While we’re writing, we tend to live in our fiction. We know the setting—we can hear, taste, and smell our worlds. We know who might come sauntering down a lane. We see the sunsets, feel the biting wind, walk unbalanced on shifting sands.

But sometimes a writer’s got to step away from the fictional world and analyze it, study it objectively.

When it’s time to check your story—to make sure you’ve covered all the craft issues, make sure you’ve got a solid product—you’ve got to disconnect from the emotional ties that bind you to your story.

You may have lived with your characters for years, may know the layout of their villages and planets better than you know your own city, but at some point you need to go outside and look through the eyes of a stranger. An analytical stranger, one without connections to your fictional world. One without understanding of that world.

And then you’ve got to coldly study the world, examine it. See what it lacks.

As every municipality has weaknesses and sub-standard services, maybe even absent services, so too will your story world have weaknesses and be missing vital elements.

You may never have noticed these missing parts because you’ve spent all your time with a few select characters and their area of town is built up, complete, without lack.

But look across the tracks. What have you forgotten to build into your story world? What have you skimped on? What did you ignore, thinking you’d eventually get to later? What missing elements did you hope no one would notice were missing?

What is overly portrayed, so much so that it masks the lack in other areas?

Take the time—no sooner than after your first draft and maybe only after the second—and dispassionately look at your story world. Make an honest assessment. What’s missing? What did you skimp on? What’s noticeably thin? Barren? Never mentioned?

What should be there, maybe in a support role, that’s not there at all?

What do you spend too much time with? What’s mentioned so often that readers would be comfortable skipping over the next time it’s mentioned? What is overly explained, left without mystery?

Make a list or a spreadsheet and investigate your story world as a student of literature might. Point out setting details and characters and plot threads. Assign weights to the elements of your stories.

Weigh the page time of characters. Weigh the amount and heft of their dialogue. Does your protagonist get more page time than anyone else? What of your major antagonist? Have you neglected your antagonist, given his minions, especially that outlandishly ghoulish one, more attention than the character who’s supposed to be the main challenger to your lead character?

Do incidentals overwhelm? Are necessities given too little emphasis?

What of secondary characters? Has your lead’s best friend been relegated to not second place but to fifth or sixth in terms of plot duties?

Does anything worthwhile happen, or have you forced your characters to think for page upon page rather than act or feel or speak?

___________________________

Don’t allow yourself to make excuses—well, this happens like that now, but the pace picks up (or something exciting happens or a new character makes a major revelation) twenty-five pages after this.

If you wouldn’t put up with it, with a lack or an overabundance of some element in a book you read, don’t put up with it in a book you write.

No dozens of pages of recounting an event from the past. No dialogue that runs forever without action. No dialogue that runs forever without interruption. No story-halting recitations of explanations for behavior or events.

No author intrusion, not even those oh-so-cool details about quarks that fascinate you even now, two years after you read about them.

Look at your story as an outsider would, one with no attachment to your words, phrases, details, characters, or scenes.

Examine—not necessarily read—your manuscript with an eye toward missing elements, under-reported elements, and heavy-handed elements.

Rather than reading one more time and getting lost in plot or story world, lost in detail, narrow your eyes and look at the big picture. Are there puzzle pieces missing? You’re not putting the puzzle together at this point, so you don’t need to connect individual pieces. You do want to step back and see where the gaps are. Is there a big empty space at the center of your puzzle, with connected pieces both before and after but no connections between? Are some pieces richly detailed and others murky? Are some pieces nearly colorless or maybe nearly blank because you didn’t know what to put there?

How about the edges? Usually puzzle edges are easy to put together, but maybe your edges are what’s murky because you don’t know where you’re sending your characters, don’t know their ending scenes. So instead of a full puzzle, you’ve got a jumble, unfinished, with missing pieces, extra pieces, and non-matching pieces that you’ve shoved together. And you’re hoping no one notices the places where pieces are missing or incorrectly joined.

The truth is, they’ll notice.

So fix the problem areas.

Fix your puzzle. Make the pieces themselves clear and then make them clearly fit with what comes before and what comes after. Any place a plot thread or character or setting detail touches another element, ensure that the fit is tight. Leave no gaps, because readers will find them. And once readers are distracted from the fiction, it’s hard to get them to buy into a story a second time.

Think tight fit. Think interlocking. Think tabs fitting into grooves (or innies fitting into outties).

Pieces must not only fit tightly, they must actually form a picture that makes sense. So while several tabs might fit into one groove, you have to make sure the resulting picture is a true picture.

Yes, I’ve taken the analogies around and around a couple of times here. But the point is to look at your stories from outside rather than only from the inside. For first-time writers, being able to step back, to step outside the story, is often tough.

Sometimes it’s nearly impossible.

It helps if you can put your manuscript aside for a while. Don’t look at it. Don’t think about it. Don’t imagine what you could’ve, should’ve, written in that one scene.

Immerse yourself in another story world. Or in your real world. Shake off the emotions and thoughts about this one story. When you can think of it coolly, go back and examine it.

Again, we’re not talking about reading and enjoying each step of the unfolding plot. We’re talking about the big picture and the connections and the elements that make up stories.

Where is there too much of any one thing—too much detail or too many characters or too much emphasis?

Where is there too little?

Where is there overlap?  What of missing connections?

Where is connection forced, so that pieces sort of fit but don’t do so smoothly? Where have you manipulated a puzzle piece, some story element, so that other pieces are squished, pushed out of shape, so they no longer smoothly fit the pieces they were once connected to?

 ___________________________

I admit this is one of the most difficult tasks for some writers. It’s hard, hard, hard for some to look at their work dispassionately. Characters or story world have become so much a part of their lives that they don’t know how to separate themselves from that world. They may not want to. When you’ve invested years in a project, it bears your blood, your life, everything you gave up in order to spend time creating. Who wants to admit that after all that time, a story is still not perfect?

The writer who wants a better story admits it. So does the writer who knows that both identification with a story and separation from it will strengthen it. The writer who can lose himself in the depths of story as well as ruthlessly cut out fabulous scenes and remarkable characters because they ultimately don’t fit knows it as well.

I hope this is the kind of writer you are, one who can both get lost in your fiction—write from your heart—and set yourself apart from it—analyze and rewrite from the head. Both skills will serve your writing and your stories.

If this isn’t your natural approach, not one of your strengths, have faith; both skills can be learned and sharpened.

Both skills will give your readers more engrossing adventures.

Both skills should be eagerly pursued.

***

Are you just beginning a novel or short story and have no idea what you should do first? You’re not alone.

New writers may imagine that there’s some magic starting line, a place every writer begins. Because, after all, every writer must get those first words down somehow. So there must be one best starting place. Instructors or mentors probably share the secret of where real writers begin, pass it through the ranks from one generation to the next to ensure consistency, to ensure that a project is begun correctly.

A note about real writers: No matter where you begin and what you produce, if you write, you’re a writer. You might not be a published author, but to be a writer, all you must do is write.

Now, back to the start . . .

Will it surprise you if I say you can begin writing at any point in your story? That advice shouldn’t surprise you. I’ll always, always, (almost) always counsel a writer to do what works for him or her.

If you want to, need to, can only imagine beginning with the opening of your story and then writing straight through to the end, then do that. Start with your opening line. Opening paragraph. Opening dialogue or description or event.

Start from the beginning and then follow your path.

But what if that’s your problem? What if you don’t know what the opening scene should be?

Well, how about starting with what you do know?

If you’ve got an ending, start there. 

Know the characters who feature in the climactic scene and what that scene needs to accomplish? Write it.

Have some juicy bits of dialogue, dialogue that pits characters at one another, floating around in your mind? Get those juicy bits on the page.

Begin wherever you want with whatever story element you want to start with. Whatever gets you moving is what you need to begin with.

If you want to write the meet of hero and heroine, write it. If their first fight is itching to be explored, go there first. If you love dialogue and can already imagine scenes of conflict piled on more conflict, start with one of those scenes.

Write an action scene, even if you have no idea where it falls in the story.

Write your first line. Write the last one. Write a revelation that twists your protagonist into a madman trying to break free from family ties or responsibilities or memories. Write that one simple and profound sentence that turns both the story and your main character in a new direction.

Write the chapter-ending hook that will draw readers into your most emotionally challenging chapter and scene, even if you have no idea what goes into the beginning of the chapter for which you’re writing the hook.

Write what moves you, what interests you, what’s on your mind. When you’re staring at a blank screen and you’re imagining how you’ll fill 350 pages, write whatever comes to you.

Or, plan it all out beforehand. Work your outline and then begin with a scene that won’t stop playing in your mind, the one that keeps you up at night. Write it while it’s energized and emphatic. Write the dialogue of characters who won’t shut up.

Write snippets or paragraphs or scenes or full chapters.

Don’t assume that you need to know a scene in full to begin it. Get down what you can while it’s burning to be written.

Or, save the best for last.

I typically know the most emotional scene, the most crucial, before I begin writing. And I save the actual writing of it for when I get there in my fairly straightforward march through a story. I might note phrases from this special scene—images or description or hot dialogue, phrases that I don’t want to lose. But I save the full writing as a treat to myself. It’s a goal, one that sees me through the search for perfect word after perfect word and pages of detail I’m sure I’ll throw out or repetitive dialogue or action events that aren’t quite right or . . .

I save the best for last.

But I usually begin with the second best. The opening. The hook that will ensnare readers. The hook that gets my juices flowing.

As I write, I may jump around in terms of scene order, but I typically know the ending and typically start at the beginning. But that’s my way of doing it. You get to do it your way.

You don’t need someone else to tell you where to start. You don’t need to do it the way Stephen King does it, the way Nora Roberts does it, or the way Ian McEwan does it.

Find your way to begin. And please note that we’re not necessarily talking about the most efficient way to start writing a story. We’re talking about the way that will work for you. The way you’ll do it. The way that will ensure you’ll actually begin putting words in some kind of order that will see your fictional world and your characters come to life. Or at least help them find a place to live outside of your head.

Keep in mind—

There is no one right place to start.

There is no one right way to start.

You don’t have to begin writing where your favorite author does.

You don’t have to begin one story with the same element you used to begin the last one.

Begin writing any place that suits you.

Begin a second or a third time if you want or need to.

Don’t let anyone tell you there is one best way.

You don’t need me to say it, do you? But I will. Here it is . . .

Just begin.

Get something written.

Get the essence down. Get the mood or the feel or the emotion or the character or the dialogue or the color or the sound or the title.

Corral the it of your story, that thing that makes you want to begin a new project. If you can’t catch hold of the feeling, can’t quite get the snippet of plot or characterization that’s teasing you, at least capture something. And work with that. See if that which is elusive will draw closer as you work your magic. See if it doesn’t come so close that it can’t help but be drawn into every scene and every sentence, into the very heart of your story.

Start anywhere that works for you. But start somewhere.

Start with a story element that stirs your passion.

Start with an area that takes advantage of your skills.

Just start.

And then write until you’re well beyond the beginning. Write until idea has become plot and plot has become story and story has twisted and turned and become meaningful or entertaining or earth-shattering.

If you’re staring at that empty page, ready to begin something new, begin today.

Begin a new story.

And if you’re in the middle of a project, keep writing. Keep at it, knowing others are pulling for you, that readers are waiting to explore your story world.

They won’t care where you began. Only that you did.

So give them what they want.

Write good story today.

***

Yes to each of those.

Yet my sole purpose as an editor isn’t to fill up my calendar and ensure an income stream. I edit because I want to help a writer improve a story and improve as a writer. There’s a teacher inside me who wants to not only make a manuscript the best it can be, but to make writers the best they can be.

Does this mean I have all the answers? No, no, and no again.

But I do bring an outside eye to a manuscript. And I can tell when something doesn’t work and why. And I do know how to make suggestions.

So why decline an edit?

The major reason I turn down an editing project is because the manuscript is not ready. Not ready to be published and not ready for an editor’s tools.

I’ve said many times that a first draft is not a finished product; first drafts can be so far from the final draft that they look to be different stories. Yet that’s often what I’m asked to look at, the very beginnings of what might be a wonderful story.

I receive many first drafts from excited writers, writers eager to submit their stories to publishers or agents after I clean up the punctuation or suggest grammar changes. I love that eagerness and hope I can channel it toward rewrites and self-edits. But I do that through suggestions rather than a hands-on edit at that stage.

I’m not a ghost writer or co-writer, yet that’s what I’d be if I edited the first draft of a novel.

A first draft, unless the writer is exceptionally gifted or experienced, is simply not ready for an edit. That first draft is a work in progress—and it’s a WIP at its very worst. What writer would want an editor to work on her project at its worst stage?

A first draft is incomplete. It has few of the touches that would make it an exceptional read. It’s often missing character motivation, rising conflict, and dialogue that’s rich in subtext and nuance. The beginning may not match the end. Story threads that were begun early in the manuscript might have gone nowhere, leaving messy bits of different plots hanging here and there among the true story.

Characters are likely to be undeveloped, hazy, unsure of their purpose in the story. Underused. One-dimensional.

The plot will be too thin or too full, the pacing will be off, the sentence rhythms will be off.

Foreshadowing will be absent. Chapter-ending hooks will go nowhere or be weak and uninspiring. Repetition—in word or thought or action—will be obvious rather than useful.

So . . . Isn’t that what an editor is for? To fix these issues? To at least bring a writer’s attention to them so he can make changes?

Yes, an editor will address all these issues and many more. But a manuscript that lacks the basic elements of good story is incomplete. And asking an editor to come in too soon is like asking another painter to finish a half-painted canvas: Here’s my latest project, John. Fill in the blank parts for me, will you? I’m sure you can tell from the rest of the image what I want to include in all the empty spaces. And if you find something that doesn’t work with the rest, just change that too.

A painting completed by another artist will not be the same painting the first artist envisioned. And a novel completed by an editor will not be the same story the writer envisioned.

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A writer friend mentioned that it must be especially difficult to be turned down by a freelance editor. Not only is the manuscript not ready for a publisher, but it’s not even ready for an editor who would be paid to work on it. What does that say about the writing? the writer? the writer’s dreams?

For me, turning down an edit has nothing to do with the writer or his goals and dreams. It has everything to do with the words and the manuscript.

I’m not a dream crusher but a dream enhancer. What I give to writers whose manuscripts I decline to edit is the same thing I bring to my clients as I work through their manuscripts—my best advice and suggestions for improving the story.

For manuscripts I decline to edit, I point out areas that still need work. I suggest fixes and a few resources for helping with those fixes. I offer options and a direction to consider as the writer works on rewrites.

I suggest that a first draft needs another pass or two by the writer.

A first draft—or any version of a manuscript that hasn’t jelled—needs more than polishing and focus. It needs work at the very foundations. That may mean point of view hasn’t been decided. It may mean that instead of scenes, the writer has included character sketches and notes. There may be no clear protagonist.

Dialogue may run on and on or be nearly non-existent.

Unless an editor is working with the writer from the early stages of a story, unless she’s working as a developmental editor, these basic elements should be decided upon before an editor comes to a story. It’s true that an editor may suggest changes in POV or viewpoint character, may even suggest that a different character is the true protagonist. Yet, were an editor to rewrite passages to reflect the change in POV, were she to create scenes out of chapters of only description, the work would take on the editor’s style and not the writer’s.

Yes, there is developmental editing and there are co-writers, but unless that’s specifically what you’re looking for, you’d do better to have a handle on the fundamentals of storytelling and novels before you approach an editor for your work.

Do you want guidance and help or full rewriting? Do you want an outsider’s eye and suggestions or do you want that outsider’s words in place of your own?

I’m not saying that editors can’t make suggestions for entire scenes or for long passages. I am saying there’s a difference between editing and co-writing or re-writing. If you’re a writer, know which you expect from your editor and let her know your expectations. If you’re an editor, know what the writer expects from you and let him know what your edits cover.

If a writer is looking for help from the earliest stages, both parties should know that going in. But again, that’s typically a developmental edit, what is often seen in non-fiction. It’s not unheard of for fiction projects, just less common. The typical novelist typing away in solitude wants to do it all herself.

Note:  There’s always the slight chance an editor might accept an unfinished manuscript and neglect to point out fundamental story problems to the writer. A poor editor might try to make a story look pretty without firming the foundations.

If you’re a writer, you definitely don’t want to solicit such an editor, one who’s not willing to tell you your story isn’t ready. And if you’re an editor new to the business, don’t be shy about telling a writer what a story needs.

Writers, you’ll also want to be aware of the different types and levels of editing. If you ask a proofreader to work on a manuscript, he’s not necessarily going to point out problems with the story’s foundations; that’s not a proofreader’s job. He might not even see them since he’s reading for a different purpose. And he might not know how to fix them even if he did see problems. Proofreaders are highly skilled and worth every penny you pay them, but they are not substantive editors who delve into all the fiction elements. So while a proofreader may check every line of your tables, he might not be able to tell you a thing about character development.

Major story issues that show me a manuscript isn’t ready to be edited—

1.  Reports that take the place of scenes. This is the very worst of telling instead of showing. These manuscripts read less like a novel and more like a list of daily chores that have been accomplished. I did this, then I did this, and then I went here and did this. A novel without scenes (barring an experimental piece) is not a story.

2.  No clear protagonist. A story without a clear protagonist is missing its heart. Writers must decide whose story they’re telling and they should decide this before they’re ready for an edit. A story can’t be finished, the elements can’t be joined properly, if the protagonist is unidentified. And if the story isn’t finished, why have it edited? (I understand that editors often work as mentors and consultants, helping fix problem areas and strengthening a writer’s skills. An editor can take on these tasks at any stage of a manuscript’s development. I’m differentiating the editing of a completed manuscript from these mentoring tasks.)

3.  Confusion over point of view. Again, while an editor may suggest that a writer change his choice of POV or viewpoint character, there should’ve been some conscious decision by the writer to have chosen a point of view before working on the final drafts. A manuscript with muddled POV, especially one that shows the writer doesn’t understand the different options for POV, is not ready to be edited.

4.  Lack of story. A novel manuscript without a discernible story is not ready for an edit. Novels have characters doing something somewhere. The story usually makes sense, entertains readers, and shows a cohesion of some sort from beginning to end. The options of elements to be included in novels is nearly limitless, but there must be some kind of narrative featuring some kind of characters. A manuscript without a story needs to find a story before the writer finds an editor.

5.  A complete lack of writing skills or indifference to the need for those skills on the part of the writer. A writer who doesn’t know how to write and a writer who doesn’t care to learn how to write may not have the same attitude, but their output can be similar. A manuscript that’s the result of either ignorance (the lack of knowledge) or indifference is likely not ready for an edit.

Writers, you expect your editor to bring her best skills to your manuscript; you should do no less. Learn the basics. Learn the intermediate skills. Learn the advanced skills. Learn the writing rules and the ins and outs of fiction. Don’t assume you can write and that you know how to work with all the elements of storytelling—make sure that you do through practice and reading and study.

If I see a weakness in one of these areas, I suggest that the writer examine the problem area before seeking an edit. After all, what’s the point of editing a full manuscript if it will change drastically—where changes touch every page or scene—and require another edit? Make those major structural changes before hiring an editor.

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I hope this reassures those writers who might be hesitant to approach a freelance editor. We’re looking for writers who want to produce a better story, who have an interest in crafting entertaining fiction that others will want to read. 

We don’t relish turning a writer down. Instead we want to help you make your current manuscript and all those that follow the best you can make them. If that means saying that one isn’t ready, not even ready for an editor, then that’s what we’re going to say.

I’m certain that at this point a few writers and editors will be thinking some variation of the following: “My first draft was really clean; I actually got a contract from that first draft.” “But I want an editor to help me with these exact issues.” “I’m an editor and I relish, thrive, working on just the kind of manuscripts you’ve described here as not ready.”

There are always exceptions.

Of course there are. Exceptions for stories, for people, for circumstances. Exceptions for brilliance or for the challenge or for the opportunity of working on a particular manuscript or with a particular writer.

But exceptions aren’t common. For most of us, the reality is that our stories need work and our first drafts are not final drafts and a beginning writer’s first manuscript is going to have major structural and storytelling issues that need fixing.

My encouragement for you is to keep writing. Work to enhance your writing strengths and eliminate your weaknesses.

Learn what makes good fiction and strive to create it.

And when you and your manuscript are ready, find an editor whose goals and strengths and style fit with yours so the two of you can produce a story readers won’t be able to put down.

Write good fiction today.

Rewrite even better fiction.

***

Maybe you’re writing about a vampire or a super man who can move at the speed of light. If so, your character probably can accomplish several tasks rather quickly.

If you’re not writing about such a character, however, your characters might not actually be multi-tasking as much as finding themselves subject to an impossible combination of actions you’ve created for them.

Do you mean to imply that your detective can race down an alley at the same time he jumps into his car?

Does your thief pull a diamond free of its vault while he’s sliding down the banister to make his getaway?

Does Elsie painstakingly put on eyeliner as she’s pulling on her jeans?

I know, you wouldn’t write action combinations such as these. But if you did, your sentences might look like—

Zeke, running through the alleys after the masked man, jumped into his Mustang.

While Jones kept watch for the guard, Smith artfully pulled the Queen’s Knot from the museum’s vault, sliding down the double-wide banisters with ease.

Elsie, yanking her jeans up by the belt loops, painstakingly lined her eyes with kohl.

I find a lot of such sentences when I edit. Some, like the first example, don’t seem too bad. Most are not as blatantly impossible as the third.

Yet no matter where they fall along the range, sentences with concurrent—or seemingly concurrent—actions might need adjusting. If characters cannot perform two actions at the same time—because the characters don’t have enough limbs or the actions occur in different places or one action must always precede another—then those actions can’t be written as though they’re concurrent. Instead, write them as consecutive actions. Serial actions. Actions that follow one another rather than happen at the same time.

This may sound almost trivial, a matter too inconsequential for its own article. But if you write sentences with impossible concurrent actions, readers will notice. Agents and editors will notice as well. And such sentences not only make your characters seem unreal, they make the story seem false. Inconceivable. Not as true as what can be read in the daily newspaper.

Yet your goal is to get readers believing your tale is just as true as what they read about in news stories.

So while the topic isn’t as flashy as plot or dialogue or theme, it is important. 

____________________________________

If you have multiple actions in a sentence, simply check to see if you’ve written them in a way that the character can logically perform them.

Zeke can’t be running, on foot, through the alleys at the same time he jumps into his car. He can whistle while he runs. He can holler out to the one he’s chasing. He can make a phone call, wheeze painfully, even hold on to his heaving side.

But he can’t jump into his car and run at the same time.

He can do one after the other.

Zeke ran through the alleys after the masked man but stopped to jump into his Mustang when he reached State Street.

Zeke ran through the alleys after the masked man, stopping to jump into his Mustang when he reached State Street.

Zeke ran through the alleys after the masked man, then stopped to jump into his Mustang when he reached State Street.

Again, the original of this particular example doesn’t seem too wrong. Many readers might not even notice that Zeke was running through alleys and jumping into his car at the same time. But what about this? Zeke, running through the alleys after the masked man, backed out his Mustang. Is the impossibility more obvious?

The key is to understand what you’re asking of your characters as well as the sequence of the actions. Be sure characters can do what you’ve written for them to do.

Change impossible combinations of actions into actions that work.

From

Trudging up the stairs, Sid raced down the hall to his bedroom.

To

After trudging up the stairs, Sid raced down the hall to his bedroom.

From

While Jones kept watch for the guard, Smith artfully pulled the Queen’s Knot from the museum’s vault, sliding down the double-wide banisters with ease.

To

While Jones kept watch for the guard, Smith artfully pulled the Queen’s Knot from the museum’s vault. Then the two slid down the double-wide banisters with ease.

Or

While Jones kept watch for the guard, Smith artfully pulled the Queen’s Knot from the museum’s vault before sliding down the double-wide banisters with ease.

What to look for
Check out your use of present participles, participial phrases, and absolute phrases. Look at two or more actions written into one sentence. Make certain that either the character can perform several actions concurrently or that the actions have been written to show they happen consecutively.

These Work

Wanting to show off his new bike, Teddy pedaled hard toward his Gran’s house, blowing bubbles all the way.

Webster, lifting weights in the shadowed corner of the weight room, planned his next assassination.

These Don’t Work

Wanting to show off his new bike, Teddy pedaled hard toward his Gran’s house, dragging his feet all the way.

Webster, lifting weights in the shadowed corner of the weight room, raced around the track to plan his next assassination.

Some actions can be performed at the same time as other actions. Other actions must either follow or come before.

Thinking and planning, most anything to do with the mind, can be done while performing physical actions. Actions having to do with feeling—grieving, smiling, hurting, loving, hating and the like—can also be paired with physical actions without too many problems. It’s the combination of physical actions that you’ll want to look out for.

Let your characters multi-task when they need to. But don’t make them ridiculous by asking them to do more in the same moment than they can logically do.

Some can walk, talk, and chew gum at the same time. Others might need to concentrate on their steps and leave the gum chewing to less active moments.

Proofread your manuscripts for multi-tasking run amok. Look for impossible combinations of actions.

Make your characters real by ensuring they’re not super men and super women, capable of inhuman feats. Simply give them believable combinations of actions that they can pull off in a manner befitting the genre and their everyday abilities.

Craft your sentences with care so character actions seem natural and possible and don’t cause your readers to stutter over what you’ve written.

***

Most of us know what a paragraph is, those sentences joined into clusters and separated by line spaces. They’re groupings of words that separate sections of narrative and join similar thoughts or assertions or dialogue or actions.

Paragraphs are visual cues to writing, cues for keeping the reader on track.

If you’re writing a novel or short story, you’re well beyond this definition:

A paragraph consists of a topic sentence, supporting sentences, and a concluding sentence.

Yes, there’s more beyond this simple advice we all got back in school when we first met the mysterious essay.

We still write in paragraphs, grouping and separating information chunks, but we know there’s more to paragraphs than what we learned in middle school. Let’s examine the elements of a paragraph, the elements that help you craft enticing paragraphs that can be connected into scenes and chapters and ultimately into a complete manuscript.

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How to think about a paragraph

Frame
Consider a paragraph as a frame for a specific amount or section of information. In fiction this may be description, dialogue, action, exposition or any combination of these elements. The paragraph acts as a boundary or fence for related items.

This frame or boundary can be expanded to add more related information or contracted to limit the information it contains. 

Link
A paragraph is a link, a connector, between the sections of information that come before and those that come after. Paragraphs look back, connecting logically to what has already been presented, and they look forward, preparing the reader for what’s to come.

Separator
On the flip side of link, the paragraph serves as a separator, keeping at a distance sections of information that aren’t closely related. Paragraphs help the reader separate topics or sections of a story; they prevent different groupings of information with only nominal connections from running up into each other.

Paragraphs help readers make sense of the thousands of pieces of information a writer folds into a story.

Scene Builder
Paragraphs joined to one another make up scenes. These scenes, with each paragraph pulling its own weight, contribute to conflict, character revelation, description and setting, and advancement of plot.

Paragraphs are the blocks—along with scene and chapter—that build story.

1.  Blocks on the bottom, those that form the foundation of the story, must be strong enough and wide enough to support what is placed on top of them.

2.  Blocks can be removed, added, or rearranged. But the writer must realize that a change in a single block might necessitate changes in adjacent blocks. And a single change can send ripples through every block in the story.

3.  Some blocks—paragraphs in our example—are a better fit between two blocks than another block would be. They allow for a tighter fit, with fewer opportunities for unexpected and unwanted shifting.

4.  Moving blocks around to create a stronger, firmer, and more cohesive story is a necessity for creating stable stories, stories that don’t fall apart.

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Specifics about paragraphs

Length
A paragraph can be as short as one word or can run for pages. In fiction, the paragraph, as does any other element, must serve the story. If the style of the story calls for long paragraphs, write them. Keep in mind that long paragraphs can be hard on the reader, can confuse the reader with their twists and turns and digressions. But if you can write a long paragraph that the reader can follow—and long paragraphs fit the scene and story and characters and the moment—then write it. You can always edit if a long paragraph doesn’t work.

Sometimes the only editing required is the simple insertion of a line space.

A paragraph of only a single word, whether dialogue or narrative, is often more powerful than five paragraphs filled with action or detail or emotion. Consider using extremely short paragraphs to jar the reader or to make an unmistakable point.

A series of short paragraphs with either only a few words or sentences speeds the pace of a story. Short staccato paragraphs can indicate a character’s frame of mind or attitude or personality—tense, terse, worried, short-tempered, a man or woman of few words. Long paragraphs—meaning many words or many sentences—also reveal character. They may say that this character is someone in no hurry (or pretending not to be), someone who talks a lot, or someone of great self-importance.

This revelation of character happens whether or not the paragraphs are dialogue, whether or not the character is overtly revealing himself. If the reader sees through the eyes of a character, that character can be portrayed by the type of paragraphs used for his viewpoint. Thus, a writer can use different paragraph stylings for each viewpoint character.

Purpose
A paragraph is used to hold information together, to let readers know that sections of text belong together. To help readers follow the meaning of the text without becoming lost or confused.

Paragraphs are facilitators and signposts. Their format is traditional and understood by most readers. So when a writer uses them incorrectly, readers will notice and can be pulled away from the fictional world. They may respond by putting down the book.

Paragraphs add to scenes and contribute, with other paragraphs, to conflict, character development or character revelation, setting, and advancement of plot.

Order
Information revealed by paragraphs, especially in fiction, is typically presented chronologically; stories begin at one point in time and move forward. Flashbacks and flash forwards are exceptions, and experimental fiction may purposely mix up the order of scenes.

Concurrent scenes may have to be presented one after the other, even though their times overlap, but the diligent writer makes sure readers understand the order of events and the timetable.

Still, most story events unfold one after another.

Format
In fiction manuscripts, the first line of a paragraph is indented (half an inch is standard). A line break between paragraphs mirrors the break in thought. (And allows the reader a moment to catch his breath.)

If paragraphs are not separated by a scene or chapter break, a paragraph should have a logical connection to the one it follows. The first sentence in successive paragraphs should connect to the prior paragraph or set up a contrast to it.

The new paragraph may refer only obliquely to the prior one, or it can repeat words, phrases, or thoughts from the other paragraph.

Paragraphs can reveal new information about revelations from paragraphs that have come before, they can expand on those paragraphs, and they can approach the same information from another angle.

Paragraph Breaks
Begin a new paragraph, in fiction, with a change of speaker. Each time dialogue switches to a different character, start a new paragraph.

Begin new paragraphs with a change in thought or to change direction, to delve deeper into the same subject, to sum up, to change emphasis or focus, or to change tone.

Elements
Sentences and phrases within paragraphs should be logically related.

In dialogue, however, a character might jump from subject to subject in the same paragraph. (Dialogue allows for many exceptions to writing rules.)

Paragraphs can consist of full sentences or phrases or a combination of the two. You don’t always need to write a complete sentence.

The two most important places in a paragraph are the opening and the closing sentences. Information presented in these locations is the most readily noticed, and remembered, by readers. If you want the reader to note something, place it at the beginning or the end of a paragraph. (The last words of paragraphs that end scenes or chapters are especially remembered by readers.)

If you want to include information but also want to hide it—perhaps clues to a whodunit—write that information into the middles of paragraphs with other attention-getting phrases both before and after it.

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A quick search of information about the paragraph repeatedly turns up the advice about including opening and concluding sentences with supporting sentences in between. But writers should know more about paragraphs than that.

They should know that short paragraphs can create and convey tension, that they can speed the pace of story, and that a lot of white space on a page is more appealing to readers than pages of dense text would be.

Writers should know

that a short paragraph, perhaps a sentence of only one or two words, dropped into the middle of a series of long paragraphs can have the effect of an exploding bomb.

that information can be both revealed and hidden inside paragraphs. 

that paragraph style can influence the tone and feel of a story for the reader.

that variety in paragraph length and in sentence construction within paragraphs can create a better reading experience for their readers.

that crafting paragraphs requires both skill and art.

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Suggestions

Play around with paragraph lengths to see what effect they have on the tone of the story, on its feel. On the pace.

Try breaking paragraphs in different places to change their impact. Study the differences and see which arrangement better serves the story.

Eliminate entire paragraphs if they don’t advance the plot; reveal character; elicit reader emotion; establish, change, or maintain tone; or portray setting.

*******

Use paragraphs to strengthen story, to reinforce the other narrative elements. Don’t be satisfied with paragraphs only doing a small percentage of what they can do for your writing. Call on them to support and build strong, rich stories.

Demand more of paragraphs than what you did as a student just learning the craft of writing.

Demand that paragraphs serve your purposes and your stories.

***

So, why repeat myself to say what’s already been said? Because maybe a new writer has missed those other articles and books and advice lists and will read this and be encouraged to both write and write well.

There are no shortcuts to writing a novel. You have to write the danged thing.

There are no shortcuts to writing a good novel. You have to know both the elements that go into a novel and those elements that will make it good.

Simple.

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Writers need knowledge.

And experience.

And as writers gain experience in writing, they’ll gain knowledge. But writers can also gain knowledge from others.

Information about writing, editing, publishing, and querying is abundant. All those with access to a computer can have their questions answered. So don’t be hesitant about looking for information and answers. But check with multiple sources—don’t rely on a single person or group to answer all your questions.

To get started and to advance as a writer, learn and then practice the basics.

1.  Read. Daily.

2.  Learn what can be done with words. Play with them. Manipulate them. Become familiar with words, the most essential and basic of a writer’s tools.

3.  Learn what a short story is, what makes a poem poetry, how to develop and present a convincing argument step by step.

4.  Write. Write poetry, short stories, essays, dialogue, character sketches. Write stream-of-consciousness musings. Write overly detailed instructions on how to perform a task. Write a five-sentence story. Write a three-word poem.

5.  Learn what goes into a novel. You’re going to need that information for the next suggestion.

6.  Write a novel.

7.  Recognize that your first novel is not going to be a masterpiece.

In the Middle Ages, an apprentice or journeyman was granted the status of master craftsman after his master deemed he was ready. The apprentice worked on many projects until presenting the one that convinced his mentor (and their guild) that he had earned the title of master, meaning he had mastered the craft. 

In current usage, masterpiece means someone’s best work.

8.  A first draft is not a finished manuscript. Realize that you will need to edit and rewrite.

9.  Understand that none of the words you’ve written are priceless, untouchable, sacrosanct. You will cut words from your manuscripts and doing so will improve your stories.

 10.  Learn the craft. Learn how to develop characters and unfold plot, how to mix dialogue with exposition, how to write scenes, and how to stir reader emotions. Learn about point of view and genre.

Learn what back story is and learn when and where it’s appropriate to add to a story. Learn how to add it to a story.

11.  Learn the mechanics. Study grammar and punctuation. Practice different sentence constructions. Learn the meanings of words and how word choice affects plot, tone, and reader expectations.

12.  Write another novel using what you learned from writing the last one.

13.  Remind yourself that not all readers will love your work—your plots, your characters, or your style. And acknowledge that it’s no big deal when they don’t.

14.  Keep the reader in mind; know your audience.

15.  Most important suggestion? Take this advice and these suggestions to heart. Don’t just look at this as another list of things to do and then check off. Follow the suggestions. Make them a part of your writing life. See if they don’t make you a better writer.

See if they don’t help you avoid mistakes that countless numbers of new writers make, mistakes that delay writing or publishing success for so many.

*******

Don’t expect miracles—you will not be the first writer to write the perfect first draft and win a Pulitzer with that perfect first draft and have Hollywood beating down your door for the chance to make the movie from that perfect first draft.

Yes, you can dream; those dreams will carry you through long and longer nights and frustration and doubt. But writing, creating something from nothing other than imagination, requires more than dreams. It requires patience, and trial and error. It requires work. It requires discipline.

Do both, the dreaming and the working. Imagine. And then show your readers what you’ve imagined. Get them imagining too.

Write good story.

Write well.

Create worlds and adventures with your words.

***

Writers who’ve never studied craft, never attended classes, may have no idea how much more there is to a novel than the relatively simple(?) act of getting it down on paper.

Often, no thought is given to assessment, the evaluation and judging of the story and its elements. No thought given to tightening and refining plot, to the strengths or inconsistencies of characterization, syntax, or dialogue.

If you’ve never gone beyond the dream stage of wanting to write a novel, how could you possibly know there was more to it, more than just writing the idea that’s in your head? If the goal has been to write the story, that’s been the focus.

The truth, however, is that there is much more to writing than simply penning the first draft.

Yet, writing the first draft is crucial. Without it, there’s nothing to build on. Nothing to perfect.

But there is so much more.

Rather than delve into what happens after the first draft is written, this article takes a look at the first draft itself. What it is, what it isn’t. What’s in it and what’s not.

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What it is and what it isn’t

A first draft isn’t the one a writer submits to an agent or publisher.

A first draft is a skeleton, a foundation, a beginning. It is not a finished product. Not only isn’t it polished, but it most likely lacks supports that give it strength, that allow it to take on the weight of all the elements the writer has piled on.

A first draft is typically not great storytelling.

A first draft, especially the first first draft, is a milestone worth celebrating.

A first draft doesn’t have

• a fully formulated theme
• layers and depth
• tight threads that resist unraveling
• pacing that enhances the story
• fully formed characters with motivations strong enough to drive the story
• story-specific words that keep readers anchored to this story
• enough conflict
• an inevitable ending

A first draft does have

• a tantalizing hint of the final product
• bloat
• some super-fine writing and phrases—words that may or may not make it into the final draft
• plot inconsistencies
• info dumps
• too many characters
• too much back story
• weak dialogue
• moments of great beauty
• an insufficient resolution
• dangling plot threads
• characters with unclear motivations
• cliches, saidisms, annoying repetition
• poor grammar

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I hope the reality of what the first draft is doesn’t discourage you from working on that second draft. And beyond that, to the sixth or seventh or tenth. There is no perfect first draft. Novels are too full and rich and complex for a writer to include every element in the proper proportion in a single pass. It’s impossible to layer elements and plot and character motivation in chapter four when the layers you intend to add haven’t yet been imagined, when what gives those layers power comes from a plot point, one in chapter twelve, that you haven’t yet written.

Celebrate the completion of the first draft. Actually, celebrate each step of the writing process if it’s your first manuscript. Then tackle the tough stuff, the rewriting and undoing and fixing.

Writing a novel, a story others will enjoy reading and one you’ll want to put in their hands, is more than a labor of love. It’s more than penning a first draft, more than moving unfocused ideas from mind to page or computer screen. Writing a novel is toil and inspiration and days of frustration. It’s work. It’s sometimes fun. It’s rewarding, it’s taxing, and it’s draining.

It’s also a grand achievement, a testament to creativity and perseverance. An endeavor I hope you’ll complete many times in the course of your career.

***

I need more than the thousand words of a blog article to list the ins and outs of writing a novel, but I can offer advice.

So, how to write a novel . . . A list, for those who like getting to the point . . .

1. Find a topic/subject that interests you. Write about something you love, hate, or have a desire to learn about. Your passion for the subject will show through in your words.
2. Play what if. What if a car could fly? What if time travel were true? What if a burned-out ball player met a knock-out physical therapist? What if a terrorist moved into the neighborhood?
   Let a what-if tickle your imagination and then take off with your thoughts.
3. Jot down notes. On character. Genre. Setting, era, tone. Anything that comes to you.
4. Start an outline—if you’re a plotter. If you’re a pantser (fly by the seat of), don’t feel you need to outline. If you’re the ultimate planner, get the spreadsheet out and have at it. Plan and plot and make notes—but never let the planning keep you from writing. Have a plan for when to begin writing.
5. Consider the ending or the climax. It’s hard to take a journey, not knowing where you’re going. Yes, it can be done and it can be fun. But how do you know if you’ve arrived if you don’t know the destination.
   *********
   Two schools of thought for writing: Know the destination, so you’ll recognize it and so you can plan your route. Or be the adventurer, and tell about the place you discover after you find a destination that intrigues.
   *********
   The adventure route is fun, but there’s more to a novel than just reporting events and places on the way to somewhere. The elements of a story benefit from a tight weave. A plot thread from one scene appears, in a different guise, in three other scenes. A sub-plot needs to be nurtured, not only introduced and abandoned. Characters grow and change and learn. Weaving a story’s elements brings cohesion and unity, a fullness, that strengthens stories. If you write without an end in mind, the rewrites can be more difficult as you go back and tighten threads, maybe even add threads, and weave them into the story.
   *********
   Writing without a firm destination allows a writer to follow rabbit trails and shiny plot threads which may or may not lead anywhere. And of course you can take out rabbit trails and distractions later—plus, sometimes side trails lead to marvelous story discoveries—but a general sense of direction saves time and prevents at least some frustrations.
6. Read more. Novels and short stories and magazines.
7. Decide on your protagonist’s goals, motivations, and conflict fairly early. These three elements will drive, direct, and guide the plot. You can always change or adjust any of the elements at any time, but they provide a framework and a rough road map.
   *********
   Forty-year-old Sam intended to wrest control of the family firm from his uncle Max. He’d prove to all his father’s brothers that Gramps had been right ceding leadership to Sam’s dad, that his father hadn’t been the profligate Max and his cronies had portrayed him as. Sam knew he faced a fight with Max’s sons—they had no intention of letting Sammy the dreamer assume the reins. But a dreamer with a Ph. D. in economics was just what the family firm needed.
   *********
   Goal: to gain control of the company. Motivation: prove his father and his father’s family were not screw-ups. Conflict: uncle and cousins want the company too.
8. Write the first line. Write a second one. Write a scene.
9. Learn the tricks and conventions of the genres.
10. Don’t spend forever perfecting your opening before you dive into the rest of the story. It’s gonna change before you’re through. Just begin. Write an action scene, maybe a snippet of dialogue, and then keep writing. See where it takes you.
11. Do the research necessary for realism, but don’t let research slow the writing. You can gather data before you begin, while you’re writing, or after, to check facts.
12. Include both narration and dialogue.
13. Write visually, in scenes. Show characters doing things.
14. Remove self-imposed restrictions and write what the story demands. Let your characters say what they need to say, do what they need to do. Give a character a political, social, or religious opinion diametrically opposite to your own—and make the character appealing. Don’t fear the dark places. Instead, write them and expose them with attention. Don’t worry what society or Aunt Jane will think—write to the needs of the story.
15. Include hooks at ends and beginnings of chapters—entice the reader into reading just a bit more.
16. Don’t stop to explain, just show events. (Events include dialogue.)
17. If you do explain, take out explanations on a rewrite.
18. Make your characters act and speak boldly, without restraint or censor.
19. Avoid cliche. Use phrases peculiar to your characters and story.
20. Put it all down in the first draft; you can always clean it up on a rewrite.
21. Write a story that you’d like to read.
22. Turn off your internal editor, your analytical side. Let your creative mind work without interference. You’ll get the chance to edit after you’ve finished the first draft.
23. Put aside, forever, the thought that you’ll get it perfect in the first draft.
24. Use descriptive verbs and nouns.
25. Write for the senses. All five of them.
26. Keep dumping your lead characters into hot water.
27. Skip ahead if you’ve got an idea. No one said creating a novel had to be done linearly.
28. On a rewrite, trim dialogue and description.
29. Give emotions to your characters.
30. Include weaknesses in the protagonist, strengths in the antagonist.
31. Increase the tension as the story progresses; up the stakes for both protagonist and antagonist.
32. Eliminate coincidence.
33. Create a satisfying and believable climax.
34. Keep the resolution short.
35. End with the perfect paragraph, sentence, word.
36. Write when you don’t feel like it, when the words won’t come, when you feel like beginning a new project.
    *********
    If you’re stuck—with writer’s block or having boxed your character or plot into a corner—write your character’s name followed by some outrageous action to prompt your creativity. Allow a character a single sentence of dialogue—a sentence that’s a page long. Introduce a new character and see what your lead does with him.
37. Step away and do something else periodically. Read a book, take a walk, people-watch at the ice cream shop. Stop thinking about your characters and plot for a few hours or days, and then see how they begin screaming at you to come back. Writers often find fresh ideas when they step away from their stories.
38. When you get to the end, celebrate. Rejoice that you’re done. Then put the manuscript aside for a while and let your mind focus on other tasks. Start a new project, work on a hobby, take your spouse on a date.
39. Understand that finishing the first draft is only the end of the beginning.
40. Edit and rewrite until the manuscript is a story worth submitting.

***

Have you made your invitation inviting? That is, is it tempting or attractive or irresistible? Once a reader has glanced at your opening, will he or she find the story impossible to put down?

That’s one aim of your story opening, to issue a hard-to-resist invitation to your fictional world. You don’t want to create barriers for readers. Instead, you want to make the entry into your story one of ease and inevitability. You want to make the story attractive and compelling.

Books compete with movies and other books and games and the Internet and families and lovers—why wouldn’t you give your opening the strongest chance to snare a reader’s attention?

What can be found in a compelling opening?

Murder

Betrayal

Conflict

Jealousy

Death

Guilt

The unexpected

Confusion

A new world

Fear

Surprise

Upheaval

The unusual

What isn’t compelling?

Routine

Bliss

Pointless talk

Back story

Cliched characters

Consider your first scene and first words your invitation to readers. You want them to stay a while? Give them a reason to enter your world and tease them with reasons to stay. Entice. Attract. Stir emotions. Stir their imaginations. Stir up curiosity.

Give them a reason to begin your story.

Give them a reason to turn pages.

Give them a reason to race to the end.

Invite readers into your story.

*******

Looking for specifics on how to start stories or introduce story elements? Try How to Hook Your Readers and First Impressions and Introductions.

Every writer (and editor) makes mistakes. Whether due to ignorance or sloppiness or the sheer number of possible writing errors, no writer of long fiction will produce a flawless draft. Not without more time than most of us have to produce one manuscript.

Yet, we can lower the number of mistakes by looking at common writing mistakes and then proofing our own work to see where we can eliminate those mistakes.

This list is by no means complete, but I’ve listed very common mistakes that I’ve seen as an editor, made as a writer, and heard about from other writers. (While this list is intended for the fiction writer, writers of non-fiction can benefit from an awareness of these common mistakes as well.)

~ Starting the story in the wrong place ~
Whether the story opens in the lead’s childhood when it should instead start at the moment a car races toward the 35-year-old detective or we meet the heroine as she sits in front of a fire after confronting her ex (which we didn’t get to see), we need to recognize that sometimes our stories just don’t open in the right place.

The fix for starting a story in the wrong place is to begin it instead at a point of action or heightened emotion. Dump the reader into an incident from the character’s day. An incident of importance. A moment of change for the character. An instance after which his life will be different.

~ Filling the opening with back story ~
Some writers want to tell everything about a character (or two or three) before jumping into the story. Resist the temptation to try this yourself. Give us story before back story.

~ Giving all characters the same voice ~
All people don’t speak the same—characters shouldn’t either. Make sure your characters speak with different rhythms and use different expressions. One may rattle off at the mouth while another is the king of one-word answers. Reveal your characters through their dialogue, not only by their actions.

~ Muddled genre ~
Some writers try to stuff every stylistic trick into one book, hoping to make their story appeal across genres. Pick one genre (and a sub-genre if appropriate). But don’t try to write to please every reader of every genre. It won’t happen and you’ll weaken your story.

~ Overuse of cliche and common phrases ~
Cliches and common phrases are someone else’s words. Create your own phrases that fit your character in his situation in his story. Common phrases make your work sound like a hundred other books. Go for the novel phrase for your novel. The work will be better for your creativity and the extra time you invest.

~ Switching POV ~
We’ve all heard of head hopping, switching points of view every page or paragraph or even within paragraphs. Yes, you can get away with it. But why try? Why not give your readers the best and the least confusing read possible? Don’t make them struggle to figure out what’s happening and to whom. Each time a reader has to re-read because she’s lost track of who’s doing what, she is pulled from the story. And you want that reader fully engaged in your book—don’t give her an excuse to put it down.

~ Not enough plot to sustain the story ~
If your story’s thin, throwing in extra descriptions won’t fix fatten it. You may fill it with hot air, but you won’t make it any meatier. Make sure you have enough story to your story. Are there low-level climaxes before the big moment? Have you woven story threads for different characters? Do your main characters face setbacks and obstacles before they triumph?

~ Too many plot threads for your story ~
Too many characters or problems or incidents or locations can overwhelm a story. Combine characters if you have a few who exist only for one scene. Cut out obstacles for your lead if he’s living under a black cloud every day and nothing positive ever happens to him. Keep the story full and rich, but don’t overburden it with extras that smother.

Take a hard look at your plot threads. Do they add to the tension and tone of the story? Or do they distract the reader, pull him in too many directions? Have you blended the threads into a tight story, or do threads dangle, maybe start tied to another thread but then lead nowhere?

Does your main character have an ex-wife and a business partner and a younger brother all demanding his time and attention? Is he trying to save the President’s daughter and prevent a toxin from reaching London’s water supply? Did he just find out he could have cancer and that the man he always thought of as his father was really the man who accidentally killed his birth father?

Decide what the story’s about and which elements add flavor to that story. Then cut threads that distract. Combine threads (and characters) that aren’t strong enough to stand alone. Remove anything that might have the reader scratching his head, wondering why that scene, that event, that person, even that phrase were in this story.

*****

There are exceptions to any writing rule or suggestion, to any of the practices that make up good fiction. Yet what we’re looking for are ways to produce good writing and better writing. We’re not looking for what we can get away with—our focus is on what makes the story work and work well.

Always keep that in mind when you’re writing, rewriting, and editing. What works best for this story?

***