Category Archives: writing

October 26, 2026 · 6:00 am

November writer: What are we #writing and why?

Tales of all lengths and genres have their beginning in a vague idea, something that you think might make a good story. The basic structure of all narratives is similar across genres.

First: Who are the players? If you are like me, you had the idea for a group of characters when you decided to write something. Maybe you want to write about your life experiences.

Second: What genre are you most drawn to as a reader? Do you see your work as a fantasy, sci-fi, mystery, thriller, romance, or memoir? A fiction project is easier to create if you know the genre you are writing in.

Perhaps you write both Cozy Romances and Military Thrillers. (Or other different genres). Consider using a different pen name for your second genre’s work.

Do you feel the urge to write poetry or songs? My poetry explores the fantasy that is the memory of my childhood home. When poetic words grip your imagination, write them down.

Free verse is a modern form that often doesn’t rhyme, but the cadence and pacing of the syllables still have rhythm. Traditionally structured poetry includes Odes, Haikus, Elegies, Sonnets, Dramatic Poetry, or Narrative Poetry.

Third: Setting. Where does the story happen? Does it take place in a real-world urban environment, or a created, future, or alternate world?

What kind of environment and set dressing do our characters see as the story opens? Show them in their comfort zone.

What level of technology do we have at our disposal? Do you have personal knowledge of this, or have you researched it?

Fourth: Narrative voice: Who is telling this tale? What do they have to say about it? Again, if you are like me, one character will begin to dominate the conversation.

Will you write it in first-person point of view or third-person? CAUTION: If you write it from the second-person point-of-view, it may read like the walk-through for an RPG.

When you write poetry or a memoir, you are telling the story by detailing your thoughts and experiences.

Fifth: The quest. This is the reason for the story. What pushes our protagonist out of their comfort zone? What is the point of no return, the incident that kicks the story into motion?

What do they lack, and how can they resolve it?

Why is this quest important, and what hindrances will they face? What is the worst-case scenario if their plan fails?

Fifth: The antagonist. Who or what blocks us from completing our quest successfully? Not every enemy is a person. Sometimes we must battle the aftermath of an earthquake or wildfire. Other times it is a storm or drought. Natural disasters inspire great stories.

When the antagonist is a person, human or alien, the key is to write them so they are not cartoonish. Write them as if they were as well-known to you as the protagonist is. Unless we are writing a comic book or comedy, we want our evil genius to be both menacing and with motives that are completely believable.

Sixth: Theme: A fiction project is easier to create if you can see the central theme that will bind it together. Whether writing a novel or short story, ask yourself what the central theme is. Theme is the core thread, such as love lost and regained or coming of age.

I find that writing to a theme helps me write a tale with a coherent arc and a relatable quest.

Seventh: Outline or not? Will you “pants it” through the plot or create a plot outline? Outlines are just me thinking out loud on paper. I work both ways when it comes to short stories.

Eighth: How long will this story be? I write a lot of short stories. In the beginning of your writing life, your work might be short forms too.

My publishing train was derailed for three years when my husband fell ill with late stage Parkinson’s. He passed away in July of this year and I am almost back to where I can cope with the finer details of publishing a professional looking book.

I have three novels in the works, one that has been completed and edited and left unpublished. I also have enough stories for a collection, which may be published before the novels. Short story collections work best when they are all in the same genre, and a theme or setting binds them together, featuring a recurring character or location. I do this for one series, but I’ll have to rely on a theme for the other collection.

  • Anthologies feature a group of different authors, each contributing a short story in the same genre and centered around a specific theme.
  • Short story collections feature the short works of one author, hopefully in the same genre. Genre is important, and if you write in multiple genres, don’t mix them. If you’re writing sci-fi or fantasy, you can get away with mixing them, but organize the book so each sub-genre is in its own section

To wind up this rant: I’ve had a blessed life. I write whatever I am in the mood for and have the time and opportunity to write. Free time is a luxury, one I appreciate more with each passing year. I have a group of fellow writers I can depend on for good advice and support when life is hard.

Writing is a budget-friendly pastime. Many free, excellent online resources are available for those facing financial struggles but who want to learn more about the craft of writing. Many cities and towns have writing groups that will accept new and beginning authors.

One excellent and free online group for new and beginning writers is Critters Writers Workshop. Take a look and see whether that group fits your needs.

Writing good work doesn’t happen overnight. You will spend time, years even, to get that vision written, revised, edited, and ready for publication. It takes an incredible amount of work and a continuing habit of self-education to grow as a writer.

But that effort is so worth it.

Writing only becomes expensive when you reach the publishing stage. When your novel, memoir, or short story collection is finished, please consider hiring a freelance editor even if you plan to find an agent and go the traditional route.

This will be money well-spent.

Finally, if you are in the “just starting out” phase, please know that you are not alone. When you hold the finished product in your hand, you will know the struggle was worth it.

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October 19, 2026 · 6:00 am

Let’s write Micro Fiction #writing

I often write micro fiction, especially when I’m not inspired to work on my longer pieces. These tiny tales begin with an idea, as all the things we want to write do.

Longer works sometimes stall at different points in the process. At first, we’re fired up about the project. As we write, the words flow, but then we come to days when we stare at the screen, unable to think of what to do next.

That is when we need to set the project aside for a day or two.

But we shouldn’t stop writing. If we don’t nurture the habit of writing every day, it’s easy to forget to go back to it.

This is when I find myself writing micro fiction. Drabbles are a form of micro fiction, an entire story in exactly 100 words.

Some forms of poetry, such as haiku, are not micro fiction, as they don’t tell a fully developed story.

I find the time to write every day, even if it is only a line or two in my journal. This keeps me in practice. When I was young and raising a family, this habit showed them that writing was an important part of my life. I sat in a corner with a notebook, writing instead of pretending to enjoy the tired, poorly acted, badly written movies of the week that everyone seemed to love. ABC Movie of the Week – Wikipedia

I was an introvert in high school, as many ADD children are.  I loved a good story and always had a book to read at lunch. I had plenty of practice at ignoring the snide comments the cool kids whispered when they thought I couldn’t hear.

Later, as a young adult I discovered that if I couldn’t find the kind of tale I was looking for, I could write it myself.

All writing is a time commitment. I can dash off a drabble in five minutes, but it might take an hour or more to fit the story into the 100-word constraint.

We have 100 words to write a scene that tells the entire story of a moment in a character’s life. First, we need a prompt, a jumping-off point. A prompt is a word or visual image that kicks the story into motion in your head. If you need an idea, go to Reedsy’s Weekly Writing Prompts. I love that page, as the prompts change every week.

But prompts are only the beginning. To write a story of any length, we need these essential components:

  • A setting,
  • One or more characters,
  • A small conflict,
  • A resolution.

I use a loose outline to break every story’s arc into three acts, each with a specific word count. (I’ve included a graphic at the bottom of this post.) A drabble consists of  only 100 words, but it is outlined in this way:

  • I have about 25 words to open the story and set the scene.
  • I have about 50 – 60 for the heart of the story.
  • I give myself 10 – 25 words to conclude it.

Writing micro fiction teaches you to tell a story without exposition and to use words that convey strong images.

Novels are a little different: When I plan a novel, I divide my outline this way: 10,000 or so words to open the story, set the scene, introduce the characters, and get to the inciting incident. 50,000 or so words for the heart of the story. 10,000 or so words for the conclusion. It usually expands to around 125,000 words before I trim it back to around 90,000.

Whether it is a drabble or an epic novel, I delete exposition and backstory in the second and third drafts. Although sometimes the drabble wants to be a short story.

When I delete sections of longer works, I save them in a separate file because some ideas help establish mood and atmosphere for world-building. Other sections are good for character development and use in other, longer works.

  • Every word you write and discard might be useful in a later story.
  • Label the file with a title that says what it is.
  • Save it in a master file that contains ideas for longer stories.

If you finish the drabble, you have created a small gift for yourself. The surge of pride that you experience in that moment of “Yes! I can write after all!” is a wonderful reward.

But why should we try to write something that short?

Writing to a strict word count limit means that every word is precious. Word choices must be strong and used to create the greatest effect. When we shave away the unneeded info in the short story, we have more room to expand on the story’s theme and how it supports the plot.

This list of venues currently accepting submissions of micro fiction (100 to 300 words in length) comes from the home page at Barnett Ghostwriting:

  1. Barnett Ghostwriting
  2. SmokeLong Quarterly
  3. Flash Frog
  4. Nanoism
  5. Vestal Review
  6. Tiny Molecules
  7. Flash Fiction Magazine
  8. New Flash Fiction Review
  9. Microfiction Monday Anthologies
  10. Ellipsis Zine

I am unfamiliar with Barnett Ghostwriters, so I can’t vouch for them. Check SFWA’s Writers Beware before you submit your work anywhere.

Also, you may be only writing for your own pleasure. Maybe you don’t wish to submit your short works to anyone. Even so, don’t delete them. Each one can be a springboard for a longer work.

Or you might want to submit it to a drabble contest.

Contests for micro fiction abound online. Whether you choose to submit a drabble to a contest or hang on to it doesn’t matter. Either way, writing micro fiction hones your skills, and you will have captured the heart of your brilliant idea.

Micro fictions are the distilled essence of novels. They contain everything the reader needs to know about that one moment in time.

More importantly, you will have written your story, and that success is a reward in itself.

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October 12, 2026 · 6:00 am

Narrative Voice – who is telling the story and when did it happen? #writing

Today’s post is a bit involved, but bear with me, because beginning a story with the wrong narrative voice can lead to that place where we just aren’t interested in our project anymore.

Three things combine to tell the story to the reader:

  1. Narrative point of view is the perspective, a personal or impersonal “lens” through which a story is communicated.
  2. Narrative voice is how a story is communicated, the author’s fingerprint.
  3. Narrative time, or what we call tense, affects our perception of character development.
  • In grammar, tense is a category that expresses time reference. Tenses are usually shown by how we use the forms of verbs, particularly in their conjugation The main tenses found in most languages include the past, present, and future.

Narrative time/tense shows us the event’s location in time. The author’s choice of verb tense shapes our perception of when the story happened in relation to the protagonist’s current state. That choice tells us when an event happened relative to another time, past or present.

Narrative voice affects a reader’s perception of characters in subtle ways. It should be an undercurrent that goes unnoticed after the first few paragraphs. It shapes the reader’s view of events subliminally.

I’ve used the following sentences as an example before: “I eat,” “I am eating,” “I have eaten,” and “I have been eating.”

All are in the present tense: eat, am, and have. Yet, they are different because each conveys unique information or points of view about how the action relates to the present.

Subjunctives are small verbs of existence, but just like adverbs, they are telling words. These words fall out of our heads and into our narrative in the first draft because we are just trying to get the story down. In the second draft, they are signals telling us what needs to be reworded.

Subjunctives are hard to spot. Forms of “to be” can be found in subordinate clauses where something is mandated or required:

  • I demand the prisoner be fed the same as anyone else.

BUT how does this relate to the topic at hand?

What if my characters are stranded in a desert? Should I write, “They were hot and thirsty“?

A sentence like that leaves nothing to the reader’s imagination. “Were“ is a subjunctive. The reader is on the outside, looking in.

This is where our choice of narrative time/tense comes into play.

Our job is to take that experience of thirst and make it immediate. No matter what narrative point of view we’re writing in, strong verbs affect narrative time and change everything.

Which sentence feels stronger, more pressing?

  1. They trudged on with dry, cracked lips, yearning for a drop of water.
  2. I walk toward the oasis with dry, cracked lips and parched tongue.

Each sentence says the same thing, but we get a different story when we change the narrative tense, point of view, and verb choice.

Narrative voice, verb tense/time, and expanded imagery combine to change how we perceive the characters in that moment.

Strong verbs best describe our characters’ actions and emotions. They connect the reader to the immediate situation our characters find themselves in.

For my short story, View from the Bottom of a Lake, the narrative tense that worked best was a past tense, close third person.

Peggy Jayne smiled. Beneath the green-glittering gaze, her toothsome smile flayed her daughter, leaving Sarah breathless, panicking and longing for her lake.

Sometimes the only way you can get into a character’s head is to write them in the first-person present tense, which happened to me with Thorn Girl. I struggled with her story for nearly six months until a member of my writing group suggested changing the narrative tense and point of view.

Once I did that, the story fell out of my head the way I had envisioned but couldn’t articulate, and I wrote it in one evening.

My first instinct is to shake my head and back away.

But I don’t. Long ago, my Lady told me that in every life, a time will come when you arrive at a precipice. You must either leap the chasm or fall to your death.

I stand at that place now.

That switch made that particular short story so much easier to write. Remember, in a traditional first-person point-of-view story, the protagonist is the narrator. No one ever has complete knowledge of anything, so the first-person narrator cannot be omnipotent. Her lack of knowledge is the story.

It is crucial for authors to write short stories as well as longer pieces. They force us to tell our stories from different points of view and encourage us to experiment with using a different narrative tense than we normally gravitate to.

Every story is unique, and some work best in the past tense, while others need to be in the present. Regardless of the narrative tense, your voice is unique. Your habitual word choices are unique.

That is why only you can tell your stories.

Credits and Attributions:

Quote from View from the Bottom of a Lake, © 2020 Connie J. Jasperson. Story first appeared in the anthology Escape, published by the Northwest Independent Writers Association and edited by Lee French.

Quote from Thorn Girl, © 2019 Connie J. Jasperson. Story first appeared in the anthology Swords, Sorcery, and Self-rescuing Damsels, edited by Lee French and Sara Craft.

 

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October 5, 2026 · 6:00 am

How participating in writing challenges shaped me #writing

From 2010 to 2023, I participated in an annual writing rumble called National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. It was an annual creative writing challenge held in November each year. It began in 1999 in San Francisco with a group of twenty-one writers challenging each other to write a 50,000-word novel in thirty days. Over the years, it grew into a multinational event, an annual convergence of writers from all over the world.

For the first eight years of my participation, it was fun. During my ten years as a municipal liaison (ML) for that now-defunct organization, I discovered that there is no one way to begin and complete a novel or any other writing project that fits everyone.

However, some of us get more done when we have a deadline, even a self-imposed one.

The joy went out of NaNoWriMo once the national leadership changed, for reasons well documented on YouTube. Both my Co-ML and I became disgusted with its overtly corporate direction and walked away a year before the organization fell apart.

But November happens every year, and it’s still a great month to get that novel out of your head and onto paper.

I got involved in that annual challenge when a young writer in the Philippines, whom I met through a gaming website, mentioned he planned to participate. I had never heard of it, but since I had started and sort of completed several rambling, incoherent novels, I was intrigued.

I wasn’t sure I could do this crazy thing. But when I broke down the numbers, I saw that all I had to do was write 1,667 words daily. That was something I could do if I dedicated three hours an evening to it. I told my husband, and he said to go for it, even though I didn’t know what to write about.

Everyone who knows me will tell you that fear of failure has never stopped me from ruining my life. So, I googled the national website and signed up. I chose the handle dragon_fangirl. Through the website, I discovered that my town had a large group of participants in various stages of their careers, some who’d never written a thing, and others with several books published.

I started going to their “write-ins,” meetings at coffee shops and libraries where we got together and wrote furiously for one or two hours as a group. We commiserated and discussed our progress, and in the process I found a cadre of friends who became the core of my writing group. I am still writing with them.

During that first year, I rose at 6:30 a.m. on November 1, 2010, filled with trepidation. I opened a new document, gave it the title of “NaNoWriMo novel,” and saved it,

Then I stared at my laptop, with no idea where to begin or even what I wanted to write.

I had been working on an urban fantasy for several years, but I wanted to do something new. An idea had been lurking in the back of my mind for a Don Quixote-style character. But I also wanted to write sword-and-sorcery.

I read Miguel de Cervantes’ Don Quixote as a teenager (at my father’s behest) and borrowed (stole) the heartily misogynistic adventures of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser from Dad’s nightstand, along with any other lurid and unsuitable novels that happened to be lying around.

I loved any kind of fantasy, from sword and sorcery to Arthurian mashups to epic high fantasy. The first words I wrote for that year’s novel were: There was a cabin in the woods.

It was a banal beginning, but it gave my idea a jumping-off point. I just began telling the story as it fell out of my mind. Surprisingly, I discovered my word count averaged 2,500 to 3,000 words daily. By day fifteen, I knew I would have no trouble getting to 50,000, and by November 21st, I had passed the 50,000-word mark.

At the 68,000-word point, I had completed my rollicking tale of snark and medieval derring-do. It was utterly unpublishable, but I didn’t know that until after an unfortunate experience with a predatory publisher.

The one thought that comforted me during that rough beginning was the fact that I had written the basics of a story I would have sought out at the bookstore.

After that fiasco, I turned to other writing projects for several years. I had written the storyline for an anime-based RPG that was never published because of a lack of funding and the tech crash. I still had the rights to my story and maps, so I wrote it as a novel, had it edited by my current editor, and published it. Three more novels set in that world followed.

Then my friends suggested I could rewrite the novel that my first publisher had ruined and republish it. After my wounds had healed from the bad publishing experience, I took the novel apart and separated the three main character threads. Over the next ten years, those threads became three books: Huw the Bard, Billy Ninefingers, and Julian Lackland.

All three novels are set in that original alternate medieval world, and center around the same group of characters. Much of what was originally written could be reused.

I learned how to lay down a first draft through participating in my local NaNoWriMo group. The wonderful people I met during those years helped me gain the tools I needed to turn a first draft into a properly finished book.

If you have the idea for a novel and want to get it out of your head while you are enthused about it, I suggest you write at least 1,670 words every day. At the end of thirty days, you will have written slightly more than 50,000 words.

This takes me about 2 hours of stream-of-consciousness writing, as long as I don’t go back to correct misspelled words. I do have an outline to follow, which has grown into a storyboard. This plan of action helps me know what should come next.

Many excellent writing challenges have emerged since NaNoWriMo’s downfall.

If you are looking for something to spur you into action this November, check out:

Novel November™ by ProWritingAid: The Free Writing Challenge

Reedsy Studio Writing Challenges

Pathfinders Writing Collective

AutoCrit Novel 90 Writing Challenge

And SO many more. Just Google “writing challenges” and see what you might be interested in

Last year I participated in ProWritingAid’s Novel November and had a great time. I posted about my experience here: #NovelNovember has ended, my book isn’t done, and once again, I’m clueless #writing | Life in the Realm of Fantasy

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September 28, 2026 · 6:00 am

Avoiding scope creep (aka project creep, requirement creep, or kitchen sink syndrome) #writing

Autumn is here in the Northern Hemisphere, the time of year I think of as the writing season. Many books begin in the cold, dark months and are published within a year. Others take years to finish. Some are good, and some contain many fatal flaws that should have been resolved before it went to press.

But how? Whether you are an indie or traditionally published author, good project management skills are an essential tool.

There are several project management methods, but I use a phased (or staged) approach. This method breaks down and manages the work through a series of steps.

  1. Concept: The Brilliant Idea. Make notes (a storyboard) so you don’t forget good ideas.
  2. The Planning Phase: create a raw outline. Some people don’t need this step, but I do.
  3. The Construction Phase: write the first draft from beginning to end, then continue through multiple drafts. This is time-consuming, but it is necessary.

Good project management gives authors a way to cope with the writer’s first-draft curse: “scope creep.” Scope creep refers to changes and uncontrolled growth in a project and can occur at many points after the project begins. Many novels die young and unappreciated because scope creep took over. The plot meanders through the swamps of blah, blah, blah.

This happens when the project’s original idea is brilliant but nebulous. In business, as the project progresses, an inventor or production team may face unavoidable situations that affect production. The whole darned thing takes longer than we thought it would.

Novels begin life as a glorious idea not fully formed. Thus, stories grow exponentially as we write.

Books are one area where this sort of growth is fundamental to the project. However, this is why some rudimentary organizational skills are critical for the author. Successful authors are project managers, even if they don’t realize it.

ONE: Identify your Project Goals

This story is your invention, and some inventions take years to develop before they hit the market. Be prepared to take the time to do it right. Nothing reflects worse on an author than claiming AI slop is an original creation or rushing to publish a book before it is reader-ready. (The AI thing always comes out, so don’t fall into that trap. Be honest and admit to it if you are pushing books out via AI.)

TWO: Write the basic story.

  1. Monitoring and Controlling during the construction phase: This is where you build quality into your product.
  2. Find beta readers and heed their concerns in the rewrites. Take the manuscript through as many drafts as you must to have the novel you envisioned.
  3. Hire a good line editor to ensure consistent quality.
  4. Find reliable proofreaders. (Your writing group is an invaluable resource.)

THREE: Completion or Closing.

  1. Find an agent if you are taking the traditional route.
  2. Employ a professional formatter for the print version if you are going indie.
  3. Court an agent and publisher if you are taking the traditional route.
  4. Employ a cover designer if you are going indie.

Let’s go back to the second stage, writing the basic story.

Build your storyboard/stylesheet and note the changes you make as you go. See my post on stylesheets/storyboard’s here: Self-editing: Ensuring Consistency. Nothing upsets a reader more than a book where, in chapter forty-four, the author inadvertently contradicts what was written in chapter two. The storyboard is a visible, easy-to-understand way to stay on top of this.

I know, you’re going to tell me that you have it all straight in your head.

But as every child who has ever told a lie knows: stories grow and evolve in the telling. Eventually, the lie looks nothing like how it was in the first telling. I find that a storyboard is an essential tool for keeping the story straight.

I use a spreadsheet program for this, but a standard Word or Google document, a pen-and-paper notebook, or a whiteboard with sticky notes works just as well.

My storyboards contain the following elements:

  1. GLOSSARY: A list of names and invented words as they arise, all spelled the way I want them.
  2. MAPS: nothing fancy, just something rudimentary to show me the layout of the world.
  3. CALENDAR of events: especially important if the characters must travel.
  4. ALSO: the rough outline of my projected story arc, along with descriptions of invented worlds, religions, and magic systems.

For maps, you don’t need to get fancy. All you need are lines and scribbles that show the essentials, like what lies to the north, south, east, and west. Also, we need to know the spelling of any named towns and where they are in relation to the protagonist’s opening location. Use a pencil so you can easily update your map if something changes during revisions.

If you aren’t artistic and want a nice map later, your scribbled map will help a map artist create a beautiful, accurate product.

  • If your story takes place in the real world, use Google Maps and print out a copy for your reference, or scan a map into your storyboard.

Distances: How long does it take to travel one mile or kilometer using the common mode of transportation?

Time: Sometimes time gets mushy when we are writing as fast as we can. A calendar gives us a realistic view of how long it takes to travel from point A to point B, or how much time it will take to complete a task.

Worldbuilding: What season do your events occur in? Foliage changes with the seasons, and weather is a part of worldbuilding. You should have some notion of where rivers and forests are relative to towns because those landmarks will be mentioned at some point.

More worldbuilding: The map shows the terrain your story takes place on, and weather can affect the terrain. Your characters will interact with their environment in different ways depending on the season and the weather, and this will affect how long it takes them to travel from place to place, depending on the mode of transportation.

Original map of Neveyah from the author’s files. ©cjjasp 2008

I hope this long-winded rant helps you create the perfect novel. Project management is a vital tool for the author. Good storyboards are the author’s project management tools.

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September 21, 2026 · 6:00 am

Crafting the hook #writing

I started writing my very first novel in 1993. It opened with an info dump that went on and on, and on.

I didn’t understand the importance of starting with a strong opening paragraph that leads to an active first page. I didn’t know how to sustain the pacing, the rhythm of conflict-resolution-conflict that forms the arc of the plot.

It took a good writing group, numerous books on craft, and many seminars to get the education I didn’t have. Most importantly, I worked with an excellent editor (and still do) and over the years that experience has gradually shaped what I thought were final drafts into manuscripts I’m not ashamed to submit to her for the final edit.

The novels I love most all begin with a clear dramatic hook. This literary device should appear at the ends of scenes and chapters. The hook is sometimes a big problem that entangles the main character and promises a real struggle from the opening pages to the ending’s resolution.

Other times it is a small but intriguing mystery that leads us into a larger story.

No matter how the story opens, it begins with the opening act. The characters are introduced, and the scene is set. The plot will be hinted at and established in the first pages because that is where we:

  • Introduce the protagonist(s). Who and what are they?
  • Introduce the setting. Where are they?
  • Introduce the conflict. What does the protagonist want? What hinders them?

This is the first hook, the place where the author establishes the tone of what is to follow. Getting the pacing right in those opening pages and maintaining it to the last page in the novel is, in my experience, the most challenging part of making revisions.

Sometimes I open the story by dropping the characters into the middle of a mess. I still need a pivotal event at the 1/4 mark that upends what they know and sets them on a new trajectory. The destination ahead is now unknown, and this event launches the story.

The inciting incident does not necessarily have to be an event or tragedy. I have read and enjoyed many books where I became immediately engaged in the characters themselves, or the author’s writing style.

However, no matter how wonderful the characters are or how clever the prose, a story must change the characters emotionally. They must either grow in maturity or change for the worse.

I admit, I prefer character-driven stories. I love books where action and intrigue exist only to drive character development.

What about subplots/side quests?

If the subplot is the opening hook, why isn’t it the main quest? Does completing this quest drop us into the Big Problem? If so, great.

Cartoon: I am their creator. Why do they not obey me?If not, we need to rethink the plot. We do need roadblocks to success, and those often lead us away from the main path. As long as we can still see the ultimate goal, they will keep us entertained.

Side quests are a good way to develop characters and provide needed information or necessary tools. When the shift into the subplot is done right, it will keep the story moving forward. However, the transition must feel natural and organic to the main quest. Clumsy transitions make a story arc feel haphazard.

Also, while they are fun in an RPG video game, side quests that exist only to liven up a random, pointless plot arc don’t help.

In my favorite books, side quests worked because they were introduced after the book’s tone and central crisis were established, and they were crucial to completing the central quest.

A good, well-known example of a crucial side quest appears in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit. Bilbo must get lost in the Misty Mountains and stumble across the One Ring. Possessing this magical artifact is essential to completing the main quest.

The possession and destruction of the Ring drives his nephew Frodo’s story, which is covered in three epic novels: The Lord of the Rings trilogy.

So, yes. Subplots that advance the main plot arc can provide small hooks that keep us reading and develop the story’s emotional side.

But let’s go back to the opening hook.

An example of an opening paragraph that conveys visual information is this:

A noise at the mess tent’s door alerted Callie Hanson to her boss’s presence. She looked up from her dinner of soup and bread. Donnal entered, sitting opposite her. “I hate to interrupt your meal, but one of the searchers fell and is badly hurt. You’re needed in surgery now.”

In that short story, the opening paragraph consists of 50 words. It introduces the protagonist, tells you where she is, and hints at the larger problem. It also introduces the inciting incident.

But what does a final paragraph do?

Here’s another example I have used before. The scene prior to this paragraph details a tense discussion and follows after a (now former) landlord’s stormy departure.

I stuffed my now empty wallet back into my pocket. Then I slung my laptop bag over my shoulder, picked up my suitcase, and looked around. No wife to kiss goodbye, no real home to leave behind, nothing of value to pack. Only the need to say goodbye to Portland and my failures. The quiet snick of the door closing behind me sounded like deliverance. I’d hit bottom, so things could only get better. Right?

The character in the above transition scene performs an action and moves on to the next event. It reveals his mood and some of his history in free indirect speech and propels him into the next chapter.

He does something: He performs an action, and that action gives us a great deal of information. It tells us that he is preparing to leave on an extended journey.

He shows us something: He shows us a barren existence and offers us his self-evaluation as a failure.

He tells us something:  He shows us his state of mind. The door has closed on an episode in his life, and he has no intention of going back.

This paragraph ends the chapter. When the next chapter opens, he steps into an opening paragraph that leads into the next action sequence. We find out who and what new misery is waiting for him on the other side of that door.

When you begin revising, look at the opening paragraph of each chapter. Ask yourself how you could rewrite it to convey information and lead the reader into the action. Then look at the final paragraph and ask yourself the same question.

Finding the right words to hook a reader, land them, and keep them hooked is a lot of work, but it will be worth it.

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September 14, 2026 · 6:00 am

Chapter length: What is enough and what is too much? #writing

Many times, I’m asked how long a chapter should be in a novel. Today seems like a good day to discuss this rather subjective topic.

Personally, I try to consider my readers’ comfort. I’m like many other readers. Once I begin reading a chapter, I want to finish it before I have to put the book down.

In my opinion, nothing is better than a long winter’s weekend spent sitting on the sofa in my comfy jammies, reading a book I’ve waited more than a year for.

However, life is hectic, and most of us rarely have the opportunity to sit and read all day, no matter how much we wish we could.

Having said all that, each author must decide what their style is based on their own reading preferences. This opinion might change as a writer’s career progresses, and it may not.

I’ve read and enjoyed many books where the authors made each scene a chapter. I barely noticed that detail because:

  1. Their transitions were smooth.
  2. The pacing was flawless.
  3. The story was engaging.

Some well-known authors limit their chapter length. One suggested 1500, while another has said not more than 2500.

One of my favorite authors sometimes has chapters of only five or six hundred words, which keeps each character’s storyline separate and flows well. For my storytelling style, 1,500 to 2,500 words is a good length. This allows a reader to take a break for whatever reason, and if the hook I ended the chapter on is good, they will return as soon as possible.

I feel that each chapter should detail the events of one scene or several closely related scenes. I see chapters the way I do paragraphs. Cramming widely different events into one place throws off the pacing. It makes the narrative feel erratic and disconnected.

Some books require longer sections. This is true of my novel, Julian Lackland. The overall story arc is comprised of short stories that detail important events in chronological order.

So, what is a transition?

Transitions move us from one scene to the next. They offer a chance to convey necessary information in just a few words.

Soft transitions: Brief conversations make good transitions to propel us to the next scene. They also offer ways to end a chapter with a tidbit of information that will compel the reader to turn the page. Information is crucial, so we want to provide it when the protagonist and the reader require it.

Hard transitions: This chapter is over. A new chapter begins.

Sometimes, a hard transition consists of a hashtag or extra space between closely related scenes. This is useful in a short story or when small incidents combine to form a larger crucial event that should be covered in one chapter.

When the next chapter opens, the protagonist steps into an opening paragraph that leads into the next action sequence. We find out who and what new misery is waiting for him on the other side of that door.

I use fade-to-black transitions only to finish certain kinds of events. I haven’t written smut in years, and don’t see a reason to start now. So, I use that literary device when two characters are romantically involved.

Consider the passage of time. When a real chunk of time has passed between the end of one event and the beginning of the next, end the chapter and give it a firm finish with a hook. Good hooks encourage the reader to keep turning the pages.

With each scene, we push all the main characters forward and raise the stakes a little more. Action and information keep the reader engaged. Good transitions are crucial to pacing. They let the reader reflect and absorb what they’ve learned before moving on to the next scene.

This brings me to how the narrative point of view can influence the length of a scene or chapter. Some editors suggest you change chapters, no matter how short, when you switch to a different character’s point of view.

I agree with this stance, as a hard transition when you switch narrator-characters is the best way to avoid head-hopping and subsequent confusion.

But what is head-hopping? When you change the narrative point of view in the same scene, one paragraph to the next, with no definite separation, you create a “viewpoint tennis match.”

First, you’re in Character A’s head hearing her thoughts, then you’re in Character B’s head hearing his. Then you’re back in A’s head. It becomes challenging to know who is speaking or thinking. The characters tend to lose their individuality and begin to sound the same.

However, sometimes it is okay to switch narrator-viewpoint within a chapter. Some events require showing more than one character’s perspective. However, be careful how you handle the narrator change. Use a hard break, such as an asterisk between the paragraphs where the switch is made.

Between the larger scenes and within the chapter, we might include bookend scenes as a soft transition. These will only be a paragraph long, a few words exchanged between characters as they progress to the next event, or even a mention of the world through the protagonist’s eyes. These scenes are short but should reveal something and push the story toward the unknown.

Bookend scenes lay the groundwork for what comes next.

The short transition from scene to scene does the heavy lifting when it comes to conveying information. It is the best opportunity for clues about the characters and their history to emerge without an info dump.

You may be wondering: should I use numbers, or give each chapter a title?

If snappy titles pop up in your mind for each chapter, by all means, go for it. Otherwise, numbered chapters are perfectly fine. Whichever style of chapter heading you choose, be consistent and stay with that choice for the entire book.

I try to end my chapters at a logical place with a hook that entices the reader to continue reading. Sometimes I am successful at that. Other times it’s hard to think of a good hook.

But each narrative has logical places where chapters should begin and end. You, as the author, get to choose what those places are. The length of your chapters is up to you.

 

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September 7, 2026 · 7:23 am

The Fight Scene: What is enough and what is too much? #writing

A few years ago, I attended a seminar offered by Lindsay Schopfer, From Body Language to Brawls. While I have a method for describing fight scenes, I liked the way he pointed out that action is about so much more than merely brawling. The concepts he presented were in line with my theory that every scene is an action scene, even the quieter moments.

Lindsay is also a screenwriter. He offered five thought-provoking questions about planning the action in each scene.

First, he pointed out that thinking is an action scene, as are conversations. In his own writing, he asks himself, “What does this character do while thinking?” He explained that a side character with a certain amount of screen time, but who isn’t the POV character, can feel real when they have a small personal habit that appears from time to time.

However,  this is one area where visuals are important, a moment when new writers should be careful. If we give one or two side characters an occasional personal habit, we won’t muck up the visuals with a barrage of personal tics. They are like salt and garlic seasoning: some is good, but too much is disgusting.

Another question he asks of his characters is this: “What does their body language show about them when they are worried?”

That is a good question. At some point in every plot, if our characters aren’t worried, they should be. So, how do we show our characters’ individual ways of handling worry? We all exhibit signs of anxiety in different ways, and writing it in a coherent way takes some thinking and planning.

Lindsay asks three more questions of his characters:

  1. How do our characters look when they’re happy or excited?
  2. How do they look when they’re angry?
  3. How do they look when they’re depressed?

I’ve talked at length about how we can show these emotions through facial expressions or physical reactions, combined with internal dialogue or conversations. But for me, the hardest part of writing is balancing visual indicators of emotion with exposition that shows the deeper, internal clues.

An excellent resource that I regularly recommend is the Emotion Thesaurus by Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglisi. This guide offers helpful hints for showing what a character is feeling when you know what you need to say but not how to phrase it.

However, I must emphasize that discretion is crucial when showing emotions. I say this because when a character’s facial expressions take over the scene, they become cartoonish, two-dimensional displays of emotion with no substance.

A story is like a pond full of words. The words are the surface, and below the surface are several layers. The inferential layer is the layer in which readers draw conclusions from the clues we offer them.

We want to hint at the reasons for the physical reactions. We do this with small bits of exposition. It takes work and practice to write a narrative without telling the reader what to experience.

We must use words that offer the most information in the least amount of space so the words we choose make the narrative worth reading.

I’m still trying to master this.

I do put a book down unfinished when an author leans too heavily on slowly painting visual descriptions of the characters’ internal struggles. Eyebrows regularly going up and down as if they operate independently on every page could be trimmed back to only when necessary.

Another thing came up in this seminar, something I firmly believe: word count matters in a fight scene.

Detailing a war will involve page after page of discussion because that conflict drives the story. But when a fistfight or sword fight takes up three pages of description, I can’t suspend my disbelief as a reader. I say this because physical fights in real life are fast, violent, and over in a space of ten, fifteen, or twenty minutes. It’s not humanly possible to go on and on with no rest. That is why matches between professional boxers are broken into rounds. They fight a while, rest a while, and so on for 15 rounds.

Excalibur London_Film_Museum_ via Wikipedia

Also, if you are writing about sword fights, remember this: they are physically exhausting.  At the Olympic level, competitive fencing matches have rest breaks: each bout continues until one fencer scores 15 hits, or until the 9-minute total fencing time is reached. Those 9 minutes are split into three 3-minute periods with a 1-minute break separating each period. That amounts to 12 minutes total, and at the end, both combatants are exhausted.

Mob violence is different. It can go on and on for hours or days. Mob violence is war on a smaller, local level.

So, when a fight scene that should be over in twenty minutes at most runs on for more pages than my patience can handle, I will skip forward, or worse, set the book aside.

Every November, I use those thirty days to write at least 50,000 new words as quickly as possible. In the process, I lean too heavily on my crutch words, relying on a lot of smiling and shrugging.

During revisions, I look for my crutch words. They’re markers for the second draft, words signifying scenes where more effort is needed to flesh them out. This is where writing becomes work.

If you haven’t seen this before, here is a list of telling words that often find their way into a first draft, and sometimes into the final:

  • Admiration: Her admiration was clear. (How was it clear? Did someone notice it?)

The rest of my “code words” show up in sentences and paragraphs the same blunt way in that first draft and inspire the same kind of questions:

  • Affection
  • Anger
  • Anguish
  • Anticipation
  • Anxiety
  • Awe
  • Confidence
  • Contempt
  • Defeat
  • Defensiveness
  • Denial
  • Depression
  • Desire
  • Desperation
  • Determination
  • Disappointment
  • Disbelief
  • Disgust
  • Elation
  • Embarrassment
  • Ethical Quandary
  • Fear
  • Friendship
  • Grief
  • Happiness
  • Hate
  • Inadequacy
  • Indecision
  • Interest
  • Jealousy
  • Love
  • Lust
  • Powerlessness
  • Pride
  • Regret
  • Resistance
  • Revulsion
  • Sadness
  • Shock
  • Surprise
  • Temptation
  • Trust
  • Unease
  • Weakness

 

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August 31, 2026 · 6:00 am

Course correction, or navigating the unexpected #writing

Even if we begin with a plan, which I usually do, we never really know how a story will go. Somewhere along the line, I will deviate somewhat from the original outline. In my work, the major events usually remain as they were originally plotted, but not always.

However, an outline keeps me on track with length. Also, an outline keeps the action moving.

SO, I have recently discovered that the reason a work-in-progress that is 40,000 words toward completion doesn’t make me happy is that I have missed a great opportunity and am trying to force the plot in a direction that no longer works.

This means that while a lot of what has already been written can be reused, a fundamental part of the character arc may have to be cut and rewritten. Also, the story’s arc will change, and if I am going to stay on track so events progress logically, I need to write a new outline.

SIDE NOTE: Everything I have written and then cut is fodder for other uses. I NEVER trash anything that was already written, although I do save it in a file labeled “Outtakes.”

Even though each manuscript starts linearly, I work “back and forth” when writing rather than in a linear fashion. When I am laying down a first draft, each section of my novel is written when I am inspired to work on that part of the tale.

I list the central plot points I currently know on the outline, then write them. That will amount to about 20,000 words in five or six sections. Then, I write connecting scenes to ‘stitch’ the sections together when the draft is complete, like assembling a quilt. That brings the manuscript to about 40,000 words.

At that point, I am looking for the ending. On rare occasions, I know how it must end, but even in those cases, writing that final 20,000 words is Literary Hell, an abyss from which it feels as if I will never emerge.

And then … into the darkness comes a ray of sunlight … the seeds of the true plot begin to sprout, and suddenly I am off to the races.

At some point I will need to open my stylesheet/storyboard and correct it to show my new timeline and order of events so everything flows, with one scene transitioning to another and no jarring “Wait … what just happened?” moments.

I was a bookkeeper for most of my career, and I use a program I am familiar with, Excel. But you can use Google Sheets, a whiteboard and sticky notes, or a spiral notebook. Use whatever works for you and that you can update as needed, but my storyboard works this way:

At the Top of page one: I give the piece a working title.

When I have an idea for a short story, I include the intended publication and submission deadline (not needed if it’s for a novel). I make a note of the intended word count. Having a word count limit keeps me alert for unnecessary backstory. For most publications, you must keep strictly within their word count requirements.

Page one of the workbook contains the personnel files.

Column A: Character Names. I list the essential characters by name and the critical places where the story will be set.

Column B: About: What their role is, a note about that person or place, a brief description of who and what they are.

Column C: The Problem: What is the core conflict?

Column D: What do they want? What does each character desire?

Column E: What will they do to get it? How far will they go to achieve their desire?

Page Two: I create a page for the projected story arc on page two of the workbook. I list each chapter by the events that need to be resolved at various points in the manuscript.

Page three of the workbook is the most important—the Glossary. This list of made-up words, names, and places is crucial for the finished product. The way words appear on this list is how they should occur throughout the entire story, novel, or series. This page ensures consistency and keeps the spellings from drifting as I lay down prose in the first draft.

I update the glossary page whenever a word or name is added or changed. I do this even in my non-fantasy work, as it gives me a quick, easy-to-access reminder of how real-world names and places are spelled, and what story I used them in.

Page four will have maps and a calendar for that world. The calendar is a central tool that keeps events happening logically, and maps keep the traveler on the correct, previously established path.

The image below shows the page tabs for a storyboard I created in Excel for a series, and it has evolved since 2009. As you can imagine, it has grown since I took this screenshot, but it is still manageable and still useful. 

Even after five or six drafts, my editor will find things that didn’t get listed but should have been and will update the stylesheet.

Writing a novel is a process of growth and development. It doesn’t stop until you sign off on the proof copies and the book is on sale.

And even then, you will think of things you could have done better. That’s the curse of being a writer.

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August 24, 2026 · 6:00 am

Channeling memories to create drama #writing

I once had the distinctly shocking experience of viewing a natural disaster as it occurred, albeit from a distance. In that, I was fortunate. We were not harmed, yet what we saw deeply affected us.

On May 18th, 1980, my friends and I watched the eruption of Mt. St. Helens from atop a hill in the middle of nowhere. My children had visited their father for the weekend, so my friends and I planned a fishing trip to a beaver pond in the next county.

Successful fishing trips usually begin before dawn. My friend’s Land Rover pulled up in front of my home at about 5:00 am, and we set out with all five of us laughing and having a great time. It was a long drive on narrow, dirt logging roads, but the possibility of trout for supper was just an excuse for a day spent in the deep forest.

The radio in the Land Rover had never worked, but the cassette deck did. Led Zeppelin, Robin Trower, Genesis, and Ritchie Blackmore’s Rainbow were the soundtrack to our trek through the tall Douglas fir forests of Lewis County.

At about 09:00 am, we came up over the top of a treeless hill. The view was breathtaking, as if all the world lay before us in springtime glory. Conversations suddenly stopped, and my friend pulled off the road, turning the engine off.

We got out and stared, first at the raging column of dust, rocks, and lightning that dwarfed the mountain and then at each other. Helicopters and airplanes from news agencies and the USGS circled like so many carrion birds.

What so many people had thought was just hysteria had suddenly come true.

Mount St. Helens had erupted.

We never did make it to the beaver pond. The only fish we caught that day were the tuna sandwiches we had packed. While the food was good, the conversations were sober as we stared at that unbelievable sight.

This was before cell phones, and with the radio broken, we had no way of hearing the news. But we knew it was terrible, that some people had died and others had lost everything. We had no idea just how bad it was, that one of my father’s favorite places to fish, the Mount St. Helens Lodge at Spirit Lake, had disappeared along with its cantankerous owner. Harry R. Truman had become famous in the weeks before the eruption for refusing to evacuate.

Toward midafternoon, we returned to Olympia. We were grateful to have homes to go to, and when my friends left me off, I was still in shock, still unable to believe what I had seen. When I turned on the television and found that more than fifty people had lost their lives, I felt devastated for them.

The story is in the hectic start to the morning, of five friends off on a day trip to go fishing. It is in the peace of the deep woods along those old dirt roads.

The camera zooms out and now we see the idyllic serenity of a clear sunny morning on Spirit Lake and Harry doing his morning chores.

This allows us to see what will be lost.

Then disaster strikes. The side of the mountain gives way, and the eruption is on.

Contrast that catastrophe against five people serenely picnicking on a hill, observing the apocalypse as it happens. The drama is in old Harry R. Truman’s stubborn end, and how it didn’t occur to us who watched from a distant hill that we would never rent a boat from him or fish in that lake again.

The bad juxtaposed against the good is the plot, but the experiences of those who witnessed it is the story. Contrast provides drama and texture, turning a wall of “bland” into something worth reading.

The true story of that day in my life is not the only time disaster contrasted against calm and tranquility.

At 11 o’clock on the morning of February 28, 2001, I was at work when a strong earthquake shook the Pacific Northwest, magnitude 6 point 8. I was terrified, thinking the building was going to come down on me. Fortunately, it did not.

I came home to find my dishes flung from the cupboards, the lamps tipped over, my cat hysterical, and my 17-year-old daughter at my mother’s house. A boy from her art class had driven her there when school closed early. He carefully drove down the narrow back alley behind my mother’s house as the road in front had collapsed.

(Sidenote: My daughter and that 17-year-old boy have been married for 23 years and have four boys. Not everything that happens as the result of a disaster is terrible.)

Stories that detail apocalyptic catastrophes capture our interest and glue us to the television. We write novels detailing them because disaster drives humanity to bigger and better things. The acts of heroism and the people who survive and rise above the disasters keep us turning the page.

We want to know how it will all turn out.

Disaster isn’t always apocalyptic. Dramas regularly happen on what seems an unimportant level to people who have resources. Not everyone has money, and not everyone can surmount the odds. The story is in the battle.

Think about those small daily tragedies people face, deeply personal catastrophes, which only they are experiencing. Love and loss, safety and danger, loyalty and betrayal are the eternal themes of tragedy and resolution. These are the seeds of a good story.

The contrast of ease against hardship can add drama to worldbuilding and storytelling. Writers want their readers to think about the story and those characters long after the last paragraph has been read. Drama and resolution are the keys to a great story.

Drama and disaster can and will happen on a wide scale in our real lives. Tornadoes, hurricanes, earthquakes, volcanoes, and droughts … the path of a natural disaster is erratic.

Sometimes trouble misses us, and we are merely bystanders, witnesses to the tragedy that unfolds in another person’s life. Other times, trouble strikes nearer to home.

What struggles have you faced? How can you channel the memory of the emotions you experienced to add drama to your work-in-progress? Your memories and experience of emotion can add depth to your writing. They were already paid for in pain and joy, so use them!

Credits and Attributions:

IMAGE: Eruption of Mt. St. Helens May 18, 1980, Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons

IMAGE: McLane Pond in July 2018, photo by Connie J. Jasperson © 2018.

IMAGE: Spirit Lake near Mount St. Helens in 2009, in Washington State. Photo by Steven Pavlo, via Wikipedia.

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