Reader Perspectives: Prologues

by ChelseaDecember 1, 2021November 30, 2021

In drafting my recent post on prologue usages, my husband and I got into a discussion about the different executions of this common element of story-telling. We discovered that he and I have had some very different experiences with the same prologues. As a service to other potential authors, and in light of our surprising disagreements, I asked my husband to take a look at some of the storytelling elements from popular novels and give me some feedback. This will be a new series on my blog that investigates reactions to various story-telling elements from a pure reader’s perspective.

For context, my husband will be my initial subject–he is an epic fantasy fan who was very invested in George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series as well as the older Dragonlance novels, and as a result the first few of these will be mostly within his genre. Not everyone will agree with these opinions, but hopefully it will give some visibility into an aspect of what works and what doesn’t for some readers.

This week I’m looking at a comparison between the Rage of Dragons prologue and the Game of Thrones prologue.

Rage of Dragons

My husband’s response to the Rage of Dragons prologue genuinely surprised me. I wasn’t completely pulled in by that prologue, but he hated it–and I mean that he hated it to the point where he was intending to do a read through of the entire book to prep for a compare/contrast on his opinions versus mine on the book as a whole and instead he refused to finish the book. His problems boil down to three specific items that broke his interest and left him confused and frustrated.

Multiple POVs. This is a point where I agree. If your prologue is long and complex enough to need four different POVs, then you either have a first chapter or a separate short story (depending on how closely tied the content is to the main plot of the book). My opinion was that the Rage of Dragons prologue is a separate short story, which, while a bit confusing, was… well… fine. My husband was just really annoyed.
Confusing words and/or confusing word usage. This didn’t bother me because I’m pretty accustomed to reading things, not knowing what it means, and waiting to learn later. It infuriated my husband. We had a twenty minute conversation about whether “Ingonyama” is a military rank, a name for people with a specific magic ability, or a name for people who are used in specific magic rituals without having magic themselves. And a similar discussion about “the Chosen”, “the Gifted”, etc. Having read further, I think I know what those words mean…
Naming schemes. This complaint started with the character names. Everyone (or at least everyone portrayed as important in the prologue) had a name that started with a T, even the guy who probably didn’t pronounce the T in his name. This is just a general frustration with fantasy books. Exotic names are great, names which follow naming schemes are great, but if every name starts with the same letter, you’re likely to have readers struggle to keep names straight. After pointing this out to me, though, my husband flipped to the map. I barely even glanced at the map on my read-through, but there it was. Just a big peninsula with a country-border arc on the land side (turning the entire country into a big oval). Mountains in weird places. Names like “the north”, “the south”, “the center”, “the Curse”, “the Northern Mountain Range”, “the Southern Fortress”, “the Central Mountains”, “the Southern Mountain Range”, “the Fist”, “the Roar”, and “Citadel City”. None of these names are inherently bad, but the combination of all of them really broke world-immersion for my husband. Suddenly, instead of feeling like he was reading a book with an overly complex prologue that left him unsure of a lot of world elements, he felt like the complex prologue was trying to make up for lazy world-building. Now, I don’t think Evan Winter is lazy and I think Rage of Dragons is a good book. But it’s worth keeping in mind that a little extra care makes a huge difference to a lot of readers. The inhabitants of the world likely call those various elements something, and it’s pretty rare for an entire culture to name a mountain range “The Northern Mountain Range.” One such name he could have gotten away with. Eight was pushing it way too far.

Game of Thrones

When we compare the Rage of Dragons prologue to the Game of Thrones prologue, there are some interesting differences. The Game of Thrones prologue is both shorter and, in some ways, slower than the Rage of Dragons prologue, but I’d argue it actually does a lot more work for the book and the series. Here’s a few of the elements that worked particularly well in the Game of Throne prologue.

The events of Game of Thrones prologue are directly relevant to events of the first chapter of the book and to the larger world as a whole. This doesn’t mean the characters from the Game of Thrones prologue are relevant. By the end of the first chapter all three of them are dead. But the events of the prologue are the reason for the admittedly quite sedate activity in chapter one of the book. The prologue also gives the reader knowledge about a scenario that most of the characters have little to no direct experience with. As a result, when Jon Snow heads north to join the Night’s Watch, we the reader know that there are some dangers he may face that even the other characters in the book don’t believe in. We haven’t been told about those dangers, we’ve seen them. That gives an extra level of weight and importance to Jon’s commitment and adds tension that the book and series would otherwise be lacking. In contrast, the Rage of Dragons prologue may be relevant to the entire series as a whole, but it isn’t relevant to the immediate opening of the book. It doesn’t give context to every decision and discussion the characters have. That’s not a deal-breaker, but it does mean the Game of Thrones prologue has a little bit less work to do in justifying its place in the book than the Rage of Dragon’s prologue.
Everything in the Game of Thrones prologue is simple, direct, and easy to understand. Three characters are riding through the woods. They are investigating a report of some dead bodies and are actively discussing their theories on that occurrence. There are no secondary plotlines going on in this scene. Nothing for the reader to focus on but the direct information, context, and atmosphere built by the actions and words of these three characters. As a result, it is very unlikely that any reader is going to be confused by the Game of Thrones prologue. They might not be immediately invested in it, but they aren’t going to be wondering what’s going on (at least, not more than the characters themselves are wondering that). This can be a bit of opinion (some people like more complex or more obscure openings), but there’s something to be said for a simple, clear opening that delivers specific information in context without dropping the info-dump bomb on the reader. As well, when we get to the portion of the Game of Thrones prologue which does have combat, the same simple, one-focus style is used. In that context, it suddenly serves to build tension, focus the reader on the specific POV character’s reactions, and keep the events clear and impactful. The larger, ongoing combat the permeates the Rage of Dragons prologue keeps the reader’s attention constantly split. Okay, we’re on a boat talking, but you said there’s a war going on? Wait, now we’re in the war…are we going to hear about the queen? And there’s how many things going on? And which of these characters have I met before? And what am I supposed to know about the context by now?
Which brings me to the third point, and the one I think is probably the most important part of the Game of Thrones prologue. At no point during the events of the prologue does it feel like the characters are actively using information the reader does not have. This is a big, big deal in fantasy prologues and honestly a lot of fantasy writing in general. It’s the main reason why the most common main character in epic fantasy is some form of naïve “everyman” character who is being introduced to a new world for the first time. The Farmboy learning he’s the Chosen One. The modern realm-traveler stuck in a fantasy world. The guild apprentice on their first solo mission. The mundane child admitted to a school of magic. The examples are endless, and primarily it’s because one of the greatest challenges in fantasy writing is getting the right balance between telling the reader what an experienced character knows and not spending pages info-dumping the appropriate backstory. The Game of Thrones prologue is a masterclass in doing exactly this. We have three characters. One is fairly new to a particular organization and somewhat uncertain. Another has some experience and is a bit cocky. The third is a long-time veteran who is always looking for clues as to what is coming next. We never learn the specifics of that organization in the prologue, just that it is called “the Night’s Watch” and that these members are out looking for information. Their job is not to investigate dead bodies, but the veteran thinks they might learn something related to their actual goal by examining the bodies. The characters know plenty of other bits of information about the world, but they aren’t currently thinking about any of those pieces of information, so we don’t get told them. Every action the characters take is a logical reaction to the information we have already been given up to that point. In Rage of Dragons, however, our POV characters mention summoning dragons, being hunted by something called “the Cull”, and a dozen other very specific references that the characters obviously know much more about than the reader does. As a result, those references feel more like coy, author-hidden hints at things that will be cool later. We the reader are immediately distanced from the characters because the characters are hiding information from us when they shouldn’t know we’re there. It’s not the same as the GoT character not explaining the mission of the Night’s Watch, because none of the actions those characters take are direct results of information the reader doesn’t have.
And finally, naming. A lot of complaints around names can come down to preference, and it’s certainly true that people from certain backgrounds will find the character names in Rage of Dragons more complicated and confusing than readers from other backgrounds. But regardless of that, the names in the Game of Thrones prologue are more varied. We don’t have Gerad and Grendo and Gavin, we have Gerad and Ser Waymar Royce and Will. It’s easier to keep track of people when the names aren’t similar. As well, beyond character names, very little is actually named in the prologue. We have the three characters, the organization they are a part of, and the general term “the Others” for the creatures which attack the characters. Anyone familiar with the series knows that “the Others” is not the name for the creatures which attack. It is, however, a simple phrase which readers can quickly identify as referring to something scary that the POV character doesn’t understand. When we are later given an actual name for those creatures, we have enough context from the descriptions and other discussions to know that the name refers to “the Others” from the prologue. None of the other names those characters know have any meaning in this context, and so they don’t come up. In Rage of Dragons we get names for everything from the mysterious inquisition-style enemy that’s hunting the queen’s people to the name of the queen’s old nanny from when she was a toddler. Some of those we know to ignore, but the very inclusion of those meaningless names speaks of an improper scope for the prologue. Especially when you turn the page to chapter one and realize that hundreds of years have passed and the events of the prologue are ancient history to the protagonist. Why did I get the prologue-queen’s nanny’s name, again?

In Summation

I’m comparing Rage of Dragons to Game of Thrones partially because they’re the books my husband picked up, but mostly because they’re both good books. They have a lot of positives and, like all books, they both have some negatives. The interesting element of this comparison, though, is how the craft differed between the opening of each novel. And, to be fair, George R.R. Martin was a well-established author when he released A Game of Thrones while Evan Winter was releasing Rage of Dragons as his debut novel. That might be the entire difference between the books, since they both have obvious potential. However, the next time someone says they don’t like prologues, it’s worth discussing what they dislike about the prologue. If they dislike prologues like the one from Rage of Dragons, I understand. There are a lot of debatable craft choices in that prologue. And I do mean “debatable,” not “obviously bad but I’m trying to be nice.” Preferences vary and some people love that prologue. But in a lot of ways it’s a harder prologue to love than one that focuses on a more directed scope with a more straightforward approach and gives the reader the same information as the characters.

Nailing the Second Round

by ChelseaJuly 13, 2021July 12, 2021

A few days ago I watched the first couple episodes of Leverage: Redemption on Amazon Prime. For context, I am a die hard fan of original Leverage. Yes, it eventually got kind of repetitive and a little silly (“It’s a very distinctive haircut.”), but the show holds a special place in my heart. As a result, when I saw the reboot-sequel and that it included Hardison, Parker, Elliott, and Sophie I never considered what quality the show would be. Yay! My show is coming back! Of course that’s a good thing. But I failed to recall one far too common factor of entertainment these days.

Some creators don’t know why their original concept worked.

This is a bit of a broad claim, but I’d argue the exceptions that immediately come to everyone’s mind on hearing this are exactly that: Exceptions. We remember them because a good sequel/reboot/remake is so rare that the positive ones stick with us.

To be clear, it’s not that Leverage: Redemption is bad, per se. It’s… fine. There is decent chemistry, the situation makes sense, and I appreciate that they’re trying to address the shifts in the world that make the original feel out of touch these days. It even has some genuinely funny lines and call backs. I enjoyed watching the first couple episodes, for the most part. It just doesn’t have the spark that made the first one brilliant.

Middle Book Syndrome

Middle book syndrome is an extension of the sagging middle problem that many authors struggle with. The beginning of the story is sharp and carefully crafted. The end is poignant, thought-provoking, and fulfilling. And some stuff happens in the middle.

The difference is that middle book syndrome is more likely to get past a publisher (or in the case of my TV show, a producer) than sagging middles. Sagging middles are obvious (to an outside observer). There is an ongoing story and it just suddenly stops progressing for a while in one way or another, and then suddenly everything pops back into motion and the end sequence begins. Middle book syndrome will kill your fan base faster than a bad first book, because you can always recover from one bad start. Probably not in that series, but you can write another one that’s good. Middle book syndrome tells your reader that any good book you write has a chance of being a fluke and they should be prepared for every book to lose what makes the series special, even if you’re 5 books in and it hasn’t happened yet.

Let’s Provide… Context

To look more closely at this phenomenon, I’m going to compare and contrast Leverage: Redemption with The Incredibles II. There will be a few early spoilers for the new Leverage, but I don’t think anything particularly ground-breaking. Same for Incredibles II.

Leverage

Original Leverage was exceptional because it took five fundamentally damaged individuals–each with a specific skill at which they exceled–and turned them into a found-family team trying to do things none of them would have considered doing on their own. It told us the concept was revolutionary and we had no choice but to accept it. All the characters did. And on top of that, the diverse character base gave us internal conflict while building respect and trust for each other. While the pitch for the story was “a group of thieves use their skills to stop entitled rich people from hurting others,” the complex chemistry of the group and their natural growth as a team is what made the show great.

Leverage: Redemption starts several years after the original ended. Sophie and Nate retired, Parker, Hardison, and Elliott, kept going, somehow Nate died, and the team came back together. As a quick spoiler to make things easier to discuss, very early in the show Hardison bows out of the new crew to manage the massive human rights network he built, so he is an influence but not a member of the long-term cast.

Many people might be upset that the show teased bringing the crew back together and then killed Nate and sent Hardison off on his own mission, but that’s not what bothered me. The problem is most evident to me when the new crew is discussing a job and Elliott quotes a proverb in Klingon. I believe the show when it tells me that Elliott learned Klingon on a dare from Hardison. They had that sort of relationship. But all that moment does for the current story is remind me that Elliott, Hardison, and Parker are a static trio. Their arcs are over.

Of course this is a difficult dilemma for any reboot or sequel. The characters ended in a good place, so they have a choice between regressing the progress, which would piss off fans, or ignoring the originals, which would alienate fans, or include them as secondary characters. Redemption tries to have its cake and eat it too by regressing Sophie with Nate’s death and including Parker and Elliott as if their arcs aren’t over. All this does is pit the original crew against the new additions, making the new characters feel weak and disconnected. The new show isn’t about five fundamentally damaged characters trying to make the world better, it’s about Parker and Elliot training some new thieves while trying to support Sophie through her grief.

The Incredibles

The Incredibles II handles this challenge in a much better way. They pick up exactly where the original ended and they actually do something similar to Leverage: Redemption. The only “change” Incredibles II makes tot he original lore is to clarify that, after the Incredible family stops The Underminer at the end of the first movie, the public is still prone to blaming super heroes for their problems. Consider how much of a change that really is. The original movie displayed them charging to the rescue as a triumphant end to the story arc, but it never addressed the public opinion at all. Pixar didn’t necessarily change anything.

In that fight, Violet revealed her identity to the boy she liked and a lot of the city was damaged, so what happened? The government tried to clean up the mess, leaving the Incredible family living in a motel with no jobs and wiping the memories of Violet’s potential boyfriend. A perfect position for the opening to a sequel because Pixar understood what worked in their movie.

To compare this status with Leverage, the original ending presented Parker, Hardison, and Elliott as carrying on just as if Sophie and Nate hadn’t retired. They could have done the same thing Pixar did with Incredibles II. Sure, the crew tried to keep it up, but their dynamic was substantially changed and other problems arose. Instead, Redemption told us that everything went great. Elliott started a chain of food trucks used for all sorts of missions, Parker and Hardison were great, Hardison started a human rights empire, and they all started managing Leverage teams around the world. What story is there to even tell?

If, instead, Elliott and Parker had been less successful and felt insecure as Hardison built his empire–maybe even made a mistake that indirectly led to Nate’s death–we get the chance of conflict. They could still be close friends and all the development still holds, but then Elliott and Parker need something by going back to active jobs, Sophie needs them because Nate is gone, and the new guys are the same. Instead of Sophie needing a distraction while Parker and Elliott train two new screw-ups, we two newbies and three people each facing an existential crisis. They’re on equal footing and that gives the show the potential for greatness.

Follow Through

Of course no set up is more important that the follow through, but I would argue that both shows have decent follow-up. I said I enjoyed Leverage: Redemption, after all. The funny one-liners are still funny and the bad guys are still bad and it’s enjoyable watching them get taken down. But the set up forces the follow up to work differently.

The best twist Pixar could have imagined for Incredibles II was the decision for the backer to choose Elastigirl over Mr. Incredible, but it also fits with the story they needed to tell. Instead of another “Mr. Incredible punches things until his wife comes to save him,” we get the twin character arcs of stay-at-home-mom Elastigirl reclaiming who she was while punch-the-problem Mr. Incredible learns to be incredible at solving problems he can’t punch. That was pure gold as only Pixar can make. The main plot was… fine, but it wasn’t a movie that relied on a stellar central plot. The Incredibles I and II worked because of the complex character work that Pixar does so well.

The creators of Leverage: Redemption clearly thought the original worked because of the feel-good vibes of watching entitled jerks getting taken down a notch amid a storm of witty one-liners. But Leverage was just as much about the complex characters as The Incredibles. The result is that all of the new Leverage episodes feel like Parker and Elliott trying to patch up the mistakes of these crappy new characters. The third act breakdown is never because Parker ran off on her own or Elliott forgot to mention that assassin that hates him.

The Takeaways

So what does all this mean to someone looking for writing advice? I’m examining these shows because I think they demonstrate an important element of story-telling. We’ve all heard the claim that every book in a series has to be able to stand on its own, and this is why. If your sequel leans too hard on the previous book, it is likely to end up with middle book syndrome, feeling like the “and then some stuff happened” sagging middle of your series instead of a compelling entry in the story line.

So what can you do to avoid this (besides “know what made the book good”)? I recommend writing a short, catchy pitch for each book as if you were selling each as a stand alone. If your pitch sounds like a complete story, you’re probably okay. Just make sure the book matches the pitch. But if your pitch sounds like “Book 1 except this changed and also they have to do this now,” you might be in trouble. And if you are still unsure, here’s the short pitches for the movies I’ve discussed here:

Show Name	Pitch
The Incredibles I	A family of super heroes struggles to adapt to life without the freedom to use their powers and learns the importance of family
Leverage (original)	A team of loner thieves comes together to stop corrupt people from taking advantage of others and becomes a found family
The Incredibles II	A family of super heroes tries to convince society to allow heroes to fight crime while trying to protect their family’s internal relationships
Leverage: Redemption	A group of close friends who used to steal things from corrupt people for the greater good reunite and decide to do it again, but due to some changes recruit some new members and a lot of things have changed in the world since the last time

One of these things is not like the others….

Devel…opment in the Details

by ChelseaMarch 30, 2021May 10, 2021

World building is a complex process, and everyone has their thoughts on how to do it best. I’m not going to give a list of Do This and Don’t Do That, because no single piece of advice will ever be universal. Don’t dump all your world information in long paragraphs of explanation? Tolkien would like to direct you to The Silmarillion. Don’t use flashbacks? Try out Red Sister and Lies of Locke Lamora. Neither are quite up my alley, but I understand their use of flashbacks is exquisite. And all three of those books have readers who hate their world building for the exact reasons that others love the world building. Because reading taste is subjective.

What I want to talk about is something I think is a little more universal than any specific strategy. Something that almost all methods have in common. A unifying theory of world building, if you will. Details.

Conventional Wisdom Says…

Most people have heard some version of where I’m starting. If you go to a writer’s conference, or ask questions of any experienced writer or publishing professional, you’ll tend to hear the same thing. Give the reader just enough world building to understand the immediate action of the scene. Apply small details like smell, taste, touch along with your sight, but don’t go overboard. Fantasy writers get this particularly hard, because they have a reputation for info-dumping. The character wouldn’t stop and examine the scent of the stable before shoveling manure, so why are you pausing to describe it?

Yeah, your character probably wouldn’t do that. But as writers, we aren’t creating reality. We’re creating a false narrative that always focuses on things our characters wouldn’t notice in order to emphasize the important parts of the story. Think about how this plays out if we apply the “would the character do this” logic to another situation. If I watch an adult man and his younger sister, neither of them would refer to each other as sister or brother except in specific cases, like introducing themselves to a stranger. So if I write a first person narrative where a man and his sister interact with only people they know, does that mean I’m never allowed to tell my reader they are siblings? That’s illogical. Some level of contrived narration is necessary, and everyone knows that. So why can’t we have a stable hand walk into a stable and pause to grimace at the scent of unshoveled manure before he gets to work?

And the right answer? Maybe you should. Just not every time.

Details Done Right

Many years ago now, I used to be an obsessive player of World of Warcraft. Eventually I stopped playing (for a number of reasons, but primarily because I disliked a particular expansion’s changes), but when I did I tried out the then-new MMO Star Wars: The Old Republic. I never got too invested in that one. After a while, I heard about Rift which was supposedly really good at keeping engagement, so I tried it. Fun game, but not something that really drew me in like WoW. I also tried the Monster Hunter MMO—not my style—and the Lord of the Rings MMO—felt really old. Eventually I found myself completely without an MMO for years. I missed it and I told my husband that I wanted to play WoW with him again, even though many of the things I’d enjoyed were no longer present.

And I loved returning to WoW.

I didn’t have the time to commit that I had in the past, so I never became a top end player. But it was like going home, and that made me wonder why. One day, as I was sitting in the city of Stormwind waiting for something in game, I noticed that the two children who had been chasing each other on a loop around the city since the game’s released had reversed roles. Originally, the boy stole a toy from the girl and was running around taunting her with it. Now, the girl had taken a toy of the boy’s and was taunting him. There is no quest, or event, or achievement, or anything else involving these children. They are the purest form of flavor text, and that explained to me why WoW stole my heart and four other games failed. The details.

As you’re playing through early versions of WoW, you’re walking down the road and you see a dire wolf. That wolf might charge out of the grass to the side and attack you, but it also might chase down a rabbit to kill and eat. It depends on who is closer and what “threats” the wolf perceives. It’s all programming, of course, but there were no wolves chasing rabbits in SWTOR, Rift, Monster Hunter, or LOTRO. There were no patrols of opposing faction guards traveling the roads of Arathi Highlands and sometimes getting into fights with each other instead of the player characters. The wolves, guards, and monsters in those other MMOs were only there to chase you.

This is the difference between a book where the stable hand stops to grimace at the stench of un-mucked stalls before getting to work (once, not every time) and a book where you don’t even see the stable hand unless he happens to be central to the plot in one way or another. The momentary distraction of real life makes the bigger, world-changing or story-altering or character-defining moments feel real. When everything plays into the central narrative, nothing feels authentic.

Just the Right Amount

This is, of course, not an invitation to infodump the history of your world in the opening to your novel. To retain my video game analogy, I’ve played through every race opening in WoW at least three or four times (some a dozen or more) and I can’t tell you anything about the content of the opening cinematics for any of the races. I don’t remember any of it. But I remember those kids running around Stormwind and the toy vendor who sometimes has a white kitten for sale. I remember Anduin Wrynn as a 10 year old moping in the palace wondering where his father was. And hundreds if not thousands of players remember the struggle to locate Mankrik’s wife, who wasn’t where he said she was. It’s the small things that people remember.

So, when you’re building a new world—especially a secondary world fantasy, which needs so much more explanation than one set in contemporary worlds—how do you manage to insert these details without dropping the novel equivalent of a WoW opening cinematic? Well, there’s a few methods that often work.

Start with a small moment. This sounds pretty antithetical to most current advice on how to start your book (that you should start the book with conflict), but it’s actually not contradicting that advice. “Conflict” doesn’t have to mean “something big and dramatic” and it turns out that for most readers a small conflict is easier to attach to in a strange world than a big one. So instead of starting with someone dodging a fireball, start with your character being turned away from a shop because it’s closing time while the character argues that if they can’t buy the extra blanket they came for their sister might become deathly ill from the cold wraiths that stalk the city. Now you have a small moment that grounds the reader in a simple need (to help their family stay warm), have signaled that there is magic in this world (cold wraiths), and have a conflict on page one. Does it matter if the sister or the blanket ever come up again? Probably not, if you handle it properly.
Find reasons for the character to connect events to larger world building elements. You have to be a little careful with this one so you don’t fall into the trap of everything existing just to serve the plot, but done right this is the best way to include backstory and world building. Consider the difference between these options: your character is trying to decide whether or not to take a magical sword and suddenly remembers that magical swords are the only way anyone in the world gets magic and he needs magic to defeat the villain. OR Your character is trying to decide whether or not to take a magical sword and suddenly remembers that if he gets the magic from a magical sword he might be stuck with it forever because magic swords always turn people into wizards and he worries about how he’s going to live the rest of his life as a wizard. The last one doesn’t tell you he needs magic to defeat the villain, but we probably suspected he needed magic anyway. What it does do is give you an element of worldbuilding. Every person with magic in the entire world has touched a magic sword, and as a result gave up any other dreams that magic might interfere with in order to have that magic. What might their motives have been? This world feels more real now because the magic power up is a thing that could happen to anyone, with uncertain consequences.
Introduce new characters through context with existing characters, but give them interests outside the main plot. And more to the point, don’t drop a bunch of characters at once. If you have a group of seven people, take the example of Lord of the Rings and introduce them slowly, through the book. There, we first met Gandalf and Frodo (and Bilbo, of course, but he wasn’t a major character in Fellowship). After that, the important people inserted themselves in memorable ways throughout the story, such that no one forget the main characters. Merry and Pippin are the mischievous hobbits who tend to get Frodo into trouble. Sam is the loyal friend, Gandalf is the exotic visitor Frodo remembers from his childhood. And at no point do these other characters feel like they had nothing going on outside of the main story. Sam has the girl at the inn, Merry and Pippn are literally in the middle of something when they get dragged into the story. Gandalf straight up vanishes for months on his own business. If your characters come in because of a connection with or forced interaction with existing characters but recognize other elements of their lives that still matter, you create deeper characters. And deeper characters imply a deeper world.
Remember what things are new to your character, and what your character would notice/think. This is a common mistake that writers make at all levels of experience. My character is terribly poor. He doesn’t even have a home, just sleeps on the street. And he writes a quick note to his friend and slips it under the door as he runs off to get dinner at a local tavern. Wait, what? He can’t find a place to live, but he can afford paper, pen, ink, and to buy food from a medieval restaurant-equivalent? These tiny details can be extremely hard to remember, but they can also make or break the immersion level of your story. If I don’t understand the social and economic aspects of society, how will I ever understand the character’s personal struggles within that society? Most fantasy authors have been cautioned a dozen or more times against info-dumping this information, but you don’t need to. All you have to do is have the character notice how exotic the taste of the tavern food is while others turn their noses up at the plain, unappetizing meal. And give me a reason he has the money this time, but there are a dozen or more reasons for that.

Beware the Conlang

This should really be a point on the list above and the broader concept here is relatively simple. If you create a new language (a “constructed language” or conlang) and then write long explanations in it, your reader won’t have any idea what you’re saying. I doubt anyone really needs that information told to them. But there’s a more complex issue at work here, so I’m going to temporarily misuse the term “conlang” and broaden the definition into “any term either created for a fictional story or significantly re-purposed from its usual meaning to suit the needs of the story.” This expanded definition allows me to more easily discuss a problem I often see in fantasy and science fiction writing. I once saw a description of a novel that went something like this (conlang terminology, names, and some events changed primarily because I don’t remember any specifics, just the effect):

In the Mor’can Galaxy, Flerbendurdin Ajaor Kinlishious faces the deadly Hyncrix as the Flerbendurdin Council Flerbenmental for aid from the Junocipetrish. When Flerbenguard Jocsiaron…

Dude, I have no idea what this says. I guess maybe there’s a war? Or is it insurgents? Is Flerbendurdin a noun or an adjective? At the point where I had to stop mid description to try and identify what parts of a sentence the various new terms formed, the author killed any chance of me looking at the book. Your pitch is supposed to entice the reader with understandable character and conflict hooks. It is not designed to explain the world-building.

This is an extreme example, but it’s a problem fantasy authors always run the risk of facing. This is because every fantasy story has something that falls into my expanded definition of conlang. “Seeing” is a normal term that many fantasy writers use to mean “see the future,” but its most common usage actually means “perceive with the eyes.” Every fantasy author has to find ways to introduce new language without confusing the reader. Too often, in trying not to infodump, we make mistakes in this space in and give way too many details without anywhere near enough context.

For all my flippant disregard, I understand the problem this author faced. I once attempted to pitch a novel that featured zero human characters and the main character was of a serpentine race somewhat reminiscent of half-dragons from D&D. The thing is, their lore was that they believed themselves to be descended from real dragons, but in actuality dragons were pure myths and these creatures had a completely different historical lineage that mattered to the story a lot. But how do you pitch that book? You have to say the main character is a “half-dragon” because anything else either ignores the character not being human or adds a bunch of conlang/world building details that the editor doesn’t care about. As an author, I railed against the idea of mislabeling my character, but failing to find another solution, I called my main character a half dragon and his main enemy an elf. The editor replied “Everyone loves dragons and elves, but why do I care about yours?”

How Do You Use Details Well?

I like to think about the moments that worked for me in WoW. The children in Stormwind. They added flavor, depth, and complexity to the world, but if I was describing the game I’d never mention them. Details work best as seasoning, like salt in King Lear. It sounds like a minor thing and you’d rarely bother to mention it in a description. But what would your story be like without any?

All content on this blog is provided free for any readers and I’m always delighted to reach new audiences. If you enjoyed this story and are able, please consider supporting my work with a donation:

Choose an amount

$2.00

$5.00

$10.00

$2.00

$5.00

$10.00

$2.00

$5.00

$10.00

Or enter a custom amount

Check out more free content below, and be on the lookout for my upcoming debut epic fantasy, Wake of the Phoenix.

Donate Donate monthly Donate yearly

For some original fiction, check out these posts:

For more thoughts on publishing and writing, check out these posts:

The Ever-Pretentious “Born Novelist”

by ChelseaMarch 9, 2021May 10, 2021

Anyone can be a writer, right? It’s something you have to learn to do well, and some people don’t want to do it, but anyone could learn. It’s not like high science, where a certain level of ability to understand complex concepts is necessary and some people just can’t do that well. And just about every writer has had that conversation where they say to a new acquaintance “I’m a writer” and the person replies “Oh, I want to write a book some day.” Like it’s a thing you just do without any effort or learning curve or hard work. But is there such a thing as a born novelist? Someone who is born to write and as a result does it…better, maybe?

I’ve heard a lot of negative stereotypes of this concept and I was shocked when I first heard Brandon Sanderson insist that he doesn’t think it’s a real thing. Anyone can be a writer, Sanderson said. You don’t have to be born with a calling to be good at it.

What a strange way to interpret the concept of a born writer.

Finding a Path

Most of a decade ago now, when I was in my seventh year of undergraduate college trying to get a four year degree, I spent an evening reading a book of quotes from authors, directed toward aspiring authors. One of these quotes caught my eye, attributed in the book to R.A. Salvatore, though I can’t find any evidence this was actually him. I don’t have the book any longer, so I’m paraphrasing, but it went something like this.

Every year, when a new set of students comes into my classroom, I do an exercise. I tell them to consider all the things they might want to be, and if they think they can do anything besides writing, they should do that for a career. For those who can’t imagine doing anything else, those are the writers.

For the first time since I started writing novels at eight years old I felt understood. I’d started college intending to get a creative writing degree and become a famous novelist, but college requires you to do work and I was lazy as a teenager, so that first year went poorly. When I went back after a year off, I was focused on getting some form of stable life. Everyone knows you don’t make a real career out of writing, or so I was told, so I spent the next six years trying every college major that seemed reasonably interesting, excelling at most of them, and then changing my mind and trying something else. By the time I read that quote I had two associate’s degrees in physics and philosophy and a year and a half of upper division physics classes under my belt. And when I opened my notebooks to study for my physics tests, every other page had a fantasy story written, continued from the last time I’d been writing, so that it was clear I was spending my class time writing novels instead of trying to understand the content. In some ways it’s a wonder I got as far as I did.

Now I’m not going to tell you that one quote in a book of author quotes changed my life. There were a lot of factors in my decision to make one final change of major. But for the first time, staring at that quote, I thought that maybe my lifelong desire to be a writer wasn’t crazy.

Several years later, after finally finishing my bachelor’s degree (in creative writing) and getting a job at a legal publishing company as a copy editor, I attended a writer’s conference where Jeff Lindsay gave a keynote address. Jeff Lindsay wrote the very popular series of novels featuring Dexter Morgan, a serial killer working for a police department and using his serial killer urges to punish those other serial killers who weren’t prosecuted by the police. Lindsay got up for his keynote and told a story about how he become a novelist. Again, I don’t have a transcript, so I am paraphrasing (and probably getting some details wrong), but it was something like this.

When I got my first job, I had no real expectation of being an author. I was just an entry-level employee. But after a while, as I talked to some people, I got into some discussions and then I ended up writing the content for some of our blogs. Later, I worked at another place, and my job had nothing to do with writing, but after a while I ended up writing and managing the company newsletter. At another place I wasn’t supposed to be writing, but I ended up composing all the company e-mails going out for announcements. Eventually I just realized I was feeling this…voice or this call. I needed to write. That was what I should be doing. So if you hear that voice, you’re not crazy. Some people are just called to write.

At my editing job, I’d just ended up being asked to write an article for the company newsletter to showcase my team’s work on a particularly time sensitive project. There is nothing quite like the kinship of realizing that the big name author giving the prestigious keynote address at your writer’s conference is just like you.

Two Types of Authors

The most fascinating thing to me about Brandon Sanderson’s statement on people who are “called” to write is that he took it as an attack on those who aren’t. No one’s saying you can’t write if you don’t have that call. I don’t even think Jeff Lindsay or the author from my quote book would say that authors without that call are lower quality. It’s like saying some people are born to swim. That doesn’t mean all Olympic swimming champions will be “born swimmers.” But this comment illustrated to me a fascinating distinction between two essential types of authors.

Some authors love books and they are so excited by the books they’ve read that they decide to write some of their own. These authors seem to often be planners, though that’s anecdotal and shouldn’t be taken as any sort of rule or definitive statement. But the thing about these authors that distinguishes them from my other category is that they chose to start writing. At some point they saw a story and thought “I want to create something like that.”

The other category are the “born writers.” The people I’ve met like this seem to be pantsers, but I see no reason why a planner couldn’t have this same drive and implement it by planning the story concept out beforehand. These people will often love books as well (there are some really great books out there), but on an essential level, they write because they have to. Personally, I tried six other college majors, from forensic science to chemistry to literature to philosophy to math to physics, and I loved them all. But I literally could not stop writing. It’s not a matter of me enjoying the process, although I do. I write, and others in this category write, because there are stories I have to tell and there is no better medium for me.

Since I’m defining new categories, let’s pick some names. Let’s call the first category “Mirror Writers” since they take a thing they love (usually a genuinely great piece of writing) and try to recreate that effect with their own vision and stories. The second category we’ll call “Spotlight Writers” since they are driven to tell stories they often can’t let go of no matter how they try. These are for the purpose of this post only, though feel free to steal them if you like them. Just remember to explain the terms, since probably no one will know what you’re talking about.

So what do we do with these new categories? Do they mean anything? I actually think they do, and I think they mean a lot more than the traditional “planner vs. pantser” distinction that writers often use.

Writers talk about themselves in terms of what their process is all the time. Rarely do writers talk about why they write. When they do it’s often in response to someone being rude, or to a perceived implication that writing is an unimportant or lesser pursuit. But I write because it makes me whole (and I can’t stop), while Brandon Sanderson (I think) writes because he loves sharing his creations with his fans. Both of these are perfectly reasonable, but publishing (especially traditional publishing) only considers one of them valid.

Publishing Expectations

I’ve said before on this blog that publishing is a business. Businesses need to create products for which they have a market. And in order to make sure they have a market for their product, publishers demand that writers explain what fans their book is targeted toward. This is a good business practice that assumes everyone wrote their book with the audience in mind. Some of us didn’t have a choice. The story wouldn’t leave us alone.

A well-written book can be mashed into one of these target audience categories with very little mangling even if it wasn’t conceived of within that framework. I’m not really arguing that target audience isn’t a thing. I always know my target audience before I sit down to write: Readers of low-magic epic fantasy. What I am saying is that a lot of publishing advice doesn’t make sense from the Spotlight Writer point of view. Here’s some common advice that frustrates me:

That genre/trope/etc isn’t really selling right now. Now, I talked about this a bit in an earlier post, but here’s the thing, random publishing professional. I don’t have a different genre or trope to sell you. This is the story that spoke to me. What do you want me to do? Just wait ten years until that’s a thing again? This is gate keeping at its most pure—deciding what readers want before they ever get a chance to see it. And, of course, because publishing is a business, doing anything else is risky. But what if we found a way to get some reader feedback to help make decisions on what books to buy? I bet publishers would be surprised by some of those results.
Don’t trend chase, but be aware of the market when you write a book. Another one I’ve glossed over before and my top-level complaint is the same as the last point, but let’s take a closer look. If you’re not trend chasing (which you shouldn’t…trends end way faster than most people can write and publish a novel), then what do they mean by “look at the market”? The current trends won’t help you, as we discussed. The most recent past trends might give you a hint what isn’t likely coming back right now. But what else are you expected to look at? What they really seem to mean is “be a Mirror Writer” so that you can take the good things that sold well from the past and re-purpose them into your book. I’m not a Mirror Writer. Do things that I enjoyed from past novels I’ve read find their way into my books? Of course they do. But no amount of market research is going to allow me to incorporate those organically if that’s not the story I need to tell right now. Telling me to write differently is just going to make me write bad books.
Don’t keep querying the same book over and over again—move on to a new project. The problem here is actually fascinating. Almost all authors start off querying a book that wasn’t ready to query yet. Brandon Sanderson himself did it with a bunch of books. I don’t recall the number, but he has an entire writing series on YouTube from his BYU class that is actually pretty good and has the number in it. So is traditional publishing telling us to start off writing and querying books we don’t care about so we can learn through the querying process? Then, once we know how to polish our books well and have a solid understanding of how and who to query, we should stop querying those interim books and write the one we care about. What if we had programs (college classes or writer’s conference workshops or writer’s groups or something) that actually taught us this sort of skill instead of focusing on how to evaluate creative works or how to apply writing theory to book drafting? I have a degree in creative writing (and took classes for it at three different colleges). Very few creative writing programs teach you anything about the publishing world, and I don’t recall more than a few conference workshops that even approached the topic of self-editing, much less gave you any techniques.

The short version of this list is, traditional publishers want you to prove that you can write something you don’t necessarily love before they let you write the thing you do love. This strikes me as a terrible idea, and even though these examples hit Spotlight Writers hard, the concept hurts Mirror Writers as well. If writers are writing things they don’t love, they’re far more likely to write poor quality books that don’t sell. As well, agents always say they’re rejecting books because they “didn’t connect with the characters quite as much as they had hoped.” Of course not! You told me to write bland people and stories until I’d figured out how to query right!

Are There Solutions?

Obviously I’m exaggerating a bit in my frustration, but it’s interesting to me that traditional publishing takes a product that they know to be a work of art (regardless what type of writer authored it) and then complains that the author won’t treat it like a paper clip. But you can tell a paper clip manufacturer that people don’t need to hold pieces of paper together very much anymore and that manufacturer can go make tablet screen protectors or something. If you tell the YA fantasy novelist that YA fantasy isn’t selling right now, what do you expect that author to do? Suddenly start writing a different genre they don’t enjoy?

So, anyone can write a book and with enough study and work, anyone can do it well. But some people are called to write. Born with it in their blood, or drawn to it early enough that it’s a thing they’ve always wanted as a core part of their person. And those born novelists are at a lot more risk for being left behind when the publishing industry decides to stop signing new authors to a particular sub-genre.

All content on this blog is provided free for any readers and I’m always delighted to reach new audiences. If you enjoyed this story and are able, please consider supporting my work with a donation:

Choose an amount

$2.00

$5.00

$10.00

$2.00

$5.00

$10.00

$2.00

$5.00

$10.00

Or enter a custom amount

Check out more free content below, and be on the lookout for my upcoming debut epic fantasy, Wake of the Phoenix.

Donate Donate monthly Donate yearly

For some original fiction, check out these posts:

For more thoughts on publishing and writing, check out these posts:

On Discovery Writing

by ChelseaFebruary 9, 2021May 10, 2021

Writing advice. The one thing all authors agree that other authors probably got wrong. “Oh, don’t listen to that writer, all advice is subjective, but you know what you should do…” We all do it, and we all mean well. Helping others through writing troubles reminds us of how we got help when we needed it and gives us an opportunity to give back to the community that, for the most part, supported our dreams when most others wouldn’t.

But all advice is subjective, and few bits of subjective advice are quite so common as “try an outline.” This is so pervasive, even from authors who call themselves discovery writers, that I am becoming convinced that many authors don’t know what discovery writing even is. So let’s start with some definitions.

Discovery writing, often called Pantsing or Gardener writing, is the process of writing a novel (or other story) without pre-planning the path that novel is going to take. There’s several subcategories of this, because every person’s process is a little different so every time someone talks about it they tend to redefine the term to exclude some subset of people whose process is too different from theirs.

Plotting, also called Planning or Architect writing, is the process of writing a novel by completing an outline of the content and using that to create your story. Again, there’s several versions of how people do this, sometimes resulting in redefining the term to exclude people who seem to fit the category.

Most authors agree that, really, discovery writing versus architect writing are on a sliding scale and every author employs some amount of each technique in their process. Few people are completely pure architects who know every detail of their story before they start writing it, and it’s extremely rare to see a pure discovery writer sit down with no concept of what they intend to write and pound out an entire novel.

I’m the latter.

I start every novel with a rough idea for a character and a place where that person is standing. Little to no knowledge of that character’s backstory, motivations, or current crisis, and sometimes no knowledge of the world they live in either. As a result, I’m sure pure architects exist, and I’m sure they have as much potential to be great, innovative authors as anyone. However, as a result of my extremely low pre-planning, it baffles me to see some people call themselves discovery writers and then pull out their rough outline of how the plot arc of their next book is going to go. If you haven’t started writing it, how can you possibly have an outline? And this brings us to perceptions of writing styles.

Why Does Everyone Want to be a Discovery Writer?

Over the years, I’ve attended a number of writer’s conferences, been part of several writer’s groups, and talked to a lot of writers online. In each case, I’ve watched the definition of plotter shrink further and further. “Oh, I’m a planster. I don’t really outline, but I need to know where I’m going.” “I’m a discovery writer, but I like to tent pole. I set up a few important turning points and write those scenes, then start at the beginning and write towards the next tent pole scene.” I’ve been comfortable with these broadenings of discovery writing. Everyone’s process is different. What stunned me was when I watched a YouTube video of a somewhat popular YouTuber and author and she said “People misunderstand pantsing. Just because you’re a pantser doesn’t mean you don’t start with an outline.”

No. That is literally exactly what it means! That is the only hard rule that distinguishes discovery writers from architect writers.

Every push of the discovery writer definition toward the middle of the sliding scale has been to include people who don’t really outline, but don’t jump in blind either. If you actually outline prior to writing, however rough the outline is, you’re an architect writer. And that’s great! So why are so many people trying to include themselves in the discovery writer definition when they don’t really fit?

I would argue that there’s a misperception as to what it means to be a discovery writer, drawn from the mis-perception of what it means to outline. In school we were taught to outline by breaking down every significant point of the thing we were outlining and putting it on a bullet point. Every major event should be represented. As I said, very few authors do this before they begin writing. However, since that is the process people think of when they hear about outlining, they assume that outlined books are extremely formulaic. A growing subset of authors think outliners are boring writers or have flat characters. As a result these authors don’t want to be called plotters. So they expand the definition of discovery writer to include light outlining, or I had an outline but went off track because my creativity took over, or any number of other process decisions that really should fit more under plotter. Because of this, discovery writers are sometimes seen as more creative, and maybe even more intelligent.

That is not true.

Of course most people know, if you talk to them, that the process you use to write doesn’t indicate your intelligence or creativity. For the most part, people aren’t even aware they think this. But listen to the awe with which some writers speak about being a discovery writer. “Wow, that’s just amazing. I could never do that.” I’ve even heard “I wish I could write like that.” Why? It’s just another process, no better or worse than anyone else’s. So to anyone who writes rough outlines and is upset that I’m calling them an architect writer, remember this:

Brandon Sanderson is one of the most prolific fantasy authors of our times, he is wildly imaginative, and he is an architect writer. He excels at combining concepts, plotting out interesting story ideas within those combined concepts, and writing engaging stories with compelling characters. You don’t have to make it up as you go to be creative or innovative, and your rough outline isn’t something you should have to defend. Discovery writing is no better, as a writing process or personality choice, than plotting.

Discovery Writing is Not a Thing People Grow Out Of

And then there’s the other side. Architect writers who think discovery writers just haven’t learned how useful an outline is yet. Almost every piece of writing advice, every writing class, and just about every recommendation for overcoming difficult writing sessions encourages this belief. “Write an outline, it’ll help you make sure you’re headed in the right direction!” Just…please stop. We’ve tried, I promise. If that worked for us, we’d be architect writers.

Despite my frustration at this advice, I actually understand why this is so common. Most discovery writers can’t explain why they don’t use outlines. They say things like “It just doesn’t work for me.” When pressed for specifics, they add “If I outline, then I lose all the fun of writing and can’t write it anymore.” I’ve used these explanations. Steven King very famously uses these explanations in all his interviews where this comes up. It even makes sense that an architect might hear these explanations as “I just don’t like doing all the work beforehand and don’t have the drive to push through frustrating writing sessions.” But that’s not actually what’s going on. Here’s a few things I’ve discovered through several years of refining my personal writing process.

Discovery writing is about building a plot line and character arcs out of the logical results of the events that just happened. As a result, when I outline my story, every event feels unnatural. It’s not that I can’t write it after outlining, it’s that the resulting writing is bad. And I mean really bad, the unsalvageable kind of bad. The best explanation I can come up with is that until I have written scene one, I can’t tell what logical progression leads into scene two, and without scene two I can’t predict what is going to work for scene three, etc. Architects function in the exact opposite way. Without knowing the scope of the story, even in some rough form, they can’t tell if the scene they just wrote works for the story.

Discovery writing does not mean you don’t use structure in your first draft. I use structure pretty heavily in my first drafts, actually, but story structure is not the same as an outline. I know the approximate word count that I want for the book. I break that into an approximate chapter count, and I mark where the plot points are going to be. I have no idea what those plot points are, or often even the names of my main characters (I have drafts riddled with “MC1 strode across the room, his/her arms folded in anger.” and the like). But the structure and location of turning points and important moments don’t really change. So when I sit down to write a scene, I know how close I am to the next plot point. That tells me whether this scene needs to be rising action, climax, character building, or something else and I pick a starting moment of the scene that supports that. From that starting point, I see where it goes. Logical progression from previous events.

I live the story as I write it (figuratively speaking). This is true for a lot of writers, but the architect writers who do this imagine out from the outline or rough vision of the story they created. As a discovery writer, every moment I write is deeply personal at the time of writing, so if it doesn’t fit right, I have trouble writing it. This is my theory for where the “if I outline I can’t write the story” actually comes from. Many discovery writers are like me. Their outline attempts result in plot arcs that aren’t logical or well placed for the story, and when they try to write those scenes that don’t fit their instincts rebel. Not because they struggle to push through a difficult writing session, as all writers sometimes have to do, but because they can’t feel a connection between what they are writing and its place in the story they’re living. The scene feels unnatural, so the writing doesn’t work.

I struggle to deviate from outlines. This is a hilarious contradiction, because outlines choke my ability to write, but if I have one, I feel compelled to find a way to include every bit of what I outlined in my story. Any architect writer will tell you that your outline can’t be set in stone, especially if it’s more detailed. You have to be willing to make adjustments to the plan when needed to fit the needs of the story you’re telling. So, having an outline forces me to write a lower quality book, because I can’t deviate from the plan once it’s made unless I throw the entire plan out. And if I’m ditching the outline a quarter of the way through, I’m probably rewriting the opening quarter of the book anyway, and then why did I outline to begin with?

None of the process elements I’ve discussed above are related to being a new writer. Discovery writing is a way of visualizing your story, and that method of story creation doesn’t go away simply because I (or anyone else) have now written more books than when I started.

Some Tips for Discovery Writers

For those discovery writers out there who are looking for writing advice (and are tired of hearing about the wonders of outlining), let’s talk about process. I said earlier that I rely heavily on story structure when I begin writing. This is something I recommend. As a discovery writer, you probably have pretty strong instincts on how story structure works, but you should still research and study it. Learn three act structure, hero’s journey, and all those various systems of describing story structure. I know that all the guides on these talk about how to outline, but try to think in terms of how the ideas apply to books or stories you’ve already written.

Another tip: think about the scope of the story you’re writing. You don’t have to break your story down into chapters with word counts like I do, but at least know how long you want the book to be before you start writing it. A young adult romance shouldn’t be 150,000 words, and an adult epic fantasy shouldn’t be 80,000. If you don’t have a sense for how long the story is (i.e, maybe you’re writing an epic fantasy and you have no idea if it’s 200,000 or 350,000 words), pick a length similar to some of your favorite books in that genre and adjust as you write. The point is, if you’re 80,000 words into your book and you can’t identify the inciting incident and/or at least one major plot turn in the book, you probably need to re-evaluate your plot. By this, I do not mean “map out what’s going to happen and make sure the plot is sound.” That’s what you would do if you were an architect writer. Instead, I mean “look at what has happened already and make sure the events are important enough to be in the plot arc of this story.” If you have three chapters of the character going about daily life with nothing having changed, you’ve probably started your story too early.

When you get stuck, many pieces of advice will tell you to outline. But you’re a discovery writer, so this probably won’t work for you. Instead, try re-reading the content you’ve already written. I often find that getting a feel for the existing flow of the plot helps me identify where the story should go next. Another option is to write some backstory for your characters, or jump forward in time and write a big decision they have to make even if it’s not in the current story. If you have a good feel for your characters and are just struggling with what the plot does next, consider what choices your characters would make in response to recent events. And remember that your villains are characters too. One of my favorite tactics is to explain the problem I’m having with writing a scene to someone who doesn’t understand the entire vision of the story. This forces me to explain all my reasoning, and typically results in identifying the thing that was holding me back. And if none of that works, go play a game or watch TV for a bit. Maybe you just need a break.

Most of all, if you think you’re a discovery writer, make sure you try different processes to find what works for you. Some people are architects who work best when they use loose outlines, but because they think of outlining as a rigid process, they avoid doing that and try to discovery write. This doesn’t work (and is another potential source of the misconception that discovery writers grow out of that process). Before committing to any one label for your writing process, try an outline, try discovery writing, and try all the combinations thereof. Then decide what system works for you and stick to your guns. Whatever your writing process, trying to fit yourself into a mold not suited to your style is just going to frustrate you…and probably hurt your writing quality, as well.

Preparing to Publish

Publishing as a discovery writer has a few unique pitfalls of it’s own. Namely, the Synopsis, blurb, and one-line pitch. These terrify many an author, but many of the best recommendations for overcoming these challenges again rely on an assumption of outlining.

When preparing to write the book, think about what the one-line pitch is to focus your opening
Write the book blurb and synopsis before you write the book. Then you’ll know it’s marketable
Consider the state of the market and how your book would fit in before you start writing

These all sound completely absurd to me. I know nothing about the story before I begin writing the book. I suppose I could sit down before every book and write out “MC1 has goal A, but trope B causes him/her to face initial challenge. MC2…” Does that sound helpful to anyone else? It’s never helped me. But there’s a point to these suggestions that actually shouldn’t be ignored. The marketing descriptions of your book are a part of your book, and too many authors see book blurbs and the synopsis as something extra you have to tack on at the end. This is a mistake. The marketing descriptions are tools, and you should use them for your own work so you know they describe what you’re creating. Here’s a process I recommend trying:

Write your first draft through whatever process you normally use, then take a break. This break should be at least two weeks long, preferably more like a month or two, and you may not look at your book in any form during this time. After the break and before you begin editing, write your book blurb from your memory of the story. This should capture the pieces of the story that felt especially important and central to the conflict to you. Then, begin editing. As you edit, consider if the scenes you’re working on contribute to the big picture you set out in the blurb. Whenever you get to a scene that feels particularly significant or to any scene which supports the themes of your blurb, summarize it in a single sentence as part of your synopsis. After you have a second draft, send the book to critique partners and begin refining and polishing your blurb and synopsis. This makes the creation of the marketing materials part of the process and forces you to look at the first self-edit through the lens of what the overall big picture of the story should be.

Discovery writers need structure in the same way that other writers do, but structure is not the same as pre-planning. Integrate the creation of the marketing materials into your writing process and use them to make sure your structure is sound. You’ll be amazed by how much you did this without even thinking about it.

All content on this blog is provided free for any readers and I’m always delighted to reach new audiences. If you enjoyed this story and are able, please consider supporting my work with a donation:

Choose an amount

$2.00

$5.00

$10.00

$2.00

$5.00

$10.00

$2.00

$5.00

$10.00

Or enter a custom amount

Check out more free content below, and be on the lookout for my upcoming debut epic fantasy, Wake of the Phoenix.

Donate Donate monthly Donate yearly