Writing Craft

Life, the Universe, and Everything, Publishing Miscellanea, Writing Craft

On Writing Irreligious Books

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

One of my minor hobbies is ferreting out corners of the internet dedicated to people who want to think about the intersections between Christianity and art, and about how both the consumption and creation of good art are immeasurably beneficial to faith practice. Finding new iterations of this crossroad is always lovely and a little disorienting. Lovely, because these are things I dwell on a lot, and it’s nice to find other people doing the same. Disorienting, because there is a definite tendency in groups like this to focus on a very specific sort of creative as a model for the Good Christian Artist.

By which I mean, the sort of creative who makes explicitly Christian art.

Don’t get me wrong. I love some explicitly Christian art, by which I mean art that proclaims itself to be about Christianity, rather than discussing faith more obliquely (if at all). I have consumed many an inspirational romance in my time, and grew up haunting the church library (but I also haunted the public library and my school library–I am an equal opportunity library haunter). I was raised on CCM (contemporary Christian music, for those who aren’t In The Know) and spent countless hours on the school bus playing Steven Curtis Chapman and Jaci Velasquez on my CD walkman. The Christian Fantasist’s Holy Trinity (CS Lewis, JRR Tolkien, and Madeleine L’Engle) are the bedrock of my existence as a speculative fiction author–though one could make a case that their fiction work is only rendered explicitly Christian in light of their nonfiction writings.

But I also love a lot of art that very definitely does not fit the explicitly Christian framework. My current favorite fantasy series, The Lumatere Chronicles, couldn’t be considered allegorical, even if you squint. Virginia Woolf’s work helped me get through my teens and did more to impact my own literary voice than anything else. When it comes to television, I’m still off-base, as my favorite comfort watch is Star Trek in its many forms. No one would call music by Noah Gundersen or Ingrid Michaelson or Sleeping At Last explicitly Christian, either. And yet I find so much of goodness and truth in all of these things, despite the fact that they contain no stand-in figure for an omnipotent deity. No hands raised in the name of Jesus.

And then there’s me. A person who, as aforementioned, thinks a lot about the interplay of faith and art, and who makes art for a living, but who doesn’t do it in the manner of Good Christian Artists. I don’t write for a primarily Christian audience, or work for a religious imprint–I publish for the secular market. My books aren’t allegories–they don’t even mention any sort of higher power, much of the time. At the end of the day, though, there is this: I am a Christian, making art to the best of my ability. Does the way in which I choose to do so and the audience I choose to render my work accessible to preclude me from being a Good Christian Artist?

I hope not. I’ve never been much good at preaching to the choir. Or preaching to anyone, for that matter.

The conclusion I’ve come to is this: that as a Christian, you can create religious or irreligious art, but both can be done in faith. Religious art is the explicitly Christian kind–the sort that says “Yes, there is an answer to your questions, and this is it.” It’s instructional by nature–a signpost in the wilderness, a map that points to the road out, and tells you what you’ll find at the journey’s end.

Irreligious art, created in faith, doesn’t offer answers so clearly. Irreligious art is about comfort on the road. It’s not a signpost or a framework, but a friend along the way. A companion who says “I know you’re lost, but I think you ought to keep going. I believe there’s something beyond this, and that you haven’t yet fully become what you’re becoming. I trust you’ll get there in the end, though, and I’d like to walk beside you for awhile.” It is, in the literal sense, an act of encouragement. If a piece of irreligious art is truly Christian, the one who’s taken it in should feel a little stronger, a little more hopeful, a little more fit for the journey. They may not have been told what they’re looking for, or why, or how to find it, but they’ll know that the search itself and the act of struggling for transcendence are profoundly meaningful.

I’m not much of a mapmaker, myself. I still feel pretty lost most days, even if I’ve glimpsed the journey’s end. I’m not exactly sure how I’ll get there, and sometimes my faith in the outcome turns to doubt. But I’m a good walker. I can put one foot in front of the other and just keep going, in spite of doubt or darkness or moments of despair. So that’s what I bring to the table, as a Christian who makes art. Not a signpost, but a piece of my own stubborn soul. A companion for the journey–a fellow walker who may not be sure of the road, but who’s headed further up and further in, and wants to pass some time side by side.

Craft Advice, Life, the Universe, and Everything, Publishing Miscellanea, Writing Craft

Four Tips to Break a Reading Slump

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A standard piece of publishing industry advice is that you need to read voraciously in any genres you plan to work in, or already do work in. If I had a dollar for each time I’ve heard this, I wouldn’t be precisely rich, but I’d certainly have enough ready cash to take my family out for a very nice dinner.

This is a maxim that used to make me feel like a failure as both a reader and a writer.

Why? Because for the past eight years, I’ve been in the mother of all reading slumps. It started not when I had kids, but at the time that I started juggling working as an author with having kids. Parenting is a singularly all-consuming endeavor. Writing for publication, likewise. And they both involve a LOT of reading. Reading Goodnight Moon fourteen times in a row (or in our family’s case, an infamous storybook called DW’s Guide to Preschool). Reading your own novels fourteen times in a row, your sense of enthusiasm for them withering into disdain with each successive pass (I always say that the best part of publishing a book is knowing I never have to read it again).

Like I said. Both parenting and publishing require a lot of reading, but not the sort that exactly sparks joy. More the kind that progressively saps your will to live. So for eight years now, I’ve been in a reading slump so vicious that I was lucky to read four or five books in a year, outside of those roles. Mostly I stuck to magazines with glossy pictures of immaculately-maintained English countryside gardens. That was, for a very long time, the only form of print that didn’t make my brain feel like imploding.

And throughout it all, I felt really bad about the fact that I didn’t read more. I wasn’t current on the big, highly-praised break out titles in my category and genre. I wasn’t even current on books my own author friends wrote. At the end of the day, if I had an hour or two to spare, the last thing in the world I wanted was to pick up another book. I gamed instead, or watched Star Trek, or juicy costume dramas.

I’m here to tell you that if this is where you’re at, there is nothing wrong with you. And you don’t need to feel pressured to undertake an activity that feels so off-putting you’d rather sit and stare at a wall. Sometimes, we’re just not in a reading season of life, even as self-proclaimed bookworms. Sometimes, we’re in a season of life where we have to read so much for reasons beyond our own pleasure that choosing books for fun is out of the question. None of the fun is left. It has all been sucked out of the pages.

But it will come back. And there are some gentle ways you can implement to hasten its return. I know, because this year, I set out to break my reading slump. To a degree, I managed. Here are the steps I undertook to do so.

Log Every Book

If you read to your kids, or for professional development, or in some sort of work capacity, log it. Those are valid reads. They don’t suddenly fail to count because you undertook them for a reason outside of personal pleasure. This year, I hit that magical place where my kids are older enough to follow more complex chapter books, and was able to introduce them to a lot of stories I absolutely adored as a kid. Was I technically reading them for myself? No. But I read them, and I logged every last one. My favorite resource for this is Storygraph, though your logging system can be as simple as a pen and post-it note.

Visit Uncharted Territory

If you are required for any reason to read in a particular category or genre, do not, and I repeat, do NOT, try to force yourself to read within it for pleasure as well. My sainted Oma Bergmann was fond of saying that a change is as good as a rest, and as usual, she was right. This year, I managed to maintain interest in books I was reading just for me by staying completely outside of YA as a category, and speculative fiction as a genre. I read a couple of adult novels (women’s fiction). But mostly I read nonfiction. I’ve always loved a well-crafted nonfic, and diving down rabbit holes related to whatever my passion of the moment happens to be is one of my defining traits. Right now, I’m super interested in creating an enriching and rewarding home education experience for my kids, so I read a lot of books on that topic.

Try think outside the box when attempting to find reading material that suits. Foray into nonfiction, poetry, romance, mystery novels–whatever might actually get you excited about a book when that enthusiasm has waned.

Don’t Be Afraid to DNF

For those who aren’t familiar with the term, in book circles, DNF means “Did Not Finish”. I am a huge proponent of DNFing with abandon, and have been since before my current reading slump. Unless you are required to complete a book for some reason, life is just too short to slog through something you don’t enjoy! If the first chapter or first few pages don’t seem like your cup of tea, stop, and move to the next thing. The world is full of books–somewhere out there is one you’ll like better. But pay attention to patterns–if you keep DNFing books within a specific genre or category, maybe it’s just not for you right now. Maybe you should shift gears and implement Tip #2.

Having Fun Isn’t Hard When You’ve Got a Library Card

Acquaint or reacquaint yourself with the local library. If you follow the advice laid in Tip #3, you’ll need to. All that DNFing will get expensive if you buy every last thing you read! The library is a booklover’s buffet–there’s tons to choose from, and you can pick whatever looks good for you. But unlike a buffet, it’s free and you can return whatever you don’t like. If, like me, you’re strapped for time and your attention is fragmented while at the library (I go there with the kids, and library trips are primarily structured around their needs as readers), make liberal use of the holds system. Pick out a variety of titles that you think you might enjoy, reserve them via your library’s online system or over the phone, and then simply pick them up at the front desk at your next visit. This process, more than anything else, has facilitated my return to the domain of the written word over the last year.

Hopefully if you’re in a reading slump of your own, some or all of these tips and tricks will be helpful to you. But the most important thing is to be gentle with yourself–there’s no moral virtue implicit in finishing a certain number of books a year, or even in being a reader at all. While many books contain stories of great value, books are patient–they’ll still be waiting when you’re ready for them.

Craft Advice, Publishing Miscellanea, Writing Craft

How to Vanquish Your Murky Middles (+ a free Four Act Structure Template)

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I have a problem with murky middles.

It’s a common woe among writers–you hit twenty or thirty thousand words in a first draft and your plot just…fizzles out. The luster of starting a new project fades. The exciting and climactic final act is still just a glimmer on the horizon. And you get stuck, in the bewildering, unexciting doldrums of moving your characters from a good beginning to a better end.

Many a time have I foundered in those very doldrums.

Over the years, I’ve learned to structure my plots not just around a thrilling finale, but also around a high-stakes, explosive midpoint. Previously, I envisioned stories as a steady uphill climb, where characters ended on a peak of revelation. And boy, was that climb a drag sometimes. Now I envision them as an entire mountain instead–there’s the uphill striving, the summit, and then a precipitous descent towards the inevitable arrival in new territory.

My amazing friend Wendy Heard has talked more extensively about midpoints, and her thoughts on the matter have really shaped the way I now approach plotting. Where I used to break things up into three acts (a la the very well known Save the Cat beat sheet) and the second act would lag, I now break plots into four acts instead.

However, I’m a very checklist-oriented person, and love to use templates. In my travels about the internet, I’ve never been able to find an existing template for four act structure that I really love. There are some templates out there, and some comprehensive breakdowns of how four act structure functions, but none of them really worked for me on a fundamental level.

So since I couldn’t find a four act structure template that entirely suited my needs, I cobbled together ideas from a few different sources (this fantastic post by Heather Cashman, this one by Mikhaeyla Kopievsky and this one by The Magic Violinist were all incredibly helpful) and made my own. Maybe it’ll work for you, maybe one of the structures I linked to will better serve, or maybe you’ll need to forge your own path like I did. But this is the template I’ve ended up with, and I thought I’d share. I’ve provided some well-known examples for each plot point within an act, though they’re from older books so the division of the four acts is different than you’d find in modern novels.

Without further ado…

A Four Act Structure Template, by Yours Truly

ACT ONE: Setting the Scene

Image by Sir John Tenniel

The Old World
This is where readers get a brief glimpse of the main character’s life and world to date. How does everything around them function before their adventure begins? This stage of the story is important because in order to appreciate changes the plot will bring, readers need to know what is being changed, and what (if anything!) will ultimately remain the same. Think Bilbo sitting on his doorstep blowing smoke rings during the opening of The Hobbit, or Alice dozing on the banks of the stream before her journey to Wonderland.

Inciting Incident
In a Hero’s Quest narrative, this stage is often referred to as the Call to Adventure. It is where something happens that beckons the main character away from their current circumstances and towards something new. It is the first whiff of change, though the protagonist may initially resist it. Again, think Bilbo unexpectedly being drawn into conversation by Gandalf, or Alice seeing the White Rabbit hurry by.

Initial Stakes
This is where the gentler invitation of the inciting incident becomes an insistent push. Something happens to tilt the scales in favor of the protagonist abandoning their old world and heading out into the unknown. There may be some distasteful quality of the old world the character wishes to escape–for Alice, the initial stakes are her current boredom versus satisfying her curiosity about the White Rabbit. Or, there may be something about the shift the inciting incident has provided that draws the protagonist in. For example, in The Hobbit, the dwarven dinner party provides Bilbo with his initial stakes–it piques the inherent adventurousness of his Tookish side coupled with wanting to be thought better of by the dwarves.

The Lock In
The lock in is where the main character goes all in. After the enticement of the inciting incident coupled with the intensification of the initial stakes, they’re fully invested in the events to come; they’ve reached the point of no return and proceeded to barrel past it. Again, this is Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole, and Bilbo tearing out of his comfortable hole to chase after the dwarves. The call to adventure has been both heard, and heeded.

ACT TWO: Heading Uphill

Image by J.R.R. Tolkien

Hatching a Plan
This is when the protagonist first takes ownership of their circumstances. Previously, they’ve been responding to external movers. Now, as their adventure really begins they must decide what their role will be in the new realm they’ve entered. This stage will echo throughout the remainder of the story, as it involves the main character committing to a certain vision of themselves and their place in the world. The vision can be wrong or right, or a bit of both. This is Bilbo choosing to become the burglar the dwarves hired him as when faced by the trolls; it is Alice drinking her first potion and fundamentally altering herself in order to navigate the strangeness of Wonderland.

False Calm
The protagonist’s proactive planning and new sense of identity seem to be paying off. They’re coping fairly well with their changing world, and it seems like the vision of self they’ve arrived at is an accurate one. Bilbo is of great use to the dwarves along their journey to the Lonely Mountain, using his self-image as a burglar to rescue them on multiple occasions. Alice uses her shape-altering capacity to move throughout Wonderland, meeting odd and interesting creatures.

Storm Clouds Build
Uncertainty begins to mar the protagonist’s competence and confidence, and signs point towards greater conflict to come. Things are set in motion that cannot be undone, and that the main character will have to reckon with before the end. They have nearly reached the summit of their uphill climb, and conflict is looming. For instance, Bilbo’s less than friendly encounters with the goblins and wood elves foreshadow the eventual Battle of Five Armies even as he arrives at the Lonely Mountain, and Alice’s meetings with the White Rabbit and Duchess serve as a preview of the tempestuous nature of the Queen of Hearts’ court.

THE CATASTROPHIC MIDPOINT: Gains and Losses

Image by J.R.R. Tolkien

All of the first and second act have been leading to this point. The protagonist must, for the first time, face the major conflict their journey and their current vision of self have been moving them towards. This may end in a total loss, or they may both gain and lose something from the encounter, but it will NOT resolve the plot–this is not climax of the story, but rather the thing that tips the protagonist over an edge to hurtle towards the climax. Likely at this point, the protagonist will learn their initial vision of self was flawed in some way, and requires correction. This is Bilbo successfully facing Smaug in his burglar role, only to pridefully raise his ire and indirectly cause the destruction of Lake Town; it is Alice finally getting through the little door to the beautiful garden only to find not the peace she sought, but the pettiness and danger of the Queen of Hearts’ entourage.

ACT THREE: Careening Downhill

Image by Sir John Tenniel

Initial Failures
Just as initial stakes pushed the protagonist towards a fundamental change, initial failures now push them towards a need to expand their understanding of the world and their place in it. They are faced with the consequences of attempting to overcome their major obstacle while harboring a flawed or incomplete sense of self. Bilbo, until now operating primarily as a burglar, sees Lake Town destroyed and the dwarves and others consumed by greed for the treasures he’s made accessible. Alice has a terrible time at the croquet game, is unable to use her skills to succeed at it, and begins to realize that Wonderland is truly a lawless and illogical place.

Dark Night of the Soul
The weight of carrying a flawed understanding of self, and of weathering the catastrophic midpoint followed by further failures, wears the protagonist down. They are defeated not only externally but internally at this point. This is their “all is lost” and “abandon hope” moment. But is just that–only a moment, and it must cause a greater understanding of their role in the new world as they reckon with their failures. This is Bilbo’s increasing unhappiness with the decisions of the dwarves as he realizes they’re making many unnecessary enemies, but that he’s tied his fate to theirs; it is Alice thinking she’s at last found sensible and sympathetic allies in the Mock Turtle and the Gryphon only to fail to understand them at all.

ACT FOUR: Crash-Landing and Reconstruction

Image by Sir John Tenniel

The Bitter Dawn
Armed with a new understanding of self that is informed by their failures as well as their successes and personal agency, the protagonist once again takes their fate into their own hands. The Bitter Dawn is the fulfillment of The Lock In in Act One: where they initially chose adventure and conflict, now they choose to move towards resolution, no matter the cost. This is Bilbo turning his burglary skills against the dwarves and attempting to trade the Arkenstone for what he now knows he truly values: peace and song and friendship. It is Alice returning to the Queen of Hearts’ court for the Knave’s trial, and attempting to bring order to the chaos at hand despite her own confusion.

Victory
The protagonist’s new sense of self is cemented by their sacrifice during the Bitter Dawn, enabling them to finally prevail over the forces arrayed against them. Frustratingly, Bilbo is robbed of active participation in the Battle of the Five Armies, but his overtures in the name of peace and his previous encounters with goblins force a victorious alliance between the humans, dwarves and elves, and his decision to leave the dwarven stronghold to seek peace arguably saves his life. Alice realizes that she does not require external agents to control her destiny in Wonderland, and that she can impose order on the looming chaos. She alters her size without help, and scatters the threatening army of cards.

The New World
With victory obtained, we are given a brief glimpse of the protagonist’s post-adventure life, mirroring our vision of the Old World in Act One. We see what has irrevocably changed, and what has stayed the same. Bilbo returns to Hobbiton, where he still enjoys his creature comforts but keeps very different company and is perceived very differently than before. Alice returns to her dull existence, but we realize that sleepy circumstances will never dampen the fire of her vivid imagination. All is as it was; all is fundamentally different. And so our story draws to a close

*****************

There you have it! A recipe, a template, an outline for Four Act Structure and an end to saggy story middles. I hope this proves helpful to at least some of you–may all your plots be cohesive, all your pacing airtight, and all your character development flawless <3


Craft Advice, From Me to You, Writing Craft

It’s a Process

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The other day on Twitter I was asked about my writing process, and realized that I’ve never really talked or written about it before. Mostly because it’s always been less scientific than intuitive for me, but I’m going to try to list some of the things that are constants.

The Initial Spark


One of the first and most common questions writers get, both from other writers and non-writers, is “where do your ideas come from?” My ideas come from what I think of as an initial spark–something that sets off a chain reaction of “what ifs” in my brain that all coalesce to form a scene. That’s always how my books start–with a particular scene. It’s not always the opening, or the end. It can be anywhere in the story. But it gives me a glimpse of the world and characters and their dilemma, and serves as the thing I build around.

For instance, with The Light Between Worlds, the initial spark was reading a tweet where someone in publishing wished for a book about Susan Pevensie post-Narnia. I started thinking about what Susan’s life would have been like, and how a story like that could be framed–it couldn’t be about Susan herself, given that Narnia’s copyright hasn’t expired. But it could be about someone like Susan–someone in similar circumstances. At that point, the first scene struck me–of a lovely, put-together girl being approached by a stag in the middle of Trafalgar Square. That scene occurs at around the 75% mark of The Light Between Worlds, but it gave me the basics I needed to build the story–I had Philippa, her longing, her world in London, and the character of Cervus the stag, as well. Everything else grew out from that meeting.

With A Treason of Thorns, the initial spark was, of all things, a Twitter bot (I promise not everything I write starts on Twitter). It’s a fabulism-type bot which generates tweets about a mysterious, somewhat Gothic English garden. On a whim, I wrote a microfiction based on one of the tweets, about a girl in a sentient garden, waiting for suitors with a very odd friend. That scene became the basis for Violet and Burleigh House and Wyn.

Other sparks have been walking my dog and coming up with a scene in which a character is traveling on foot to a distant mountain, inhabited by a fearsome being her community views as a god. Nursing my oldest as an infant and imagining the first meeting between a queen and the wet nurse who would tend her children. Considering how I could reframe the fairytale The Wild Swans and being struck by an image, of a girl with black hair walking into the sea to beg for the lives of her missing kin.

The sparks that can kindle a story are all around us, so long as we view the world with curiosity, an openness to possibility, and consider that all-important question, “what if?”

Building a Framework


Once the concept for a story exists, I build the framework, or structure. This is where the well-known authorial designations of pantser, planner, and plantser come in (a pantser is someone who makes up stories as they go–flying by the seat of their pants. A planner plots everything prior to writing. A plantser does a combination of the two, planning some of the framework of the story, but leaving room for adjustment and embellishment).

I myself started out as a pantser. I’d use the instincts for story we all have, as individuals living in a media-saturated world, and craft a narrative that just felt right. Now that I write under deadlines, I’ve become that combination of a planner and a pantser. It’s easier at this point, to revise the structure of a story before I’ve gone to the trouble of writing the whole thing. I do, however, still write at least a few opening chapters before planning out the entire story. This lets me get a feel for the characters and world and central problem, which gives me a better grasp of the different forms the narrative could take. How much of the story I write before plotting can vary–anywhere from three or four chapters, to the entirety of the first act, though getting the whole first act done is my preference.

While I plot somewhat in advance now, I still do a lot of the creative work organically–I come up with the narrative in my mind, usually on country drives or walks–and then write a synopsis that covers all the key plot points I devised. My favorite resource for plot structure is the Save the Cat beat sheet, which you can find here. Once the framework of the story is complete, I revise the synopsis about eleven billion times with my agent and editor, until we come up with something that feels true to my initial concept of the book, while being sufficiently fast-paced (pacing is my Achilles’ heel, I would write books with no plot to speak of if left to my own devices!) After this, I draft the remainder of the story, staying more or less true to the synopsis. There’s still lots of room for filling in the blanks and finding surprises within and between the planned scenes, which appeals to the former pantser in me.

Research Rabbit Holes


I write primarily historical fantasy, which is absolutely wonderful because I get all the trouble and frustration of ensuring historical accuracy AND crafting a consistent magic system and mythos. I am, if nothing else, a glutton for punishment.

In order to make life somewhat easier, I tend to choose historical settings I have at least a passing familiarity with. This usually allows me to do an initial first draft with minimal research–just some fact-checking along the way to be sure of dates and distances, etc. But sometimes, I run into areas that need deeper study. Thus far, my most research-heavy book by far was The Light Between Worlds, thanks to my decision to set much of the second half in London’s National Gallery. I spent hours upon hours studying the Gallery’s history and learning the nuances and process of art restoration. At one point, I even reached out to a wonderful archivist at the Gallery, who provided me with floor plans for the Gallery in 1951, when The Light Between Worlds is set. When researching, feel free to go deep if that’s your preference–there are always details I know I can fudge because of the unlikeliness of any readers realizing I’ve done so, but for me, the knowledge that I’ve been as accurate as possible is a great feeling. I’m willing to put in the work for that.

The Disaster Draft


Once a story is fully drafted and the research primarily done and incorporated, I get feedback. Depending on what I wrote a piece for, this can be from critique partners or my agent or an editor. I always hope not to have to make massive structural changes–that is, after all, why I now write a synopsis to be critiqued and revised in advance. But even without overwhelming changes to structure, there’s always a lot of work to be done in the Disaster Draft.

The Disaster Draft feels like ruining your book.

There’s really no way around it. You take your first draft, which felt good and exciting and new and relatively cohesive, and tear bits of it out and Frankenstein other bits in, and it gets clunky and stops flowing nicely and you lose all perspective and spend a lot of time lying on the floor in despair, convinced you’ve wrecked everything and are a failure and will never meet your deadline.

……………………………Or at least I do.

However, the Disaster Draft is not ruining your book. I like to think of it this way–when the Old Masters painted, they created beautiful sketches to work from. The sketches were lovely and works of art in their own right. And then the Old Masters ruined them. They put blobs of paint on. They blocked in color. Everything began to look messy and unfinished and like a disaster, as they filled in the framework they’d created. But once the color was blocked in and they began to add detail, the painting took shape and became Art again. It never would have got there without that messy in-between stage.

So persevere–this too shall pass, even if you need to spend a lot of time on the floor to get through it.

The Magic Draft


For me, the Magic Draft is where everything finally comes together. All the Frankensteined bits and pieces are ready to be smoothed together, the stitches hidden, the details added. The Magic Draft is when I start to think, again, “Hey, I did pretty good! This is actually a great story!”

Depending on where you are in your growth as an artist and especially depending on the book, you may need multiple Disaster Drafts before you get to the magic. That’s okay, and normal. If you still believe in the story at hand, keep pressing on. Eventually, it will all come together. I have one concept which is incredibly dear to me that I’ve been trying to shepherd through the initial framework-building stage for *checks calendar* seven years. Obviously if you have a hard deadline to work through, you can’t let things breathe forever, but if that’s an option, take the time you need.

Eyes on the Horizon


One thing that will help maintain your forward momentum is to always have ideas on the backburner. I keep a file of story concepts, which I write out as three paragraph pitches built out around that initial spark and scene, and save for when I need them. At any given time, my preference is to have a minimum of one story being drafted, one being revised, and one for which I’m doing the cognitive work of planning–developing the story framework in my head. If the publishing fates smile, this allows for a seamless transition from one project to another, as you just move things up the list/to the next stage of development as progress is made. This is a practical application of the old adage about eggs and baskets–don’t pin your hopes to a single story idea. It’s not one story you’re building, it’s yourself a writer. There are always more concepts, even if you have to lay a dear one to rest.

And I think that’s all! Hopefully some of this was enlightening or helpful! If anything stood out to you in particular, or you have questions, feel free to let me know in the comments.

Publishing Miscellanea, Writing Craft

Read THE VANISHING KINGDOM’S Query Letter!

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Awhile back, the lovely Amy Trueblood asked if I’d be interested in participating in her blog series, Quite the Query. I said yes, and shared my query for The Vanishing Kingdom, which at the time was entitled The Weight of Worlds. So if you’re interested in seeing the query letter that landed me an agent and started me along the road to publication, here it is!

QUITE THE QUERY – Laura Weymouth and THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLDS