KN Magazine: Articles
MEETING MYSELF LATER THAN EXPECTED
In “Meeting Myself Later Than Expected,” Clay Stafford reflects on a quiet but profound personal transformation—one that arrived without announcement or ceremony. As he observes subtle changes in how he responds to others, sets boundaries, and values his own time and energy, he realizes he has outgrown an earlier version of himself. The essay explores identity, self-awareness, and the gradual shedding of roles that no longer serve us.
I realized I had become someone I didn’t recognize. It didn’t come with an announcement. It was a transformation unfolding in the most ordinary circumstances. I was standing in a doorway, of all places, listening to someone speak harshly to me about a matter that, at one time, would have sent adrenaline through my ears, tightened my chest, and flushed my face.
I remembered, even as it was happening, the version of me who would have rushed to repair the moment, to blow it up, to soften the other person’s discomfort, to slam them verbally against the wall, to explain myself more fully than was asked, to restore ease as quickly as possible, or to press the plunger that would blow the whole bridge. The reflex for all of these seemed to live benignly in memory, and I could almost anticipate them waiting behind my ribs. But they did not arrive. I observed them, and they sat there, like old bottles on a dusty shelf.
I stood there, leaning on the doorframe, hearing the words, feeling nothing but a strange steadiness I had never known before. It wasn’t disrespect or defiance. It wasn’t withdrawal or cowardice. It was nothing, really. I can’t say I felt nothing, because I did; it just wasn’t anything that prodded me to act. It was simply an absence of the urgency that had plagued me my whole life, one I had always called care.
I answered the reprimand briefly. I didn’t elaborate. I didn’t feel the energy to defend. When the exchange was over, I felt surprisingly nothing. I didn’t replay it. I went back to my work, got back into my Zone, and went on with what I had been doing as if what the person had said, or even the person themselves, weren’t important enough to acknowledge. It wasn’t the conversation, but the fact that I was nonplussed that unsettled me.
This was a small moment, a brief encounter with another person known for being a jerk (we always encounter these people), someone I had previously tried to appease in an old pattern. I don’t think the moment was big enough for anyone else to notice anything unusual, except the other person, who probably took my single answer, “Okay,” as a dismissive “Whatever.” But the exchange stayed with me for days, the way I might turn a stone over in my pocket, testing its shape, or fiddle with a cuticle that really should have been trimmed a few days ago. The incongruity of my own reaction was what bothered me. Something inside me had changed without announcement. There were no trumpets. There was only “Okay” and “Whatever.” The person (me) I had watched do this, as though standing outside myself, did not match the person I still assumed myself to be, and I wondered where this new person was coming from.
I spent days overthinking this disorienting experience of discovering someone I quietly did not yet know. For decades, I had measured myself against an internal image formed years earlier, full of traits I believed defined me: accommodating, responsive, eager to smooth edges before they hardened, mixed with indignation when misunderstood, and a tendency to shut someone else down quickly by whatever means necessary when I felt they had crossed the line. Here, I did not care. I did not care in the way I once had. And what had been discussed was a big deal, but for the life of me, I could not make it one in my head or heart. “Whatever.” Over the following days, I remembered how quickly I had once moved toward tension, how readily I had assumed responsibility for the emotional weather around me, calming the storms when I wished and bringing cyclones when I thought that appropriate. That self felt not only familiar but moral, as if vigilance and universal alignment were a form of kindness to both myself, those around me, and the world. Yet here I was, answering “Okay” without haste, leaving without rumination on the incident (only on its aftermath), and, frankly, feeling no corresponding loss of care other than the puzzlement over my own odd behavior and changed emotional center. I truly didn’t care if I was right or wrong; I frankly didn’t care when I thought I should.
The new quietness could have been mistaken for several things: lack of caring, retreat, indifference, fatigue, insubordination, or bravado, but it was none of these. The urgency was gone, not the concern. It was just “Okay, whatever.” What I found was a narrower channel of attention, a more focused self, as if energy that had once scattered outward now gathered close and stayed.
The change continued in other conversations and altercations. I didn’t give a flip. I listened, then went back to what I was doing. “Okay, whatever.” There had been no decision on my part. Whatever had transformed within me was not the result of one inciting incident but, as I look back, years of smaller negotiations, responsibilities accepted without spectacle, disappointments without rehearsal, and choices made under pressure when no ideal option presented itself. Each instance, each small thing, had asked something of me, and I had given it, without declaring or even noticing that anything fundamental was shifting until that one cumulative moment when I stood in my overcontrolling, micromanaging boss’s doorway.
Again, none of this was planned. I did not react the way I had to anything before. I was more concerned about my work and the quality of my life than about others’ opinions and their dramas. I noticed other small deviations from the earlier version of myself. I paused longer before answering questions that once would have prompted immediate reassurance or a firm confrontation of the other person’s subjective opinions. I began declining invitations I would previously have rearranged my life to accommodate. I gained time and emotional and mental energy by explaining myself less, not because I was trying not to rock the boat or out of secrecy, but because I knew that what I thought and felt needed no explanation unless I felt inclined to give one. None of these felt like personality shifts. I was trying on the new coat, and it seemed to fit well, but it certainly wasn’t the same cut. All of this felt like an efficiency of time, space, emotion, and thought, adjustments made in passing. Yet taken together, they described, if I looked at myself in the mirror, someone I had not consciously intended to become, but one I did like the reflection of.
I think what troubled me most was the lack of ceremony. There had been no threshold, no announcement, no prior thought, no acknowledgment, no moment when I had declared that I was leaving one part of myself behind, a mask I realized, and entering another that wore none at all. The transition, gradual as it was, had gone unmarked, which meant I continued to describe my masked self in ways that no longer fit. I kept expecting reactions that never came, anticipating moments that should have been sprinkled with more than “Okay” or “Whatever,” but those impulses had faded. Those motivations, whatever they were, had lost their force, yet I felt bad because I didn’t feel bad.
After weeks of observing my changed interactions with others, I recognized how partial my earlier understanding of my true self had been. I had believed I was defined by responsiveness and good manners, by the ability to read and accommodate others’ needs, even by the absence of my own sanity. But that trait, that mask, had carried costs I had once accepted without question. When those costs became less bearable, the change began, not by declaration but by attrition. Some habits fell away like dead skin. Some roles loosened. “Okay.” “Whatever.”
My newer self felt quieter, less big, less explosive, less performative, less pleasing, and less eager to be legible in every exchange. The absence of my old turbulence could be mistaken, even by me, for diminishment rather than strength. I no longer required intensity or tangled emotions to feel present. I no longer organized my responses around anticipating others’ reactions. I stated the truth, and when others received it, no matter how they took it, it was once again “Okay, whatever.” Certain parts of myself that had once seemed in constant need of defense now rested unguarded. I no longer needed a fortress; I no longer needed to play that game.
Recognizing this new self took time. I had to revise the internal map I had used to orient myself. I had to release descriptions that once felt accurate but now constrained my true perception of who I was, how I saw the world, and what I expected of myself, rather than what others expected of me. I saw the mask clearly. It had been given early, by upbringing, by conditional love, by shunning. The new or rediscovered me felt unfamiliar. What bothered me most was the lag between change and recognition. It was longer than I expected. One would think I was a smart guy and could have figured this out earlier. I was not that smart. Even after the change and the realization, I continued to live as someone new while still believing in the old.
What I had taken in youth to be identity turned out to be provisional, assembled from early circumstances, early fears, and early approvals. As these conditions shifted, my identity changed not by addition, as one might expect, but by an odd subtraction. I relinquished the need to be seen in a certain way, the reflex to repair every discomfort within reach, and the roles that once organized my behavior because they kept me safe and others happy at my expense. Each relinquishment felt minor at the time. Normalcy is an incredible liar. Together, being told who I should be and accepting others’ definitions left me with no plan. Sloughing off the deadness of it all revealed someone I never foresaw.
When I look back on my earlier self, I feel neither rejection nor nostalgia. I feel recognition of continuity, the same attention and care, now expressed with less urgency and less diffusion. The difference lies not in substance but in boundary. I never lost what mattered, but I shed what no longer served.
Meeting my new self, this new person, later than expected, carried a peculiar strangeness. I moved through familiar settings with altered reflexes, speaking in tones that once would have surprised me, letting moments pass without intervention, whereas I once would have stepped in, and letting encounters fall away before I reached the end of the hallway. I watched myself do things with a mild astonishment that gradually softened into acceptance of this new self. Accuracy replaced familiarity as a measure of self-recognition.
In this transformation, I did not become someone else. I arrived at myself, slowly enough that when I finally noticed, I had to meet myself for the first time and say goodbye to an old friend I thought I knew. The mask went in the trash. “Okay, whatever.”
Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.
There’s No One Right (or Write) Way
In “There’s No One Right (or Write) Way,” bestselling author Lois Winston reflects on the overwhelming flood of writing advice that authors encounter online and in the publishing industry. From contradictory craft rules to questionable experts, Winston reminds writers that every author develops their own process over time. Through humor, personal experience, and practical insight, she encourages writers to think critically about advice, trust their instincts, and remember that there is no universal formula for success.
By Lois Winston
Lately, I’ve wanted to crawl into bed, pull the quilt over my head, and not emerge until we return to a time before the pervasive “My Way or the Highway” mentality that has taken us to the edge of a cliff. Remember when people could agree to disagree and still be friends? Remember when we didn’t cringe whenever we attended family dinners that included certain relatives who hold opposing views and who take every opportunity to try to convince us that they’re right, and we’re wrong? Hold the roast beef and mashed potatoes. Pass the Tums and Xanax.
This “My Way or the Highway” attitude has seeped into nearly every aspect of our lives, even our writing lives. Internet articles and various “experts” (who may or may not actually be experts) tout the best way to write a novel, how to get an agent, how to market your books. They’ll tell you agents and editors only want A, B, and C. Or if you don’t do X, Y, and Z, you’ll never sell a book. Some of this information is only a click away, but others first want your credit card number before imparting their knowledge.
I’m on quite a few listservs with both published and unpublished authors. Every day an unpublished author will either post about great information she found online or ask whether such-and-such service is worth the money.
Writing scams are a topic for another day. Today I want to discuss information posted online or provided in other ways. Writers should never believe everything they read and hear. For one thing, much of it is often contradictory:
Always plot out your novel.
Plotting stifles creativity. Just write.
You must produce at least 1,500 words a day.
Don’t worry about word count. Just write.
You must write every day.
Don’t stress about writing every day. It’s counterproductive.
Always write forward. Never go back to reread/tweak what you wrote the day before.
Always go back to reread/tweak what you wrote the day before.
Never edit while you write your drafts.
Whenever you change something, always go back and edit your other pages.
There’s no such thing as writer’s block.
Writer’s block is real.
I have heard well-known authors state all the above. However, the statements were made in the context of what works best for them. Their process. Not as “rules” that must be adhered to if you want to get published.
I recently saw an interview with Ken Follett. He spends a year writing the outline for each of his books. He then sends successive drafts to family, friends, editors, and even historians he pays as consultants for their input. That’s the process that works for him. He wasn’t suggesting that his way is the only way to write. He wasn’t even suggesting that anyone should mimic his process. Yet, there are probably some who will come away from watching that interview thinking that Ken has the secret to success, and if they do as he does, they’ll get published.
I find it disheartening that so many writers are so desperate to get published that they spend too much time searching for a secret sauce that has never existed. They constantly fall into the trap of believing they should follow every piece of advice they come across. Their self-confidence continually takes a hit when what they believe to be the secret sauce doesn’t work for them.
But who are the experts doling out this advice they cling to? Sometimes, they’re not experts at all. In my writing infancy, I entered many contests for unpublished romance authors. When the contest was over, most supplied entrants with the judges’ scoresheets and comments. The draw of these contests was that the finalists were judged by editors and agents, and there was always the hope that these professionals would like what they read enough to request the full manuscript.
I finaled or won many of the contests I entered, but I also received some very questionable advice from some of the anonymous first-round judges. One wrote, “I don’t really understand point of view, but I’m marking you down because I don’t think you do, either.” There was nothing wrong with my point of view according to the two other judges who gave me top scores on point of view.
Another wrote, “Editors want the hero and heroine to meet within the first three pages. Yours don’t meet until the end of the first chapter.” That might be the case for a 45,000-word Harlequin short contemporary romance, but I had entered the mainstream category where manuscript lengths were a minimum of 85,000 words.
Advice is only as good as the expertise of the person giving it. However, even when the advice comes from an expert, that advice is always based on that person’s experiences. What has worked for them. It may be the best advice you ever receive. Or it may not work at all for you.
Process is individual and develops over time. No two writers approach their writing the same way. The trick is to keep learning and keep writing, but don’t ever believe everything about your writing sucks based on one rejection, one how-to book, one article, one author talk, or one conference. Or even multiple rejections and more than one person’s advice. After all, Stephen King had decided to give up after thirty publishers rejected Carrie. Luckily, his wife convinced him otherwise.
Yes, there will be aspects of your work that need improving. Every author I know wishes she could go back and rewrite her earliest books. Some have. We all continue to grow in our writing. As you work at your writing, you’ll hone your skills. You’ll develop confidence and hopefully learn to view “My Way or the Highway” advice through a more discerning lens.
Constructive criticism and advice should never be discounted. It very well may be exactly what your manuscript needs. However, that’s not the same as someone insisting that their way is the only way to success. Think twice about that kind of advice and always check the credentials of the person dishing it out.
Meanwhile, my only advice for dealing with family dinners that include a “My Way or the Highway” relative is to take a book with you and hide in an empty room if the conversation gets too heated.
USA Today and Amazon bestselling and award-winning author Lois Winston writes mystery, romance, romantic suspense, chick lit, women’s fiction, children’s chapter books, and nonfiction. Kirkus Reviews dubbed her critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series, “North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum.” In addition, Lois is a former literary agent and an award-winning craft and needlework designer who often draws much of her source material for both her characters and plots from her experiences in the crafts industry. A Crafty Collage of Crime, the twelfth book in her series, was the recipient of the 2024 Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Award for Best Comedy, and Sorry, Knot Sorry, the thirteenth book in the series, recently won the 2025 Silver Falchion Award for Best Comedy. Embroidered Lies and Alibis, the fifteenth book in the series, releases February 10th. Learn more about Lois and her books at www.loiswinston.com. Sign up for her newsletter to receive an Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mystery.
LIMITS
In “Limits,” Clay Stafford reflects on the lifelong belief that success requires pushing through every obstacle and never admitting weakness. Over time, however, he realized that ignoring personal limits can lead to exhaustion, frustration, and a narrowing of curiosity and creativity. Rather than being barriers, limits can act as guides—helping us focus our energy on what truly matters and preserving the clarity, purpose, and depth that meaningful work requires.
I was raised to believe that when I came to an obstacle, it was a personal shortcoming if I did not push through, a personal failure if I did not succeed, and a personal cowardice if I gave up. Those beliefs inhabited the marrow of my bones and festered in the recesses of my brain. I had no natural limits, none of us did, or so I thought and was bred to believe. Even giving credence to such an absurd suggestion felt irresponsible. I knew I and everyone else could overcome anything if we only pushed hard enough. There was no skill we couldn’t learn, no talent we couldn’t expand, no mountain we could not climb. I not only judged myself; I judged everyone. I taught it to my students and in my lectures. We all needed to be responsible for the optimal performance of our lives. It was called being dependable, being responsible, rising to the challenge, working harder and smarter, and pushing through. The push was always highly emotional, causing stress and conflict not only in me but in all my relationships, where others’ performances fell short, but I knew it was worth it. It brought out the best in all of us. Like a winning coach, I pushed myself and those around me. And when they pushed back, I viewed their lack of participation as denial and even laziness. Emotionally wrought, I could never see the mental clarity lost in this thinking. From the dejected faces of those I lived and worked with, it seemed I failed in the very presence that I thought I was being, the one I thought I was protecting. Even in that, I strove to do better.
The satisfaction of control brought me peace, or so I thought. I put myself in charge of my destiny. I oversaw my own future, and nothing could get in the way of that, and very little did. I offered every problem and relationship a doorway that could make things easier for me and everyone around me, but if it was blocked, I had no qualms about going through the wall. Pushing longer, harder, and stronger was, to me, a form of commitment. Staying with a problem until the end of the day, even if that day ran into the night, or even several days without sleep, was applaudable devotion and intention. Accepting limits or growing tired meant one had no self-respect. This was how a meaningful life was to be built; the lives of the great men and women I read in biographies exemplified that. They pushed through because they had something all of us could acquire: character. They built meaningful lives; I would, too. Endurance, discipline, and refusal to quit were the framework of success. Refusal to quit meant refusal to retreat, like cowards, like those who were weak. Even rest itself, I told myself, could wait. “I can sleep when I’m dead” was not uncommon coming out of my mouth in reply to those who were close to me and cared, as I popped my trucker’s caffeine pills, drank my ten Cuban coffees, and my gallon of daily tea.
The cost of this thinking and living with such force didn’t show up immediately. It took decades. That’s the deception we take to heart when we believe the deceitfulness chocked at us by the sycophants of the famous. The famous lied to the watching world, the obsequious flatterers lied to readers of books about great men and women, and then I took those as truths and lied to myself. Sure, the lies gave me extra waking time, or something that resembled it anyway. I learned how to stretch the day thinner, how to draw more from myself than I thought I could. The point that activity didn’t always equal accomplishment, though, was often lost on me. What I gained in hours, I lost, though I didn’t realize it, in life and relational clarity. After decades of this rat race, my attention to the important things, not just the walls to burst through, began to dull. My decisions about where to focus slowed. Simple things began to take longer, though I attributed that to age. Regardless, the very life I had always believed I was protecting by defining my own fate began to resist me.
I began to see, or rather I began to feel, that the very wall that I could not seem to push through was myself. Nothing dramatic happened to show me this. Fatigue didn’t announce itself to me publicly. Nothing in my life collapsed. Feeling tired all the time wasn’t bad; it was my baseline. Yet, focus began to take on the persona of irritation toward my work, myself, and the people around me. I no longer set out to tackle only the big things; small problems now carried more weight than they should have, and small mistakes by others began to irritate me. Life began to feel painful, even at times undesirable. Everything became such a big deal. I found that where I used to slam through walls, I began to make choices not out of intention, but out of relief. I became drawn to whatever would end the discomfort the fastest.
Being successful, I began to wonder, why did I feel at rock bottom? Being high in my profession, having relationships others would envy, having built the life I envisioned, something had to change, though I didn’t know how to give it a name. My choices began to become ill-guided, not from indifference, but from dullness. The part of me that once noticed nuance grew silent. Subtle distinctions in life, work, and people disappeared. I lost my sense of when effort was required and when time was the truer answer. I could still function, but I was compensating, now relying totally on force on everything where attention and inspiration once worked cleanly.
Then came denial, and the emotional cost that followed. Each time I overrode the yokes, big and small, that pulled me down, I taught myself not to listen. Signals that I used to welcome began to annoy me. They were inconveniences to my peace. Discomfort became something to suppress, to submit to silently rather than with understanding. Gradually, all trust eroded, not just in my body, mind, emotions, or energy, but in myself in general. A faint impatience began to settle in, yet flat, a sense that I was now pushing through life, all parts of it, still accomplishing, but rather than moving with it, things were no longer flowing.
As a result of shutting out the world and the world within my own head, my world narrowed. Limits began to change perspective. Everything became about getting through the day. Curiosity, my lifeblood, even began to fade. I knew something needed to be done, but that was the problem. I had everything I could ever want. Recovery from that seemed crazy and certainly ungratefully indulgent. Surprise began to have no place or excitement. My world was perfect. I was not in crisis, yet I was living as though I were. Survival mode replaced presence without my consent. Everyone around me felt it or felt the brunt of what I would not share.
I think the most dangerous part was how ordinary it all felt. Nothing told me to stop. Nothing told me to slow down. Nothing hinted at any type of collapse. Nothing told me I needed to stop bashing walls. No one told me I had a problem, or if they did, I didn’t hear. What I was doing, though, was operating below capacity, and I’d been doing it for way too long. I focused on my limitations to the point of obsession, at the expense of seriousness and gratitude about what I could control. There were limitations that I could not power through, I realized after too many years. And because I didn’t realize this earlier, all limitations, even challenges, began to operate out of the same intensity. Out of the blue, it hit me that if I couldn’t power through certain things that didn’t erase who I was or what I could become despite them. I realized that maybe those walls were there for a reason, that maybe I was meant to be something I didn’t consciously see myself as. The realization was slow and painful, but my life began to change. Centering took the place of warfare.
My limits took on a new light. They were never obstacles; they were misconceptions on my part. They were even guardians of who I was meant to be. The sad thing is, I had been deluded and deluded myself for a lifetime. I recognized the pundits of the super life were frauds. I began to respect those limits. At first, I didn’t respect limits dramatically or perfectly, but rather honestly, and, when I did, something softened inside me like the Grinch’s frozen heart. Efforts on things that were within my limits became cleaner. Decisions within my framework grew quieter and more precise. Life began to deepen again, rather than merely expanding. I began to do less because I stopped slamming into walls and instead spent my time doing more. That was the paradox. In fact, I did better at everything I did. The cost of refusing to stop at natural limitations had been the gradual loss of the very capacities that made my efforts meaningful in the first place. Limits and walls became not challenges to defeat, but invitations to stop long enough to acknowledge, honor, and preserve those things that did matter within the sphere of life I’d been given in which to live. Limits became no more than a beautiful river in my life, a life without a boat, that asked me to choose the path to the left or to the right when it told me in so many ways I could not cross but promised adventure no matter which direction I chose.
Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.
THE CHAIR IS STILL THERE
On mornings when creativity feels hollow and momentum seems absent, Clay Stafford learned a crucial lesson: the work of a life isn’t built on inspiration or certainty. In “The Chair Is Still There,” he reflects on how discipline, presence, and the simple act of returning to his chair—cup of coffee in hand—reframe his creative life, strengthen his relationship to his art, and allow meaning to emerge without fanfare.
By Clay Stafford
Mostly working from home for the majority of my life, there was no boss to meet, no comptroller checking my clock-in for work, no meetings I had to be on time for, only me, waking up and stretching in bed, thinking of how I envisioned my day to play out.
Most days were and are filled with excitement. I knew what I was going to do. I loved what I did. I was blessed to be able to do it. Most mornings were filled with ambition and excitement, so I couldn’t wait to get to work and get started. But there were those dreaded mornings when I awoke, stared at the ceiling, and realized there was no fuel in the creative engine for the day. On those mornings, there was no urgency to get out of bed, no spark inspiring me to begin. There wasn’t even resistance. In the dim light of the morning sun coming through the cracks of the closed plantation shutters, there was simply a hollow quiet where momentum typically was and should have been. Those moments felt empty, nothing resembling the welcomed heaviness of life, just a distant void, as though everything that normally mattered had somehow, during the night while I was dreaming, slipped down the hallway to another bedroom and closed the door, sometimes even locking it behind it, climbing into the bed and pulling the covers over its head.
Those were days that felt like failures even before they began, and because I predetermined them while lying in bed, they usually turned out as I expected. I used to think I could only show up for my life when my inner world was in agreement, when want and purpose matched, when I knew why I was doing something, and when the effort made sense. I could only do things when I felt like it or when the meaning was clear. When that alignment was absent, I assumed the day was already lost and a wasted day of failure lay ahead. I felt it in my heart and even in my bones. I hadn’t yet learned that the real discipline of my life wasn’t built on feeling ready, but on returning.
It wasn’t until later in my life, when maybe maturity or practice, or even serendipitous events, proved me wrong, that I realized these mornings were simply a different kind of threshold, their own unique entry into a day that, at first glance, felt formless and uninspired. Somewhere along the way, I learned that discipline, what I needed to create the perfect day, was less about preplanning, force, or even intention, but more about presence.
I don’t know when my thinking started to shift. I certainly didn’t make it happen. I didn’t will it. It certainly wasn’t some trite self-help or productivity hack. It didn’t even arrive with some revelation. It came oddly and unplanned, as a habit. Whether I had the vision for the day or not, I got my coffee as usual, set up my desk, and sat down in my chair to work, even when I didn’t know what I wanted to work on or, if I did, even when I wasn’t inspired. Motivation didn’t earn me a spot at my desk. Routine did. On those days, I kept the bar low. I didn’t promise much to those hours except the assurance to my computer that I’ll be close by if needed. No plans were negotiated, no meaning defined, and rarely was any enthusiasm offered to the Muse as tribute. Sometimes on those days, I thought my purpose in life was to drink a cup of coffee, watch my birdfeeder, and ponder, in the world of evolution, what crazy lizard found itself jumping out of a tree and realizing it could fly, thus creating a new species of birds. In other words, with no plans or inspiration, I sat there because I didn’t know what else to do.
It surprised me at some point how little was required to sit there. It was freeing. Even on those hollow mornings, the chair was still there, waiting. I didn’t need conviction. I didn’t need direction. I didn’t need to believe that anything I was doing mattered. I only needed not to leave. I needed to sit with whatever drifted through my mind. The common thread behind it all was my chair, on productive days and on days of nothing. It was always sitting there, consistent, no matter where my head was. So, I returned to it, some days with more fervor than others, but always with a refusal to hand over control to the weather outside (I write outside on my porch) or even the weather, no matter how calm or turbulent, going on inside of me.
Those neutral days of nothingness were not heroic. They were days that neither lifted nor dragged, days that offered no motivational or dramatic reason or inspiration to move forward, but at the same time, no compelling reason not to be there. It seemed on those days that the world asked nothing of me other than attendance in that chair, across the lawn from the birdfeeder, pondering the processes of the past few million years.
When I think back on my own evolution now, what strikes me is not how much time I wasted sitting there, but rather how honest those hours were. Out of boredom, I did begin to tinker, but without the need or motivation to impress, accelerate, or aim beyond the moment, I moved straight to the essentials as they popped into my head. It was all rather casual. There was no adornment, no performance, no word count, no chasing of superiority. Just small, impulsive, inner-driven activities, whether rain or shine, just some sort of private continuity with days more productive, but with no invisible audience or ego applauding, but at the same time nothing left undone. When inspired, sitting in the chair, I did what I felt inspired to do, letting direction come from the nothingness.
Over time, something shifted. Those neutral (I wouldn’t call them wasted) days, those unremarkable returns to the chair each morning, began to alter the way I understood myself in the same way that I could envision lizards growing wings millions of years ago. I don’t think I ever patted myself on my back for my consistency of sitting in a chair (that hardly seems a heroic act), but I did begin to trust it as an inkling of something I couldn’t put my finger on began to take form in my consciousness, in my being. Showing up and sitting down, I began to sense that I did not need to feel aligned with my work or even with myself to remain connected. Just drink coffee and watch the birds, and occasionally look at my computer screen. I didn’t need the weather, inside or out, to give me permission. Before I stepped into the day, I needed to go to my chair and sit. And, surprise to me, somewhere along the way, my fingers would find their way to the keyboard, and I would start to type. Somewhere by the end of the day, I would pause and look back on all that I had accomplished, even though I had had no preplanned direction.
Trust accumulated in ways I couldn’t have articulated then, but it did soften the drama around the difficulty of being aimless. It quieted the argument between desire and duty. It reframed commitment as identity rather than effort. I began to see that most of what endures in life is built not on bursts of certainty but on the steady, unimpressive, evolutionary cadence of return.
The curious, but also understandable, thing is that the work of my life didn’t constantly improve in those days, but my relationship with my work, and even myself, did. Sitting down in my chair became less conditional, less dependent on mood or inspiration, or the unpredictable tides of self-belief or raw motivation. Sitting down in my chair became, instead, something like a morning welcome, a companionship, coming with the predictability and comfort of knowing that the sun will rise each day and I will sit: steady, imperfect, patient.
Looking back, I never found the dramatic clarity I once believed I needed to move forward. I saw something quieter. I discovered that life continues, like birds in flight, even when eagerness does not. I found that meaning doesn’t always come hand in hand with willingness. I discovered that neutrality is fertile in its own way. We don’t need a parade; we only need a chair.
I once thought that discipline was a loud, cinematic declaration, something founded in great ambition or proven with relentless, knock-the-walls-down drive, but the truth, for me, instead lived in a place outside on the back porch, an ordinary chair, waiting without fanfare, and asking for nothing other than my presence. “Come as you are,” it called. “If nothing else,” it said in its Southern way, “just sit a spell.”
Perhaps the unexpected lesson for me is this: the parts of life that endure are not always those born from passion, certainty, or predetermination while lying in the bed in the morning and staring at the ceiling with the morning light coming in through the shutters, but instead it is from the steady, unremarkable decision to get my coffee, in my routine, and sit in my chair long enough for meaning to find its way back. The chair is always waiting.
Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.
THE WORLD GOT WIDER
For years, Clay Stafford believed that meaningful work required external confirmation—applause, validation, or visible momentum—but that belief quietly narrowed his life and creative choices. In this reflective craft essay, he explores how releasing the need for approval transformed uncertainty from a warning into a companion, allowing courage, creative freedom, and authentic purpose to take the lead in both writing and life.
By Clay Stafford
For a long time, I believed that anything worth pursuing should come with a clear signal, some sign, momentum, or external confirmation that I was moving in the right direction. I think I was waiting for the circus to come to town. Looking for that exterior confirmation, though, quietly narrowed my world without me even noticing.
I didn’t really understand this belief, this idea that I was essentially performing for others. I didn’t think about it. It wasn’t something I put into words. It just showed up, thoughtlessly, like the morning sun. Unlike the mark of a new day, however, this subconscious belief or need for validation manifested as hesitation, maybe doubt. When no one clapped, no one replied to my desperate phone calls, letters, or emails, or no one offered a word of encouragement or support, I found I slowed down. I started to wait. “Give me a sign,” my needy heart exclaimed. I started second-guessing my map. I equated uncertainty with fear, that I was about to make a mistake.
I don’t know when this thinking began; it may have started in childhood, perhaps reflecting a need for parental approval in a conditionally loved world. The shame is that it shaped my life more than I realized. It made me cautious, even timid, in moments that required courage. Wherever it began and however it grew, this subconscious belief that I needed that validation trained me to seek approval from others rather than to seek direction from within. I couldn’t help but think that when progress was slow, and especially when it stalled, it was proof that I was off track. When I felt something mattered, but yet it demanded so much unapplauded effort, I wondered if I wasn’t forcing something that should not be rather than earning something that should not have to be affirmed.
Somewhere along the way, it hit me. Why? Maturity? God-given insight? Not sure. I know nothing external changed. There were no circus clowns. No breakthrough arrived. But inside me, the moment that my life began to change, the moment that I began to change, was a shift in the limiting belief itself.
Somewhere in my Los Angeles days, I began to notice that the work that mattered most, not only to me, but to others, oddly rarely announced itself. In its inception, in its call to adventure, it made no promises. I didn’t have to wait for the green light to proceed. I didn’t need any person in power to give me some grand confirmation that I had finally found the path. Instead, my life and work began to show up, not with fireworks, but in small, unglamorous ways.
I found I was passionately involved in my work and life when previously I would have told myself to quit. Problems or roadblocks? Instead of avoiding or dismissing them and walking away, I found I started returning to them day after day, living and loving life regardless of who, if anyone, ever noticed. The silence, the fact that no one was even noticing, stopped coming across to me as a warning. The silence became the mental space where my life and work began to live and grow. And from the silence, to my surprise, others began to notice.
“Reassurance” is the key word. I no longer needed it. And when I began to accept this, to believe and live it, subtly, my attention changed. Without needing approval, I began to notice the quiet pull toward specific ideas or desires that were intrinsically my own, not someone else’s to validate. Life started at that moment to be an adventure, even if it was nothing more than showing up, even when nothing was resolved. It didn’t matter. I was living me. I accepted that sometimes understanding comes only after effort, not before. Looking back, I realized that my strongest decisions, the ones that actually changed and transformed my life, were rarely made in moments of confidence. They were made in moments of scared commitment.
With regret, but also with thankfulness for the experience, I realized how much life-energy and opportunity I had wasted, misreading what were, in fact, neutral conditions and neutral exterior feedback. No response didn’t mean that anyone was rejecting me. Resistance didn’t mean I was going in the wrong direction. Slow progress didn’t mean I was a failure or ill-equipped.
Letting go of the belief that I didn’t need external validation for how I wanted to live my life didn’t erase doubt. Don’t get the wrong impression. But what it did was to strip doubt of its authority. Uncertainty stopped being a verdict and became something I could walk alongside. I could live in the present, not the past or the future, and though it might feel uncomfortable to take risks others dared not, doubt was no longer in charge. Living the life I wanted to live became the mantra.
Letting go of that belief, that need for affirmation, didn’t suddenly make my progress in the world easier, but it did make it wider. Possibilities that had always been there came into view, and I was able to accept them without any need for anyone else’s approval. These possibilities that I dared not dream of didn’t change. They were there all the time. I simply stopped requiring permission to see them. Or honor them. Or rather, I realized the only permission I needed to live the life of my dreams on my own terms was mine.
I realized the world doesn’t widen because circumstances change. It widened when I stopped asking permission to dream big dreams. I wasn’t walking with the consent or acceptance of others anymore. I was walking with uncertainty, and noticing I still belonged, not to the whims of others, but to myself. I began writing my life, telling the story I knew should be told, even when I walked alone.
Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.
Japanese Literary Terms
Neil Plakcy introduces fifteen essential Japanese literary terms—like aware, jo-ha-kyū, mono no aware, and wabi-sabi—and shows how they can deepen emotional resonance in your writing. A guide to using cultural concepts to enrich storytelling, create atmosphere, and enhance character expression.
By Neil Plakcy
When I began writing my series of stories based on the concepts of Japanese healing fiction, I discovered that there are many uniquely Japanese literary terms. The popularity of this form, of haiku, and even of K-drama, can help with all kinds of writing. Here are fifteen of the ones I’ve found, along with ways they can be used to generate emotional depth in your work. You don’t need to use the specific term—just understand how it can be used.
Aware
You can use the Japanese term aware (AH-WAH-RAY) to recognize that many of the objects in your work may have an emotional resonance, with feelings of sadness, patriotism, or happiness. Examples include a childhood home, seeing Olympians in the colors of the United States flag, the photo of a dead relative.
Hibiki
(HE-BEE-KEY) means echo. When the gray sky echoes the emotional despair of the character. When the noise of contractors working outside reflects the anger in a conversation.
Jo-ha-kyū
This concept of modulation and movement suggests actions should begin slowly, speed up, and then end swiftly. Compare this to the traditional three or four-act structure in genre fiction.
Kaori
(KAH-OH-REE) literally means scent or fragrance, but it has a deeper meaning in Japanese literature. For fiction writers, it can relate to the way we evoke the same feeling with very different images. Both a puppy lost in the rain and a newly divorced man might have kaori.
Karumi
(KAH-RUE-ME) means lightness, and the Japanese poet Basho used it to represent the beauty of ordinary things spoken of in a simple way. Sometimes we don’t need elaborate language or metaphors to convey feeling. An empty coffee mug left on the desk of a departed co-worker could be just a mug—or it could reflect something about the impermanence of friendship or business connections or the harshness of an economic recession.
Kidai
(KEY-DAY'EE) is a Japanese way of using metonyms. “Hollywood” represents the motion picture industry, and the White House stands for presidential power.
Kigo
(KEY-GO) are nouns which imply the season because they have been traditionally associated with certain times of the year in Japanese literature and/or real life. Daffodils and jonquils are among the first flowers of spring. With their variegated petals of red and yellow, chrysanthemums represent autumn.
Komorebi
The literal meaning of this word is the dappled sunlight filtering through trees, but it can remind us to bring gentle beauty into our works.
Ma
Ma represents the importance of emptiness in a composition. Consider the pause between action and response, between two characters expressing emotion. Ma signifies a moment of contemplation or a pause within a piece.
Mono no aware
The addition of "mono" (things/objects) transforms the concept into an awareness of the transient nature of all things and the gentle sadness that comes with this understanding. It's not just about feeling touched or moved—it's about recognizing the inherent impermanence in beauty and life itself. This concept can be useful when you have a reflective character considering his or her past.
Mono no aware is a Japanese idiom that conveys a deep awareness of the impermanence of things and the sadness that comes with it.
A classic example that illustrates the difference: When viewing cherry blossoms...
Aware might be the simple emotional response to their beauty
Mono no aware would be the bittersweet appreciation of their beauty precisely because they are fleeting, combined with the recognition that this very impermanence is what makes them so meaningful in Japanese culture
Mushin
(MOO-SHE'N) refers to a mental state of complete focus and clarity, free from distractions and emotional turmoil. In English, we might consider that “flow.” Consider how you can use this to show your character at work or at play.
Sabi
(SAH-BEE) signifies age or loneliness. Use an image in your writing that expresses something aged or weathered with a hint of sadness because of being abandoned. A boarded-up building in a city, or an old barn in the countryside.
Wabi
(WAH-BEE) means poverty, but in your writing it can be used to express something that is a result of living simply. Consider a well-lived-in kitchen, a pair of frayed jeans, or a coffee table scarred by long use.
Wabi-sabi
Combining wabi and sabi brings us to the beauty of imperfection and impermanence. You can use this to express the feeling that a character has for an object that has been well-used or damaged in the past.
Yugen
A mysterious and profound beauty that cannot be fully expressed in words, often associated with a sense of deep emotion. Compare this to Hemingway’s idea that a story is like an iceberg; only part of it is visible above the surface. What lies beneath is yugen.
Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – Writing at the Speed of a Melting Popsicle
Stream-of-consciousness writing captures thoughts in their raw, unfiltered form. In this essay, Andi Kopek reflects on memory, history, morality, and creativity—beginning with something as simple as a melting popsicle.
By Andi Kopek
A popsicle.
A little girl is holding a popsicle in her hand. The color is red.
It’s so hot—so steaming hot—that the popsicle is dripping on her fingers, but she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t even notice it. She licks it innocently. The popsicle drips through one finger, then the next, down her little pinky, onto her clothes, and finally, the ground. She doesn’t mind.
Why are popsicles called popsicles? Pop-sicle. From icicle? But why POP-sicle? Why not sun- sicle? Or sweet-sickle? Or slash-sickle?
When I was a little boy, I didn’t eat popsicles. Maybe ice cream on a stick—but I didn’t like them. They dripped too quickly. Dripping again. It was unpleasant. Nasty. I don’t like mess.
When I was a child I liked eating brine cucumbers instead—from a big barrel with herbs. From a local store with vegetables. Zielona Budka it was called. The Green Hut. I forgot the name of the herb. The name of the herb. The herb. But the smell was so distinct. Summers weren’t this hot or humid then. Definitely not this humid. They were bearable.
But I couldn’t step into the stream that flowed near our house. A sign nailed to a small pine tree said “Do Not Enter.” There was always this thin black line on the banks—pollution. So strange, isn’t it? That rivers are polluted? Dill. It was dill.
Same with the Baltic Sea. You’d walk along the shore and see a thin line of oil—leaking from tankers, maybe. How much oil needs to spill to leave a line like that? Shorelines stretch endlessly. So it must be a massive amount. And yet it’s just… normal. There was no way to talk about it. No one raised it as a question. No one wanted to listen.
It seemed hopeless to raise this issue. Hopelessness was everywhere. And it’s what made me move. Made me search for something else—some place where hope exists.
Because a hopeless man can’t make a difference. That’s unbearable. And passion? You couldn’t express passion. If you had feelings, you had to bury them. And you’d be dead. Had no feelings? How can you live without feelings? Also dead. Either way—passion or apathy—you were dead. So I looked for a place where you might feel alive. Really alive. And I moved.
And when I found it—disappointment. Because people are the same. Buildings are, pretty much, the same. At least similar. Some things differ, but at the core, no real changes. It was rather surprising. And disappointing.
No matter where you live, this side of the pond, or the other, this continent or that—people behave the same. Systems differ, sure. Maybe there’s more of one thing here, less of another there. But manipulation is the same. The desire to control others, the masses? The same.
Maybe there once were tribes, cultures, societies driven by different values. Not just different beliefs—different internal forces. Not focused on profit, progress, goals. But they’re gone.
Crushed. At least, they’re no longer the dominant force.
Put a peaceful person in a room with someone okay with killing… Guess who survives? The second one doesn’t blink and pulls the trigger. No hesitation. And no guilt afterward. No guilt afterward is terrifying. Can give me nightmares. That’s how people with high morality die.
That’s how reflective people disappear. That’s how good people don’t survive. Because the ones willing to negotiate, to coexist, to cooperate… by definition, they are always at a disadvantage. The ones who don’t care about destroying them? They win.
That’s how the world is skewed. And that balance? It will never be restored. Never existed. The imbalance repeats itself. One generation to the next. Until the skew becomes so extreme that people go mad and destroy each other. And justify it, of course. And then the remaining few start the cycle again.
That’s the story of human life on this planet. It’s so short. And so cyclic. We pride ourselves on our “progress.” We love talking about how our societies have “evolved.” But if you study history carefully, you’ll see, nothing is new.
We just forgot. We forget. We forget. We forget and repeat. Amnesia is built into the system. Everything from the past returns—distorted. A ghost, shifting form, always changing. We think we know it. But we don’t. We think we learn from history. But we don’t. And even if we do—it means nothing. We can’t or don’t want to act on it. Well, the ones who want, usually don’t have enough power. And if they make a change, it is rather short lived. Because of the nature of man.
So how do you enjoy life, knowing this? Knowing that we don’t learn? Knowing that goodness is always at a disadvantage? How do you live like that?
Maybe…
Maybe we just start with a popsicle. On a hot, humid, sunny August day.
At a brewery where kids run around and play…
Author’s Note
This piece was created using a stream-of-consciousness technique, beginning with a real observation of a child holding a melting popsicle at a local brewery during this summer’s extreme heat. Because my writing speed lags substantially behind the pace of my thoughts, I decided to record them instead—capturing this internal monologue as it unfolded. It was recorded on an iPhone 13Pro Max using the Voice Memos app, transcribed via Otter.ai, and lightly edited for readability.
As both a neuroscientist and writer, I’m fascinated by stream-of-consciousness as a way of capturing thought in its raw, unfiltered form—before logic and language shape it. Writers like Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, and Clarice Lispector explored this terrain, but the tone and emotional cadence of this piece are perhaps closest to the style of Thomas Bernhard. The process felt amazing, like creating in a fascinating, improvisational way, as if the thoughts were composing themselves in real time.
Final thought: One of my previous columns explored writer’s block. The stream-of- consciousness approach can be a powerful antidote for the block, allowing creativity to freeflow.
Andi Kopek is a multidisciplinary artist based in Nashville, TN. With a background in medicine, molecular neuroscience, and behavioral change, he has recently devoted himself entirely to the creative arts. His debut poetry collection, Shmehara, has garnered accolades in both literary and independent film circles for its innovative storytelling.
When you’re in Nashville, you can join Andi at his monthly poetry workshop, participate in the Libri Prohibiti book club (both held monthly at the Spine bookstore, Smyrna, TN), or catch one of his live performances. When not engaging with the community, he's hard at work on his next creative project or preparing for his monthly art-focused podcast, The Samovar(t) Lounge: Steeping Conversations with Creative Minds, where in a relaxed space, invited artists share tea and the never-told intricacies of their creative journeys.
Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – The Many Flavors of “No”
Rejection isn’t the exception in a writer’s life—it’s the main course. In this wry, heartfelt essay, Andi Kopek serves up strategies for transforming rejection into nourishment for the creative soul, reminding writers they’re still cooking—even when they’re not the flavor of the day.
By Andi Kopek
I don’t think I’m spilling the beans when I say that a big chunk of a writer’s life is spent being told we’re not the flavor of the day. Rejection isn’t a side dish—it’s the main course of the creative life.
I’ve recently received several rejections on various projects I’m working on—I felt like I’d wandered into a Sunday all-you-can-weep brunch buffet. If misery were my main dish, this would’ve been the most generous buffet ever.
There was a bottomless mimosa of “unfortunately this doesn’t fit our needs,” a half-baked quiche of “not this time,” and a towering rejection waffle bar where every topping was a different shade of “we encourage you to submit again.” And then came a note from the chef: “Your novel is just a word salad.” The cheese cream of encouragement on the expired self-esteem toast was, unfortunately, spread too thin.
Then, it shouldn’t be a surprise, that tears accumulated so rapidly, they flooded not only my eyes but also my throat. Rejection can make it impossible to swallow anything but self-doubt—and even that could become a choking hazard.
What’s the Heimlich maneuver for staying alive through it all? Luckily, the literary survival menu offers a few options:
1. Reframe the Narrative
Rejection, while never pleasant, is best viewed as data for you, not a judgment of you. Most often, it reflects a question of fit rather than a verdict on your worth as a writer or the value of your work. Even the most celebrated authors—those whose names now grace syllabi and prize lists: Toni Morrison, Stephen King, Ursula K. Le Guin, Sylvia Plath, Vladimir Nabokov, William Faulkner, J. K. Rowling, George Orwell, James Baldwin, Octavia Butler, Agatha Christie—were once on the receiving end of countless polite (and impolite) declines: We are sorry, but we are closed. Please come back later. It is important to accept that rejection is not an exception to the writer’s path; it is the path.
2. Improve the Craft
Once you realize that rejection is inevitable, try to use it to your advantage. Rejection can be a golden (or at least charred) opportunity to return to your work with fresh eyes. As a once-famous chef said, moments after his kitchen caught fire while flambéing crêpes Suzette: “There’s always room for improvement.” So go to that room—and improve. Better yet, invite a few trusted friends or mentors to join you. Constructive criticism can serve as sturdy scaffolding for a kitchen renovation worth writing about. Because sometimes, all a story needs is a little open- window feedback and the removal of one very flammable sentence.
3. Refocus on Purpose
If, nevertheless, rejection starts to sting too deeply, like a pinch of salt in a fresh wound, it helps to put back on the counter the most fundamental, basic ingredient—why you began writing in the first place. Hopefully not for applause, algorithms, or acceptance letters—but for truth, for self- expression, for insight, and for the chance to spark change. To make this world a better place. So, at this instance, step away from the publishing hustle, even for a brief moment, and return to writing for yourself. The quiet joy of creation, free from outcome, is still the most reliable form of literary survival. Go back to your kitchen, take a piece of sourdough bread, spread in slow, careful motions I-can’t-believe-it’s-real-butter on it, put slices of your favorite ingredients on top, bring it all to a wooden rocker on your porch, and listen to birds while reflecting on your rejected existence.
4. Protect Your Mental Health
While rocking on the porch, allow yourself to feel the disappointment, as it is a natural response. However, don’t let it spiral into endless rumination. Set emotional boundaries around the sting. Resist the urge to compare your journey to others, especially in the curated chaos of social media. We have a tendency to compare ourselves to others who we think did “better” in our minds. If you have to compare yourself to others, choose someone who did “worse.” But truly, the best thing is not to compare yourself to other oranges. Remember, you are the Golden Delicious! Sometimes the best way to move forward is to stop, eat a dessert, breathe, eat a dessert, and listen to what your writing self needs next. And eat the dessert.
5. Build a Support System
Once you’re full, connect with a writing group or creative community—people who understand that rejection isn’t taboo, but a shared rite of passage. Talk about it openly. Naming the “no” out loud helps to normalize it, to strip it of its sting and secrecy. And don’t wait for a publication to throw a party—celebrate the small wins with others: the finished draft, the brave submission, the day you kept writing despite the doubt. But you know what? Why not celebrate rejection? Post: Dear friends! This Sunday, a potluck at my place. Bring comfort food. Don’t forget napkins and handkerchiefs. We will eat and cry. A lot. Together.
6. Have Fun
Once you gather your friends, your support buddies, have some fun. One amazing and surprisingly cathartic way to reclaim rejection is through blackout poetry—taking a rejection letter and redacting it until only a strange, accidental poem remains. Suddenly, “We regret to inform you” becomes the opening line of a noir love story. You can also gather your favorite rejections into a DIY zine: decorate it, title it something defiant like “Thanks, But No Thanks,” and share it with fellow potluckers. You can also cut the letter (which by itself can be therapeutic) into single words, half-sentences, and indecisive punctuation marks, then rearrange them along with your friends Burroughs-style—giving the scraps new meaning, new logic, and possibly the first interesting thing that letter ever produced.
Lastly, you can write a column about it.
Rejection will likely always be on the menu, but it doesn’t have to be the last course. You can chew it slowly, spit it out, or flambé it into something oddly nourishing. The truth is, if you’re getting rejected, it means you’re in the game. You’re sending your strange little soufflés into the world, hoping one of them lands in the right oven and rises just right, filling the room with the unmistakable aroma of something worth savoring. And that, in itself, is worthy of celebration. So pass the mimosa, taste the quiche, and keep having fun writing. Even if you’re not the flavor of the day, you’re still cooking.
Bon appétit, fellow word-chefs.
Andi Kopek is a multidisciplinary artist based in Nashville, TN. With a background in medicine, molecular neuroscience, and behavioral change, he has recently devoted himself entirely to the creative arts. His debut poetry collection, Shmehara, has garnered accolades in both literary and independent film circles for its innovative storytelling.
When you’re in Nashville, you can join Andi at his monthly poetry workshop, participate in the Libri Prohibiti book club (both held monthly at the Spine bookstore, Smyrna, TN), or catch one of his live performances. When not engaging with the community, he's hard at work on his next creative project or preparing for his monthly art-focused podcast, The Samovar(t) Lounge: Steeping Conversations with Creative Minds, where in a relaxed space, invited artists share tea and the never-told intricacies of their creative journeys.
Overcoming Blinking Cursor Syndrome
USA Today bestselling author Lois Winston explores the reality of writer’s block—aka Blinking Cursor Syndrome—and offers practical, experience-backed advice to overcome it. From news-inspired story prompts to the fine art of eavesdropping and setting boundaries, this article delivers insightful tips to reignite your creativity and get your writing flowing again.
By Lois Winston
I’ve heard some people state that there’s no such thing as writer’s block, that it’s all in your head, and you just need to snap out of it. Place your butt in your chair, your fingers on the keyboard, and just start typing!
I beg to differ. If something is keeping the words from flowing, it doesn’t matter if that something is physical, emotional, or mental. It exists. Anyone who claims otherwise has either been lucky enough not to experience writer’s block yet or is lying—to herself and/or to others. When life happens, it often impedes the muse, and every author at some point will find herself staring at a blinking cursor.
However, there are ways to overcome Blinking Cursor Syndrome, and they don’t involve purchasing additional software or downloading another social media app. My writing mantra has always been “Truth is Stranger than Fiction.” Many plots and characters in my books have been influenced by what’s going on in the world and how those events impact ordinary people.
The next time you find yourself suffering from Blinking Cursor Syndrome, try one or more of these tips:
Watch and read the news.
Too many people I know don’t regularly read, watch, or listen to the news. Big mistake, especially for writers. On any given night, a half-hour of world or local news will provide massive fodder for plots and characters.
From the time I began writing thirty years ago, I’ve kept a binder of interesting articles I’ve come across, clipping them from newspapers and news magazines or downloading them from the internet. Whenever I’m stuck for an idea, I pull out that binder and read through some of the articles in search of a nugget of inspiration. Even though I write mysteries, not all these articles are about criminal activity. My binder includes human interest stories, editorials, letters to Dear Abby, and even ads for odd mail-order products. Something will inevitably get my creative juices flowing.
Employ the fine art of eavesdropping.
I’m also a diehard eavesdropper. Instead of burying my nose in my phone, whether I’m standing on a supermarket line, in the theater awaiting the start of a movie, in a doctor’s waiting room, or even in a stall in the ladies’ room, I’m listen to conversations going on around me, especially phone conversations, which amazingly, are often on speaker in very public places. If I hear anything interesting (and I usually do), I’ll jot down some notes when I get into my car.
Be observant.
Stick your phone in your pocket and focus on the people you encounter as you go about your day. What are they doing? How do they react to and interact with others? Are they unique in the way they dress or look? Do they have any quirks? You won’t always come across someone worth remembering, but often, you will. Again, make notes for future reference.
In A Stitch to Die For, the fifth book in my Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Series, a murder occurs in the home across the street from Anastasia. Over the course of the series, the house is demolished and a McMansion built in its place. When I was mulling over ideas for the plot of Seams Like the Perfect Crime, the recently released fourteenth book in the series, I knew it was time for new neighbors to move into the McMansion. But who should they be?
I’ve had some very strange neighbors throughout my life, but the strangest were a couple who lived across the street from us twenty-five years ago. However, even though truth is often stranger than fiction, and my humorous cozy mystery series is populated with quite a few quirky characters, including my sleuth’s communist mother-in-law and a Shakespeare-quoting parrot, I wondered if readers would buy into a fictional version of my former neighbors.
Barefoot and shirtless, the husband would spend hours mowing his dirt-packed, weed-infested front lawn. Except for rain or snow, every day throughout the year, he’d run the mower back and forth across the same postage stamp-sized patch until the mower ran out of gas. He’d then sit on the top step of his porch and guzzle beer until he either passed out or fell asleep, lying on his back with his massive beer belly protruding skyward.
His wife was odd in her own way. One day, I witnessed a sidewalk brawl between her and a woman she accused of having an affair with her weed-mowing, beer-guzzling husband.
To get a feel for how readers would react to characters based on this couple, I told my newsletter subscribers about them and asked if I should use them as inspiration for characters in my next book. The overwhelming consensus of those who responded was to go for it. I did, and I’m thrilled to report that so far, reviews are quite positive.
Along with the above three tips I’ve used to help me deal with Blinking Cursor Syndrome, here are a few others I find helpful:
Join a critique group or find a critique partner.
It always helps to have another writer or writers with whom to brainstorm and bounce around ideas. Let’s face it, sometimes we’re just too invested in our work to be objective. A good critique partner will bring a fresh set of eyes to your work and help you find a way out of that corner you’ve written yourself into.
Clear your overactive imagination.
Sometimes our brains are so full of fragments of ideas that we find it difficult to narrow down the possibilities. If we choose A, will we regret not choosing B? What about C? Or D? When that happens, our imagination can work against us, paralyzing us with the fear of making the wrong choice. Try meditating. Or take a walk in the woods. Or a long, hot shower or bath. Wake up half an hour early to focus on one character or one plot point, ignoring everything else. Your brain is like your desk. If it’s too cluttered, you’ll never find what you need.
Give yourself permission not to write.
Some authors feel that the moment they finish a book, they need to start the next one. However, humans aren’t perpetual motion machines. If we want to nurture our creativity, we need to care for our bodies and minds, allowing them to rejuvenate periodically. Too often, we sabotage ourselves by believing we can never stop working. This is counterproductive, inevitably stifling our creativity.
When you begin to feel yourself succumbing to this way of thinking, walk away from the keyboard and screen. Take the day off. Or several days. Read a book for pleasure. Spend time on a hobby you’ve ignored for too long. Work in your garden. Do some volunteer work. Go shopping or out to lunch with friends. Take a short vacation or a staycation. Most importantly, step out of your writer’s cave. Give your brain and body a much-needed break. That blinking cursor is telling you that you need one.
Learn to say no.
Forgive me if this comes across as sounding sexist, but in my experience, this is a problem that affects women more than men. We have a hard time saying no, no matter what’s asked of us or by whom. Is it insecurity? A need to please? Or because we’ve been conditioned to believe we’re capable of accomplishing anything? After all, I am woman. Hear me roar! No matter the reason, from my own experiences and those of many of my friends, this inability to say no results in juggling too much, which creates an overabundance of stress and leaves less time for writing. Then, when we do find time to write, we pressure ourselves to get that self-imposed daily word count down, which creates even more stress. And thanks to all that stress, the words refuse to come.
The solution is as simple as not being so accommodating. Most people will always zero in on the one person they know they can wheedle, cajole, sweet-talk, or arm-twist into heading this committee or taking on that project, especially since most of these people believe, as writers, we don’t have “real” jobs (Which is a topic for another article). Resolve to grow a backbone, put your foot down, and say no now and then. You’ll find that when you free up writing time, your cursor will no longer blink you into a hypnotic trance.
Set a challenge for yourself.
Step away from trying to figure out whatever plot or character issue is causing Blinking Cursor Syndrome. Instead, find a recent news or human-interest story. Then, open a fresh document on your laptop or grab a pad and pen.
After reading the article, allow yourself three to five minutes to put a “what if” spin to the article by answering each of the following questions:
1. Who is the protagonist?
2. Who is the antagonist?
3. Who are the secondary characters?
4. Where does the story take place?
5. What are the characters’ goals?
6. What are the characters’ motivations?
7. What are the characters’ conflicts?
8.What’s the basic plot?
9. What are the three major turning points of the plot?
10. What’s the black moment?
11. What’s the resolution?
When you’ve finished, study your answers. Chances are, your brain has subconsciously focused on the problem you put aside, and somewhere within the answers to those questions, is the solution to your blinking cursor. If not, you’ve got a head start on a new book. And that’s never a bad thing!
USA Today and Amazon bestselling and award-winning author Lois Winston writes mystery, romance, romantic suspense, chick lit, women’s fiction, children’s chapter books, and nonfiction. Kirkus Reviews dubbed her critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series, “North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum.” In addition, Lois is a former literary agent and an award-winning craft and needlework designer who often draws much of her source material for both her characters and plots from her experiences in the crafts industry. A Crafty Collage of Crime, the twelfth book in her series, was the recipient of the 2024 Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Award for Best Comedy. Learn more about Lois and her books at www.loiswinston.com. Sign up for her newsletter to receive an Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mystery.
Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – Finding Inspiration
Inspiration is a mysterious force that drives writers. In this column, we explore how to find inspiration in everyday life, personal experiences, and nature, and how these moments fuel our creativity and storytelling.
By Andi Kopek
A few days ago, an email landed in my inbox with an intriguing idea: Contribute to Killer Nashville Magazine! The email encouraged writers to submit single pieces, pitch the entire series, or even become regular columnists. My immediate reaction? “Hell, yes! Go for it!”
I had the privilege of volunteering at the most recent Killer Nashville conference, contributing by reviewing submissions, bringing authors’ work to life through live readings, and assisting the logistics team. It was a rewarding experience in every sense, but what struck me most was the event’s outstanding quality and the immense value it provided to its participants. So, when the opportunity arose to contribute to the magazine—an extension of the conference—I jumped in headfirst.
When I emerged from the pool of excitement, I asked myself, “What do you want to write about?” This reflection led me to the title of my potential column: Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind. Titles are vital; they serve as beacons from a lighthouse of purpose, guiding the writing ship through the tumultuous seas of creativity and storytelling.
Why Between Pen and Paper? Because I believe entire worlds exist in that space. There are foggy worlds of undiscovered desires, passions, and failures hidden in a writer’s mind. Mundane worlds of endless research and labyrinthine directories of folders within sub-folders, within sub-folders holding googol amount of Googled information. And then there are fantasy worlds, where pages transform into smiling green Benjamins, and bank accounts grow fat like grizzly bears before La Niña’s winter.
These are the fascinating worlds I want to explore, and I’d like to invite you to come along.
There are countless ways to explore a world: you can hop on a plane with a packed itinerary and check off every tourist hotspot, or you can stand by the side of the road with a thumb outstretched, waiting for the unpredictable. I’ve traveled the world both ways—and in some others—but my favorite is through flaneuring.
What is flaneuring? Flaneuring, or flânerie, was born in the literary circles of 19th-century Europe. A flâneur—a person who practices flaneuring—wanders the streets of a city, observing and reflecting on its urban landscape. Edgar Allan Poe introduced this concept to literature in 1840 with his short story “The Man of the Crowd.” Charles Baudelaire discussed Poe’s story in his “The Painter of Modern Life”, Victor Fournel dedicated a chapter of his book “Ce qu'On Voit dans les Rues de Paris” (What One Sees in the Streets of Paris) to “the art of flânerie”, Honore de Balzac described flaneuring so poetically as “the gastronomy of the eye” in his The Physiology of Marriage.
Inspired by this contemplative form of exploration, I propose we flaneur through the vast worlds of a writer’s mind. Let’s begin our journey where all stories originate—with inspiration.
Inspiration is a mysterious, almost sacred force. It ignites a writer’s unexplainable desire to tell stories. Suddenly, an event, a thought, or a fleeting moment pierces the thick skin of mundane reality and touches the soul of a writer, compelling us to create something meaningful.
As I wander through the inspirational world, I notice three distinct types of inspiration:
1. Inspiration in Everyday Life
Everyday life is full of untapped creativity. When I go grocery shopping, I’m not just buying food—I’m observing the world around me. I observe what people buy, how shoppers interact with each other, or how couples move through the aisles. To sharpen my focus, I sometimes wear muted earphones to amplify my visual senses. Conversely, in a café, I close my eyes sometimes to heighten my auditory awareness, letting the noise and rhythm of conversations spark ideas. These ordinary moments can inspire characters, dialogue, or the subtleties of a scene.
2. Inspiration from Personal Experiences
Personal experiences are a treasure trove for storytelling. At the end of the day, what we know the best is our lives. While not everything we write is autobiographical, our lives provide rich emotional material to draw upon. Moments of joy, heartbreak, or vulnerability can shape authentic characters and relatable narratives. Think about waiting for a life-altering diagnosis or experiencing the bittersweet ache of nostalgia—these emotions can become the foundation of an interesting story. Ultimately, our personal experiences, whether mundane or monumental, can allow us to explore universal human truths.
3. Inspiration by Nature
Nature offers boundless inspiration. When I’m going for a walk, doesn’t mean I want to write a hiking guide. Nature is full of parables, similes, and metaphors. The way rain reshapes deer hoofprints in mud might inspire a crucial clue in a detective story. The oppressive darkness of a moonless forest could set the tone for a psychological thriller. Even the smell of freshly turned soil might spark the perfect ending to a murder mystery. When we observe nature with a writer’s eye, we uncover stories waiting to be told.
These diverse sources of inspiration—everyday life, personal experiences, and nature—feed our creativity and provide the raw material for storytelling. They can ignite an entire novel, inspire a unique character quirk, or shape a single unforgettable moment in a story. Inspiration doesn’t always arrive fully formed; sometimes, it’s just a fragment—a fleeting image, a snippet of dialogue, or an emotion—that grows as we nurture it. If we keep our minds open, inspirations come constantly in our direction, so we should be prepared to welcome them and, if not used at the moment, have a way of storing them for later.
The word inspiration comes from the Latin inspirare, meaning “to breathe into.” And that’s exactly what inspiration does—it breathes life into our thoughts, transforming them into vivid, imaginative creations.
So, let’s embrace every inspiration we encounter, at every step, at every turn as we flaneur through the intricate worlds of the writer’s mind.
Andi Kopek is a multidisciplinary artist based in Nashville, TN. With a background in medicine, molecular neuroscience, and behavioral change, he has recently devoted himself entirely to the creative arts. His debut poetry collection, Shmehara, has garnered accolades in both literary and independent film circles for its innovative storytelling.
When you’re in Nashville, you can join Andi at his monthly poetry workshop, participate in the Libri Prohibiti book club, or catch one of his live performances. When not engaging with the community, he's hard at work on his next creative project or preparing for his upcoming art-focused podcast, The Samovar(t) Lounge: Steeping Conversations with Creative Minds,where in a relaxed space, invited artists share tea and the never-told intricacies of their creative journeys.
Motivation and Thrilling Places
Sometimes it takes more than discipline to write—it takes inspiration. From the elegance of NYC’s Rose Reading Room to the historic charm of Georgetown, this post explores how thrilling places can reignite your passion for writing and transport you into your creative zone.
By Charlie Walters
Self help books abound. They teach us to have the discipline and energy to write. Our energy may come from coffee or exercise, or like Stephen King, a long walk. While all such books and podcasts and whatever are useful, they don’t really help us writers to motivate ourselves. We may have the discipline to sit in the chair, but then what?
Passion in writing and the desire to write are elusive. Like the muse, they can mean all sorts of things. They can come in the guise of a person or a time in history. For me, thrilling places have always helped me get into the mood to write. How do you lose yourself in your writing, the pages being written by the minute? The answer, find a great place, get inspired by beauty or danger, and get writing.
Let’s start with a place known to many writers; New York City. Like my hometown of Washington, DC, the big apple has a romance to it. The colors and forms of the Museum of Modern Art, or the history and culture of almost every restaurant or building come to mind. You can probably name a few other ways the city, any major city really, inspires the imagination. Great structures have been built and lives, infamous and famous, are in the fabric of the city.
The city is flavored by a sense of being alive, but also killing. Plenty and deprivation live together on New York streets. There is no better oasis from the pain and ambition of NYC then the Rose Reading Room. Located in the Schwarzman Building, third floor, one can be transported to a writer’s and a researcher’s paradise. This elegant room was used by authors and journalists like Norman Mailer.
Look up and see lightly pink clouds hiding cherubs. The sun beams in daylight to excite the soul. It’s two blocks long. Chandeliers hang far above the rectangle tables of beautifully stained wood. They are on marble floors. Request a book at the desk. Stop and read the one you brought as you wait. A trolly brings your book on a twenty minute journey. Your individual lamp lights your space. It’s almost heaven. The only place like it, in my experience, is the Wilson Library at the University of North Carolina. You’ll find yourself wondering why tourists are resting on unstable café chairs in Bryant Park.
Like the Rose Reading Room, Georgetown’s cobbled streets in Washington, DC get me in the mood to write. I start out at Bridge Street Books, finding something like Truman Copote, In Cold Blood. I cozy into the alcoves of this small two story shop. DC bookshops are great for finding that unusual history or international book. Next, I proceed up the stone path to a restaurant like Clyde’s, where you can get decent food and a stiff drink, if that’s your thing. I advise going to the back bar, at Clyde’s, or anywhere in Georgetown.
Adam’s Morgan is another great neighborhood in DC, but Georgetown has the vibe of power and play, both great for writing. Sit in the back. Take it all in with a slow sipping Pinot Noir. Think about the filming of The Exorcist or the Kennedy’s home a few blocks up. JFK moved to Georgetown as a freshman congressman in 1947. He proposed to Jackie at Martin’s Tavern on Wisconsin Avenue. These are a couple of the places that thrill me and drive me to write. For you it might be a New York diner or a DC rooftop bar, but I encourage you to find your own thrilling place of motivation. Experience helps us write about our character’s lives. Thrill yourself first by finding that special place. If you’re at a loss, try one of mine.
The Writer’s Playbook: When Your Journey Collapses
When disaster hit the Pontiac Silverdome, it set off a chain reaction that reshaped the future of the Detroit Pistons. In this powerful reflection, a former staffer draws striking parallels between that collapse and the author’s journey—reminding us that breakdowns often ignite the boldest breakthroughs.
By Steven Harms
On March 3, 1985, a severe winter storm of heavy, wet snow blasted Pontiac, Michigan causing the air-pressured roof of the Pontiac Silverdome, home to the Detroit Pistons and Detroit Lions, to concave.
A year prior to that I began my career in pro sports with the Pistons. When I awoke the morning of the 4th, I had an inkling our home game that night would be cancelled due to the storm. Understatement of the year. Upon nearing the stadium as I drove into work, the sight was incomprehensible. The roof had inverted to such a degree that it wasn’t visible from the exterior.
I parked and made my way into the offices, proceeding to my tiny cubicle, joining my colleagues as ticket sales representatives. The first thing we all did, including my boss and the rest of the team, was to head across the hall to the Silverdome’s press box to view the scene. That space looks out over the football field and the basketball court positioned in the southeast corner.
The decision was made immediately to postpone the game. Back to our cubicles, we jumped on our phones to call every season ticket holder to inform them of the situation. Side note – there was no internet or cell phones in 1985. A few hours later, unworldly rumbles and corresponding earthquake-like shakes rolled through our offices, taking out the power in the process. We all knew what happened.
Officially, in the southwest corner of the Silverdome, the snow depressed the fabric panels low enough so that the fabric met a steel lighting catwalk positioned just below the inner lip of the roof's ring beam. The hole caused a loss of air pressure, deflating the roof. Eventually the wet snow slid down into the bowl and ruptured more roof panels, collapsing several precast risers in the upper deck, and dislodging chunks of seating areas in the process including some from the upper level that had smashed the lower-level seats upon impact. One of the collapsed panels that fell demolished the Pistons court. For all of you college football fans, Gary Danielson was practicing at midfield with a few other Lions players when the collapse began, but they made it out of there in time. Repair operations of the roof began immediately but were interrupted for over a week due to high winds. In the end, nearly all the remaining panels in the deflated roof, one hundred in all, were either ripped off their moorings or badly damaged.
As for us Pistons staff members, our story continued. We were sent home the rest of that day for obvious safety reasons. Additionally, ten home games were left in the season (including a home game that evening) as well as the high likelihood that we would be in the NBA playoffs at the end of the month. Disaster central.
In the end, we managed through. We returned to work two days later deploying generators to power high blowing heaters so at least we could function. Our phone lines were reconnected. We had to relocate season ticket holders to wherever we were going to play. It became a master class in customer service. Within a few days our president had worked out a deal with Cobo Hall and Joe Louis Arena in downtown Detroit – home of the Detroit Red Wings – to play our remaining games.
The silver lining in all of this was the experience triggered a series of business decisions that ultimately led to the Pistons building their own arena, The Palace of Auburn Hills, a few miles up the road. The Palace opened in August of 1988, corresponding with the Pistons winning NBA Championships in the first two years. The Pistons organization went on to even greater heights, establishing Palace Sports & Entertainment, acquiring the largest amphitheater in the Detroit area, and serving as entertainment managers for a few other facilities as well as starting a popular minor league hockey team, indoor soccer, and a concert venue experience like no other at the time. What the Pistons did with the Palace was groundbreaking in many ways, earning national recognition.
But here’s the thing…
If not for the collapse of the Silverdome, none of what the Pistons morphed into would have happened. The disaster was the catalyst. It birthed a rebuilt organization that achieved heights it never imagined through vision, creativity, innovation, and strategic planning and execution.
I plucked this experience from my past to shine a light on our author journeys. The correlation between the collapse of the Silverdome and what we process as authors, in every aspect, is a study in heroic pursuit of success.
For every writer reading this, whether you are published or hoping to be, please take yourself back to that moment you decided to become an author and the first time you took your seat at your keyboard to begin the first chapter. Ahead of you are a thousand challenges. Some are obvious, some are not. Success is the goal, but along the way the pieces you put in place to reach that goal can collapse, fully or in part. Among many, there’s the story you’re writing itself followed by editing and rewriting, and then the rewrite of the rewritten story, and then another rewrite of that rewrite, the agent search and multiple rejections followed by your agent’s pitch (if you landed an agent) resulting in numerous further rejections from publishers, if at all, attaining recognition and sales if you opt for self-publishing, book marketing efforts producing no discernible results, your publisher changing their mind, the toll it may take on your home life as you climb the author mountain, and. . . fill in the blank.
Yet, as happened to the Pontiac Silverdome and its consequence on the Detroit Pistons, the hardships of heavy, wet snow that descends on your author journey can either bury you into a collapsed state or serve as a reagent for you to course correct. Rebuild, transform, innovate, vision-cast. Tap into that glorious attribute ingrained within because the ability to turn a blank piece of paper into a story isn’t at all easy.
We are authors. Bring on the storm.
The Writer’s Playbook: The Drummer Boy
From writing a Christmas musical that touched thousands to publishing suspense novels, this is the story of how one writer’s unexpected journey—from church skits to book deals—became a masterclass in creativity, calling, and perseverance.
By Steven Harms
As a contributing writer to Killer Nashville Magazine, I’ve been tapping into my career as a professional sports executive to showcase some very personal stories and observations from my time in the business. Each one has been filtered through the lens of utilizing those moments to correlate topics to discuss in the world of writing.
Here, I’m going to pivot a bit and pluck a different kind of story from my background. It’s about my journey to becoming an author and getting published. My hope is that it serves to inspire, in some way, all those who are trying to break into the business despite its tendency to be a rather difficult and complex undertaking.
Writing is our passion. It’s a creative expression full of dreams and hopes and wants. Success, comes in many forms. For me, I simply wanted to challenge myself to write a novel and get it published through the traditional process. Would I have the chops to succeed? But that question and dream followed something I accomplished that was a precursor; an undertaking that took me down a road I had never traveled.
As a backdrop, I’m a person of faith and have attended church my entire life. In the early 2000s, my wife and I started attending a non-denominational church that, we came to find out, used creative arts at times in its sermons. Specifically, dance and drama in the form of skits to underscore that day’s message. I dabbled in theater in college, but frankly, never stayed with it and moved on with my career following graduation. Apparently, the acting bug never truly left me, and I ended up volunteering to be in some skits at our new church home. I eventually started writing their skits around 2004 to provide the need for “home-grown” drama, which implanted in me the writing bug.
Fast forward a few years. I can’t tell you the exact moment, or the trigger, or the catalyst that washed over me one day and placed on me a calling to take a stab at being a playwright and write a unique story surrounding the birth of Jesus. If you are a person of faith, chalk that up to the nudging from the holy spirit. If you aren’t, chalk it up to me being a crazy half-baked dreamer.
The inspiration was quite clear and straightforward, though. The seed of the idea was to create a story using songs of the Christmas season to help drive the plot like a traditional musical does and build a compelling story arc that would touch believers and non-believers alike. The story wasn’t what you’re probably thinking. The target audience was very much adult-oriented, with the main character’s life unraveling in some very troubled waters. I also have zero musical talent, making this idea even nuttier. After a few nights of trying unsuccessfully to get it out of my mind, I dove in.
There I was, like we all sometimes do, staring at a blank screen with that heavy mixture of excitement and dread. You think I would’ve researched simple things like how to write a script, what were the dos and don’ts, generally acceptable lengths of scenes, and on and on. Well, I didn’t. I just started.
I landed on something from my childhood in the form of the song “The Little Drummer Boy.” It’s been a favorite of mine, perhaps my most favorite. I gave him a name–Mozel–and filled my head and notes with his backstory and plot line to get him to Bethlehem on the night of the birth. Along the way, literally a hundred characters came to life. Eight traditional Christmas songs were used to help drive the plot. It took me about a year to complete.
I never told my church I was undertaking this effort. I simply acted on the inspiration I was gifted and wrote the story. I distinctly remember, when it was completed, I said something to God along the lines of, “There. I did it. You asked me to do this, and, well, I did, and it’s now done.” I never held any purposeful intent to ever let it see the light of day.
Maybe a few weeks rolled by, and then something happened. The head of drama for my church had professional theater experience and was an advocate for utilizing drama as an outreach to the community. She directed some secular plays annually at our church over the years, with most of those targeted at kids and families (think ‘Wizard of Oz’ type shows). She and I became good friends along the way. We connected following a Sunday morning service, or maybe at a church picnic or something, and I casually told her why and what I had written. She wanted to read it and was adamant that I send it to her. This occurred in spring of 2007.
In December 2008, The Little Drummer Boy made its debut on our stage. All in, the cast and crew numbered around 150. We pulled together every discipline a professional theater needs, including volunteer leaders who captained costumes, lighting, sound, choir, music, ushers, parking, and marketing. We paid a local university’s drama department to build sets, leaning into their expertise based on our stage dimensions and back-of-house capabilities. The show ran for five years with four shows during one December weekend annually in 2008-2010, 2012, and 2014. Over 20,000 people attended the performances, some from nearby states who became aware of it through social media marketing. We gifted homeless veterans an entire section of seats each year. We bused them in from shelters in Detroit. They usually numbered about 300 and were the most energetic and grateful group of people I had ever been around. That alone was worth every minute of our collective efforts to bring the production to life. After those seven years, I pulled the plug due to personal burnout, and wanting the show to go out on a high note.
But something interesting happened in that final year of the show. That same little voice gave me another nudge around October 2014. Having never written a short story, let alone a novel, it told me to write one, anyway. The inspiration was the challenge, but more so, to task myself with embedding moral principles as the undertow theme within a secular book in the mystery/thriller/suspense genres. Two years later, with an edited manuscript completed, I began my search for an agent and landed at the Liza Royce Agency in New York about five months into the process. The first book, Give Place to Wrath, was published in 2017 as the Roger Viceroy Series, with the second one, The Counsel of the Cunning, released in 2021 after a pandemic pause.
While the books have been critically well-met, the sales haven’t done nearly so, which makes me a member of the overwhelming majority of authors in the world. But I press on with determination and confidence, having shifted to a stand-alone story taking shape now for my third book.
As mentioned at the start of this blog, perhaps there is inspiration for you in the telling of my road to being a published author. Mine was a voice that simply wouldn’t go away.
As I look back, I truly believe becoming the playwright of The Little Drummer Boy was a deep-dive training experience. I had to map it all out as the playwright and producer, ultimately having to devise a business plan and then follow through with the hundreds of action steps to bring the show to life. Yes, it was consuming, but the results outperformed even my most positive projections. The process taught me there are no corners to be cut, that inspirational story ideas, told well and authentically, will capture audiences, that people in your universe of contacts and relationships will help without question, that sticking to a plan produces results, and that you can jump into the great unknown and find your footing because you heeded a calling to do so.
Give it your excellent best effort. There are readers out there just waiting to dive into your book. Happy writing.
Horror with Character
In crafting the LIT horror series, the author dives deep into character-driven storytelling—building complex, imperfect individuals who blur the line between hero and victim. This is horror not just designed to terrify, but to reflect the humanity behind the fear.
By Mark Anthony
Many years ago, I had a bizarre and uncomfortable nightmare. One of those unsettling dreams that plagues when you wake. Hoping it won’t come back, it replays behind your eyes as you go to bed the next night. Whilst working as a Cancer Nurse, COVID decided to arrive, and I found myself living in a very unsettled, scared, world. From this, I decided to finally play with those scenes that had kept expanding in my mind. Quite naturally for me, my imagination began to weave them into a story. Building upon thought, creating visions and moments like jigsaw pieces which, as my mind was manifesting them, it was piecing them together to form complete pictures.
I have always been a storyteller and, on reflection, a fan of very specific stories. Whether written, or on screen, I have always been drawn to tales of normal people in extraordinary, otherworldly, situations. The archetypal stereotype of the determined hero, the ordained victim, and the clear win or lose motive, did not interest, or inspire my imagination. The tropes of the pure virginal hero and the twisted, ugly monster arguably had their time. The audience became desensitised to heads rolling. To blood, blood, and more blood.
However, the juxtaposition of a normality infected by a world of stark anomalies and extraordinary dangers enthralled me. The closer horror is entwined with reality, the more unsettling it can become. The harder it is to draw that line between fantasy and reality, between the good and the bad, the more horrific it can be. And a key aspect of creating this uncanny stage is the characters within it.
In the beginning, the first of the LIT novels started with the framework for one, single protagonist. Her physical appearance, her mannerisms, her voice were a mimicry of someone I already knew. A real, tangible person used as a blank sheet to add the vast amounts of color that would make her an intriguing, natural individual in this dark world that I planned to create. I had a rough idea of what would happen and how I would develop the atmosphere that would be humming throughout the entire story. Foreboding, bleak.
The first chapter was all about her. Intimate, and to be honest, as much as it was there to reveal her essence to the reader, it also served to plant my own seed of who this young woman was and would become. Strong, stoic yet selfish. Determination fuelled by self-absorption. Clever and manipulative.
In the third chapter, Sam was created. An amalgam of different people from my past. A dynamic young man, smart, candid, and irrepressible despite the horrors that hid within. A rebel within his own mind. Most people can relate to this. There to push against the inner demons with varying degrees of success. He was to be an open book, in stark contrast to the pure, but damaged, introvert of chapter 1. An openly gay man who demonstrated that we all have so much more in common with each other than not.
The second chapter, however, was an afterthought. I find it very interesting on reflection that he quickly became a reader favourite—a 9-year-old boy. A pure innocent. A character there to inject heart and yes, I will admit, give this horrific tale some balance. It is funny but I once had him described to me as the “pathos” of the story. . .and I felt largely offended! Yes, I was genuinely offended, not about this young character but. . .for this young character. However, he fulfilled the ‘pathos’ brief. A child who deserved no guilt, no fault, and no karma. Yet even he wasn’t going to be spared from the same terrifying existence as the others. He would experience the same losses and grotesque rules. Perhaps he would become the character that most people would “root for.” And they did.
Many people don’t notice that it takes quite a lot of time in LIT, before our three protagonists are there in the same space at the same time. Whilst writing, I had a concern. When these individuals came together, in the same space, would they all still be able to hold their own. To remain as equals. Each a fully formed 3-dimensional protagonists? Yes. By carefully keeping their characters in limbo, swaying between the macabre and the mundane, it creates a deep understanding of the individual that invests the reader in all three equally. When they come together, the reader’s familiarity with each of the individuals allows for an intriguing ensemble to develop that embraces the reader like a special treat.
With the three protagonists in play, each continued to have their own distinct storyline. That took a deal of planning, but more so, a need for intuition and an understanding of the people that had been created. As any writer would agree, after a time the characters are able to take on a life of their own. Their mannerisms, their reactions and even their dialogue begin to write themselves. Each of the above is paramount in giving the reader the feeling that they are gaining the gift of insight into someone else’s life, someone else’s thoughts, and feelings. And within the universe of LIT, someone else’s trauma, terror, and bravery. Why would they make the decisions they make? Take the path they chose in any given situation? Because that’s what real people do.
These three characters with their own unique afflictions demonstrated what I had learnt over the course of my life. No one is 100% good or bad. No one is either hero or villain. Every person has the ability to be brave, to be scared, to fight or run. Everyone is influenced by their own experiences, successes, and traumas. That is what I wanted to achieve in the LIT series.
Horror writers tell tales to scare, titillate and sometimes, simply to shock. I wanted to create a story that not only terrified the reader but also, moved them. The best way to achieve this was to give the true victims of evil a basis in our own reality. A small part of them will then resonate within each of us. Do you agree with their decision? No, but you understand why they made them. Do you like them? Sometimes, you won’t, but isn’t that just like real life?
Horror and suspense greatly benefit from the gift of thoughtful, natural character arcs. One grizzly scene set-up only to follow another fulfills just a small component of a memorable horror story. There is so much more that can be done to grasp the reader. Not only does strong character development prevent reader boredom, it enhances the intrigue of the ‘What next?’ It drives curiosity for the avid fan of dark writing and gives them protagonists that embody universal character traits. Traits that one can both relate to and be repelled from. It makes us question what would we do if faced with the same dilemma? Are we coward? Hero? Or a bit of both depending on the circumstance and drive. This is the task of the storyteller. Their reader is a guest, to be guided through our world. Our characters take them on a journey both from within and outside their mind.
Mark Anthony is the award-winning author of the supernatural horror series, “LIT” He lives in Perth, Western Australia with his husband and 9 year old son. Anthony began writing whilst working as a Cancer Nurse when the COVID-19 lockdowns commenced in 2020 and has since produced a sequel “ASCENT”. “RAGE” the third book in the series has an expected release for April 2024.
When “The End” is Just the Beginning
After navigating the highs and lows of traditional publishing—including two orphaned series—Judy Penz Sheluk took control of her writing career by launching her own imprint. In this personal and empowering post, she shares the lessons learned and how the end of one chapter became the beginning of a bold new journey into indie publishing.
Ten years ago, when I sat down to write my first novel, the thought of self-publishing never crossed my mind. To be fair, times were different then. There was a greater stigma to self-publishing, and vanity presses had (deservedly) earned their reputation as the bottom feeders of the book publishing industry.
As an established freelance journalist and magazine editor, I was also no stranger to seeing my name in print, with bylines in dozens of North American newspapers and magazines. I assumed—wrongly, as it turned out—that my good reputation would help pave the way to a traditional publishing deal.
It didn’t, and in July 2014, after several (mostly nice) rejections and one offer from a New York City agent to ghost write a book in exchange for a small share of any royalties earned (I turned her down), I signed a contract for The Hanged Man’s Noose, the first book in my Glass Dolphin mystery series.
I vetted the publisher, an independent press based in Oregon, as well as anyone can prior to submitting. I checked online reviews and ratings of the books in their catalogue, read a handful of titles to ensure they were well edited, then contacted three of their authors who, like me, belonged to Sisters in Crime. Feedback about the publisher was overwhelmingly positive. Quality editing, proofreading, and cover art were all handled in a collaborative manner with the author. Royalties were reported monthly and paid promptly. I was further assured by the publisher’s Mystery Writers of America and International Thriller Writers approved standings.
Despite all that, when it came time to find a home for the first book in my Marketville mystery series, I decided to query elsewhere to make sure all my eggs weren’t in one basket. I’d heard too many tales of authors whose series had been “orphaned” (an industry term meaning the premature cancellation of a contract due to the publisher shuttering its doors or discontinuing the genre). That wasn’t going to happen to me.
Except, it did. Twice. It turned out having multiple baskets didn’t offer the security I thought it might.
It didn’t come as a huge shock; traditional print media had been declining for years, and my years in the magazine world taught me to read the signs of impending closure. One publisher had systematically begun to release every one of their authors from their contracts. The other had all but stopped communicating, including royalty reports and updates on books-in-progress. By July 2018, both of my series were officially orphaned.
Few “orphaned” authors find a new home for their existing series, even after months, sometimes years, of trying. Some start over. Some give up. I did neither. Both failed publishers had given me knowledge of the industry. I understood what loomed on my horizon, and a few months prior to being officially orphaned, I’d set up my own imprint, Superior Shores Press. I was ready to take my destiny into my own hands.
I’ve learned a lot since 2018, made a few miscalculations along the way, overcomplicated some things, underestimated others. I’ve also guided a couple of traditionally published authors through their own indie journeys and, at the request of my then-local library, developed a presentation titled Finding Your Path to Publication, which led to a second presentation, Self-Publishing: The Ins & Outs of Going Indie.
Both of those presentations led me to research and write two step-by-step publishing guides in 2023. Finding Your Path to Publication released in May, followed by The Ins & Outs of Going Indie in December. I don’t kid myself. These sorts of niche publications are unlikely to earn me what I like to call “Stephen King money,” but it is my sincere hope that they will help other authors—whether orphaned, published and looking for a change, or still at the querying/getting rejected stage—a place to explore options and opportunities.
Because authors should help authors. And because sometimes the end is just the beginning.
A former journalist and magazine editor, Judy Penz Sheluk is the bestselling author of Finding Your Path to Publication: A Step-by-Step Guide, as well as two mystery series: the Glass Dolphin Mysteries and Marketville Mysteries, both of which have been published in multiple languages. Her short crime fiction appears in several collections, including the Superior Shores Anthologies, which she also edited. Judy has a passion for understanding the ins and outs of all aspects of publishing, and is the founder and owner of Superior Shores Press, which she established in February 2018.
Judy is a member of Sisters in Crime, International Thriller Writers, the Short Mystery Fiction Society, and Crime Writers of Canada, where she served on the Board of Directors for five years, the final two as Chair. She lives in Northern Ontario. Find her at www.judypenzsheluk.com.
But It Really Happened
Many fiction stories are rooted in unbelievable but true events. This post explores how real-life crimes inspire crime fiction and how writers transform fact into compelling fiction while walking the line between truth and creativity.
By DP Lyle
But it really happened. I swear.
This is the defense fiction writers offer when someone says their story isn’t believable. “That could never happen,” they say. But, it could. It did. Still, their disbelief lingers.
I write both fiction and nonfiction. When people inquire about the difference between creating the two, my response is, “They are exactly the same, only different.” With NF, the research comes first. It must be gathered, fact-checked, and organized. Then, the writing begins. With fiction, you must first know your characters, plot, and setting before researching the materials needed to create a story that rings true.
Fiction writers often base their stories on a true crime. A look at best-selling books and iconic movies over the years underlines this fact. The horrific slaughter of the Clutter family in rural Kansas became Truman Capote’s masterpiece In Cold Blood—a book that sits somewhere between fiction and true crime. Serial killer Ed Gein fashioned furniture and clothing from human skin and inspired Hitchcock’s Norman Bates in Psycho and Buffalo Bill in Thomas Harris’s Silence of the Lambs.
For fiction writers, a true crime book, a news story, maybe a blog post sparks the idea. For my third Samantha Cody book, Original Sin, I created a character who was a snake-handling preacher. My research led me to the National Book Award finalist Salvation on Sand Mountain by Dennis Covington. It chronicles the story of Glenn Summerford, pastor of the Church of Jesus with Signs Following, who employed a rattlesnake in the attempted murder of his wife. You bet that little wrinkle appeared in Original Sin.
Or Victor Borkov, the bad guy in my first Jake Longly story, Deep Six. His enemies often found themselves lashed to an iron ring and dropped into the Gulf of Mexico. Alive. This is based on the actions of Skylar Deleon. Look up sociopath. You’ll see his picture. Under the guise of buying their boat, Skylar and a thug friend convinced Jackie and Thomas Hawks to go for a test cruise. It ended with the Hawks bound to an anchor and dumped in the Pacific Ocean. Alive.
These true stories are unbelievable. Yet true. For fiction writers, the trick is to morph unbelievable fact into believable fiction.
We fiction writers owe a great debt to true crime writers. They do the heavy lifting, the research, the telling of the crime, and we use that to inspire and create our stories. Ann Rule once told me that when she approached a true crime story, she looked for the person who was the heart of the story. Not the bad guy, often not the victim, but someone who was deeply affected by the crime. In fiction, we do the same, but have the added freedom of not being bound to the facts.
The marriage between crime fiction and true crime is alive and well.
DP Lyle, Award-winning author, lecturer, story consultant
The Mystery of Creativity
How does a left-brained tech executive become a bestselling thriller author? Avanti Centrae reveals the surprising secrets behind her creative process and how you can spark your own inspiration.
Imagine: Sherlock Holmes smoking his iconic pipe. Wonder Woman wielding a golden lasso. Glow-in-the-dark lightsabers clashing during an epic battle for the future of the Empire.
Have you ever wondered how authors come up with those types of larger-than-life characters? How we work in the jaw-dropping plot twists and design stories that keep your head spinning? Or are you curious about learning tips to utilize in your own creative endeavors?
I’m here to share my secrets with you, gentle crime aficionado. I’ll pull back the curtain in the hope that you’ll use these techniques to make the world a better place. We’ll all win.
My background is in tech. The very definition of left-brained work. I got a degree in computers from Purdue University and several decades later climbed the ladder high enough to become an IT executive for a well-known Silicon Valley firm. My world was spreadsheets, PowerPoint slides, and meetings. Oh, the meetings...talking on the phone while answering emails from my manager while simultaneously dealing with four instant messages. Argh! PTSD flashback!
I digress. The point is that’s a left-brained world. I wanted to be a thriller writer. Right-brained inspiration required. But how do I get the creative juices flowing?
I began my novel writing journey with an outline—the left brain’s answer to plotting. But as I added layer after layer, I found plot twists and character traits coming to mind at the oddest times. I’d be on a walk with the dogs, and an idea would come to me. I’m sure the neighbors thought me strange as I jotted down ideas in my BlackBerry while the German Shepherds pulled me down the street by their leashes. Or I’d take a hot shower, and that pesky plot problem would magically resolve itself. After toweling off, I’d take notes for later. The same thing would happen during yoga class, when meditating, or when I first woke up in the morning. Eventually, I realized my right brain, my subconscious, was adding its fingerprint to the story.
Once I realized when my muse liked to contribute, I started to use those times as windows of opportunity. Before I went for a walk, I’d mentally pack a chapter that I was writing in my backpack. When I stepped in the shower, a thorny plot twist would rest next to the soap bottle. The two halves of my brain work differently, and I learned to schedule writing time at a point in the day when I’m not answering emails, updating my website, or doing other heavy-lifting type thinking tasks.
I also studied brain wave patterns to find out how our minds work. In simple terms, we can all move from a problem-solving beta-brain-wave pattern to a right-brained alpha/theta creative pattern by visualizing and deepening our breath. That made sense to me, as walking, showering, meditating, and sleeping all involved physical activities that inspired my creative self.
After completing the first two books in the five-time award-winning VanOps thriller series: The Lost Power (2019) and Solstice Shadows (2020), and then writing an award-winning standalone called Cleopatra’s Vendetta (2022) I’ve figured out how my creative process works. There’s a dance between my logical brain and my creative side. I just have to set up the dance floor, turn on the music, and let the two sides tango.
Avanti Centrae is a former Silicon Valley IT executive turned #1 international bestselling thriller author. Her multi-award-winning novels blend intrigue, history, science, and mystery into pulse-pounding action thrillers. Download the first six chapters of her edge-of-your-seat VanOps series at www.avanticentrae.com.
Show Don’t Tell
“Show, don’t tell” is one of the most powerful tools in a writer’s toolkit. Learn how to paint vivid scenes that draw readers in and avoid the pitfalls of flat, uninspired prose.
By James Glass
What Does “Show, Don’t Tell” Mean?
Good writing tends to draw an image in the reader’s mind instead of just telling the reader what to think or believe.
Here’s a sentence that tells:
Mr. Jeffries was a fat, ungrateful old man.
That gets the information across, but it’s boring. Most writers who tell tend to lose, rather than gain readers.
Here’s a way to create an image of Mr. Jeffries in the reader’s mind:
Mr. Jeffries heaved himself out of the chair. As his feet spread under his apple-like frame, his arthritic knees popped and cracked in objection. Jeffries pounded the floor with his cane while cursing that dreadful girl who was late again with his coffee.
In the second example, I didn’t tell you Mr. Jeffries is fat. I showed you. I also didn’t tell you he was old, but showed you by mentioning his arthritic knees, his cane, and that he has a girl who tends to him. You probably guessed by now that he’s not a nice man.
One of the most hideous examples of telling rather than showing is the “As you know, Mr. Jeffries,” dialog. This is when one character tells another something they both know. It’s almost as hideous when an author painstakingly uses dialog and action to convey something the characters all know.
However, like most rules of thumb, “Show don’t tell” is excellent advice most of the time, but writers can apply it too broadly, or in situations where it hurts more than it helps. You must be aware of the spirit, as well as the letter, of this particular law. New writers tend to lecture their readers. It’s never a good idea to bludgeon your readers with information. Or they may try to explain through dialogue. The key is to find the right mix between showing and telling. You don’t want to bore your reader. Pick up one of your favorite authors’ books and see how they capture your attention in the pages. Reading is one of the most effective leaning tools for a writer.
If you find your writing feeling flat, take a step back and imagine the scene yourself. What sounds do you hear? What smells are in the air? What expression does your character have on his face? What are his motivations? Once you dig deeper into your own imagination, see if you can make your writing better by adding a few specifics. This will transport the readers to the scene you have in your mind.
So, let’s make today a good writing day. Whether one sentence, one paragraph or one chapter. It’s all progress. Make today a good writing day.
James Glass achieved the rank of Command Master Chief before retiring after 22 years in the United States Navy. After retiring from the Navy, he exchanged his rifle for a pen. He and his family moved back to Florida. James is also the president of the Panhandle Writers Group. He’s published five novels, one novella, and two (you solve the crime) chapter books.
Punctuation Is Power - Part 4: Finding your style: Free your mind and readers will follow
Finding your writing style is less about following rules and more about practicing until your voice emerges. Learn how punctuation, revision, and rhythm can help shape a voice readers will follow.
Ernest Hemingway wrote a novel you may have heard of called The Old Man and the Sea. It is described as a brilliant short novel, but before editors got hold of it, it was neither brilliant nor short. In fact, it meandered here and there. What a mess. It took an editor to find the story and chop out the crap, after which Ernest could finish it to become the brilliant, short novel we all know and love.
Part 3 of my series ended with the recommendation of getting an editor who was not in love with a particular style manual and forcing your story into a predetermined mold that may not fit. Hemingway was well served by just such editors. This column is about finding a style and training readers to it.
Many new writers, not having a technique or approach of their own, attempt to copy the writing style of an author they love. For writers endeavoring to learn the foundational elements of storytelling, pacing, power, scene setting, and so forth, there is nothing wrong with that. Like a musician practicing scales of chords and note patterns of famous works and then learning to vary those themes with his own flavor, a writer must can emulate the masters until that deeper understanding of interplay comes.
Delve into your heart of hearts and answer this question: Why do you write?
For myself, that answer is: Because I can’t not. Words are my thing and have been since I began learning to talk. Semper fidelis—always in the service of words.
Still, the question can lead to a huge list of follow-ups we don’t have time to cover here. King Solomon said in Ecclesiastes 12:12: “To the making of many books there is no end, and much devotion to them is wearisome to the flesh.” And this is a business that demands attention and can weary a soul.
That being said, it is important to know your own reason. There are no right or wrong answers to the question. But if you find you are wanting to write in order to sell your work for a large, anonymous crowd of readers—that is, you want to sell it in the retail marketplace and be in the business of book sales you will want to bring the best version of your work to that arena and make it stand out from other books also vying for readers’ attentions.
A book may feel like a baby, but it is a product. So, how can you find your own voice and train a reader to like it, understand it, want more of it?
Finding your own voice is a mysterious process. It cannot be taught, but it can happen. Training a reader is easy. Once you’ve found your voice, now you refine it on the page. Once you’ve got the story pretty close to finished, the hard work of checking the flow begins.
Then and only then you will question the use of every punctuation mark you’ve put in. You may find a long, run-on sentence that is convoluted and meanders down paths no one can find, yet each part seems important. You must now decide if it needs to be broken up into fragments and whole sentences of varying lengths, or something else entirely.
What I like to do is copy that one sentence (or graph) and paste it twice into a blank document. The first I will leave as my reference to the original. The second I then play with. Break here, here, and here? Comma there? Colon or semicolon? Then I paste the original sentence in for a third time and play again using both the original and the new edits as reference. Comparing how the meaning and pacing has changed, I change the order of the words, use a thesaurus, maybe work in some alliteration, and look for clichés and repetitions.
After about the third time of doing this, an Aha! moment may arise and you’ll see that maybe the original was perfectly fine, but that the problem was the graphs leading up to it. You rework those portions and bingo, bango, bungo, you got some words worth keeping.
That’s just one method. However, at this time something seemingly magical will happen. You will begin to find your voice. Like the musician practicing his scales, chord progressions, and inversions, and thus seeing all the variety he can produce, you won’t be afraid of words any longer because the words will know you are treating them as equals and respecting the power they bring to your tale by punctuating with powerful effect and affect.
Now, once you start punctuating to tell you story your way, make sure you follow that same style throughout the book, and guess what? By about the end of the second chapter, the reader will learn to follow along, simply and naturally enjoying the story.
Punctuation should never get in the way of a tale. Those marks are the workhorses that make the story look good, but they never take center stage away from the star, your story.
The Magnificent 7: Universal Story Plots and the Twelve Archetypes
Explore the seven universal story plots and twelve timeless archetypes that form the foundation of compelling storytelling, and learn how to apply them to your own writing.
By Martha Reed
I was asked by a curious fan how I built my stories. Not where my story ideas came from, but about their actual construction, their underlying, underpinning architecture. Writers already know how to use the basic three-act structure, but are there other options in our writerly toolbox that we should be using to lure our readers in?
The answer is ‘yes.’ Human beings have certain story expectations bred into our bone marrow. Developed in pre-written history, seven universal plots and 12 archetypes have successfully survived into our modern era, crossing multiple cultural divides. That’s not to say writers should rigidly follow a static and unwavering formula or create stale and hackneyed characters. Those would instantly turn an avid reader off. But do the following inherited plots and archetypes still have something to offer?
First, let’s look at definitions:
The basic story question is: “What happens next?”
Plot happens next. It’s the sequence of events inside the story.
An archetype is a story element like an idea, a symbol, pattern, emotion, character type, or event that occurs in all cultures. Archetypes represent something universal in the overall human experience. (I’ll share an example. The international movie, “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” used so many common archetypes that I found myself repeatedly wondering if I’d seen the movie before.)
In 2004, literary theorist Christopher Booker wrote “The Seven Basic Plots: Why We Tell Stories,” basing his premise on the following seven plots:
Overcoming the monster – An evil force is threatening the hero/heroine and their world. The h/h must slay the monster to receive a great reward.
Rags to riches – The h/h is insignificant and overlooked by others. Because of a trigger event, they are revealed to be exceptional.
The quest – The h/h sets out on a long, hazardous quest, overcoming all obstacles until they reach their goal.
Voyage and return – The h/h travels outside of their comfortable world into the unknown before returning to the safety of their home.
Comedy – A series of trigger events involving mistaken identity or a fundamental misunderstanding that results in hilarious chaos.
Tragedy – A story without a happy ending that ends in loss or death.
Rebirth – The h/h falls under a dark form of control before breaking free and being redeemed.
Regarding archetypes, psychologist Carl Jung theorized that we use such symbolism to grasp complex concepts more easily. He stated: “There are forms or images of a collective nature which occur practically all over the earth as constituents of myths and at the same time, as individual products of the unconscious.” Jung maintained that these archetypes remained unchanged and recognizable and that they exhibit personality traits that are commonly understood.
The 12 archetypes are:
The Innocent – Seeks to do things the right way in harmony, free of corruption or influence.
Everyman – Seeks connections and belonging. Supportive, faithful, and down-to-earth.
Hero – On a mission to make the world a better place.
Outlaw – Questions authority and breaks the rules.
Explorer – Inspired by travel, adventure, and risk.
Creator – Imaginative and inventive, driven to create things with real meaning.
Ruler – Creates order from chaos. Typically controlling and stern, yet responsible and organized.
Magician – Makes dreams a reality.
Lover – Inspires intimate moments with love, passion, romance, and commitment.
Caregiver – Protects and nurtures others.
Jester – Uses humor, irreverence, mischief, and fun to bring joy to the world.
Sage – Thoughtful mentor or advisor bringing wisdom and deeper insight.
Taking this information, try these exercises to tighten your creative focus:
Name a book or movie that uses each one of the seven plots.
Name a character from a book or a movie that fits each of the 12 archetypes.
Using your current work in progress, which of the seven plots fits your story? If you discover some overlap, which plot is stronger? What happens to your storyline when you focus only on that one?
Identify an archetype for each one of your characters. Next step: which archetype do they think they are? Do the two choices match? What happens to your focus and your character’s motivations when they do?
Martha Reed is the IPPY Book Award-winning author of the John and Sarah Jarad Nantucket Mysteries and of “Love Power,” her latest mystery set in the spellbinding city of New Orleans featuring Gigi Pascoe, a transgender sleuth.
She’s an active member of the Florida Gulf Coast and Guppy chapters of Sisters in Crime, a member of Mystery Writers of America, and in a moment of great personal folly she joined the New Orleans Bourbon Society (N.O.B.S.)
Her stories and articles have appeared in Pearl, Suspense Magazine, Spinetingler, Mystery Readers Journal, Mysterical-e, and in “Lucky Charms – 12 Crime Tales,” an anthology produced by the Mary Roberts Rinehart Pittsburgh chapter of Sisters in Crime. Her story, “The Honor Thief” was included in the 2021 Bouchercon anthology, “This Time For Sure,” edited by Hank Phillippi-Ryan.
Martha adores travel, big jewelry, California wine country, and simply great coffee. She delights in the ongoing antics of her family, fans, and friends who she lovingly calls The Mutinous Crew. You’re invited to follow her on Facebook and Twitter @ReedMartha.
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