When you have to come up with a novel title. In a hurry.

A few months later when it’s absolutely time to decide, the attitude is more likely to be, I don’t want to Talk about it anymore! And if you’re writing a series, it’s like sticking pins in your cheeks.

Since I’ve just titled four books in an upcoming fantasy series, here’s a brief recap of my journey into the bog of titles.

How to Title a Fantasy Novel

Brainstorm.

Book one was so much fun to write! Giddy with my own brilliance, I would jot down bunches of titles in my notebook just for fun. During that period I wanted something original. I was smitten by unusual titles. Because this was not going to be  your average fantasy. This was my fantasy.

In the book they call magic the Deep. So “Her Altered Deep.” I loved that title, but when I asked for feedback I got these teensy frowns and “Wha?” I realized it wasn’t going to work, and I was Deeply resentful. Back to the drawing board. Let’s brainstorm!

Blood Indigo, (lots of “indigo” titles) The Silver Torc (Wha?), The Hand of Power, East of the World, Her Strange Align (What’s an align?), Her Primal Scar (I was on a “her” kick for months), Daughter of Myth. Meh.

Copy others.

Then there were the other books in the series. For one of the titles I thought it would be great to do a riff on a famous title. (I know, but I was so far into the bog, I couldn’t see the alligators for what they were.) So: When Worlds Arise (When Worlds Collide); The Left Hand of Power (Outraged reactions to this one. Leave Ursula le Guin the heck alone); The Wall at the End of the World (Walk to the End of the World). No one thought my riffs were clever, and even worse, they were called “derivative.” But that’s the point, I argued. Blank stares.

Be catchy or at least be parallel.

Some people said one-word titles are hard hitting: (Uprooted). Or four word titles are always  catchy: (A Clash of Kings, A Storm of Swords.)  Note the parallelism! Article + Noun + Preposition + Noun.

I was advised by some to use Keywords in the titles. (Searchability on Amazon.) OK, start thinking strategically, I told myself. Searchability is good . . . isn’t it? Use the big power words of fantasy, like Prince, Blood, Crown, Shadow, Empire . . . Except now they’re all starting to sound alike.

Focus on Who or Where.

Finally, with about 50 titles generated and no end in sight, I was advised by people who know what they’re talking about that titles can either be about Who or Where. For example, Paul Weimer pointed to the fun titles of Zelazny’s Amber series (The Guns of Avalon, The Courts of Chaos.) Then he said: Do both (Who and Where) if you can.

And though I didn’t do it perfectly, that piece of advice settled me down, and with only days until my deadline, I emerged from the bog with the the cool fantasy titles below. I’m particularly proud of the fact that the four titles are very similar in length. I know, it’s a small victory, and I didn’t hit it out of the ballpark. However, I do love Some of these titles. But like a proud mother who never displays favoritism, I’m not going to say which ones.

(No publication date yet. But I can say, coming soon!)

Bk 1: The Girl Who Fell into Myth.

Bk 2: Stranger in the Twisted Realm

Bk 3: Servant of the Lost Power

Bk 4: Warrior with the Brilliant Scar.

ECHO IN ONYX. This fascinating page-turner from Sharon Shinn is about a royal society where a select few have dopplegangers (exact replicas of themselves) who are integrated into society and accompany and interact with their primary individual in fascinating ways. I was totally immersed in this book. The first book in a trilogy–also available in audio book.

KLARA AND THE SUN. A Booker Prize-winning book by literary author Kazuo Ishiguro. It’s a surprisingly believable view into the mental world of a humanoid-looking AI. The story conveys a sweet and sometimes unbearable poignancy. Ishiguro is a master of irony, where the reader is aware of things that the main character is not. Some may find it a bit slow, but I didn’t.

THE THOUSAND AUTUMNS OF JACOB DE ZOET. If you’ve read David Mitchell’s science fiction, you’re already a fan. He’s a total powerhouse literary writer and this one, with small elements of fantasy, is historical fiction set in 18th century Japan. The main character is a Dutch merchant who run afoul of his corrupt employer and harbors a secret love love of a Japanese woman.

GREAT STORIES DON’T WRITE THEMSELVES.  From the brilliant teacher Larry Brooks, a clear-sighted, inspiring guide to using major turning points in the novel, using a popular mystery book by Robert Dugoni as an example. His structural approach to the novel is the most helpful advice I’ve ever been given. I recommend all his other books as well!

Ends November 30.

Check them out here.

Photo by Anil Xavier on Unsplash

It’s almost winter, so here once again are my top 10 writing tips. Except different. Every year I post my latest distillation of best fiction strategies. Why do I change my mind from year to year? Because I’m still learning–often from great novels I read–or workshops. Life-long learning is one of the joys of the writing life. You can always tell a more compelling story!

Kay’s top ten, sure-fire, fiction writing tips:

1. Work harder on an original premise: The Napoleonic wars with air power from dragons; a murdered girl relates her story from heaven; forbidden love between a modern witch and a powerful vampire. Respect your ideas, but deepen them.

2. Reinterpret story ideas. Keep an idea file, whether they catch your attention for a few seconds or are abandoned stories. After a few  years you’ll have a totally different view of them and the idea might be a launch pad for a new interpretation. Recently I looked through my file and an older idea jumped out at me, begging for a fresh spin. I’ve re-worked the plot and now am on page 275 of a novel I love.

3. Heighten the consequences beyond the personal. How does the story problem affect the community, say, or an important institution or the larger world?

4. Develop a memorable opposition. Problems arise from conflict, often conflicting agendas. Which suggests that you should really nail the forces of opposition. Enrich the antagonist and their helpers with deep motivations and the competency that makes them a worthy adversary to your major character.

5. Escalate events and tension in the middle. Grow the major character and the forces of antagonism so that they force each other to increase their efforts. Let each side become more adept and determined as they up the ante and must escalate actions to succeed. Rising tension can save the middle of the novel from sagging.

6. Create turning point scenes. (Otherwise known as plot points.) Shape your story by sketching out “hinge” scenes that transition the major character into a more capable, committed actor in response to the plot challenges.

7. Plan reversals. Readers like to be surprised. They’re trying to figure out what will happen, but they don’t like to succeed! Confound readers’ assumptions. Add to that: plan for at least one game-changing piece of information somewhere in the middle. (Ideal at the midpoint.)

8. Make smart use of backstory. If a past event motivates a protagonist, try to avoid bringing on stage that scene from the past, at least at too much length. Flashbacks slow momentum. Instead, reveal the backstory in tight flashback increments or weave it into narration. Another way to keep backstory in present moment is to disclose it in dialogue.

9. Cut the fat. Edit out wandering and (most) low-tension scenes, pace-killing detours, heavy ruminations, ramp-ups to scenes, and over-description.

10. Deepen the climax. Strategic thinking about your climax can save it from being just a bigger obstacle-and-resolution scene to something that challenges your protagonist internally at the most profound level.

That’s it for 2021! And if so inclined, let me know what tips you would add to the mix.

• discouragement about how the last story sold
• resentment of the industry which is so vile and unfair plus random
• a shrewd analysis of how your writing sucks
• embarrassment over the total absence of anything professional to Twitter about
• fury and sorrow that your agent does not answer your emails
• you are on page 85 or page 200, two classic pages that are hard to write. OK, those are just the ones that are tough for me. Getting stuck at typical points in your manuscript is mysterious and irrational. But on those pages or nearby, I way too often get a bout of I don’t feel like writing today.

Your friends, sometimes even strangers, can help.

Other people help us get out of ourselves. We can turn our attention to someone else, and when sincerely done, it is such a relief not to be stuck inside our monkey brain.

You can really notice someone in your family and give them your full attention. You can be especially kind to clerks, front office staff, and people who are late or forget to show up. Shine the light somewhere else besides yourself.

But if that seems too gooey . . .

You can complain to a trusted friend. Or even relative strangers. Back when we had in-person conferences, you could often hear fellow writers in the halls or in the bar complaining loudly about writing. Because sometimes it jsut feels so good to let out the worries and even exaggerate them. That only works around other writers, though. Ordinary society doesn’t understand our need to complain. Our need to recognize our industry as being heartless and confering success randomly.

However, if you are at all introverted, seeing people when in these kinds of doldrums is excruciating. Any energy we might have scraped together is instantly bled off. We limp home, reaching for the TV remote so we don’t even have to be with ourselves.

The awful, ironic, unpalatable fix for not feeling like writing

Write the next page.

Maybe you don’t have the energy. Maybe you’re not even sure you care. But your energy (usually) is not gone, it’s just buried.  As to caring, that’s worth looking closely at. If you truly don’t care, OK. There are easier ways to spend the hours of our lives.

But what if, in your more honest moments, you know you love storytelling. You love the writing when it spins through you like gluons on the way to creating the universe. Saying you don’t care is a way of defending against the emotions of discouragement, self-doubt and anger.

The thing about losing the desire to write is that the feeling will visit you now and then throughout your writing career. You will be sailing along, and then–vast silence–you are becalmed. So, if you want to be a professional writer, you must learn that writing will make things better. You don’t need inspiration to write. Writing creates inspiration. Therefore: butt in chair and just do it. Why does writing lead to feeling like doing it? Because:

• Writing will light a fuse. You remember how it feels: How you sometimes shake your head and think: Wow, where did that awesome story bit come from?
• Getting pages, even if you consider them inferior, will contribute to a respectable forward progress. Not writing can build up a debilitating anxiety that the book is going to be stuck on page 200. Forever.
• You are conserving what little energy you do have, because you are not frittering away that battery power on cleaning out the basement or on excruciating conversations with friends who will ask you if you are so miserable why don’t you just quit.
• The muses are a bit snotty and random. You may write drek for several days, and all of a sudden you get a lightning bolt of inspiration. Your hands fly over the keys. Your eyes fill with tears. You say to the Muse: I’m sorry I didn’t believe, I’m sorry I was such an ass, you are a goddess. She roles her eyes. Yeah, whatever. Now get on with it.

I’m terribly sorry to be the one to tell you to stop resting and start writing. I know it is unfair, unsatisfying, and you really don’t feel like it. My friend, I know. Recently I got back to writing after a about a year and wrote–and finished!– a very fun and satisfying novel.

This is why I don’t ask myself if I feel like writing. It’s irrelevant. The better question is: Do I still care? Or better yet, sit down to write at your designated time without checking in with yourself. Get a page or two or five.

In a weird and wonderful way, the problem of writing becomes the solution of writing.

Join this zoom meeting with promotion guru Anthea Sharp and come away with real, actionable items that will help you reach the next level in your book-promotion quest.

Book Promotion for Indies. And tips for traditional routes, too!

Sunday, July 25, 10 to noon

Writing the book is the easy part…
At least that’s what they tell you, once your novel is finally out there in the world. Now, whether you’re publishing yourself or are with a publisher, it’s time to face the daunting task of getting the word out about your new book (a task increasingly left up to authors, even in the world of traditional publishing).

There’s a new world out there, and promoting your book should keep up with the times. In this workshop, we’ll cover the many different ways authors can find and connect with their readers, regardless of who holds the publishing reins.

And while there are a million things you can do to promote your book, you don’t have to do ALL of them! Anthea will explore the various promotion options out there, and go over the pros and cons of each. Some of them will feel easy and doable to you, others won’t – and that’s fine. Here’s a quick look at what we’ll cover:

• Making sure your product is the best it can be – including cover and book description.
• Effectively using your direct presence as an author, via your website and newsletter, as well as social media.
• How to successfully cross-promote with other authors.
• How to phase in things if you’re a brand new author.
• Leveraging loss-leaders for visibility.
• Advertising, including cost-per-click and sales newsletters like BookBub.
• Tips for making the most of the retailer platforms to get some momentum behind your book.
• Plus: Plenty of time for Q&A!

  Sponsored by Write on the River.

REGISTER NOW.  Cost of the workshop is $30 for nonmembers and $15 for members. A few scholarships are available for this zoom workshop. We welcome you to join us!

Details HERE.

Anthea Sharp is an experienced and enthusiastic workshop presenter, as well as a USA Today bestselling, award-winning author of fantasy and speculative fiction (not to mention a bestselling romance author under the pen name Anthea Lawson). Originally traditionally published, Anthea jumped the fence in 2011 and began a self-publishing career that’s still going strong ten years on. In addition to indie publishing her novels, she writes and sells short fiction to traditional markets, and most of her book are out in audio via small and traditional publishers. Discover her books at antheasharp.com

NOW through Thursday, June 24

From the view port of your lately-returned spaceship you see: A physics-defying crystal mantle shrouding the Earth.  Welcome home.

A finalist for the Philip K. Dick award.

To purchase: books2read.com/maximum

“A uniquely powerful tale.” —Booklist

“Full-bodied characters, palpable environs, layered mystery and heady suspense combine like the many facets of “Ice” in this sparkling SF novel.” —Publishers Weekly

Pacing is the speed at which you tell your story. How quickly you’re forwarding and deepening the plot. Is it too fast, appearing rushed? Too slow, losing the reader’s interest? Usually, the problem is the latter: set-up paragraphs at the start of scenes, aftermath sequences where we consider what just happened, scenes flailing at character development or background, too many words, saying things twice, plus repeating yourself. And then there are the really tough pacing issues.

Pacing can be hard to judge. It’s part of your style. It’s dictated to some extent by your material and the style of book you’re writing. None of this excuses us from working at pacing, though.

I tend to write longish and cut back in the rewrite. But also when planning and writing, I try to forestall slow pacing using a few diagnostic questions like these:

• How proactive is my major character? Will she be able to power the story’s pacing with her action-orientation?

• What specific qualities and motivations does my protagonist have that make her likely to strive even in the face of strong opposition?
• Is the central conflict as deep as it can possibly be? We want to give ourselves the fuel for a well-paced story, so that when we step on the gas, the power is there.
• What steps can the forces of opposition take that sharpen the stakes, thereby forcing the major character to respond?
• What events accelerate pacing in the middle of the story? Does the story coil around itself, growing stronger, more resonant?
• Is there enough tension in this scene? How far have I strayed from strong emotion? (Including dialogue scenes.)
• Do flashbacks divert from the core story line? Could backstory be quickly summarized rather than put on stage?
• Am I using a “cinematic eye,” falling into long visual descriptions? Can the visuals be cut back, tightened, or do double-duty by establishing tension?

How strong is the pacing in your story? If you’re not sure, give each scene a score from 1 to 5. Shore up the weak sequences. Your readers will thank you!

Watch this space for announcements of my webinars: Six Slippery Sins: Writing advice that leads us astray; the Magic of Plotting (alias: Mapping the Labyrinth); and Move Along, Folks (pacing).

In third drafts, I bear down on sentences and paragraphs. Not only to smooth them out, but with an eye to brevity. I eliminated 11 pages worth of sentences and paragraphs. Because writing better often means shorter. As in these examples:

Passive voice. I believe there are times when passive voice is excellent. Just not very often, since it is like sand in the gas tank. Don’t need it, and it does damage. TRY: A computer search for the word was (and were):

• Each branch was talking. vs: 
Each branch spoke.
• Entering the hall, she noted that he was not at his usual sentry duty.
vs: Entering the hall, she noted his absence from sentry duty.

Saying things twice. As in stringing together clauses that repeat the thought. “She was restless, couldn’t sit still or keep her mind on the lecture.” This is first draft stuff. Cut, cut, (I told myself.)

Piling on the similes and metaphors. A sentence, a complete thought, can carry only a limited amount of embellishment. For some odd reason we often string together two or more similes or metaphors to enhance the same thought. On the rewrite, pick one.

Unlikely similes. Would the character really feel the experience was like something else, especially the thing you’ve chosen? “He ducked the barrage of bullets coming at him like a freight train.” He’s really comparing his impending death to something? In close POV, the reader needs to believe that the character would actually be thinking of the simile. (And really, freight train?)

Tucking in information. This is a really annoying habit of mine. “Wounded, he ran to the grand staircase, grabbing the ancient, ornate banister for support.” It implies the wounded guy notices the age and ornateness of the banister. Nope. If the plot requires the reader to know that the banister is elaborate, explain it some time when the character would really notice that feature. And another example: “She turned left into the alley.” What if the reader had in their mind she was on the other side of the street? Then it’s a right turn. The extra stage direction can bump the reader out. And more: “He grabbed the baseball bat, a gift from his beloved uncle, and raced to help his friends.” Thank goodness for his uncle’s gift, but not in this sentence.

Dialogue. On a third draft, read the dialogue lines out loud. Many improvements are probably needed, but here’s an easy one: Don’t have the characters say the other person’s name. “Mirabel, walk with me in the garden?” In real life, we almost never say people’s names in conversation. Unless there are 3+ people talking. But still, limit it.

Dialogue again. Pare it down. Let people sometimes speak in fragments. Release your determination to explain too much to the other person. Dialogue is not a good time to dump information, because we should be focusing on the emotional content, the attitude, the hidden agenda. Sometimes you do reveal things in dialogue, but beware stuffing things in.

Dialogue once more. Cut the stage business out of your dialogue, or keep it very short. Each “side” of dialogue doesn’t need to contain how they are gazing, feeling, siting or turning their head. We’re making the mistake of “seeing our book as a movie.” The more we try to do this, the more futile it is. If you want to show tension, put it in what they say. Remember the old adage: Dialogue is what characters do to each other. Also, (I told myself), don’t routinely stuff in internal thoughts. When you do, keep it short. Sometimes by the time we get to the other character’s response, we’ve forgotten what they’re responding to!

Formality. I wince when I’m editing my work and see how often I slip into formality. I begin sentences with “And,” or use longish words (“utilized”).  In dialogue, I might neglect to use contractions. “I could not bear it.” Why do I do this? Don’t know. Unless the situation calls for a stilted tone, use contractions.

There are many books dedicated to the art of editing, particularly editing down. One of my faves is The 10% Solution by Ken Rand.

Happy cutting!

If you’ve ever tried to write a novel, this picture may speak to you!

Every few years I post my top 10 writing tips here. Why do I keep changing this list? It might be because my list is influenced by the latest unpublished manuscripts that I’ve critiqued for conferences. Does this imply that writers are making different mistakes than previously? I don’t know. Maybe I’ve just changed my mind!

Kay’s top ten, sure-fire, writing tips:

1. Work harder on an original premise: The Napoleonic wars with air power from dragons; a murdered girl relates her story from heaven; an alien universe that tunnels through our own. Respect your ideas, but deepen them.

2. Heighten the consequences beyond the personal. How does the story problem affect the community, say, or an important institution or the larger world?

3. Write in Scenes. These discreet blocks of drama will help you decide what to bring on stage and warn you away from narrative drift. (ref: The Weekend Novelist, by Robert Ray.)

4. Turning point scenes. Shape your story by sketching out “hinge” scenes that transition the major character into a more capable, committed actor in response to the plot challenges. (ref: Great Stories Don’t Write Themselves and Story Structure by Larry Brooks.)

5. Escalate events and tension in the middle. As the major character and the forces of antagonism become more adept and determined, strive to create rising tension and more difficult opposition throughout the middle fifty percent of the novel.

6. Plan reversals. Readers like to be surprised. They’re trying to figure out what will happen, but they don’t like to succeed! Confound readers’ assumptions. Add to that: plan for at least one game-changing piece of information somewhere in the middle. (Ideal at the midpoint.)

7. Make smart use of backstory. If a past event motivates a protagonist, try to avoid bringing on stage that scene from the past, at least at too much length. Flashbacks slow momentum. Instead, reveal the backstory in tight flashback increments or weave it into narration. Another way to keep backstory in present moment is to disclose it in dialogue.

8. Stop crying. Having the major character cry at a moment of great sadness signals “she’s sad” to the reader in an annoying way. Instead, justify sadness by context and portrayal of unique details of a character’s thoughts or action. Underplaying sorrow often brings the reader to fill in what they are not being “told.” (ref: The Emotional Craft of Fiction by Donald Maass.)

9. Cut the fat. Edit out wandering and (most) low-tension scenes, pace-killing detours, heavy ruminations, ramp-ups to scenes, and over-description.

10. Deepen the climax. Strategic thinking about your climax can save it from being just a bigger obstacle-and-resolution scene to something that challenges your protagonist internally at the most profound level.