When my first book came out, I was working full-time, writing, and parenting two kids under three. It was, to say the least, hard to find the time to write. It was also hard to find a place to write.

Neither of these problems were insurmountable. (Obviously, because my first book was not my last.) Because my schedule was tight, I was good about making use of time when I had it. On weekdays, I’d finish work at 5 and pick up the kids from daycare at 6. Once they were down for the night, I could often squeeze in more writing time before I got too tired to function. Weekends and holidays were writing time too. As for places, I learned to write anywhere and everywhere. At home, I’d most often write at the dining room table, but I could also bang out words with my laptop on my lap as I sat cross-legged on the couch or with my legs stretched out in front of me in bed.

But home wasn’t always writing-friendly, so I wrote in other places too. I’d get a babysitter for a couple of hours on a weeknight and spend that time writing at the local coffee shop. (It didn’t have wi-fi, so those times were particularly productive.) I learned to push back my seat and write sitting in the driver’s seat of my car in the Trader Joe’s parking lot. As the kids got older, I kept snatching these moments–in the stands at soccer practice, in the coffee shop closest to the dance studio, in the chilly bleachers at the ice rink, in the waiting room at the dentist’s office–to make progress on my work. As the pandemic lockdowns began to ease and I was desperate to write somewhere that wasn’t my house but not ready to sit indoors with strangers, I wrote outdoors on benches and restaurant patios, bundled up in a coat, scarf, hat, and fingerless gloves.

My mantra was simple: write anywhere, write everywhere.

I’ve gotten to the point that I write better outside my house than in it. Even though our current house has an office with a desk, that office also has a washer and dryer. Nothing turns an hour of free time into 20 minutes of writing time like laundry. So I’m still writing anywhere and everywhere outside the house: waiting rooms and school pick-up lines, ice …

Please welcome author Ruth Knafo Setton to Writer Unboxed today! Ruth is the author of two novels, The Road to Fez, and her latest, Zigzag Girl, “[a] mystery that understands how easily a performance can become a crime—and how dangerous it is to confuse the two.” (Kirkus Reviews)

From Ruth’s bio:

(Zigzag Girl was) a finalist for the 2026 International Thriller Writers Award for Best Standalone Novel, and recipient of the Grand Prize in ScreenCraft’s Most Cinematic Book Competition, and the Daphne du Maurier Foundation’s First Prize. An NEA fellow, she has studied magic with Teller, Jeff McBride, and Eugene Burger, been sawed in half and in thirds, and escaped from a regulation straitjacket. She is a multi-genre author whose work has been widely published in journals and anthologies. Her screenplays have received honors from Austin Film Festival, Sundance Screenwriters’ Lab, and Page International Screenwriting Awards. She has taught Creative Writing at Lehigh University and with Semester at Sea.

You can learn more about Ruth Knafo Setton on her website, by subscribing to her monthly Substack for creatives, and by following her on Instagram.

Thanks for being with us today, Ruth!

It began with Venetian blinds.

I was eleven, watching a black-and-white movie on late-night TV. A detective knocks on the final woman’s door—a motel room, maybe. He was trying to solve the case of a murderer who slashed women’s faces. He knocks repeatedly. Calls her name. No answer. He turns and walks away into the dark. The camera shifts to the window. Through the slats of the blinds, a woman’s eyes appear, then her face—already slashed, disfigured. She watches him go, the only person who ever tried to find her, the only one who might have believed her. The blinds close. The screen fades to black.

I didn’t know the word “noir” yet, but I felt it in my bones: hope snuffed out, dread made visible, yearning trapped behind bars of light and shadow. Noir speaks in visual language, expressing what words cannot.

When I began writing my new novel, a murder mystery set in Atlantic City’s haunted theaters and seedy boardwalk, I returned to noir—that magnificent, morally crooked tradition born from the wreckage of the twentieth century. I wandered through Chandler’s labyrinthine Los Angeles, Hammett’s fog-choked San Francisco, the suffocating psychological interiors of In a Lonely Place. I rewatched the films that forged noir’s …

March was a wild month, and nothing was wilder than all the news about AI. Top headline: The novel, Shy Girl, by Mia Ballard, was published in the UK by Hachette and was set for release in the US, but was pulled before publication, when AI detection systems revealed that the book relied heavily on AI. It’s a warning sign of possible things to come as AI generative systems become more sophisticated. Grammerly, an AI writing assistant program, is being sued for providing suggestions by a writer, only she had nothing to do with it. Jane Friedman offers up valuable Q &As on AI in publishing. Authors and publishers are joining music publishers in a lawsuit against AI company, Anthropic. A survey of North American publishers found that 31% of respondents are ethically opposed to the use of AI. Hmmm. I would have thought it would have been more. On a more positive note, Audible is expanding to 11 more markets, including Sweden. Want to know the bestsellers of the last 100 years? It’s below. There’s a gothic romance boom that goes beyond Wuthering Heights. Penguin Random House is letting its Penguin logo go wild. It’s cute! A whopping 81% of Americans feel they have a book in them. What it really takes, would likely shock all 81% of them.

AI

Horror novel, Shy Girl, cancelled over AI use

AI is writing fiction and publishing industry is unprepared

Author Andrea Bartz weighs in the Shy Girl debacle

Jane Friedman concerned about the Authors Guild human-authored certification

Can you tell the difference between AI and human-penned words? Take the quiz

 Journalist is suing Grammerly for giving writing suggestions from her, but it’s a deepfake  

Everything you ever wanted to know about AI and publishing but were afraid to ask

Publishers and authors join music publishers in filing a lawsuit against Anthropic

Survey of North American publishers about the use of AI

Thousands of author publish an empty book in protest over AI using their work

Audiobooks

Audible expanding to 11 new markets, including Sweden

Book Bans

The Nationwide book ban bill moves to the House. How to take action

Book Sales

Best selling books of the last century

There’s a gothic romance boom

BookTok is playing a role in bestseller charts in the UK

 Publishing

Simon and Schuster taps former Amazon exec as CEO

The war is …

There’s a part of revisions that feels, to me, like failing that check over and over again.

I open the manuscript. I open a calculator. I think: this book needs to be 95,000 words to be competitive in traditional publishing (said someone, somewhere), which means the inciting incident must occur by word 11,400—that’s 12%, or halfway through the first act. I took Math for Liberal Arts in college and here I am calculating percentages. Already, we’re having a great time.

I start measuring and moving things, cutting scenes or characters not because they don’t serve the story, but because I Must Structure It Correctly. I work for hours and at the end I have a document that hits its marks and a story that reads like a Rube Goldberg machine held together by duct tape and paperclips.

The trap was always there. I just failed the Perception check.

I’ve started calling it the container trap.

Two Types of Writers

Craft culture doesn’t always name this explicitly, but I think a lot of writers feel it: there are container people, and there are contents people. (Yes, we’re doing taxonomy today, in addition to math.)

Container people gravitate toward how a story is shaped above all. They think in structure and thrive on word count goals, daily sprints, outlining, and beat sheets. The architecture of a story is where they feel oriented: get the shape right and the substance will follow. This is a completely legitimate and often extraordinarily effective way to write. The best container people don’t sacrifice themes, character depth, or emotional beats for structure; they’re holding both at once.

Contents people, on the other hand, tend to start somewhere else. We think in emotional logic, thematic urgency, and character truth. We need to know what a story is doing—what it’s trying to say, what it’s pushing against—before we can figure out what shape it needs to be. The meaning of the story generates the structure, not the other way around.

Story requires structure. We know this. We just…tend to encounter it later.

So when we try to front-load container issues—e.g., “I’m …

What surprised me were which tools were the most needed. Like many, I have a toolbox. I’ve collected quite a few over the years. Chisels. Scrapers. Wire strippers. Plumber’s wrench. Vice grips. The workhorse tools in the box would be screwdriver and hammer, you would think, and I did use those but not as much as a couple of others. I came to appreciate those overlooked tools.

Which reminds me: In the fiction craft toolbox there are many tools. The hammer and screwdriver get the most attention, but they are not necessarily the ones that perform the most useful and necessary work. Let’s take a look at a few overlooked tools and see what they can suggest to us about craft.

Box Cutter

Countless cardboard boxes had to be sliced open and broken down for recycling. The cardboard also protected floors or countertops while working. I keep extra clean cardboard around, in useful sizes. Stuff comes in handy. You never know.

Cardboard is the ubiquitous container and carrier. Everything comes in a box. Thing is, the stuff you want doesn’t do much good when it’s taped up in a box. You have to slice open the box, look inside, take out what’s in there, and use it.

Just like with plot and characters. They are boxes. Shells. The useful stuff is inside. You’ve got to slice them open and get your hands in there. What does that mean in practical terms? In fiction craft, what is the equivalent of a box cutter? A box cutter is sharp. It cuts. In your hands it is merciless and unflinching, or can be.

• What is your protagonist hiding from you?
• Where does your plot not want to go?
• What threat or pleasure is hiding in your story world?
• What isn’t being said?
• What isn’t difficult enough?

Scissors

My utility scissors not only opened bags and plastic packaging, but trimmed and shaped a roll of black rubber kitchen drawer liner for a dozen different spots. For instance, in my distressed, steampunk, glass-fronted dining cabinet, my collection of artisan brown bowls really pops against the black mat beneath them. (Recessed lights help too.)

Honestly, I used my utility scissors more than any other tool. …

Can a so-called “spicy” fictional hockey show from a small Canadian production company, based on a niche romance book series, provide genuine emotional breakthroughs for millions of global viewers? And, if so, what lessons if any can be applied to writers of any genre? These questions were not on my list of likely creative explorations for 2026, yet here I am. Not only have I dived deep into the matter for myself, but I am now sharing my musings with the WU family. As I see it, we need all the inspiration we can muster these days. So, let’s give it a go and see what rough pebbles of thought may shine bright with a bit of polish.

My love affair with Heated Rivalry, a Canadian holiday gift from successful Nova Scotia writer Rachel Reid brought to life on the screen by Ontario talent Jacob Tierney, began as it did for many. Little did I know that curling up on the sofa for a casual evening in early December would by Christmas grow into a full-blown obsession. Viewing the series adaptation, described as “gay smut” by both fans and detractors, I quickly moved from mildly titillated by its boldness to fully invested in the outcome in a way I haven’t experienced in years. I am not ashamed to say I shed more than a few tears by the time the two young protagonists climb into Shane’s “sensible vehicle” for a drive back to a lakeside cottage that has gained nearly mythical status among devoted fans.

After my laughter subsided at having succumbed to a cultural phenomenon, I was struck by a realization. Somehow, for me, Heated Rivalry had become something more than simply a well-crafted, beautifully filmed, impressively acted adaptation of a moderately (now wildly) successful gay romance book series. Indeed, the story has touched something in my soul, leaving an indelible emotional resonance. I feel more at peace with myself and my life choices than I have in a very long time. Even as a writer with a lifelong love of both books and performance, this feels different. It feels, well, profound. Recently, while gobbling up the latest algorithmic deliveries to my socials, I hit upon an answer to the silent question left hanging from my experience watching the show.

Writer/Director Goldie Jones, a fan of the show, posted an insightful clip, worth viewing in full (https://www.instagram.com/reel/DVRD2foEcEK/…

For Christmas, my mother-in-law gave me a wonderfully quirky gift: the Author Clock. With a simple, elegant design that should suit most decor styles, this clock tells the time through book quotes. Is it efficient? Definitely not. Is it charming? I certainly think so.

The clock was not the inspiration for this post, but it felt fitting to include. First, because we are all word-nerds here, and I suspect that many of you will also delight in this frivolous gadget as much as I do. Second, because it has to do with time, which was my chosen theme for this post. And third, because it has to do with time.

You see, although I loved the clock, I did not immediately set it up. Instead, the gift languished on my shelf for three months, until the night before my mother-in-law was scheduled to arrive for a visit. Then at last, fueled by a sense of urgency, I opened the box and got to work figuring it out. From start to finish, the whole process took maybe five minutes.

This happens to me over and over again. My minds builds up expectations, which become hurdles, which become excuses. But when enough pressure builds to actually shove me through all the bullshit and into action, I nearly always find that the task was easier or quicker or more enjoyable than I had feared.

Lyin’ in my bed, I hear the clock tick and think of you
Caught up in circles, confusion is nothing new
Flashback, warm nights almost left behind
Suitcase of memories
Time after…

– “Time After Time” by Cyndi Lauper

Although I do not consider myself to be old, I must admit, I have been at this writing thing for a long time. From the assignment at age 9 that opened my eyes to the passion I felt for storytelling, to now three decades later… Sometimes it feels like I have nothing to show for it, like each day is just another opportunity slipping through my fingers.

But then I look around at my big, beautiful life, and I realize that my brain is playing tricks on me again. My past is not a museum of almosts or could-have-beens. It is the one and only combination of circumstances that could have brought me to exactly this spot on the space-time continuum. This singular vantage point from which I want …

Recently, I had the opportunity to visit the Disney Family Museum located in the beautiful Presidio in San Francisco. Being a Disney fan, I heard about the museum, started by one of Disney’s daughters, Diane Disney, and decided to check it out. While I wandered through the museum, I learned about the family’s humble Irish immigrant beginnings and his time as a WW1 soldier. It was Walt Disney’s struggles as an artist that really interested me though, and what his story of perseverance means to other artists.

You see, Walt and his brother Roy were living in Missouri, where Walt started making cartoon advertisements for local businesses. It was his brother, Roy, who pushed Walt to go to Hollywood in order to have his art seen by wider audiences. However, when he made it to California, he found it wasn’t easy. He was burned out from the cartoons he was creating and feeling like he was already too late for the cartoon game. I know it’s crazy to think that in 1923, the cartoon field was already oversaturated, but during that time, he was being told that the market was already saturated with cartoons and no one was going to want to buy his little films. Sound familiar?

His brother Roy said regarding his soon-to-be-famous brother: “He was always worried, but always enthusiastic. Tomorrow was always gonna answer all his problems.”

Now, as we all know, Walt Disney eventually found success. His first taste of success was accepting a contract with Universal to produce a series of cartoons with a rabbit named Oswald, the Lucky Rabbit, in 1927. However, that success was to be short-lived. After a meeting with Universal in which Walt felt good about everything, he was devastated to receive word on the train home that the studio was going to move on without him. Walt had lost everything, including the rights to Oswald.

You see, that’s the thing about being an artist. We have so many setbacks. It’s easy to fall into the trap after one brutal rejection. To mark our careers in all the things we lost or didn’t get. And then when major rejections happen, we think this is it, our career is over, nobody wants to read our books, listen to our music, view our art, etc. Then we cry ourselves to sleep with a pint of ice cream and a bottle of whiskey. …

When I returned to Egypt afterward, the physical landscape of Cairo had changed. At Tahrir Square, the epicenter of the revolution, the gutted-out shell of a hotel testified to the violence that marked the revolution. Giant new walls surrounded the national museum. Narrow avenues of entry and guard posts slowed access to tourist sites. During my daily drives through Cairo I also saw something that never existed during the Mubarak era: graffiti.

Egyptian revolutionary street art was brilliant. Yes, some of it bore very simple messages, including an all-purpose four-letter English word that begins with the letter F. But most of the revolutionary messages were visual and multi-colored, with layers of symbolic meaning. They popped up everywhere, seemingly overnight:

• “Peace Machine”: a machine gun firing not bullets but white doves of peace.
• King Tutankhamun dressed as Che Guevara.
• Beautiful Queen Nefertiti wearing a gas mask.
• The Egyptian President Mubarak dressed as a pharaoh to symbolize his oppressive, lengthy, undemocratic rule.
• A tank firing on a young man as he rides his bicycle to deliver bread.

After the initial stages of change came a transition period in which revolutionary fervor warred with establishment forces to gain both the hearts of the people and access to avenues of power. Spray-painted slogans appeared on walls next to busy streets, only to be painted over that night, and to reappear a day later. I watched one intriguing battle over the course of a couple of weeks as I drove past the same traffic overpass daily. The words “C.C. baTl” and “C.C. qatl” appeared next to one another, spray-painted onto the bridge’s supporting columns. One claimed that the newly installed president of Egypt was a hero; the other called him a murderer.

What a difference two letters can make.

For over five thousand years, people have been assembling scratchings on stone, papyrus, and computer screens to create messages. To me, this fact is a constantly renewed miracle: we can create abstract meaning through leaving visible marks in the physical world. In the English alphabet, for instance, the combinations of only 26 abstract marks can evoke the full range of …

Publishing is lonely in ways that are hard to explain to non-writers. I doubt I could persist without my trusted writer friends to help me navigate this career. This week, six of us have rented a house in Santa Fe, and when this hits your inbox, I’ll probably be eating eggs with green chiles. Our group spans roughly twelve years in age and an absurd range of experience. One has published more than sixty books. Others have changed genres, changed publishers, cycled through agents. The collective knowledge makes it easy to ask any question and get a real answer. We’re also celebrating one member’s new book deal and another’s book release, which are honestly the best items on the agenda. But we’ll also hike, cook, and visit at least one museum, because we can’t write about the world if we stop paying attention to it, and we can’t write about relationships if we don’t nurture them.

Retreats are wonderfully restorative, but also essential, because the things that weigh on writers most (sales numbers, a review that stung, a difficult editorial letter, doubts about an agent relationship or a career direction) aren’t conversations we easily have with just anyone. We worry about what might get repeated, or misunderstood, or used against us later. But inside my retreat groups, we can say anything and know it won’t be leaked elsewhere.

That trust took years to build, and it’s worth more to me than almost any other professional resource I have. These women are part of my daily life now. Our group chats often wander outside of publishing (conversations about sick parents, spousal spats, kids who are struggling, health scares, and more). I am as committed to their happiness as I am to their next book deal, and I know they feel the same way about me. That happened because we kept showing up, and eventually the trust reached into every aspect of our lives.

Admittedly, I didn’t set out to befriend other writers with a goal of planning retreats. But belonging to one one gives you an edge, and it can start with one genuine connection, tended carefully over time.

How did I find my people?

Writing associations were my entry point. I showed up, paid dues, and paid attention to who was roughly where I was in the journey. Did they have an agent? Were they close to a first sale? …