time, a sick day interrupted our scheduled face-to-face writing sessions. With the help of our digital-native offspring, we learned how to make better use of collaborative technology. We worked through scenes remotely while pots of chicken soup simmered away on our stoves. We always found a way to honor the commitments we’d made, in sickness, in health, and even in a pandemic (little did we know how handy those Zoom skills would turn out to be). We know, we know, those are marital vows. But we were also married to our book, this joyous joint endeavor. We were writers who wrote—together.

We calmed each other through the anxiety of college applications and the interminable waiting. Although we hadn’t been perfect, we reminded ourselves that we—and our kids—had succeeded in all the ways that truly mattered, and no specific college outcome would change that fact. This awareness made it easier to absorb the sadness of the shifting contours of our families as our boys headed off to college, one by one. What would life be like without the sound and the fury, and the mess? Would we ever adjust to the quiet and the freedom? We pondered this and more as we wrote.

As middle-aged women, we no longer had the luxury to ignore our routine healthcare. We paused our work for mammograms and Pap smears, and exchanged wholehearted hugs to drive back the fear. When the unimaginable happened, we sat together in the chemo suite while one of us received treatment and the other tried to distract with laughter. We raged and we grieved, and then we accepted. We rewrote our life stories on the fly.

Through months of hardship, together we propelled ourselves forward, usually (though not always!) with grace. We dove deep into questions of what binds us together—as women, as friends, as community members. We reflected on villages we’d created and ones we’d left behind. And how crises can sharpen our dreams and our focus. We wrote about all this and more. On those rare occasions when our worries threatened to overpower our combined coping skills, we put on our blinders, and took refuge in our story.

We escaped the drudgery of life

Every now and then, we ditched our families and spent a few days on retreat. Just the two of us. No laundry. No meal prep. No driving. For fifteen hours a day, we would plot, write, and edit. Head-clearing walks and simple grilled cheese sandwiches punctuated these marathon sessions. When we returned to our nests, our husbands gave us sideways looks. A girls’ weekend without wine? Yup… though we must confess about that one time we brought brownies, with a super-fun, extra ingredient. It’s legal where we live and we swear it was research. Don’t judge us, please. We can’t take it!

Along the way, there were many nights of sleep lost to hormones or anxiety. Those mornings required more coffee, but still we wrote through the fog. It often took two to remember a detail: a plot twist, a joke, a scene, or who wrote it. The blessing in disguise? The old was new again. We were our own “unbiased” readers! Would two chaotic minds add up to one engrossing book? That was our fervent hope.

There’s no generic formula for writing together, though we recommend giving it a try. Writing is a gigantic leap of faith. And for us, so was starting a second career from scratch. What we’ve learned is that it’s a lot easier to take risks, endure challenges, withstand rejection, and still come roaring back when you’re in it together with a trusted friend (especially one who’s extremely stingy with adverbs). Also, it’s way cheaper than therapy.

After supporting each other through two decades of motherhood, Tracy Dobmeier and Wendy Katzman thought: “Let’s write a book and really test the friendship.” Several years later their friendship is not only still intact, but they would even go so far as to grade it an A+. With such a perfect GPA, maybe they should apply to Stanford? Just kidding! They would never leave Seattle where they live (not together, though it often feels that way) with their husbands, pets, and last remaining school-age kiddo. You can find them at dobmeierkatzman.com and @katzndobs on Instagram. Or in Tracy’s kitchen.

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Family dynamics are difficult enough to grasp, let alone write about. But when properly explored, they make for powerful stories.

Here’s a few rules I follow when writing about my family:

1. Empathy, Always

My number one rule for writing about family dynamics is: always do it with empathy.

Human beings are seldom monsters. They do harm each other because of unresolved trauma, emotions they were never permitted to feel, and pressures that were too much too soon. When we fail to acknowledge this in our stories, we’re only telling them by half.

You don’t have to dive into the details of Grandpa’s PTSD and subsequent struggle with substance abuse to explain the nuances of your father’s self-absorption, but Grandpa’s inability to be emotionally present with him must be a part of your explanation of who he is as a human being.

You don’t have to reprint every malignance Grandma used to whittle mom’s soul down so that she always feels less than. But if you’re going to tell us that mom perceives everything said to her as some thinly veiled slight meant to rob her of confidence, you have to explain why.

Empathy is the practice of standing hand in hand with our characters—allowing them to be human and relatable—and no story about family dynamics is even decent without it.

2. Write Angry, Then Refine

Families aren’t designed to be fair. They can be infuriating, and they can leave you feeling bitter and bruised. When we deny we’re angry, we kiss our truth goodbye. 

I always write my rough drafts with as much anger as I can muster—even if I know it’s irrational—because I believe anger is respect for self. And without self, you just don’t have a story. When I refine that rough draft, and edit out the irrational bits, what’s left behind is just the right amount of vulnerability.

3. Avoid The Clinical

If you’re writing about your family, odds are you’ve already sought therapy to deal with them. You may have picked up diagnostic terms from your therapist. Don’t use them.

It’s all well and good to know your Aunt Grace is codependent with her son, your mother is slightly borderline, your Dad is a narcissist, and your brother has bipolar disorder—and it can be comforting to lean on a therapist’s knowledge when the holidays are nigh—but fact is: clinical diagnoses are boring, unemotional, and reductive. People are more complex than the collection of traits they embody when stressed.

Your Thanksgiving story packs more punch if you simply retell what you saw and felt. Your mother threw a tray of green bean casserole at your father over a perceived slight, and your father was more upset over the stain on his expensive shirt than the emotional impact the outburst had on his loved ones. Your Aunt Grace launched into a rant because everyone upset her nearly 40-year-old son who still lives her basement, and your brother laughed maniacally at it all because he was stoned on pills and had been awake for three days straight. As a result, you felt [insert emotion]. That’s good writing.

4. Dig Deep

What do you really want to say about your family? Don’t ask your prefrontal cortex. Ask your gut. That’s where the answer to that question really lies.

How did your gut feel when your mother threw the beans and huffed off? What went on in there when your dad stormed out the back door to go play with his toys like an infant?

So often we control the way we feel with our thoughts, rationalizing them into something more acceptable (and controllable) when the real story is roiling below. Nobody wants to read the acceptable story. They want the meat. Give it to them.

5. Follow Your Fear

Have you ever written about your family with nausea in your stomach, typing out sentences, deleting them out of fear and then typing them again? Have you ever thought, “Oh, I couldn’t possibly say that. You’re not supposed to say things like that about family.”

Good. Who gives a crap about what they’re supposed to say?

Family dysfunction feeds on our secrets. It is nurtured by our silence. It rolls, storm-like, through generation after generation—feasting on souls and leaving a wasteland in its wake—and the only thing that stops it dead in its tracks is truth.

If there is fear in the pit of your stomach when you write about your family, then follow it. Honor it. That fear means that what you’re writing about is honest and therefore relevant. And if you’re not interested in relevance—if you’re only interested in saying what has already been said—then don’t bother writing about your family.

We don’t need to read it.

Over a celebrated twenty-year design career, Erin Tyler has designed book covers for multiple New York Times bestselling authors, such as James Altucher, Ryan Holiday, David Goggins, and Tucker Max. She is a graduate of the Rochester Institute of Technology and is currently the creative director at Scribe Media. Erin is the author of the Amazon best-selling book, The Bad One: A Memoir About Growing Up a Goat.

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In an episode of Sex and the City, Carrie says she used to buy Vogue instead of food because it “fed her more.” But for those of us who don’t have a column that somehow pays for designer shoes and a one-bedroom on the Upper East Side, the reality is we eventually want to stop depending on variations of instant noodles as our main source of sustenance. Yet with tenure-track positions going the way of the dinosaur and the ever-changing landscape of the publishing industry, how does one actually avoid becoming a starving artist?

This was one of the questions I thought my MFA program would answer. On the first day of class, I was surprised when I wasn’t handed a copy of How to Make It as a Writer, complete with a step-by-step guide on how to secure an editing position and a book contract. I was even more surprised as graduation inched closer and I still had no leads on a job.

Unlike most of my cohort, I didn’t have my sights set on a professorship. Even though adjuncting is where most of us start, I needed a gig with health insurance, a 401k, and – if possible – paid time off and sick days. As I went on interview after interview, I realized the two semesters I spent reading submissions for the literary magazine didn’t even qualify me to read the slush pile at any publishing house. Today, I’d like to share some tips that might help you find a career path and be a writer.

Think Outside the Classroom

Many MFA students have dreams of securing professorships post-grad. However, an even larger percentage of MFA students consider teaching to be their only option. For those seeking full-time employment, an adjunct position may not be the best fit.

Websites like Upwork, FlexJobs, and others allow writers to look for remote writing gigs. Additionally, some sites allow you to set your freelance rate to make sure you’re making the most of your time and effort. Additionally, websites like Patreon allow writers to capitalize on their editing, teaching, and other writing talents in a new and innovative way.

That being said, fields like marketing, web development, and advertising are always in need of writers to help get clear and compelling messages to the masses. 

Job vs. Work Mentality

During one of my job searches, a writer friend of mine said to me, “Why are you so stressed? This is just your survival job. Your real work is your writing, and you can still do that while you look.” The more I thought about it, the more I realized I had to change the way I thought about my job and my work. 

The culture of America fuses together your identity and your job – you are what you do. Whenever I meet someone, “What do you do?” is usually one of the first questions I’m asked, or that I ask someone else. As a society, we think this knowledge somehow tells us everything we need to know about a person.

However, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to think of my 9-to-5 not as my job, but as my survival job. It’s the thing I do to keep the lights on, food on the table, and pay for WiFi. It’s not who I am. My work – my real work – is the endless number of post-its with “great ideas” all over my apartment. It’s the open Word doc I occasionally flirt with and never make time for. It’s the ever-growing TBR pile in the corner by my bed.

You Got Skills

Two of my favorite hobbies are baking and posting pictures of my creations on Instagram. I was surprised when my aunt’s friend DMed me one day asking how much 100 cupcakes for her daughter’s bridal shower would be. I gave her a quote, and was able to pay more of my student loan balance that month.

Think about the things you’re passionate about – whether it’s baking, reading (yes, there’s a market for bookstagrammers and paid promotions!), or underwater basket-weaving – it is possible to turn your hobby into an income source. 

FInal Thoughts

Often, writers tend to think that if they’re not teaching, editing, or otherwise connected to writing in their work lives, their writer card is somehow rescinded. Just because you’re not punching in and out of a writing-based job Monday through Friday doesn’t mean you’re not a writer. So start thinking outside the classroom, alter your thinking when it comes to being what you do, and consider ways to capitalize on your other talents.

LAUREN J. SHARKEY is a writer, teacher, and transracial adoptee. After her birth in South Korea, she was adopted by Irish Catholic parents and raised on Long Island. Sharkey’s creative nonfiction has appeared in the Asian American Feminist Collective’s digital storytelling project, First Times, as well as several anthologies including I Am Strength! and Women under Scrutiny. Inconvenient Daughter is her debut novel, and loosely based on her experience as a Korean adoptee. You can follow her at ljsharks.com.

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