Have you joined or considered joining a critique group?

They can be very helpful in your writing journey. I’m in two different groups, and they have improved my writing in many ways. I’ve also learned how to give and use constructive criticism (essential to any writer).

Joining a critique group is a big decision for any writer serious about their craft. You’ll meet with a community of like-minded individuals—people striving to improve their writing through constructive feedback.

Like any community, critique groups have advantages and disadvantages. Let’s explore both sides to help you decide if joining one is right for you.

Advantages of Joining Critique Groups

Constructive Feedback: Yes, we’re going to jump right into this because one of the most significant advantages of critique groups is the opportunity to receive constructive feedback on your work. Your friends and family really can’t offer honest opinions. However, critique group members are fellow writers who understand the importance of detailed feedback.

In a positive, working critique group, other writers offer insights on plot, character development, pacing, and more, helping you identify blind spots and improve your writing skills.

Diverse Perspectives: Critique groups consist of writers from various backgrounds and genres. This diversity brings a range of perspectives to your work (and you want that!). What one member sees as a plot hole, another might view as a potential for deeper exploration. This strengthens your writing by exposing you to different styles and approaches.

Look for diverse backgrounds and genres in any group you’re in. One of my groups consists of fantasy and sci-fi writers and me. I write cozy mysteries and women’s fiction. This group offers amazing insight into what I write because they aren’t writing in the same genre.

Accountability and Motivation: Here it is, the dreaded word—deadlines! But guess what? Knowing you have a group waiting for your next chapter is a powerful motivator. Critique groups help you stay disciplined in your writing practice. Seeing your peers’ progress can inspire you to keep pushing forward with your own projects too.

Networking Opportunities: Joining a critique group introduces you to other writers who share your passion. These connections can lead to collaborations, mentorships, and even friendships that extend beyond critique sessions.

The critique group I mentioned above meets monthly via Zoom, but recently, we started having a “hang out” time on a nonmeeting day. Why? Because we like each other! It offers us time beyond critiquing to get to know each other better.

Networking within the writing community can also open doors to new opportunities, such as publishing leads or writing workshops. I’ve even asked a couple of people in my critique group to endorse my book.

Skill Development: By giving feedback on others’ work, you build your ability to analyze writing critically. This skill is invaluable for your own writing journey. It teaches you to identify strengths and weaknesses in narratives, dialogue, and prose.

Disadvantages of Joining Critique Groups

Compatibility Issues: Not all critique groups are created equal. Finding one that aligns with your goals, writing style, and level of experience can sometimes be challenging. Some groups may focus more on socializing than critique, while others may have members whose feedback isn’t what you’re looking for. Be open to trying a few until you find one or two that you mesh with.

Time Commitment: Participating in a critique group requires time not only for writing and revising your own work but also for reading and critiquing others. Think about the time you can spend before committing to a group.

Conflicting Feedback: What do you do when your group members provide conflicting feedback? My suggestion is that if two or more members mention a particular issue, pay attention. If it’s one person, and you don’t agree with their feedback, you don’t have to use it. Actually, you never have to use other people’s feedback, but I would suggest you give it a try.

Risk of Discouragement: Criticism can be tough. We pour our hearts into our work, and then someone says it’s not perfect. Critique groups require a certain level of thick skin to separate critiques of the work from critiques of the writer.

My advice: Over time, some writers become overly reliant on feedback from their critique group. External critique is valuable, but be sure to learn to trust your own instincts and voice.

Finding Your Ideal Critique Group

Now that we’ve explored the advantages and disadvantages of critique groups, let’s look at a practical process to determine if joining one is right for you.

• Step 1: Define Your Goals. What do you want/need from a critique group? Do you want feedback, different perspectives, and accountability?
• Step 2: Research. Look for critique groups that align with your goals as well as group size, meeting frequency, and submission guidelines. If you’re having problems finding a critique group, ask on social media.
• Step 3: Attend a Session. Many critique groups allow prospective members to attend a session as a guest. Take this time to see how they offer feedback and how it is received. Pay attention to the group dynamics and whether they resonate with your preferences.
• Step 4: Ask Questions. Don’t hesitate to ask current members about their experiences with the group. Inquire about how feedback is structured, the group’s communication style, and any expectations for participation.
• Step 5: Evaluate Compatibility. If the critique group aligns with your writing style and personality, go for it! But, trust your instincts—if something doesn’t feel right, it’s okay to explore other options.

Joining a critique group can be an amazing experience for writers at any stage of their journey. Whether you’re looking to refine your craft, grow your network, or gain valuable, constructive feedback, the right critique group can provide invaluable support. However, weigh the pros and cons to ensure that the group you choose enhances rather than hinders your creative process.

According to a recent survey, over 80 percent of the 2000 people surveyed said they’d like to write a novel someday, but less than 1 percent of Americans have finished and published a book. That’s a huge discrepancy!

What’s causing people who dream of writing a book to not follow through? In my work as a book coach, I’ve heard from many writers who have long dreamed of writing a book but are struggling to make that happen. And while everyone’s situation is a bit different, the reasons my clients have struggled with this almost always comes down to self-limiting beliefs.

Self-limiting beliefs are beliefs we hold about ourselves or how the world works that limit our ability to be successful. Self-limiting beliefs can look like telling ourselves “I’m not smart enough” or “I don’t have the time.” Self-limiting beliefs are often so ingrained in our thinking that we don’t even notice them, which is what makes them so powerful at stopping us from reaching goals, such as writing a book.

As a book coach with a background in mental health counseling, I work with my clients to not only teach them the mechanics of how to write a story that works but to also address those self-limiting beliefs that have been holding them back from committing to writing their stories. After all, you could be an incredibly talented writer, but if you can’t get out of your own way to actually get the story down, you’ll never finish a manuscript.

While many of us hold self-limiting beliefs, the good news is that once we’re made aware of them, we can work to overcome them. And once we overcome them, we’re free to pursue our goals, including writing a novel.

Where Do Self-Limiting Beliefs Come From?

Self-limiting beliefs can develop from multiple experiences, but some of the most common ways these form include:

• Childhood Experiences: Painful experiences or thoughts imposed on us in our early years can create unconscious self-limiting beliefs. Because we’re so young when these experiences occur, we have little other evidence to contradict the forming of a self-limiting belief, and these beliefs tend to stick with us well into adulthood as we’ve accepted them as “the way the world works.”
• Past Failures: Failing at something that means a lot to us can be painful. If we attempt something and fail, it’s easy for our brain to believe it was because we weren’t good enough, smart enough, etc., and generalize those thoughts to other situations, therefore creating a self-limiting belief.
• Societal Norms: The generally accepted thoughts and standards of the society we’re raised in can contribute to the development of self-limiting beliefs. If a girl is raised hearing repeatedly that boys are smarter at science than girls, for example, it’s likely she’ll internalize the belief that she isn’t as smart at science as men and likely won’t pursue a career in a scientific field.

Common Self-Limiting Beliefs in Writers

While any number of self-limiting beliefs can affect writers and prevent them from starting and/or finishing writing their stories, some of the common ones include:

• Imposter Syndrome: This self-limiting belief affects many writers, new and seasoned alike. Because writing isn’t something that requires a degree or specific training to get started in or be successful at, many new writers believe they aren’t “real” writers because they don’t look like the successful authors they read. And many published authors continue to struggle with imposter syndrome well into their publishing careers due to comparing themselves to others who are further along than them. This is often an issue indie authors struggle with, but more and more I’m hearing traditionally published authors admitting to struggling with imposter syndrome as well.
• Perfectionism: While we used to look at perfectionism as a “good” thing (after all, who wouldn’t want to strive for perfection in their work?), it’s becoming more and more understood that perfectionism is a self-limiting belief in disguise. Perfection simply isn’t possible, particularly in something as subjective as writing, so striving for perfection only guarantees we’ll never succeed.
• Fear of Failure: Failure is a part of life, but it can be easy to allow a fear of failure to prevent us from trying something new in the first place. If we had previous experiences with failure, particularly with something that was meaningful to us or a public failure, the belief that failure is bad and should be avoided at all costs can become ingrained in our minds.
• Lack of Time: This is one of the most common self-limiting beliefs I hear from writers and work with them to overcome. On the surface, a lack of time seems like a valid reason not to pursue writing a novel. Doesn’t it make sense to wait until there’s time to spare? But the truth it, we have time for the things we prioritize in our lives and there will always be other obligations keeping us busy. Yes, we may not have the amount of time we wish we had to work on our writing, but many novels have been written in the spare moments between the rest of our obligations. My first published book was written in the mornings before work and on my lunch breaks. Just because we are busy doesn’t mean we can’t find the time to write a novel if it’s something that is truly important to us.

Overcoming Self-Limiting Beliefs

Clearly, self-limiting beliefs have the ability to derail our dream of writing a novel. But since these beliefs are held in our own minds, that means the only thing standing between us and our dream of writing a novel is us. And that means it’s fully within our control to change.

Overcoming self-limiting beliefs isn’t easy, but it’s absolutely worth the effort. Here are some steps you can take to work on overcoming these beliefs:

• Raise Awareness: Since self-limiting beliefs are often automatic, they can be difficult to notice when they occur. Since they make generalizations about ourselves or the world, it can be hard to recognize the thoughts as a self-limiting belief rather than an accepted fact. Raising awareness around self-limiting beliefs requires a conscious effort to pay attention when you’re feeling uncomfortable to what specific thoughts are going through your mind. When you think about writing a novel but then tell yourself you can’t, what thought goes through your mind? Whatever that thought is, even if you think it’s a fact rather than a belief, make a note of it. Journaling can be very helpful here or keeping notes in your phone or another handy location can also work.
• Find the Evidence: My favorite cognitive-behavioral intervention from my mental health training was “show me the evidence.” When a client states a belief about themselves or the world, we challenge those thoughts by asking the client to show us the evidence. For example, if your belief is you’re not smart enough to write a book, what is the evidence for that belief? Often, the evidence cited is skewed in some way. A client might state they’re not smart enough and cite a failed English test as evidence. But the reality is that just because you failed an English test ten years ago doesn’t mean you’re not smart enough to write a novel. There could have been any number of reasons you failed the test, and besides, your knowledge of a book read in tenth-grade English doesn’t determine your ability to write a book you’re passionate about. Finding the evidence and then breaking it down to find the flaws in your thinking can help to weaken those belief systems.
• Positive Affirmations: Positive affirmations are statements you repeat to yourself (aloud or by writing them down) that help to retrain your brain. Once you’ve identified your self-limiting beliefs, you can choose positive affirmations that specifically counter those beliefs. While not an overnight solution, consciously practicing these positive affirmations can help your brain retrain itself to counteract the self-limiting beliefs.

Self-limiting beliefs can wreak havoc on your dreams of writing a novel, but the good news is that since they exist in your own mind, you have full control over changing them. While not easy, it’s worth making the effort to identify your self-limiting beliefs and work to overcome them so you can move forward with your goals and finally write the novel you’ve been dreaming of writing.

Most of us don’t have all day to write—or if we do, that doesn’t happen often. Even finding a solid hour to write might be next to impossible. Between the demands of a day job, family life, and household chores, there just isn’t much time (or energy) left over.

The good news is that you don’t need hours available in order to write. Just 15 minutes is long enough—and you could even write for 5 or 10 minutes, if that’s what you have available.

My Experience of 15 Minute Writing Sessions

I first starting experimenting with 15 minute writing sessions when I had a baby and a 2-year-old, a decade ago. My 2-year-old had nursery from 12:30–3:00 and the start of this time slot overlapped with my baby’s nap in the pram. I’d write (or edit) for 15 minutes in a nearby McDonald’s.

Was this an ideal time or place for my writing session? No! Heading into a noisy McDonald’s at lunchtime with a baby who’ll be waking up soon probably isn’t anyone’s ideal writing ritual. But it was definitely better than not writing at all.

Fast forward the best part of a decade and I now have a 9-year-old and an almost 11-year-old. I’ve got a thriving freelancing career, working on client pieces while the kids are in school. I’d like to have more time to write fiction, but fitting it in around family life is tricky, especially as my husband works away some of the time. So right now, most of my fiction time is in 10–15 minute daily sessions, usually in the early mornings.

Maybe your life is similarly hectic. Whether you’ve got little ones who need your hands-on attention almost all day, or older kids who need shuttling to after-school clubs, or a busy and draining day job, or caring responsibilities, it may not be realistic to have an hour or even half an hour to write.

But most of us can find 15 minutes. What matters is using that time as effectively as you can.

Step 1: Know Exactly What You Want to Accomplish in Your 15 Minutes

My own goal is to write 250 words (or more!) every day in 2024. That’s what I focus on in my 10-15 minutes of writing each morning. 

Your goal might be completely different. Perhaps you simply want to write something each day. You might use Monday to try out a writing prompt, Tuesday to write about a memory, Wednesday to explore a short story idea, and so on.

What matters is that you have a clear goal for your 15 minutes—ideally, one you’ve thought about ahead of time.

Step 2: Work Somewhere You Won’t Be Interrupted

If you’ve only got 15 minutes, you don’t want to lose 10 of them to someone interrupting you to chat. And the thing about 15 minutes is that people really can manage without you for that long. If you’re writing at home, head to a room that’s as far away from the rest of your family as possible. Chances are, they won’t wander by just to chat. 

Other good options, if you do get interrupted a lot at home, are to:

• Do your 15 minutes of writing at work. I used to write in my lunch hour during a summer job as a student—or another option might be to stay a little later at work.
• Write while everyone else in the house is asleep. Getting up an hour early to write is unrealistic and unsustainable; getting up 15 minutes early is probably achievable.
• Figure out a time of day when you’re less likely to get interrupted. When my kids were younger, I always wrote from 5:15-5:45 (yes, I got a whole half hour!) as my husband was almost always home from work at that point, and it fitted neatly between the kids’ teatime and bathtime. Everyone (kids included) got used to that writing schedule.

Step 3: Stay Focused During Your 15 Minutes

The great thing about a short writing session is that it’s easier to stay focused than when you have a full hour or more. If you know you’ve only got 15 minutes, you won’t be so tempted to stop halfway through to make a coffee or check your phone. 

Even so, you want to make sure you’re avoiding getting distracted. If you get a text message and spend just 3 minutes reading and answering it, that’s 20% of your writing time gone.

Some of the things that help me focus are to:

• Silence my phone and/or put it out of reach when I’m writing
• Put headphones on and listen to instrumental music (helps me block out any household noise)
• Set a timer so I can see exactly how long I have left in my writing session

You might want to give these a try—or there may be a different technique or habit that helps you stay focused, like reading over some affirmations before you begin, or starting your writing session by taking 10 slow deep breaths.

[Editor’s note: A strategy I’ve used in the past is to block my internet or particularly distracting websites for a set period of time, using programs like Freedom and Self-Control.]

Step 4: Leave Yourself a Note for Next Time

When you’ve only got 15 minutes to write, you’ll often be stopping right in the middle of a scene or section of whatever you’re working on. Even if you’re writing a 500-word short story, you’re probably not going to finish it in 15 minutes.

Chances are, you feel like you’ve got plenty more words in you. Your mind will have carried on ahead as you were writing, and you’ve got a clear picture of what’s coming next.

You need to write yourself a note to capture that. (Charlie Gilkey calls this a breadcrumb trail.) Otherwise, you’ll come to your writing after a day or two and you’ll likely have no idea what you were going to write next. Taking just a few extra seconds to jot down a note means you’ll be able to pick up the thread and carry on easily.

I wish I could wave a magic wand and give you (and me) all the time in the world to write, without any other part of our lives being affected. But learning to write in small, focused chunks of time is also a type of magic. It means you can fit a surprising amount of writing into your life, without compromising on anything else that matters.

When you’ve got a little window of time, it may feel like it’s hardly worth writing for 15 minutes. You’ll have days when it’s so tempting to skip writing altogether. Fight that urge! 

If you can write 150 words in 15 minutes (that’s a speed of just 10 words per minute) and you write every day, then that’s 54,750 words in a year: enough for a short novel. 

Even if you only wrote for 15 minutes twice a week, that’s 15,600 words in a year—which could give you 5–10 complete short stories. 

Start with 15 minutes today, and keep adding to those 15 minutes as many days as you can. In a year’s time, you’ll be amazed when you look back to see what you accomplished.

I began my writing journey as a playwright.

When your play is produced or read, there’s often an audience feedback session after the show. Even when well-managed, those discussions can create confusion for the writer. Everyone has opinions, even when they’re incoherent about them.

I once had a play read for my then-writers’ group. The conversation got so off track that one woman joked, “Maybe it should have been a ballet!” That comment haunted me for too long.

Now that I am accustomed to getting feedback for my stories, essays, and novels, I always look for things I can use. How do I know what to use and what to dismiss?

Check your fears.

Writers need editors. There’s only so far I can go editing my own material, then I need an outside eye. It takes practice to hear feedback without feeling that your hard work is being slammed. But it’s the only way to do your best writing.

If you find feedback difficult, just listen, take notes, and go back to the notes when you’ve had time to calm yourself.

Do your own editing first.

Pretend you’ve never seen it before. Then you’ll have to get over your love of your hard work! Decide how to give and get feedback. Each writer’s group differs in this, but it’s important to agree on a process.

For example with my small writers’ group, I can ask questions if I don’t see how I can use the feedback. Not all writers’ groups allow this. If anyone—a teacher, an editor, or another writer—just says,“This is awful!” ignore them. Or say, “I can’t use that. Can you be more specific?” But do not argue! If you can’t find a way to agree with the feedback, listen very nicely, say “Thank you,” and ignore it.

Read Liz Lerman’s Critical Response Process and see if your writers’ group can use it.

Consider the source.

In my writing group, one person can spot a plot hole that everyone else misses. Another person once edited academic articles, so finds every misplaced comma. A third one is also a visual artist, so she asks for more description. Another one loves almost everything.

I’m careful with the academic editor, because sometimes it doesn’t work for stories. And it’s nice to be loved, but I don’t ever fully believe it. I’d never ask for feedback on a story or novel from someone I don’t know, unless it’s from a professional editor or publisher. I’m amazed that folks post writing on Facebook and ask for feedback!

Get it in writing.

In a writers’ group, you can ask for folks to put their edits on the document. For example, they might use “Track Changes” on MS Word. When one of my plays is read or performed, I take detailed notes on the feedback.

Know yourself.

I definitely need to add more description to my novels and stories. I began as a playwright, and still somehow think I have designers to create the set, so I don’t need to describe it! Thanks to my writer’s group, I now can work on this.

As you get feedback, figure out what your good and not-so-good points are.

Sometimes the problem is not where anyone thinks it is.

I learned this when directing plays. A scene isn’t working. No one’s ideas make it better. Then I realize the problem began before that scene!

Example: The reader asks, “Why did she respond so angrily in this scene?” Trying to figure out that comment, I realize that I never set up her fears clearly enough.

Read in your genre. Read outside your genre. As you learn what you need to work on, read to see how other writers do it.

Finally, Chad Abraxas wrote . . .

Make a list of all your favorite books.

Go look them up on Amazon and sort reviews by one star. Read all the negative things. I did this for a favorite book, then a favorite writer.

Wow. How can people hate the writers that I love?

Because some stories and books are mine, some are not. It doesn’t always change their quality.

When giving or getting feedback, keep that firmly in mind. It might not be a story you love, but you can still notice places that don’t quite work.

Thirteen years ago, at the height of the June Virginia heat, we stood in front of our family and friends and repeated these traditional vows to each other:

“To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”

Never did we imagine that these vows encompassed writing a book together.

Thankfully, we didn’t get close to “till death do us part,” but we certainly touched on “for better, for worse” during the process of becoming authors.

Since our novel The Intrepid Three: Animus Revealed was published, the question we’ve been asked most is, “How did you work together to write a book?” Every time we get this question, we look at each other and chuckle. We laugh because we know how difficult it is to give an easy answer to this question. How do we explain all the ups and downs of writing a book as a married couple?

The simplest answer is that we treated writing like how we treat our marriage. We built our writing process from the ground up, leaned into the hard work of collaboration, enjoyed learning more about one another, and supported each other through the failures and successes.

Build from the Ground Up

As soon as we got engaged, we were told how we should conduct our soon-to-be marriage. Perhaps you’ve had a similar experience—well-meaning people, including strangers, giving unsolicited advice on everything from food to finances. While not all of the advice was bad, we learned early on many of these opinions did not work for us. When we tried to implement these ideas into our own marriage, they usually either fell flat or created problems of their own. By trying to follow the course others recommended, we oftentimes found ourselves veering off of our own path.

Just like in marriage, there was no set algorithm on how to best write together as a couple. The internet had many tips on how to write as a pair, but these pieces of advice often convoluted the process for us. We found writing together was about building a blueprint of our own, not borrowing someone else’s design. If we had followed a ready-made plan, it would have led to poorly constructed work for us. We designed our own process from the ground up and created what worked in our relationship, similar to how we continue to build our unique marriage.

Lean into the Work

Anyone who is married understands a good marriage takes work. It is not the work of a job, but the special work that only a committed relationship requires. Time, effort, love, and support. It is the best kind of work, but it is difficult. With every year, the work that our marriage requires changes. Our relationship is constantly evolving, and we try not to shy away from the challenge and effort it takes to grow our partnership.

In many ways, writing as a married couple was like holding a magnifying glass up to our relationship. It highlighted areas that needed improvement. If our communication was lacking, we were forced to talk things through. If our patience was waning, we had to slow down. If our attitudes weren’t in sync, we had to adjust. All of this took work, lots of work. We initially struggled with this new form of collaboration. In our minds, we believed writing should just be fun and not difficult. After a few months of slow progress, we discovered the necessity and the benefits of leaning into the hard work of writing together. By the end, the effort of collaboration was just a natural part of the creative process, just as collaboration is a natural part of our marriage.

Continue Learning

After almost two decades of knowing each other and over a decade of marriage, we were amazed to discover how much more there was to learn about one another. Over the years, we’ve learned facts about each other that have ranged from trivial to essential. We’ve learned everything from preferences in late night snacks to which buttons to never push in an argument.

Writing created an accelerated learning experience, a window into the other’s mind. We saw the wheels turning in real time as we imagined together. Again, we learned more of the trivial but also the important details that encompass who we are as individuals. We discovered everything from who should hold the computer and type to the best ways to support each other’s creativity. In the end, the trivial and important, just like in marriage, informed us of who our partner is and what motivated each other.

Fail and Succeed Together

Our marriage is a series of failures and successes, even without a book involved. In one day, or even in one month, our marriage might feel like a misstep or a victory. Some years lacked pomp and circumstance, while others were filled with graduations and celebrations. The culmination of our lows and highs have continued to bind us tighter and tighter together.

Writing a book together certainly had its failures and successes. Some days we wrote a single sentence before calling it quits. On other days we wrote an entire chapter. Then there were months when we wondered if this book would ever see the light of day. These months were followed by the realization that our first book was getting published. Just as in marriage, the lows and highs in our journey as authors made us a more cohesive team.

All in all, there are so many ways our relationship mirrors our writing journey. Our marriage informed our writing and now our writing has informed our marriage. Looking back, if we were to construct vows to follow as a wife-and-husband author duo, it would go something like this:

“To have and to hold from this day forward, for typing, for deleting, for fun, for work, in the trivial and in the important, in failure and in success, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”

Every day I wake at five to begin the juggle between writing creative nonfiction and my day job as an accountant. With two such diametrically opposite endeavors, both filled with all sorts of deadlines, I have to be very mindful about how I structure my time. Usually, my days are meticulously planned out.

One recent morning I woke at the crack of dawn, filled with determination to tackle the tasks that lay ahead and be ahead of schedule both with the pile of tax returns needing my attention and the draft chapter I had promised to my editor.

However, life, as it often does, had a different plan. My wife, waking at a more leisurely 9 a.m., had a simple request. “Hon, can you drive me to Saskatoon Farm? I have some muffins to pick up.” I let out a sigh, masked my growing panic at the thought of rescheduling my work, and agreed to her request.

Then came a detour for breakfast at Phil’s. And a spontaneous trip to the annual Lilac Festival that was taking place on our street. And just as I thought I could return to my work, my son woke up late and needed a ride to the campus of Mount Royal University where he’s a student.

Time, it seemed, was slipping away.

Don’t get me wrong: this is not the same as procrastination. Procrastination is when we choose to do something else instead of what we intended to be doing—whether that’s writing or paying the bills. Wasting time is when, it seems, we’re doing nothing at all.

About to scream “Stop wasting my time,” I paused. Suddenly, I was transported back to my younger days, bombarded with the echoes of my mother’s disapproving voice. “You failed your high school exams. You failed every accounting exam you’ve taken. You’re such a loser. Stop wasting time.” Despite thirty years of physical separation, it felt as though my mum was standing right in front of me, her voice laced with fiery rebuke.

In the midst of the chaos, a realization dawned. Immersed in the happiness my family and life with them has brought me and the love we share, I recalled a quote from one of my favorite childhood books: Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s The Little Prince.

“All grown-ups were once children . . . but only few of them remember it. It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important. I am who I am and I have the need to be. The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or touched, they are felt with the heart.”

That day, amidst unexpected detours and incessant interruptions, I was reminded that what has come to be known as “wasting time” is, in fact, an invaluable gift—one that we should all embrace routinely—even when it seems inopportune. Unlike procrastination, which usually leads us to either switch to a different but productive task or engage in mindless habits like swiping our news feeds, when we “waste time,” we . . .

Connect with the People Around Us

Whether it’s a spontaneous breakfast with our partner or a drive across town with our child, these are the moments that deepen our relationships. When we set aside our immediate tasks and engage fully with our loved ones, we create memories that often prove to be more valuable than any material possession or accomplishment. Time spent with loved ones is never wasted.

Live in the Moment

In the hustle and bustle of life, we often become slaves to our schedules, losing sight of the present moment. But when we allow ourselves to “waste time,” we live in the moment, noticing our surroundings, savoring our experiences, appreciating simple pleasures. As mindfulness experts point out, this enhances our quality of life. It also gives us new experiences to inspire us as writers.

Invest in Self-Care

Constantly chasing deadlines can lead to burnout and stress. By seemingly “wasting time,” we give ourselves permission to slow down and relax, which is crucial for buffering the demands of daily life and maintaining our mental and physical well-being, as well as creativity.

Foster Creativity

Great ideas often emerge when our minds are allowed to wander. By stepping away from our immediate tasks and giving ourselves the freedom to simply think or daydream, we can unlock our creative potential. How many times have you had an “aha” moment about your manuscript when you’re not focusing on anything at all?

Gain Perspective

Time spent away from our work allows us to reflect on our lives and our writing from a broader perspective. We can reassess our priorities, redefine our goals, and gain valuable insights into what truly matters to us.

As I sat back down at my desk that day, late in the afternoon, I felt a profound sense of fulfillment. I was grateful for the reminder that the value of my day should not solely depend on the number of financial statements I prepare or tax returns I complete. It’s also about the laughter, shared moments and memories I create with my loved ones.

Indeed, the most beautiful things in the world are not seen or touched, but felt with the heart. And feeling from the heart is the place where writing from the heart begins.

Except for elevators and vending machines, I like it when things are out of order.

I can explain. I’m a fiction writer, and I’ve found that a non-linear trajectory works for me. It can work for you, too.

If you write fiction, you typically begin with an outline of some sort. You are creating a journey with a beginning, middle, and end (or if there’s no end, welcome to your sequel). Conventional storytelling is a bus ride with a variety of scheduled stops along the way.

Does this sound like a thrill? Must we write that journey, that story of ours, stop by stop along the way?

No!

We can turn that bus into a roller coaster. We can write “out of order.” And here’s how we do it.

Ditch the Outline

Fiction writers are pros at finding reasons not to write. Sitting down to knock out a story can feel like a daunting task. If you’re plagued with the pangs of boredom and writing isn’t fun any more, you might want to throw out that chapter outline.

I mean it. An outline is a noble invention, but it can be a real buzzkill.

For the last two novels I’ve written, I ditched the structured approach. It probably works well for me because I have an unusual method of outlining. I do not actually create a traditional alphanumeric outline – or anything close. I left those creatures behind. I’m a retired attorney and I already did my time putting together hundreds of boring outlines for legal seminars. I didn’t want to bring that into my fiction writing. Instead, I write down a list of essential “scenes” which appear in no particular order. I then go about getting those scenes down on the page.

Get Started at the End

I usually start writing in the morning after I’ve had my requisite three cups of coffee. Often, I have an idea of which scene I feel like working on. Other times, I just scan my list of scenes and pick one at random. Some writers are all about getting to that final scene, the denouement, but for me, writing the ending can also be a great way to start the process. If you’re feeling stuck, just get the ball rolling by writing the ending.

I also sometimes “save” a favorite scene to write last. When I was deep into my second novel, I had been looking forward to writing a bit of action that was particularly farcical and extremely important, occurring mid-way through the story. I rolled the scene over in my head the year or so it took me to complete the novel, and I felt confident I could nail it. I purposely postponed the gratification as an incentive, and it felt great to finally put it, at long last, down on paper!

Why Not Tell the Story “Out of Order” Too?

Diverting from the chronological path also keeps you, the writer, on your toes. You can not only write your story out of order but you may just see an opportunity to tell the story non-chronologically. Telling a story in a non-chronological way is a chance to create a powerhouse. By disorienting the reader, you’re dragging them out of their comfort zone and infusing the reading process with suspense.

Going non-linear lets your reader play an active role in putting the puzzle together, perhaps in a much different way than the narrator or characters would. When the reader lacks context, they will be exposed to information that may not make sense at the time, but will come in handy later.

This method can be a wonderful canvas for writing unique and unforgettable worlds and characters. William Faulkner pioneered this technique in 1929 with The Sound and the Fury. Critics at the time were not thrilled, but fast forward twenty years and we find Faulkner winning the Nobel Prize for Literature. (Ok, I just went non-linear).

Yes, stepping outside the boundaries of chronology may leave you with pages of jumbled up scenes. But, not to worry. You have written a novel. Congratulations! The rest is just good old-fashioned editing.

So, perhaps now is as good a time as any to display your “out of order” sign and take a writing risk? At least you will be writing!

When real-life people speak to one another, much of what they say is not very original.

Speech and dialogue represent a compromise: we draw on a large repository of phrases and cliches whose limitations muddle what we’re trying to say. Often, we settle for using the only tools we have, which have emerged from things already said.

Fiction writers tend to want to fix this on the page. We strive and stylize, aiming for punchy lines that “jump out from the page.” But in so doing, we make dialogue seem artificial, overwritten and self-conscious.

This is one of two intertwined mistakes that creep into fictional dialogue. The second, far more important, mistake is that we fail to notice or include one of the aspects of real-life dialogue that truly does bring it to life:

The fact that, in most live conversations, people are not listening. They are not understanding, and are not responding in a way that others find satisfying.

Far more than punchy lines and clever retorts, well-crafted dialogue will show people simply not listening.

But how can we demonstrate in our dialogue-writing that an act as invisible as not listening is taking place? Here are some of the characteristics of not listening that can be used dialogue scenes:

There’s a lack of mutual understanding between characters.

In conversations short or long, one simple fact is easily observed almost everywhere: beyond not listening, people often don’t understand each other. Take this short example from my recent novel, Mrs. Sinden:

[Jill] handed Aspidistra an old picture of her daughter holding Wylie, Philip Nye’s dog. “I know you liked walking him so much, and now you’ve got Bovary—”

“Bovary is dead,” said Jessica, without emotion.

“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s me being me again. I’m always saying the wrong thing. I didn’t know.”

“How could you have?  In any case the memory is legitimate.”

Jill caught the word, legitimate, but had no idea what Jessica Sinden meant by it. Were there illegitimate memories?

The scene takes place near the end of the novel. It might be possible to assume that by then these two characters have some rudimentary understanding of each other. But no: Jill can’t even get the basic facts about Jessica’s life straight, and she has absolutely no idea what Jessica means by “legitimate memories”—very much something Jessica would say, but which manages to bypass Jill entirely. By this point in the novel, there is a strong connection between the two women—they have a granddaughter in common—but little affinity, and no mutual understanding.

Exchanges are off-hand and unsatisfying.

Often, real-life speech is not a good or particularly articulate record of communication. Rather, it is an attempt at communication, which occurs, at best, only incompletely and at worst, results in a complete failure to communicate.

Naturally this leaves people—both fictional and real—dissatisfied. Exchanges are off-hand. They come and go quickly. Little is truly expressed or resolved.

Even if the characters do have to say something, try as they might, they can’t rise to it. They might come up with partial formulations, saying things they themselves think are insufficient, or even just plain wrong.

Dialogue that shows this dissatisfying dynamic may be a far cry from snappy prose, but it discloses character and human nature.

Stylizing isn’t needed.

In focusing on the lack of listening, there’s no need for style, because what really matters is the lack of listening and the blatant failure of communication it shows.

Moreover, much of what we say is, in fact, generic, or worse, formulaic. Most people are not original speakers. Few can fully express anything they want to say with any degree of originality. But in good dialogue, so much is expressed between the lines.

There’s an unconscious motivation that’s more important than listening.

If characters in fiction are not actually listening, just what are they doing? This is not an easy question to answer. It goes to human psychology, in which, on the main, motivation is unconscious. There is an incredible variety of unconscious motivations. To take an even shorter example from Mrs. Sinden:

“Do you actually not like it here anymore?”

“No, well, yes, I mean, still, somewhat.”

I’d often heard many people say things like this, but it took me some time to inhabit the richness of this kind of statement. Think of it: all at the same time, Mrs. Sinden is disagreeing, agreeing, expressing uncertainty, qualifying herself, and changing her mind!

What you take away here is not so much a clear thought as a clear feeling about a state of mind. And also a sense that a direct question is being sidestepped. Jessica is clearly ambivalent about staying in Hong Kong, but she doesn’t want to say why. She may not even know why herself. That she is acting out of imperatives to which she is mostly blind is exactly what makes the dialogue dramatic. The fuel of drama is characters not knowing what they or other characters are thinking (think of almost any line from King Lear). They mostly guess. Think of how little you know about someone when you meet them for the very first time; yet even here, in the face of very little knowledge and almost no real understanding, there is dialogue, though it consists of mostly guesswork.

Exchanges have both an indefinite and an infinite quality.

Writers often write dialogue that presupposes an almost legalistic clarity of intention on the part of their characters, two distinct positions that are basically argued out in prose. That is, a character becomes a witness on a stand, trying to conceal something—or even worse, a debater at a podium, trying to establish a clear position about an idea of some sort. Which may explain why so many commercial novels center upon, or culminate with a trial…

In contrast, good dialogue, though highly pressurized, is so indefinite. Part of the marvelous infiniteness of great dialogue is that the characters can’t easily decide what to conceal or what to reveal.

My favorite example of this is Chapter 57 of George Eliot’s Middlemarch, an entire chapter where neither Dr. Lydgate nor his wife, Rosalind, says what they mean, though, when examined closely, it often turns out that behind it all, there is a kind of shape to what they do manage to say. Most lies are like this, too: odd admixtures of concealment and revelation arrived at situationally by the liar.

It gives us the feeling of a constant driving force.

The mind is driven by many forces, sexual and aggressive, and as Freud says, “the drives are like mythical creatures, magnificent in their indefiniteness.”

Magnificent in their indefiniteness. I can think of no better definition for the essence of good dialogue in fiction. In good dialogue, we can never be sure that we have a clear view of a character.

There should always be a sense of something just behind what a character is saying. Usually, it is a wish or a desire of some sort, but often the speaker is, at best, barely conscious of any scheme of motivation. Dialogue, rather, is pure impetus. It is evidence that a speaker is driven, though it is often very poor evidence of precisely what a speaker is driven by. As in, once again, “No, well, yes, I mean, still, somewhat.”

None of this is to say anything against good listening. It’s just that good continuous listening is very rare. In society, the art of listening is too often the art of appearing to listen while only listening intermittently. So in this way, good dialogue is actually acutely realistic; it is bad communication plausibly reported. It’s a shambles of connection because both speakers are helplessly trapped in their own vats, like Nagg and Nell in Beckett’s Endgame. They often ease out of them a little, but not much. They may not be saying what they want to say, but through it all, if you have the ear to listen, there is a palpable motion of mind that always reveals, through the tinted glass of language, not the meaning of character, but its drift.