Maybe it’s the current state of the world: the term troubled barely touches it. For me, there’s also the phenomenon of growing old, and the need to accept the inevitable changes in body and mind that come with ageing. Clocks are ticking loudly on both global and personal levels. On the latter, my current inability to focus on the next writing project may be down to depression, anxiety, or plain exhaustion. Maybe all three, who knows? The Muse does not wait around until you are ready for her inspiration; she comes and goes at her own will, and if she drops in only to find you unwilling or unable to listen, she heads off again to wherever Muses hang out in their time off. I imagine a glitzy cocktail bar (The Constellation?) where the seven of them regularly catch up and exchange side-splitting stories of their encounters with humankind. Clearly my writer’s brain is still working on some level, because that thought conjures up a monstrous bartender, a motley crew of other customers, a babble of voices. Thalia and Erato are shrieking with laughter, in danger of spilling their champagne. All seven wear gowns like those featured at the recent Met Gala.

Muse or no muse, at this moment I am actually writing, thinking I can at least manage a blog post, even if the next major project exists more in my mind than on the page at this point. Small steps, folks. It helps me to write in the company of peers, away from home, at least some of the time. Especially today, when my next-door neighbour is loudly demolishing a brick wall in preparation to rebuild. Our writers’ group is gathered in a quiet area of a public library. Not far off, small children are discovering new books with the help of a kind librarian. The vibe is positive; the company is good.

I’m trying to follow my own advice about getting through the fallow times. Fields are left fallow for a season or more to let the soil regain its natural health, to build up nutrients. For writers, the fallow times might be seen as allowing us not only to …

You’re working through a draft and things happen that you didn’t plan—and you had a plan, or at least you thought you did. A character is acting out of character. You’re questioning whether the story is the genre you thought it was when you began. You type out words that seem to have come from the ether. Crows appear whenever two characters try to tell each other the truth.

If you’ve lived some shade of the above, have you wondered what it means when a story seems to have a will of its own?

We may feel frustrated by our inability to write to plan, by our tenuous grasp of the story. We might even feel shame for losing a sense of control.

But what if these little blips on the radar aren’t so much signaling what’s lost as what’s possibly been found?

Meet Abductive Reasoning

Decades ago, I was part of a critique group that included a member who used to joke about how story fragments would come to her. “What’s that?” She’d feign trying to tune a radio to nix the static. “Come in, muse, but more clearly this time! Over!” We’d all laugh, but at the time I hadn’t yet experienced the phenomenon myself. I did, shortly thereafter, when the story I was writing suddenly apparated a dead twin. (Hello, namesake from my debut novel.)

We don’t build stories only by planning forward. We work like investigators by noticing the unplanned fragments offered up by our minds, then inferring what might be behind those fragments and if they might be a key to making the whole story gel.

My favorite example of this is Brunonia Barry, whose NYT’s bestselling novel The Lace Reader, had a twist that made people gasp—and made Brunonia gasp, too, when it first appeared on the page. Here’s an outtake from the two-part interview I did with her in 2007.

About two-thirds of the way through the draft, the ending I’d planned changed. I’d had it outlined, but it didn’t matter. I remember getting to the big surprise—a surprise to me as well—and yelling, “No!” In retrospect I would say that I’d always been writing it so that the true ending would work—I just didn’t know it. I had to leave the story for about two weeks. I got up and walked away, and said, “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

Jane Austen offers deep insights into human behavior, even in the person of her most minor and unlikeable characters. One seemingly throw-away line that has haunted me for years comes out of the mouth of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. While criticizing Elizabeth’s skill at the pianoforte, she remarks on her own history with the instrument, “If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient.”

On its face, her comment assumes a grand superiority and a certain tone-deafness. Does she really think her exalted social status translates to superior capacity, even in skills she’s never acquired? What makes her disparage Lizzy’s skill in the same breath that she invites her to come play more often in her home?

Underneath Lady Catherine’s arrogance I see a sad vulnerability in that verb “should.” Today we use “would” in this context: if this had happened, then that would have followed. But here the verb is “should.” What if we read the entire sentence with today’s meaning? “I ought to have been a great proficient” holds a lot more wistfulness than judgment.

I love music. I had the talent and the inclination to play piano, but I never had the opportunity to learn, I sense her possibly saying here. My life path ought to have included great proficiency in this musical skill, but I never had the chance to try. Also I’m sad that this soulful-eyed, confident, and articulate young woman of lesser breeding has supplanted my only child in the affections of a young man I’ve known and valued since his birth, but that’s a separate issue. Or is it? Lady Catherine yearns for two things she does not have. The window for obtaining the first–extraordinary musical skill–closed long ago. Now she sees the second one closing as well. No wonder she is spiteful and petty in her assessment of Lizzy’s piano playing.

We can all imagine we’d be good at something we’ve never actually tried. Those who do anything well make it look effortless. Longing for proficiency can make fools of us all, but inclination does not equal mastery.

Not even if you really, really want it.

Not even if, like Lady Catherine, you have incredible taste and a lot of money. And relevant to us: not even if you read a lot.

Which brings me to writing. Someone sent me this Ira Glass quote at the start …

You probably became a writer because you loved books, not because you wanted to be a full-time internet personality. Yet the prevailing wisdom in publishing right now is that authors need platforms. It’s not enough to write a good book. These days, you’ve got to build your audience before your book exists. I know authors who obsess about the algorithms. They show up online consistently and spend hours each week creating interesting, original content. Even my agent agrees that publishers increasingly want writers who have both a manuscript and built-in visibility, engagement, and a personal brand.

To some degree, I get it. Social media can help books find readers. I’ve occasionally discovered new authors through a Bookstagram video. Some lucky authors are genuinely good at marketing online and seem to enjoy it, and that’s wonderful for them. I, however, am not one of those writers.

Still, I’ve spent a lot of time and money trying to crack the code of social media. On a weekly basis, I debate whether I should be on camera more, sharing more personal stories, being more strategic, more consistent, more something…anything that might work better than what I’ve already tried. In all honesty, I often feel like a fraud or a poser while doing it. But I keep at it because, while I don’t honestly believe any of it is helping my career, I’m afraid I could be wrong. Worse, what if disappearing online could hurt my career?

Those fears are difficult to escape. Every viral post from another author makes me feel like I’m falling behind. Every industry conversation about discoverability reinforces the belief that writing the book isn’t enough anymore. But never, in the pursuit of my writing dreams, did I want my life (or my books) reduced to “content.” Or think that there would be days when it felt like I spent as much time brainstorming content as I did plot.

Most of us understand how we got here. Visibility is impossible these days. According to PW, 4 million books were published in 2025. Compare that with 2012, when the total number of books published in the U.S. was fewer than 700,000. Then there’s the fact that traditional media coverage has shrunk (and/or is ignored by many readers), and only a select few books are ever chosen by the major book club influencers. Plus, publisher consolidation and focus on margins …

I collect hobbies. 

In true ADHD fashion, my interests are expansive, my search history littered with deep dives into any number of subjects, and my living space full to the brim with all the stuff one accumulates if they are, like me, attempting to fully live up to the idea of becoming a “Jack of all trades” (and master of none). 

(Also, in truly circular fashion, one of the hobbies I’ve collected, much to my mother’s chagrin, is the hobby of collecting itself– books, but also various dolls (American Girl and Disney collectible dolls primarily), along with cute mini-backpacks, quirky overalls, and of course, supplies for all my non-collecting hobbies). 

While writing is the primary creative pursuit that I’ve been known for among friends and family, dating even as far back as late elementary and middle school, it is not the only one I’m interested in. 

This past year in particular, I’ve found myself drawn to non-written art forms, partly as a reprieve from having to think about the current state of the world, and partly in the hopes of rekindling a love of creating for its own sake, for my own curiosity and satisfaction, separate from the pressures of commodification (aka the publishing industry). 

As I was pondering what to write for this post, I began thinking about these two other art forms (crochet and watercolor painting), and what, if anything, they have to teach me about writing, particularly as I continue to struggle with writing my next book.

Crochet is something I first picked up a few summers ago– as much to my own surprise as my family’s, given the ill-fated childhood attempts of learning knitting from my mom and grandmother, and a history of disaster as it relates to sewing (once, in an attempt to sew a hole in the crotch of my jeans, I managed to sew both legs of my pants together. And yes, this was hand-sewing. I don’t even have the excuse of using a sewing machine).

I started with beginner amigurumi (stuffed animal) kits from the company Woobles, then quickly moved onto more complicated and interesting patterns from Etsy. If you’ve read some of my past posts for WU, you’ll know that there’s a deep seasonality to my life, and while I initially learned to crochet in the summer, it has since become a winter hobby. Like clockwork, November rolls around and I …

Exemplifying the lessons she had been teaching me, Gidget spent the next few days after the post utterly focused on her people. She somehow insisted upon our being present. In hindsight, I believe she was letting us know that it was almost time. We cancelled all of our holiday plans, set up a camp of beds and bedding on the living room floor, and cocooned in the comfort of the togetherness that we knew would soon cease to be physical. Even as we realized—and remain certain—that our spirits are forever connected.

We said goodbye to our dear girl at dawn on the Saturday of the holiday weekend. The pain of the grief that first pierced us and then seared our souls has slowly eased. A lingering dull ache remains, which can be quickly reawakened by unbidden thoughts and memories. Her passing was poignant. An indelible memory. Still, as it always goes, with the passage of time the memories that she etched upon us become as likely to prod smiles and laughter as tears. Gidget’s lessons are still fresh and vital.

My wife and I then celebrated one of only two Christmases in 36 years of marriage without a dog in the house. A big, quiet, empty-feeling house.

I swear, without the dogs in my life, I don’t know who I would be. Without the love and the loss of our first black lab, Maggie, I honestly doubt we would’ve been jarred into the realization that led us to selling our business, moving to our getaway cottage, and seeking meaning through living a simpler and more creative life. …

Introducing our NEW Story 360 Virtual Advanced Fiction Workshop!  An intensive three-day virtual workshop for writers of fiction and creative nonfiction who relish deep-dive, challenging classes that go far beyond the basics.

Take 15% off registration before May 29th with promo code FXWU15

https://www.free-expressions.com/story-360

Included in the workshop are a day-long master class, THE DEEP END: SECRETS OF STORY DEPTH with literary agent and WU contributor Donald Maass and substantive courses on advanced topics from industry pros, Janice Hardy, Sarah Fisk, Sheree L. Greer, Jordan Rosenfeld, Lorin Oberweger, Leah Henderson, Jonathan Maberry, and Steven James.

Topics include:

• Flat Settings, Heavy Paragraphs, and Other Description Disasters
• The Scintillating Synopsis
• Close to the Bone: On Revision
• Departing the Arc: New Patterns for Fresh Story Structure
• Let’s Fall in Love: The Intersection of Voice, Viewpoint, and Character
• Building a Multi-Platform Writing Career
• Emotional Connection to Place
• Suspense Essentials: Secrets to Tapping into Tension (Whatever Genre You Write)
• PLUS “Working lunch” clinics with feedback on select participants’ query letters and first pages.

Register here:  https://www.free-expressions.com/story-360

$349 for full three-day program. Additional options available.

Take 15% off registration before May 29th with promo code FXWU15

 
 …

Your book doesn’t need more time on the back burner. It needs a week.

Beach Glass Writers Residency offers an intimate, distraction-free creative sanctuary in Rogers Park, Chicago — steps from Lake Michigan — where writers come to do the work they can’t seem to do anywhere else.

Each residency week includes:

✦ 6 nights lodging

✦ Daily continental breakfast

✦ Individual coaching with a developmental editor

✦ Special programming with a guest author

✦ All residency amenities

Only 1–3 writers at a time. Real solitude. Real progress.

Weeks available: June through October ($995)

Is this the year you finally put your book first?

🔗 BeachGlassWritersResidency.com…

Some months later, I mentioned the story—now much further along—to Jan, who sent me a panicked note back saying that she was also now working on a story and it had an unmistakable resemblance to mine. Scrupulously ethical, she offered to abandon hers if I thought it was too similar and sent a summary for me to read.

I read it with my heart in my mouth, worst-case scenarios flashing through my brain: What if it was too close to mine, as Jan thought? How could I ask her to delete so much work? But how could I be expected to change my novel? Would this damage our friendship? Our publishing careers?

I can laugh about it now—so much nonsense filled my head in such a short period of time. But a few sentences into reading, I could tell our stories—even though they were based on the same fairy tale—were nothing alike. Grown on the same tree perhaps, but very different fruit. After all, Jan’s was a product of her own weirdly unique, wonderful mind. Just as my story was the result of mine.

This wasn’t the first time I had a writing novel doppelgänger out in the world, and it wasn’t (and probably won’t be) the last. (To be clear here, I am not talking about plagiarism, which would be an entirely different post.) About two months before my first novel was published, I was scrolling through upcoming releases and found another book in my same literary category with the exact same stock cover, tinted slightly differently. I reached out to my then-agent in a panic, who reached out to my editor, who reported that we were too close to publication. Nothing could be done. Worst of all, this book was coming out a month or two before mine.

Did having a book with my same cover out there feel like the end of the world at the time? Most definitely. Did my cheeks burn when a few online trolls pointed out that I had ‘stolen’ someone else’s cover? Yup. But there …

Email readers, heads up! For the full effect, pause after the excerpt and decide: Would you turn the page? Vote and then scroll for the reveal!

Trained by reading hundreds of submissions, editors and agents often make their read/not-read decision on the first page. In a customarily formatted book manuscript with chapters starting about 1/3 of the way down the page (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type), there are 16 or 17 lines on the first page.

Here’s the question:

Would you pay good money to read the rest of the chapter? With 50 chapters in a book that costs $15, each chapter would be “worth” 30 cents.

So, before you read the excerpt, take 30 cents from your pocket or purse. When you’re done, decide what to do with those three dimes or the quarter and a nickel. It’s not much, but think of paying 30 cents for the rest of the chapter every time you sample a book’s first page. In a sense, time is money for a literary agent working her way through a raft of submissions, and she is spending that resource whenever she turns a page.

Please judge by storytelling quality, not by genre or content—some reject an opening page immediately because of genre, but that’s not a good-enough reason when the point is to analyze for storytelling strength.

But wait, there’s more . . . after you’ve voted on this opening,  you’ll find an alternate opening to assess and give a vote.

How strong is the opening of this novel—would it, all on its own, hook an agent if it was submitted by an unpublished writer?

This is the last day of the life I imagined for myself.

I woke up two minutes before my alarm went off, like usual. Five fifty-eight and bing: eyes wide open, ready to greet the day. I’ve never had a hard time waking up in the morning. Never used the snooze button, either, not once in my life. Sobriety helps. I don’t drink. Discipline helps, too. I was born with spades of discipline, I’m practically overflowing with it—which is why, I think, I’ve never had that much trouble with anything in my life. Not motherhood, nor marriage, nor building a business, nor serving Him. All of it appeared to me as a series of tasks to be accomplished each day, at the right time, in the correct chronological