Today’s post is written by regular contributor Sarah Baughman.

Writing is a conundrum: highly personal, yet undoubtedly public.

On the one hand, we write what matters most to us, weave our deepest feelings into characters and scenes, offer confessions, feel nervous to share what we’ve crafted, talk about loving “the process” whether or not we find “success”.

On the other hand, we crave acknowledgment, submit to literary magazines, enter contests, check and respond to our blog comments, sign up for writers’ conferences and critique groups, employ editors, attend readings.

Writing begins privately and demands some degree of isolation. The flicker of inspiration we register—a line that comes to us as we wake up, a setting we dream on the way to work—begins inside; nobody else can see it. We work for hours at a computer, honing words alone.

But inevitably, someone else enters the picture. We request feedback, revise and polish. Send our work into the void to be judged. And why?

We make our writing public because we crave connection. Positive feedback is nice, but it goes deeper than that. Recently someone who commented on an essay of mine wrote, “Thank you for…making me feel less alone in my thoughts.” His words spelled, for me, success. If by writing I can somehow further understanding, empathy, and a feeling of belonging in a world that’s sometimes lonely, I’m happy.

Author Laura Munson’s professed artist’s statement reads: “I write to shine a light on an otherwise dim or even pitch-black corner, to provide relief for myself and others.” Relief for myself and others. Indeed, writing is neither purely altruistic, nor purely selfish. As we reach others, we too benefit. We connect with others by doing something we enjoy anyway. What a great arrangement!

But what happens when it doesn’t quite work that way? All writers who publicize their work know not everybody will like it. Maybe some people will hate it. Others just won’t quite relate. Rejection, disagreement, or even ho-hum neutrality can come from faraway publishers or from people we know and love.

It’s one thing to be intellectually prepared for rejection or indifference, and another to experience it. No matter how much we might love hearing that Kathryn Stockett’s manuscript of The Help was rejected sixty times before getting picked up by a publisher, we don’t actually want those sixty rejections for ourselves.

It’s tempting, in the face of less-than-ideal reactions to the public version of our private work, to lose focus, adopt a different style, ditch a writing plan we once felt excited about, or even withdraw from that public sphere for good. But we shouldn’t.

On the contrary, writing our own truth–via fiction, non-fiction, poetry, drama, or any other genre–becomes indisputably important.

How do we know we’re writing our truth?

• We have a clear vision. We might not know how it’s going to end. Or we might know how, but not why. We do, however, have a sense of the direction we want our work to take, the themes we want to see emerge.
• Our characters feel like real people. We don’t need to make every character a thinly veiled version of Aunt Mildred or Cousin Timmy, but we should feel connected to each character. They should seem like kindred spirits, or frightening enemies.Our reactions to them should feel visceral, as though we’re reaction to a person we met on the street.
• Elements of ourselves emerge in our work. Even in fiction, even in a work where you’ve adopted a setting, a persona, a conflict that you think you’ve never experienced. You should still see some elements you can relate to, something that tugs at your heart.
• Hitting “publish” feels good. Nervous is normal. But when you’ve written your truth, the anxiety of wondering how people will react is outweighed by the sense that you’ve written something worth sharing.

How can we deal with unwanted, or absent, responses?

• Anticipate potential reactions ahead of time. Assume that what you’ve written won’t speak to everyone. Also assume that it will speak to at least someone. Bet on half and half, and you’ll probably be pleasantly surprised.
• Focus on positive responses. Human nature makes it easy to focus on the negative, even if it’s a minority perspective. If rejection gets you down, reread positive notes, critiques, and comments you’ve received. They’ll remind you that you’ve connected after all.
• Step inside the alternate perspective. Considering people’s motivations for rejecting your work makes for an interesting psychological experiment. How do your experiences and values contrast in ways that explain the difference of opinion? This isn’t a superiority contest, though; you should walk away feeling humbled by a variety of views, but still confident in your own.
• Remember how disagreement enhances diversity. The reason high school English programs feature authors as different as Toni Morrison and Ernest Hemingway is because there’s no one right way to write.

Emily Dickinson advised, “Tell all the Truth but tell it slant.” Write it sideways, perhaps? We all have different truths to speak, and our readers won’t always agree with us. But it’s hardly a reason to stop writing. Think of the connections you’d lose if you did.

How do you absorb others’ reactions to your work while ensuring you remain true to your vision and goals as a writer? How do you handle responses you didn’t want, or didn’t get?

I’d be willing to wager that we all have deep, dark secrets when it comes to our writing. That thing that weighs on our minds now and again, or maybe even constantly.

Is there something you feel guilty about, or ashamed of, in your writing journey? Maybe something like:

• Starting pieces, but never finishing them
• Not reading often enough
• Making your tastes seem more literary than they really are
• Not sharing your work with anyone
• Stealing someone else’s ideas
• Lying about how much experience you have
• Amateurish mistakes you’ve made
• Trashing another writer
• Being terrible at accepting constructive criticism

My Guiltiest Writing Secret

Because I’ll be asking you to dish your own secrets later, I’ll set the example by going first. Here’s the thing I most hate to admit to myself and others:

When I first got back into writing after many years’ hiatus, I tried to write for kids. Somehow, I thought that writing picture books and early chapter books would be easier than writing for adults, and that meant I would get published sooner, with less work involved.

Oh, how I was wrong.

I did enjoy writing for kids, but it wasn’t the type of enjoyment that could last a lifetime. And frankly, the stuff I wrote was probably awful. It took at least a year for me to admit that I was more interested in the idea of being a published author of anything, than doing the work necessary to become the type of writer I was meant to be.

While I feel terribly ashamed of my amateur stupidity at that time, it was a great learning experience. Years later, I know myself much better, and I can see how much more work I have ahead of me.

Nix the Guilt

The thing about writing secrets like the ones I mentioned earlier is that they have the power to do one of two things: hold you back, or push you forward. To nix the guilt and get on with your journey:

1. Admit to yourself what the problem is (in the example above, admitting to myself that I was trying to take the ‘easy’ road).
2. Identify solutions to the problem (discovering what types of writing were truly my forte).
3. Plan how you’ll follow through (in my case, choosing to write, polish and submit stories for a year with the goal of having three stories accepted).

Share Your Own Secrets

Writing is a lonely business, but by sharing your secrets, other writers out there may identify with your struggles and learn to overcome their own.

Leave a comment below and tell us all about it.

Please welcome today’s anonymous aspiring author, ready for a peer critique.

Take a moment to read the excerpt, then please leave some thoughtful feedback in the comment section below.

If you are a writer whose excerpt has appeared anonymously on Write It Sideways, and now you’d like your name to appear on your piece, contact me.

If you’d like to submit your own writing for critique, keep an eye out for future calls posted on the blog.

Protected Planet: The Other Kaitlyn

Science Fiction/Fantasy

Please note: This excerpt is taken from the beginning of the work.

Bran and Xendra were happy. Together they walked, hand in hand, back from tending the palfreys, the dog-ponies, this planet’s version of gentle horses.

‘We’ll have to name the two we brought from the smaller continent. They’re recovered well now. The kaitlyn are pleased, too,’ Xendra said. Her light brown hair waved in the warm breeze, her loose tunic and trousers showing her slim outline.

Yanni and Xillia have put a lot of work into helping them trust people again,’ Bran said. ‘They should be consulted on names. Yanni is getting to be quite a good aircar pilot too.’

‘If you say that, First Officer Bran McNulty, that means Yanni is an excellent pilot.’ Bran was without doubt one of the most skilled pilots who’d ever been in the Space Navy or Merchant Space Service. His once pale face was now bronzed, his dark brown hair lightened by the planet’s sun. His brown eyes smiled into her dark grey ones.

Back at Homecamp, preparing stew, they they were interrupted.

Two kaitlyn came into camp. Xendra reached for Bran’s hand, already beginning to go deep into herself to ask the cat-beings what they wished.

The two kaitlyn extended their hands, each taking a human hand in his own forepad, long finger-toes, claws carefully retracted, curling round the soft human hands. Sensing came to Bran and Xendra.

Trouble. The smaller continent. Kaitlyn need help, territory in difficulty, plants sick, dying. Go. Meet – lake with river.

Potential Feedback Prompts

When you respond, you might consider:

• your immediate reactions
• likes and dislikes
• anything that seems unclear
• language issues
• point of view
• voice
• inconsistencies
• general encouragement

Thanks!

Today’s post is written by regular contributor Sarah Baughman.

When I want to feel good about my writing, I show it to my husband. “Wow,” he’ll say. “This is beautiful. Really compelling.”

“Were there any parts that confused you?” I’ll ask, but I’m already smiling, relieved to be almost off the hook. “What should I change?”

“Hmmm,” he’ll say, hedging. “Maybe here, I didn’t know quite who you were talking about. But that’s the only place. Mostly, I think you should leave it like it is.”

I love that man, but not for his editing skills. Bless his heart; I’m not sure I’d want to be married to my editor anyway. But until recently, I’ve bumbled along with, for the most part, only this kind of feedback.

Sure, I’ve attended writing groups, but most of them weren’t set up for serious, in-depth editing, and they suffered from a confusing surplus of different perspectives (“Cut this part.” “No, don’t!”). Writing conferences and classes helped, but didn’t last long enough.

Recently, when I was selected as a correspondent to write two long-form literary non-fiction essays for a travel writing website, I began working closely with an editor. I don’t wear glasses, but I imagine that getting glasses for the first time and finally seeing the world clearly would be quite like getting this excellent editor.

I couldn’t believe the realizations she enabled. “Well, this is good as I can make it,” I would tell my husband after hitting “send” on one of my drafts. “I wonder what she’ll say.” Back the draft would come, peppered with comments both small (“What does this sentence mean?”) and significant (“I’m not sure this section carries your narrative thread”). My jaw would always drop. “Why didn’t I see this?” I would wonder as I set to work revising.

I’m currently on the third draft of both essays, and have established such trust for my editor that there’s almost nothing she says that I second-guess. She recently proposed cutting a three-paragraph section because it fell too far outside the narrative arc. I liked the language of the paragraphs, the way they sounded, but I didn’t have to think too hard to realize she was right; they impeded the story.

Could I have realized this on my own? Maybe eventually. But probably not.

How else does an editor help?

A good editor…

1. Recognizes major themes. Good editors know what your writing is really about. They don’t proofread; they read, both on the lines and between them. They share a sense of meaning and vision for the work. This “big picture” knowledge informs every editorial decision they make.
2. Identifies key strengths to build upon. Good editors know what you do well as a writer. They articulate those strengths and suggest ways to put them to use in other parts of your work.
3. Cuts the fat. Because they have a good sense of the piece’s overall themes and your writing strengths, they also recognize what doesn’t fit. It might be hard for writers to cut what they’ve written, even unnecessary parts, but it’s not as hard for editors.
4. Asks questions. Good editors probe for more information. Is there more to a character than you’ve let on? Does this plot sequence reinforce the theme? Is this metaphor consistent with its connotation?
5. Honors style. Good editors know that there’s not just one way to write. They know a variety of different writing styles find loyal readership, and they won’t impose their own style on yours. When they make suggestions, they’ll work to hone your own style rather than putting words in your mouth.
6. Notices the empty spots. My editor will often write something like, “This section is starting to do what you want it to do. But not quite…” And then she’ll suggest places to flesh out more detail. She often tells me to write more than I think I’ll need “because you can always cut it back later,” but we never know what clarity might emerge from the act of writing.
7. Doesn’t stop at “It’s great.” An editor might think your work is great. But no matter how promising, no matter how witty and tightly written and gorgeous, it can be better. And a good editor will help you make it that way.

I want to include an encouraging section titled something like “How to Be Your Own Best Editor,” but I just can’t. I don’t think it’s possible to see everything in our own work that needs to be seen.

Pull five of your favorite books off your shelf and check the Acknowledgments; there’s a reason why everyone thanks the editor. Those books wouldn’t be there without them.

How have you benefited from a good editor? Do you frequently consult an editor, or do you typically work through the writing process without one? What are the benefits and drawbacks of these different approaches?

Today’s post is written by regular contributor Susan Bearman. 

“In writing, you must kill all your darlings.”  — William Faulkner

There’s debate about whether Faulkner really said “kill your darlings.” And if he did, was he talking about editing out beautiful, but superfluous words; or was he talking about how we treat our characters?

We’re all guilty of falling in love with our own writing. It’s an occupational hazard. Who would want to write about a character you didn’t like, or at least find compelling? Given the amount of time you spend with a main character (MC), it’s important to feel a real connection.

But there is danger in liking your MC too much. Here are some things to keep in mind when trying to create memorable characters.

Perfection is Boring

There’s a little bit of autobiography in everything we write, and it’s human nature to try to revise history to our own advantage. When creating a character, we are recreating some aspect of ourselves and it’s tempting to make that character perfect.

But perfect is boring, and boring is fatal when it comes to a main character. As readers, we are far more likely to identify with the follies and foibles of our favorite characters than with the things they do well. Forget perfection. Turn yourself into an armchair shrink and get your MC to open up about all his secrets. Keep investigating until you find his fatal flaw—that one character trait that will get him into trouble every time.

Good fictional flaws should be more than superficial. They should be genuine and difficult to overcome. Good flaws tend to be more psychological than physical, although they can certainly have physical manifestations.

I’m not much of a gamer, but I was thrilled to discover the Dark World RPG Demonic Renaissance website, which has compiled a great list of character flaws. Bookmark it for future reference, and have fun trolling through this magnificent collection of human frailties.

Up the Ante

Sometimes, our characters are like our children. We want to protect them, or at least let them learn from our mistakes. But just like children, characters need their own experiences to become fully developed. They need to make their own mistakes.

So, take off the training wheels and let your character go. Your job isn’t to make her ride smoother, just to set her on her path. Be her shadow, not her savior.

“Find out what your hero or heroine wants, and when he or she wakes up in the morning, just follow him or her all day.” — Ray Bradbury

Today’s post is written by by Jennifer Blanchard of InkyBites.com.

As if you don’t already know, Taylor Swift is a country music sensation, with numerous hit songs, a growing fan base and even more on the horizon. But the reason she’s made it this far isn’t just due to her vocal and songwriting abilities, but also to her knowledge of what it takes to be successful.

She’s a marketing genius and an inspiration to all writers, whether she knows it or not.

Here are five things all writers can learn from Taylor Swift and her massive success:

1. Have A Story to Tell

Swift’s songs are like mini stories. Each one tells of love won or love lost or some other aspect of life. She draws her inspiration from her life and all the things that happen to her.

If you’re going to be a successful writer, you need to have a story to tell. You need to dig deep and write about things that have happened to you (remember, you can fictionalize, that’s what makes it fun).

Or write about things that have happened to other people, like Swift does.

The key is to pay attention to what’s happening around you, to you and to other people. This is where great stories lie.

2. Write About What You Love

In Swift’s E! TV special, she says she likes to write songs about love and relationships, because those are the things that fascinate her.

Are you writing about what you love? Or are you writing what you think you ‘should’ be writing?

If you answered that question with anything other than ‘yes,’ it’s time to reevaluate the things you’ve been writing.

What fascinates you? What lights you up and fuels you to keep on moving forward?

Those are the things you should be writing about.

Write what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.

3. Be Grateful for Your Fans

If Swift is anything, it’s an expert in gratitude. She’s learned how to make it part of her everyday life, and that’s what helps her keep and attract more and more fans. She is always going out of her way to make her fans feel included or surprising fans who give her the most support.

How do you show gratitude to your fans?

Is there something you can do to show them how much you appreciate their support, like offering a discount on one of your eBooks or giving them a freebie piece of content?

Find ways to appreciate your fans and you’ll cultivate a community who will surround and support you.

4. Know When to Stand Your Ground

From a very early age, Swift knew what she wanted. She knew what her dream was. And she wasn’t willing to compromise, not for anything.

In fact, when she was just thirteen years old she signed a development deal with a big-name record label in Nashville. For a year they paid for her demos, brought in songwriters to collaborate with her and watched her as she wrote and sung new songs each week.

When a year came up on her contract, the label had to decide whether they wanted to keep watching her progress or sign her as an artist on the label. They decided they wanted to wait ’til she was 18 before they put out a record.

Swift had a big decision to make—she could walk away from a deal with one of the biggest labels in Nashville, or stay and wait four more years before anyone got to hear her music.

Many people in this situation would most likely have stayed, for fear of losing the record label and the dream they’ve fought so long for.

Swift did the opposite. She walked away from the label and the deal that was on the table.
She knew what she wanted and she was willing to stand her ground for it. I’m pretty sure that’s why a short while later she got exactly what she wanted.

How can you stand your ground with your writing? Are you compromising your writing in any way?

Asking tough questions like this can help shape you as a writer and prep you for transitioning to author someday.

5. Be Known for Something

I’m sure you’ve heard a million times that it’s important to be memorable as a writer and author. And it’s completely true.

Swift is known for writing songs about her past relationships. Everyone knows if you piss her off, sheís going to write a song about it.

What do you want to be known for? What’s your bigger message as a writer?

As you begin to create your brand as a writer, you can use your bigger message to craft your marketing plan.

Taylor Swift will continue to find success in the future if she keeps doing what she’s doing. And you can use her techniques to find some success for yourself.

Which Taylor Swift-inspired tip are you going to put to use today?

About the Author: Jennifer Blanchard is an author, coach and the founder of InkyBites, a blog that helps writers nourish their creativity through simple food and lifestyle shifts. If you want to have more productive writing sessions, grab yourself a copy of her free eGuide: Clarity Smoothies For Writers.

Please welcome today’s aspiring author, Jonathan Byrd, ready for a peer critique.

Take a moment to read the excerpt, then please leave some thoughtful feedback in the comment section below.

If you are a writer whose excerpt has appeared anonymously on Write It Sideways, and now you’d like your name to appear on your piece, contact me.

If you’d like to submit your own writing for critique, keep an eye out for future calls posted on the blog.

If: An Allegory

Literary Fiction

Please note: This excerpt is not taken from the beginning of the story. 

The southern United States, like most other regions, is full of flora, fauna, traditions and oddities specific to the area. Sweet tea and invulnerability to hurricanes are examples of the latter for those living along the Gulf Coast. A curious plant known as kudzu is an example of the former. The oriental plant was originally planted as an erosion control measure. Like so many other imported plants, it became a nuisance almost overnight. The most often repeated story about its importation states that it was first planted on a Sunday in South Carolina, and that by Wednesday it had entered Louisiana. No one has ever claimed to kill it, but a lucky few have been able to keep it trimmed back. As Joel went back to his writing, a vine outside began growing on the backside of the house. While its growth would not be a record for kudzu, likewise it was about to perform a miraculous event.

The storm was less than an hour from coming ashore on the opposite side of the lake when Joel fell asleep again. He had not noticed the thick covering of kudzu over the south-facing window. The sun was still shining brightly in advance of the storm, yet the kudzu gave the cabin shelter from its blistering heat. It would ease the discomfort of the coming storm for Joel. The vine grew, as the storm got closer. As the storm rushed violently ashore, the vine insulated Joel’s cabin from noise, light, and damage. He slept soundlessly while all around destruction rained down.

Potential Feedback Prompts

When you respond, you might consider:

• your immediate reactions
• likes and dislikes
• anything that seems unclear
• language issues
• point of view
• voice
• inconsistencies
• general encouragement

Thanks!

Today’s post is written by regular contributor Susan Bearman.

A story either leaps off the page or it doesn’t.

Beatriz Badikian-Gartler once told our writing group that “Titles are a kind of promise you make to the reader.” Certainly, titles are important, but I think her point applies even more to the beginning of your story than to the title itself.

In the beginning, we establish our voice, invite the reader into our world, and tempt them to come along for the ride. We make a promise that the story to come will be worth their time and emotional energy.

And, attention spans being what they are today, we don’t have much time to get them hooked. In the age of the Internet, it’s estimated that a web page has three seconds to catch someone’s attention before they click off to another page. You can probably assume that you have a bit more time with fiction, since presumably the reader has come willingly to you. But you are still making a promise.

We can all think of famous first lines in literature, lines that continue to resonate long after the novel has been put back on the shelf. The classic “Once upon a time…” may be considered cliché, but it does a lot of work in just four words:

• It lets the reader know that a story is at hand.
• It eases the way for suspending disbelief.
• It sets the story in a different place and time.
• It awakens curiosity and raises questions.

These are the kinds of things you want your own beginnings to accomplish.

Change of Pace

It used to be that the writer had loads of time to get a story started, but in today’s fast-paced world, some celebrated opening pages might not hold up. Let’s take a look.

Most people know “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” from Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. But how many people remember the rest of that first sentence:

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.”

Brilliant writing, yes, but I’m pretty sure that you wouldn’t be able to sell a 120-word first sentence today. And unless you are Charles Dickens, don’t even try. Can’t you just imagine a literary agent working with Dickens today?

“Hey, Charlie, you’ve got a lot of pretty words here at the beginning. I mean, it’s really good stuff. ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.’ We get it. Stop there, dump the rest and start with the action scene in chapter 2. Sure, weave in a little backstory here and there, but stick to the plot. Tighten this baby up, cut out maybe 35,000 words or so and I think you’ll have a real winner.”

I’m kidding, of course, but today most stories don’t begin with such philosophical ruminations; they start in the middle of the action, or in media res. Author Patricia Lear once said: “The opening of a story is akin to an attack. It has to be strong.” Them’s fightin’ words, and they imply that you need to grab your readers by the throat, but what you really need to do is grab their attention.

Don’t Get Stuck at the Beginning

I want to take a minute here to reiterate that your first draft is not the time to hone your beginning. The job of a first draft is to get the story down. Sometimes, your first line may stand just as you wrote it. It may be that this first line was truly inspired—the inspiration for the story that was not yet completely formed.

More likely, though, you have the glimpse of an idea and you need to push through that first draft before the entire picture emerges. It may be that your first line is the last one you polish after all your revisions have been completed—that you find your true beginning at the end of the process.

The point is, don’t agonize over the beginning at the beginning. Save that particular angst for a later date. When you are ready to see if your beginning works, here are some suggestions.

Ask Your Beta Readers

This is a great task to assign to your trusted critique group. Presumably, these invited readers will give you the benefit of the doubt and read past even a terrible beginning. Ask them specific questions:

• When did the story get interesting?
• What was the hook that drew them in?
• What did they experience when they read the first line, page, chapter?
• What drew them up short?
• What questions did the beginning raise?

Look at the Words

Words are your paint box. The colors you choose for the beginning sentences of your story will set and light the stage.

The words you choose here tell the reader what to expect from you as a writer. Do you use language well? Are you gifted at your craft? Do you care enough to use rhythm and pacing and nuance in a way that’s never been done before?

Be specific. Specificity engenders trust. Name your characters. Set your story in a defined place and time. A telling detail can draw your reader in quickly by making your fictional world real. Words have literal meaning as well as emotional connotations. Think how a well-chosen noun can evoke setting, like parasol, palm tree, or rickshaw.

Though beginning with action is the current trend in fiction, delayed gratification has its pleasures. When you start with setting, you can draw the reader into your reality. Just don’t make them wait too long.

Find the Magic

Reading a great beginning is like falling in love at first sight. There is a certain amount of magic involved. No one can teach magic, but you can practice the tricks of the trade until your skills are so honed that the reader can’t see how you did it. You can’t see magic, you just believe.