ON TIME

By Clay Stafford

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Who can turn the world on with her smile?

I grew up watching The Dick Van Dyke Show and The Mary Tyler Moore Show, so I was bouncing off the wall, as a young screenwriter, when Mary Tyler Moore’s MTM Enterprises (co-owned with Grant Tinker) wanted my script. Mary Tyler Moore was an icon. Then it fell apart. The disappointment, embarrassment, and failure did not end me, though for a long time, I truly believed it might.

The opportunity arrived unexpectedly through a mutual friend, wrapped in the kind of moment I had always imagined would confirm everything I had been working toward. It was the legend of being discovered, that old Hollywood myth, suddenly stepping into my actual life.

When Mary Tyler Moore asked to see the screenplay, it took everything I had to remain vertical. I still remember the sweet elation of that moment, the sense that something I had been moving toward for years had finally turned and recognized me. They wanted it. Now. I said it needed one more rewrite, perfectionistic as I was. One of her producers gave me a reasonable due date. We shook hands. The deal was on. I was so elated at the fulfillment of a dream that it was difficult to settle into the work itself. All I could think was that I had finally arrived.

When the deadline came, what I had written still hadn’t risen to the heights I knew I could give. I ghosted the producer and dug deeper into the script, convinced that better mattered more than time, despite knowing one of filmmaking’s simplest truths: on time and on budget. I missed the deadline.

I delivered the script anyway and waited for the applause. The producer refused to read it, handing it back to me directly. The look on my face was probably good fodder for his lunch that day. “What a look,” I could imagine him saying, friends laughing. It was the best work I had ever done. But the fact that I was unreliable showed brighter than the script itself. I had been dismissed. I had delivered late. I blew it.

Nothing dramatic happened in my world. Life continued as normal, except for the depression that crushed my heart. No public failure marked the moment, though friends occasionally asked how the MTM project was going. It was acid on my soul. Total embarrassment.

Yet while licking my wounds, something inside me began to shift. The lost opportunity started to feel less like a single event and more like a doorway into a future I had already begun to inhabit in my mind. When the door to MTM closed, the loss was not only external and emotional, but structural. I wandered off course, without direction, not knowing how to orient myself once the outcome I had taken for granted had been stripped away.

Over the next six months of beating myself up, I slowly realized that I had built parts of my identity around results I believed I could control, assuming effort alone would secure them. Before the balloon popped, I had believed progress followed sincerity, that as a craftsperson and artist, vision was what counted. It wasn’t that I thought anything else was unimportant; it was my naïve belief that vision was all there was. I believed that if the work was good enough, and if I cared enough, things would align to match its quality. Deadlines felt negotiable compared to devotion. Precision felt morally superior to completion. I had never questioned those beliefs because they had always carried me forward. Missing the deadline didn’t contradict my core loudly, but when the door closed, I was left staring at it and gradually began to see that even quality had limits. Some birds, no matter how ready, must fly when the appointed time arrives.

What unsettled me most in the long run was not the lost opportunity itself, but my own part in it. I had not been denied arbitrarily. Purchased scripts often never see production. But I had killed the chick before it could come out of the egg. I had participated in the loss.

That realization reached deeper than ambition or even culpability. I began to see how easily good intentions became excuses, how care could turn into delay, and how quietly I had assumed the world would move at the pace I set for myself.

In the months that followed, no earthquakes occurred. What came instead was a quieter reckoning. I began to see how much of my direction had depended on imagined outcomes that ignored external reality and requirement. I saw how often I measured movement by where I expected to arrive and by the quality and applause waiting there, without recognizing the outer structures that also shaped my path. Without that full interior and exterior reference together, I was unmoored, as though the map I trusted no longer matched the ground beneath me. It was seismic.

Getting cut by MTM didn’t erase my hopes. It changed my proportion. I began to understand that effort and result were related, but not the same; that devotion did not replace structure; and that aspiration, no matter how noble, did not suspend time.

These realizations did not arrive as neat conclusions. They gathered slowly through self-incrimination, discomfort, reflection, and a gradual willingness to see what had been invisible while success had seemed so close.

Over time, the disorientation eased. I went back to work on the next project, but differently, not less carefully, but within forms that honored both my inner standards and the outer realities of the world I wished to belong to. I did not become immune to disappointment, but I became less dependent on projection. My work continued with a steadier proportion between what I could shape and what I could not, and within the confines in which I had to do it. The world did not operate around me. I had to operate within the world.

The opportunity I lost never returned in that form. Something else did: a clearer understanding of responsibility, restraint, and completion that might not be perfect. I no longer mistook perfection for devotion or delay for depth. My work reached others when they held out their hand, never later. And because of that, a career took shape. My path altered. The failure did not end me. It became a necessary step in my growth.

I came, eventually, to cherish it. I told the story to others, laughing at my own naïveté. Because of MTM, I rewrote the map by which I moved forward. The experience served me better than if the script had been produced, because it changed not my career, but who I was and the professional I longed to be.

And so, thanks to Mary Tyler Moore, I realized: you’re going to make it after all. I now toss my hat into the air at the proper musical beat.

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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

By Lois Winston

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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.

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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.

THE CHAIR IS STILL THERE

By Clay Stafford

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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.

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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/.

Making Your Plan

By Dale T. Phillips

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“The moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now.”

Sometimes attributed to Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (though it may be someone else’s)

Since success is far more likely when you have a good plan and follow it, you’ll want to work on this critical part a bit. Realize that the plan will likely change along the way, and that’s okay, as various life events and opportunities arise, especially if you have schedules, which you should. The plan needs to be recorded in some format: I use basic office software spreadsheets. Writing down things makes them real, and sets it more firmly in your mind. Charting your progress keeps you focused and motivated. Do what works for you, and make it easily accessible, because you’ll refer to this frequently, to keep following the plan. 

The plan isn’t hopes or simply dreams, it’s achievable goals that are within your power. You can certainly write down your dreams, or incorporate them as part of a Vision Board, but your plan is doable steps to success. Winning awards, selling 100 thousand copies, being on Oprah, these are outside of your control. What is within your control is easy: what you’ll produce, by when, and how you’ll get it out to the world, and what other steps you’ll take. All while you’re learning more and creating your business. Work by work, win by win, you set each foundation stone to build that house of success.

Series

Series are a great way to get more books out quicker, as you don’t have to rebuild the novel world each time. They’re more likely to get you repeat readers and build your fan base. One writer I know is a smart cookie who has all the keywords and ad campaigns down, knows some of how to market, but all five of his novels are in different genres with no connection. A reader finds one of his books they enjoy, but nothing else like it by the same author, so sales are one-offs. That’s why the books don’t sell, but he doesn’t do anything about it, except gripe about how they’re not selling. So he’s discouraged and wants to give up. People buy my entire mystery series, because when they find a fictional world they like, they enjoy returning to it again and again. Remember, there are many series which survived past the demise of their creator, because people enjoy those worlds, even when written by others. One reason why fanfic is so popular. 

Stories

If you can add stories and collections to your output, that gets you to success quicker. Each story publication is another showcase ad for you when it comes out, as well as a chance for more promotion (and some form of payment). They can be finished and published quicker than novels, and serve as good credit-building. They get you through the long haul between books, and keep you going, a refreshing change of pace from the long grind of a novel. If you get a story into an anthology or collection with other writers, there are good connections to make. Having a book of your stories is a good resume addition, and an inexpensive way for new readers to find you. More in the store! 

Start with making a goal of writing one story a month. At that pace, you’ve got enough in a year and a half to Indie publish a couple of collections. That lets you easily get into the publishing process, and puts some product up, apart from one novel or two. It helps to get the ball rolling. Momentum is nice to have. It’s good to keep a list of ideas and titles for future works, be they novels, stories, or whatever. If I need an idea for a targeted anthology story or get stuck on what to write, I look at the ideas and titles I’ve recorded to see if anything sparks me to begin on that. I always have material to write.

For the master plan, break it down into large segments. First, what you expect to have done by a year from the start date. You can do a lot in a year, more than you think. Second, what you’ll have done three years from now. That gives you enough time to put out some quality work that will get you noticed. Then a future date, by which you’ll have done enough to be successful. Say five to seven years, by which you’ll enough good novels written and published, and a lot of stories. More than many writers. 

Then detail each time segment in your plan, making milestones and goals. First year, first book. Say fifty thousand words, a short novel, only one thousand words a week. When you get to five thousand words, that’s a major milestone— your first ten percent! Hitting these milestones makes you feel like you’re really progressing, and keeps the momentum. As studies show, setting specific intentions greatly increase your chances of success.

Then the other details— how will the book be edited: critique group, beta readers, editor? Have you started on those parts yet? If not, set a period of time to research, and put that in the schedule. If you haven’t done it, it may be difficult to estimate, but it’s good to rough out some sort of time frame, even if preliminary. Remember, you can adjust the plan later as more information becomes available. Set a reasonable time for editing, especially if this is an early novel, which may require some restructuring and story work. One of the great aspects of the Indie world is that you don’t have to publish a book until it’s ready. There have been a number of occasions where I wanted a book done by a certain date, but it needed more work, so it got delayed. Don’t publish until it’s good, but don’t spend eternity on it, either. Get work out rather than let it sit for too many years unpublished. 

Publishing

Apart from editing, do you know how to publish? Print, ebook, audiobook? Do you have a cover artist and know how to format? Do you know what platforms you’ll distribute on? Do you have all your marketing materials planned out? Do you know the other aspects of what comes after? If not, set periods for research. Ebooks can be published quickly, as soon as they’re ready. Print needs more formatting, and time to order a proof copy to verify it looks like it’s supposed to. Audiobooks need to be produced, and take the longest time. Adjust plans accordingly, and if you don’t know, just put a guesstimate or TBD (To Be Determined) in the time frame for now.

Definitely set the schedule for learning, and not just the publishing knowledge you’ll need. Can you absorb a new craft book on writing every 3-4 months? That gives you a few every year, and helps you improve much quicker. Plan on a course, online or in-person event every year, on some aspect of your writing that needs improvement. For that, I recommend at least one live writer conference a year, where you can learn a great deal in a few days. Budget for it, because they’re invaluable in advancing your writing career and making connections with other writers and fans.

And that’s just the start. See what I mean about how most people don’t get that far? It’s daunting to think about all you have to know, in addition to the writing. It took me about two years to learn enough of what I needed to publish my own books and break out as full Indie. Then I just took off and didn’t look back, though I’m still always learning. It does get easier as time goes by, because once you’ve acquired certain knowledge, you don’t have to relearn it.

Getting There

By following a good plan, in three years, you can be set on your success path quite readily. You’ve got some good books published, maybe some other material as well, you have your marketing material all prepared, you know how to contact libraries and bookstores, you’ve learned a lot. You’ve learned how to take feedback and have some trusted advance readers who will help. You’ve got some reviews and been interviewed a few places. After you get many of the preliminaries out of the way, plan to step up your production. Since you need less research time, put it into making your books awesome. 

And the next few years after that should determine how well you’ll do. If you’re always moving forward, making plans and achieving goals, producing good work, you’ll be surprised at how much you can accomplish. 

My original plan was to get a good start on success with ten good novels, ten story collections, and one hundred published stories. 

And that’s just the beginning! 

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Dale T. Phillips has published novels, story collections, non-fiction, and over 80 short stories. Stephen King was Dale's college writing teacher, and since then, Dale has found time to appear on stage, television, radio, in an independent feature film, and compete on Jeopardy (losing in a spectacular fashion). He's a member of the Mystery Writers of America and the Sisters in Crime. 

Finding Your Niche as a Writer

By Linda Hughes

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It seems easy enough. You know what types of mysteries sell and make a lot of money, so you figure that’s what you’ll write. But then things start going wrong: It’s a struggle to finish a book, your beta readers are less than enthusiastic, agents reject your queries, or nobody buys your book.

Does that mean you’re a terrible writer? Maybe not. Here are some things to consider before you hang it up and schlep back to that former job you walked out on.

1: Are you certain about the requirements for the genre and subgenre you’ve chosen? They are very specific in most cases. For example, you might think you’re writing a cozy mystery but you have a character who likes to cuss. That’s not a cozy, which doesn’t allow blatant sex, violence, or profanity. Therefore, if you’re marketing it as a cozy mystery, readers and agents are disappointed. They aren’t getting what they want. That doesn’t mean you’re a lousy writer; it means you need to find the genre and subgenre that fit your writing and market to readers who want that type of story.

2: There are several subgenres for mysteries, which is the genre I’ll use as the example here. What they’re called depends on where you look, but let’s assume you want your book to be listed on Amazon. If you’re not sure about genres and subgenres, this helps:

• Go to Amazon, click on “Books,” don’t type anything in the search box but click on the magnifying glass. Scroll down to “Departments” and click “Mystery, Thriller & Suspense.” There you will find Amazon’s version of subgenres, which they call subcategories.

• Click again on the left hand column, on Mystery, for another drop down list, showing more Catagories.

• The most popular subcategories for Mysteries are Cozy, Hardboiled (no holds barred), Police Procedural (usually from a police detective’s point of view, the “POV”), Private Investigator (who can be a retired police detective), and Women Sleuths.

• Click on each subcategory. Books that are bestsellers in each one will pop up. Click on several books and examine them closely. Read the descriptions, look at the covers, and read the reviews. Which books in which subcategories are most like yours? That’s where your book belongs. You can also research the requirements for each genre and subgenre using Google or any search engine, but examining the actual books is a great starting point. Reading some of those books is even better.

• Here’s where it gets a bit confusing: When you set up your book in Amazon, you are allowed to list it under two categories or subcategories. But if you have an Amazon Author’s Account (highly recommended), you can email customer service and ask for eight more. The more slots it fits into, the more exposure your book gets. However, don’t use them all if they aren’t a genuine fit. Readers search for books by category, and will be mightily disappointed if they pay for a book that doesn’t meet their expectations. They’ll let you know about their dissatisfaction in reviews.

3: Most important is that you find the right subgenre fit and therefore market your book to the right readers.

4: However, after all that research, what if you still aren’t sure of the subgenre you prefer for writing mysteries? You could experiment with short stories or blog posts. Try different POVs. Practice. (I know, you just want to publish and make money. For most of us, it doesn’t work that way. We need to work on honing our craft.) As you write, be aware of which type of story you most enjoy working on. What you enjoy is going to produce your best book.

5: Don’t be afraid to be a genre-switcher or to write different books in different genres and subgenres. Again, if each book sticks to its category’s requirements and is marketed to the right audience, it has a better chance of success. That certainly has worked for Nora Roberts, known for her romance novels, who also writes mysteries under the pen name J. D. Robb. A pen name is optional, as today’s contemporary readers are quite accepting of genre-switching, as long as they know what they’re getting.

6: Lastly, consider the possibility that you need to learn more about how to write a good story that is marketable. There are countless resources available to help you learn about good writing and about managing the business of writing. The annual Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference is an excellent place to start. Whether you’re an aspiring or established writer, this gathering offers not only education and inspiration, but camaraderie, as well. It’s my favorite writers’ conference every year. Here’s the link: https://killernashville.com/killer-nashville-writers-conference/

Finding your niche as a writer means you’re willing to explore and ready to enjoy the craft of writing. As writers, we work hard – that’s true – but we also revel in the experience. So explore, learn, do the work, and write that great story that brings you joy. (And may it bring you a bundle of cash, too!)

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Linda Hughes is a #1 bestselling co-author and award-winning author of twenty books and three screenplays. She loves to genre-switch amongst mysteries, historical romantic suspense, and family saga. Her latest is a romantic novella, Lilac Island. Find her on Amazon at: https://www.amazon.com/Linda-Hughes/e/B000APKVGI