Author

Unfortunately, there simply aren’t enough hours in the day for me to fulfill even a small percentage of these requests. The good news is, there are a lot of writers out there who have banded together in various groups for just this sort of thing. If you’re looking for feedback, support, or general advice on the craft of writing, I would urge you to find and join such a group. If you’re not sure where to look, the Internet is a great place to start.

If you feel you have written something of publishable quality, the next step is to get it into the hands of an agent or editor, or otherwise gauge its marketplace value. One of the best ways to do so, in my experience, is to find and attend a good writers’ conference. There are plenty to choose from. Some can be quite expensive, but are often well worth the investment. My personal favorite is the Maui Writers Conference. This and others should be listed on the “Links” page of this website—though rest assured, my list only barely begins to scratch the surface of what’s out there. If Maui is too far to travel, perhaps you can find a conference in your area. You can search for them on the Web, or else inquire at your local library or bookstore. As with everything else, the key is to find one that supports your genre. For example, a lot of them don’t do much to support science-fiction or fantasy.

Having said all of that, I am in full favor of seeing new writers achieve their publishing dream, and am anxious to lend what small help I can. If things get really desperate, folks are more than welcome to send me short writing samples such as query letters, outlines, or maybe a completed chapter—provided, however, they keep the following in mind:

I am not an agent or editor. As much as I may love your work, there’s really nothing I can do in terms of getting it into the marketplace. At best, you might list me as a reference in your search for a buyer. But I can’t promise that may be of much help.

Life being what it is, you may not receive a response from me right away. You’ll find this is quite typical of the industry in general. It often takes months to hear back from an agent or editor, due to the high volume of material they must sift through. Be patient, and continue writing. Keep working—on this or something else—while you wait.

I’m not nearly as smart as I think I am. Therefore, any comments or advice I might give may be of no use whatsoever. Fortunately, there are times when even the most ridiculous comment can trigger something of value in your own head. As with any outsider’s advice, you should take into account that which you consider useful, and discard the rest.

When you get right down to it, writing is a lonely business. No one knows your story like you do, and more often than not, the best instincts are your own. I understand the desire for professional validation, but in most cases, when you’ve reached that level, you won’t have to ask. Should you seek the opinion of someone you believe to be knowledgeable and trustworthy? Certainly. Especially if you believe they will be honest in their appraisal. But at the same time, be honest with yourself, and learn to trust your own judgment as much as you would anyone else’s.

I don’t actually have much experience with fan fiction. I seem to recall taking an early stab at George Lucas’s Return of the Jedi before the real thing was released, but only because I couldn’t wait to see Han Solo freed from that slab of carbonite. All in all, it always seemed somehow disrespectful to me to play in another’s world. So when I began writing, I set out right away to create my own.

Not that there weren’t a lot of similarities, mind you, between my worlds and those of my favorite authors. Heck, that much really hasn’t changed. It’s only natural, I think, to imitate that which we most enjoy. Everything is derivative of something that has come before, whether or not we are consciously aware of it. If it were not, if it were truly “original”, then how would a reader find a frame of reference through which to relate?

Personally, I think reading and writing of any kind are a good thing. For those who are thinking of pursuing publication, fan fiction brings with it a lot of obvious pitfalls in the form of copyright infringement and what-not. But I imagine that most of those writing fan fiction are using it as an exercise, and are not necessarily looking to publish it for a mass audience. As with any form of exercise, it’s not a bad a idea to start small, with something you know you can handle. For some writers, that means using another’s characters and settings until they have a grasp of plotting and basic story structure, before moving on to create their own worlds from scratch.

In that case, I really don’t see the harm in it. I’d certainly challenge anyone taking up writing to move on as quickly as they can to that next stage of development, in which they are not intentionally using someone else’s work as a crutch. But if that’s what it takes to get someone going, then by all means, have at it. I think you’ll soon find, however, that an existing world is actually rather limiting, no matter how large or vast, and that to truly let your imagination run wild, you’ll want to develop your own.

First and foremost, I studied the craft. In my case, that meant twenty years of reading everything I could get my hands on, writing almost every day, and paying attention in school. By the time I earned my college degree in English Literature, I had written half a dozen unpublished novels. They weren’t any good, but when it comes to learning something, there’s no substitute for sheer repetition.

After college, I searched for ways to continue my education. The first step was to study screenwriting at UCLA. I also started attending the Maui Writers Conference, where I got to work with bestselling authors such as John Saul, Terry Brooks, Elizabeth George, Ben Bova, Susan Wiggs, and others. After several years of workshops and even more discarded novels, I did finally finish something that I hoped an agent might like.

After a bit of research, I found one who I thought might be open to receiving my submission. Fortunately for me, I managed to catch him at just the right time. As I understand it, he read a bit and decided it showed promise. He then contacted one of the authors I had studied with and who I had listed as a reference. Evidently, that author was kind enough to put in a good word for me, which undoubtedly helped my cause.

Even so, this agent did not offer to represent me right away. He said that my work had “potential”—an almost dreaded term, since I’d been hearing it for so long. It took four rewrites over the course of about nine months before he finally said that he believed we had something salable, and that he would work to find a buyer. He managed to do so in a relatively short amount of time, which I’m convinced to this day had more to do with his knowledge and standing in the publishing world than in any talent I might possess.

That’s how it worked for me. But every author’s road is a little bit different. It has been said that while writing is a craft, publishing is a crapshoot. It’s all a matter of being in the right place at the right time with the right project. That said, here are some tips to help improve your chances, based upon my own experiences:

Study the craft! It won’t do you much good to contact an agent or editor if you can’t convince them that you know something about what you are doing.

Do your homework. Use Writers Market or other tools to research the names of agents and editors you feel will most likely be open to your style of work.

When querying, keep it short and simple. Your letter should briefly tell them why you selected them, what your credentials are, and what your work is about. It might help to list similar works with which they may be familiar.

Attend writers’ conferences. Conferences can be invaluable in terms of meeting authors, agents, and editors face-to-face. In addition, they will help you to gauge whether or not your work is ready for the marketplace.

Have patience. These things happen at a glacial pace. While waiting, keep writing!

Show that you’re willing to take criticism and improve your work based on others’ notes. No one wants to work with a know-it-all.

Don’t force it. If an agent or editor doesn’t seem excited, keep looking until you find someone who is.

Don’t let discouragement stop you from taking action. Rejection is part of the game, and often has nothing to do with appraisal of talent. Keep plugging away until you make those stars align.

I apologize if all of that seems like a cardboard cutout, but it’s really the best advice I can give. This is a hard game, but much of it is about perseverance. If this is your passion, then don’t let anyone tell you it can’t be done.

If it’s such a good idea, why give it to me?

Seriously, I love listening to great ideas. What I love even more are great stories. My advice, if you’ve got an idea, is to sit down and write it yourself. Why? Because there’s a good chance that what you would get from me in execution would in no way match what you yourself were thinking, and would therefore be a disappointment. I’ve seen it proven in group exercises time and again that no two people are going to develop and carry out an idea in exactly the same way—not unless they are working in concert the entire time. And I’ve never been one of those writers who likes to have someone staring over his shoulder while the work is in progress.

I realize that there are a lot of ideas out there that never come to fruition because the person who conceived it is not the type of person who wants to sit down at a keyboard for endless weeks, months, and years, hammering that idea into fruition. I’ve also met too many people who claim they lack the vocabulary or grammar or spelling skills to write a complete story. To that I say, you might very well be selling yourself short. But writing does in fact require a huge commitment of time and attention—which is another reason most authors prefer not to work on another’s ideas. Quite simply, most of the authors I meet have more ideas of their own than they are ever going to have time to fully explore in one lifetime. And taking time away to work on something else only makes it less likely that they’ll get to finish what’s in their own head.

Even for those who love to do it, writing can be a painful process. And if you’re trying to write an idea that you’re not passionate about, the pain level ratchets up exponentially. For whatever reason, most people find it easier to get excited about their own ideas than someone else’s, and that is certainly true of me. That’s not to say that I don’t ever read books or watch movies so wondrous that I wish I had written them. Happens all the time. But if you were to take me back in time and show me just the idea, I’ll bet you that I—and most other fans of that work—would not be nearly as excited as we were about the final product.

Depends.

In most cases, there is no magic number on how long a manuscript should be.150,000 words might be long for some types of stories, but is well within the bounds of epic fantasy. The Crimson Sword is just under 240,000. Bestselling fantasy authors like Robert Jordan, Terry Goodkind, Tad Williams, and others have been known to leave that number in the dust. Take a look at George R. R. Martin’s amazing A Storm of Swords, for instance. It clocks in at a whopping 423,000 words. And yet, you won’t hear too many readers complain that it was “overwritten”.

Does that mean you or I could get away with writing a 400,000-word book? Not likely. The larger the book, the more expensive it is to produce, so many first-time authors (myself included) are encouraged to keep the length down. Heck, even the most successful authors are asked to keep it within reason. But a story makes its own demands, and you really shouldn’t put an artificial limit on it. Certainly, as you go through your manuscript, look for repetitive phrases and unnecessary descriptions that could be cut. If a scene doesn’t move the story forward in an obvious and direct way, try to rework it so that it does—or else delete it. But once you’ve done all that, I wouldn’t worry about it until an agent or editor says otherwise.

Pacing, I believe, is more important than overall length. By that, of course, I mean knowing when to speed things up and when it’s okay to let them slow down. Many fantasy readers love big books. They just don’t want to become bored before they hit the end. So be sure to mix it up. Better to have a 200,000-word book that feels like 100,000, as opposed to the other way around.

It’s been said that in most cases, the best way to spell “prologue” is C-H-A-P-T-E-R O-N-E. Why wait? Get to the action. Show us the brick smashing through the window. Don’t waste time showing us how the neighborhood was built, the window set in place, or the brick formed.

That is not to say that there is never a good time or place for a prologue. For example, maybe yours is one of those stories that opens calmly before building to a dramatic conclusion. Perhaps, in that case, you use a prologue to give us a glimpse of the ending we’re aiming toward. There are countless examples of this. Take the one in which our hero is tied up in a dark room, getting beat up by some baddies. We then flash back to see how he got into this predicament, and catch up later on to this same moment via the present-past-present structural model. I believe Warner Bros’ Maverick (1994) provides a good example of this, opening with a scene in which the lead character (Mel Gibson) is about to being hanged, then backtracking to show us why.

But even this type of scene could be written as chapter one. So what is a true prologue? A true prologue is an event or summary of events that will have an impact upon the story later on—often after a significant period of time. For instance, if you were to write a story about a modern-day hunt for sunken treasure, your prologue might be of a battle at sea between a British warship and a pirate ship full of stolen gold—that gold, of course, being the treasure that our modern-day explorers are seeking to recover. Some more specific examples? How about Universal’s The Mummy (1999), Columbia’s Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992), or any other story dealing with a curse resurrected from ancient times.

But the question remains: should you use one? That of course depends. Keep in mind that the purpose of a prologue should be to whet the reader’s appetite for the story that lies ahead—not put them to sleep with chunks of backstory that can be revealed gradually later on. If your prologue does that—if it lends an air of excitement or mystery or foreboding that would otherwise be lacking in your story’s opening—then sure, go for it. But if all you’re really doing is delaying the meal to show us how the food was prepared . . . well then, I’d suggest setting it aside and letting us eat while the story is warm.

Several.

First, don’t think in terms of the entire thing. There’s an adage which says: “How do you feed an elephant?” The answer is: “One bite at a time.” Whenever I think of beginning a new novel, it’s easy to be overwhelmed by the magnitude of it. But if you focus on doing just a little bit each day—even just one or two pages—you’ll be surprised at what you can accomplish as time goes by. It just takes focus and discipline and a passion for what you’re doing.

Second, don’t rush. Let the ideas percolate until you simply can’t hold them in any longer. Too many would-be writers make the mistake, I think, of rushing off to explore an idea without thinking through what it is they really want to say about it. That initial enthusiasm is great, but likely won’t be enough to sustain you through the weeks, months, or even years it takes to write a full-length novel. So make sure this is something you feel compelled to do, as opposed to setting forth on a whim.

Third, do your best to plan ahead. I personally recommend outlining the story from start to finish, but I know plenty of authors for whom the very notion sends shivers up their spine. At the very least, know where you are going. Getting from point A to point B is tough enough without some kind of road map, and next to impossible if you’re not even sure that point B is where you’re trying to get to. For many writers, that’s part of the fun, but it also makes you more susceptible to frustration and writer’s block, since you can’t see how much farther you have yet to go.

Finally, if this is your first attempt at writing and you’re not sure about it, try your hand at something shorter. Short fiction is not necessarily any easier to write than long fiction, but in most cases requires less of a time commitment. And many of the basic storytelling principles are the same.

Some say that if you can think of something you’d rather do than write, then do that instead, since writing is such a tough profession. But I say there’s no such thing as an easy profession. No matter what you choose to do in life, you’re going to take your lumps every now and then. My feeling is, it might as well be at something you enjoy. If writing is what makes you happy, and you think you might like to do it professionally, then don’t let anyone tell you it can’t be done. Prove them wrong by working at it every single day until you’ve achieved something that even you may not have believed was possible in the beginning.

I’ve heard this myself a time or two—although I’ve also heard the exact opposite. Typically, what this means is that the reader feels you need to “cut to the chase” by skipping certain sections—be it the unnecessary description of a setting, superfluous character development, redundant dialogue, et cetera. Of course, words like unnecessary, superfluous, and redundant are often subjective. In a nutshell, the reader is becoming bored, and wants the story to unfold more quickly.

Now, I understand the desire of many for a blistering narrative in today’s “fast-food” consumer marketplace. However, I’m also a big believer in the design theory that “form follows function.” If your heroes are going through a long, drawn-out ordeal such as hiking over a mountain, you want to give the reader some sense of that through the prose. Make the reader feel almost as if they are slogging alongside—without getting to the point that you are boring them, of course. By the same token, if a character is in the middle of a battle or a race for his life, he’s not going to take the time to stop and notice the scenery, except as it applies to his predicament. In these cases, the language and pacing should reflect this, by being every bit as fast and frenetic as the surrounding chaos.

It’s a balancing act. My idea of proper pacing is knowing when to speed up and when to slow down. Just like knowing when to throw the changeup in baseball, and when to come at them with the heater. As Roger Ebert says: “There is a theory that action is exciting and dialogue is boring. My theory is that variety is exciting and sameness is boring.” For me, the key is to be true to the mind of the viewpoint character at all times, while being careful to keep only what’s necessary to the story.

History and facts can be interesting. But in storytelling, the challenge you face is to stage everything in a way that engages the reader and invites them to participate in the action. You don’t want your prose to read like something out of a history book. Doing so denies us a chance to “become” any of the characters and to feel what they are feeling. Such backstory might work as a prologue, sort of like the opening scroll in a Star Wars film. However, as in any Star Wars film, that introductory text is quickly followed up by individual scenes which let us live and breathe within that universe.

The key phrase is: SHOW, DON’T TELL. Try to create individual scenes that bring to life some key story event. As much as possible, let each scene be driven by the conflict between two or more characters with opposing objectives. Instead of having us listen to an old man talk about a fight, for instance, let us actually witness it for ourselves. Show us the blood, sweat, and tears of the combatants—culminating in the thrill of victory or the bitter taste of defeat.

If it helps, think in terms of how your story might be filmed. If you find that scene after scene would require a narrator to explain matters, then I would recommend reworking it so that the narrator is not necessary. Better to watch interactions between characters that help to shed light on their struggles.

The other advice I generally give on any issue such as this is to lay out your entire story in a sort of rough sketch before you actually begin writing it. Explain quickly what is going to happen in each scene as the story unfolds, so that you know all of its twists and turns. While working from this sketch or outline, it’s easier to see which areas may need to be pared back, and which could be fleshed out. Take the time to look at each scene individually, and never stop asking yourself if there’s a more compelling way to share that information with the reader.

Finally, if you must explain something in expository form (commonly known as information dump), try to space out those chunks—like cutting a giant steak into bite-sized pieces, making it easier for the reader to digest. I’d also recommend waiting until the last possible moment before revealing a particular morsel. Make it so that the reader is begging for that information by the time you deliver it. They’re more likely to gobble up what you have to offer if they’re hungry—as opposed to feeling force-fed.

It’s very much possible to tell a war story without spending much time (or any) describing actual battle scenes. The Greek stage plays used to do it all the time. And George R. R. Martin, a #1 NY Times bestselling fantasy author, has been doing it to great acclaim. His A Song of Ice & Fire books are massive, and yet, after four volumes and nearly 4,000 pages of story, he’s really only shown us half a dozen battles or so. The rest all take place behind the scenes of shadowy council chambers, clandestine meetings, messenger reports, and the like. Kind of like a medieval-era soap opera. Of course, it takes a great deal of skill to hold a reader’s attention with dinner scenes discussing battle instead of showing the battle itself (which probably explains why I usually just dive into the blood and guts of combat, in most cases). But yes, you can frame your story any way you wish. Just make sure your characters are dynamic and the conflict between them engaging. Easier said than done.

I think it’s a little bit of both. I believe that some people are indeed blessed with a natural affinity for storytelling, and a clearer understanding than others of how to go about it. But I also believe that writing is a craft that can be practiced and learned by anyone. These days, a 7′ tall person has a better chance of becoming a professional basketball player than a 5′ tall person. But Spud Webb and Mugsy Bogues both managed to play in the NBA, even though both were well under 6′. I’m sure that their determination had a lot to do with their success.

Natural talent certainly helps, but even the best talent can go to waste if it is not nurtured and cultivated. In my mind, passion and determination are perhaps the most important ingredients when it comes to writing—more so, perhaps, than any god-given ability. Those of us with less natural talent may have to work a little harder at it than others, but it’s the effort we apply that will make the biggest difference in the long run.

I’m a big believer in outlining, myself. The more I know in advance, the better. That doesn’t mean that plans don’t change when I finally sit down to write. The story will always reveal things to me that weren’t obvious in the planning stages, and must be redesigned. But I liken it to building a house: Always draw up blueprints first. Much easier to sketch it all out in advance in order to avoid any huge missteps—or, if any are made, to fix them without having to tear the whole thing down. And yes, I most definitely write it all down. The best ideas, and the ones I’m most passionate about, will stick in my head, but there are literally thousands of details that would escape me if I didn’t have them there to review later.

That’s not to say there’s anything wrong with doing it another way. I’m told that some writers are architects (outliners), and others are gardeners, who simply plant a bunch of seeds, spend time nurturing each one, and watch how they all bloom. For me, doing it that way just leads to a lot of rework later. I also enjoy being able to foreshadow future events early on, which is much easier to do when you know where everything is going. But each writer’s methods are somewhat unique, and you have to find what works for you. If your current efforts aren’t providing the results you demand, then it might be worth it to change your methods and see what happens.

My outline is quite detailed. The more I can figure out up front, the easier it is on me later. It starts at a macro level—just the basic premise and story vehicle. At the same time, I do in-depth character sketches, so that I know who these people are and what their goals and objectives are. That usually starts shedding light on the plot, because if I’ve done my job, I have characters whose goals end up opposing one another, which gives me the conflicts that will drive my story. Plot and character always go hand in hand.

Eventually, I’ll line up the “tent-pole” moments: inciting incident, first act break, midpoint, second act break, and climax/conclusion. From there, I try to fill in the gaps with obstacles leading up to each major event. Once I have the major beats down, I work at it scene by scene, one paragraph for each, jotting down whatever information comes to mind. Some of these paragraphs might be very long, going into depth as to the characters’ objectives—maybe even with snatches of dialogue thrown in. Others might consist of something as simple as: “They infiltrate the tower, only to become trapped.” Obviously, I’ll have to put a bit more thought into that scene’s choreography before I sit down to write it, but in the early going, I try not to bog myself down with details. I will, however, start jotting down any questions that will need to be answered (e.g. “How do they get in? What are the obstacles? Who all is present? How are they caught?” … etc.)

It doesn’t happen in a linear fashion at first. There is a lot of rearranging, and stuff I figure out later on forces me to go back and rethink earlier material. But a properly crafted story is driven by cause-and-effect, so what happens in one scene generally dictates what must happen next. Often, I’ll play an entire storyline through to its logical conclusion, then go back and work on secondary storylines and play each one of those through, as well. Only then do I work at tying the separate storylines together.

For me, outlining is the hardest part of storytelling. So many possibilities. The only way to narrow it down is to reason things through, piece by piece. By looking at it from all angles, it eventually comes together to form a solid framework. If I’m not sure about something, I just step back and ask myself, what would this character do in this situation? Explore as many avenues as possible, so that you know where each might lead. Know why you’re taking them down a certain path, but also know why you’re not taking them down others. It’s a little bit like selecting a single flavor of ice cream. You’ve got all these choices, but still have to pick just one. If someone were to ask how you came to settle on that particular flavor—and why not this or that other one—you should be able to tell them. When finished, you should know the both the reasons and ramifications of every single story choice you’ve made.

I also use a timeline when ordering scenes, to make sure merging storylines tie together in the correct spots. Once I have my scenes ordered, I work at fleshing them out by resolving as many unanswered questions as possible. When I feel I’ve got a good hold on the purpose, structure, and placement of each scene, I then make an educated guess as to how they will unfold chapter-by-chapter. Really, that’s all any of this is: an educated guess. Because the story still changes during the writing of it. Things become obvious that weren’t before. Minor character become major ones, etc. Often, I have to stop writing and go back to the outline to see how these changes shake things up. And while I hate breaking away and losing that momentum, I find that it saves me time in the long run to make sure that I understand at all times the blueprint I’m building from. If that blueprint has to change, so be it. But I’m always working from sketches, building from the foundation up.

There are books a person could read to study up on the subject, but none that I could mention offhand. Most of what works for me I’ve picked up through writing courses or trial-and-error. A writer really has to find what works for him/her, because everyone’s preferred methods are different.

Description can be a difficult balancing act. Too little, and the world becomes bland and lifeless. Too much, and the reader might lose sight of the story. If there’s ever a perfect middle ground, it lies on a sliding scale. The genre of your story, your personal preference, and your character’s voice should all factor into play—but so too will the mood and preference of any particular reader at any given time. While some readers find copious amounts of description tedious, others can’t get enough of it. I tend to use a fair share because that’s what I enjoy reading. And since I also write screenplays, where dialogue is the order of the day and description is all but forbidden, novel writing lets me stretch my legs a bit in that department.

But let’s look at it from a more functional standpoint. The following is a set of guidelines that I believe are worth keeping in mind:

1) Description slows pacing, and should be applied accordingly. If you’re writing a scene in which a character is relaxing contentedly on a warm, lazy summer day, then longer, more descriptive sentences might be called for, helping to lull the reader into the appropriate mindset. For an action scene, you’ll typically use shorter sentences—or even fragments. Heavy on the verbs. Light on the modifiers. Doing so will serve to generate a more frenetic pace, mirroring the action. The saying in architecture is that “form follows function,” meaning that the shape of an object should be predicated on its intended purpose. The same applies to the written word.

2) Focus on details pertinent to the story. Any time I read a passage in a book, be it on setting or character, I assume that it must somehow impact the story—now or later. The more time the author devotes to a particular item, the more important I assume it to be. If you were to open with a ten-page description of a city, for instance, only to leave that location and never return to it, I’m going to wonder why in the world we needed to have all that information. If an item has no real bearing on the story, then it has no place within your narrative.

3) Be true to your point-of-view character. Is this something the character would notice if he/she was really in that situation? If it’s something new to them, or they otherwise have time and cause to make note of it, then I feel they should do so. Imagine the first time you saw the ocean, snowfall, or the skyscrapers of a major city. How did that affect your senses physically, emotionally? On the other hand, if the article or situation in question is something old hat, or if your character is in the middle of a fight or some similar stress/trauma, then certain details are bound to fall by the wayside.

4) Try not to let the language draw attention to itself. In most cases, you the writer want to remain behind the scenes, invisible to the reader. Language that is too flowery or clever or inconsistent tends to draw the reader out of the story. Even if they’re drawn to you in a positive way (noticing a wonderful metaphor, for instance), that moment of admiration becomes about you, not your characters. As much as you might want to be appreciated, the best way to go about it is to fashion a gripping tale that doesn’t let go of the reader’s heart and mind until the last page has been turned.

5) Don’t bore the reader. This is the most important guideline, inclusive of all the rest and any others I may have forgotten. However you choose to tell your tale, be it with a thrill a minute, a gradual eruption of events, or variable pacing meant to keep the reader off balance, you never want the reader to lose interest. And too much description is one of the fastest ways in which to send readers nodding off or skimming impatiently ahead.

Ever heard the phrase, “Kill your darlings”? That is what you must consider doing any time your description violates one or more of the above suggestions. Simply cut it from the story. Store it away in a separate file, if you must. Perhaps there will come a time in some future story in which the excised language will fit. But beware any use of language that exists solely for the sake of its own beauty.

Or, when in doubt, go with what your editor tells you.

First, do your homework. Take the time to research a particular agency or publisher to make sure they’re looking for your type of material. Look into their submission guidelines, to learn what they will and won’t accept. Along with that, try to track down the name of a specific individual within that company to whom your letter may be addressed. A personal touch can go a long way. If you can, express that you have done this research by opening with a quick sentence explaining why you chose them for this submission.

Second, tell them who you, outlining your credentials and qualifications. Why should you be the one to write this book? Why should they want to represent you? Be brief and professional. Many agents and editors and assistants receive these things by the dozens. They don’t have time to read a ten-page bio on a perfect stranger. Don’t try to be too clever; now is not the time. Instead, be direct and polite with the information you present. Don’t include information about yourself that is irrelevant to your proposal. And don’t waste words telling them that you are unpublished. They will always assume that you are a new, unpublished writer unless you tell them otherwise. Insert the name of a professional reference or two, if you think it will help, but expect that your recipient may actually contact those references at some point. The publishing community is not as large as one might think.

Third, describe the basic hook of your story in a logline. Again, be brief! Boil it down to 25 words or less. This can be very difficult in and of itself, but is well worth the time and effort. Focus on what is at stake, and/or who is in peril. Remember that it’s people readers relate to and care about, not the fate of some generic world. Be sure to include the most interesting aspect of your story: the dramatic question or the twist that sets it apart. Do not hold back your hook for the sake of surprise. Surprises are for your end readers. Agents and editors want to know upfront what makes your property fresh or unique.

Fourth, follow up your premise (if it is necessary or helpful to do so) with a comparison to known works. This is most often seen in those classic Hollywood hybrid pitches: “It’s [x] meets [y].” The examples you choose will help to specify the tone and genre, and the combination may contain a hook in and of itself. Obviously, you’ll want to select examples that are both well known to the recipient and appropriate to your work. If it’s a novel they represent, even better. Whatever you do, don’t add your own personal review as to why yours will be the “greatest story ever written,” claim that it is “certain to sell a million copies,” or include any such self-indulgent praise. No one wants to hear how wonderful or funny or incredible or original you think your story is. The marketing department (and reviewers/critics) will assign any such superlatives they feel are warranted. It is not your job to do so.

That’s about it. The order in which you place the above information doesn’t really matter. If you cannot think of any useful content with which to fill one of the above items, leave it blank. In terms of the letter’s overall length, keep it under a single page. Less is more. Remember, the goal here is to entice the recipient to ask for additional materials or the manuscript itself. The best way to do that is to tease him/her with easily devoured bites.

Most agencies and publishers who ask for a synopsis are expecting one to three pages—just a quick story summary. Mine are always two pages, since that’s what I was taught at UCLA regarding films. The point of a synopsis, regardless of length, is to reveal all of the major story beats. Try to keep it weighted properly—i.e. Act I is roughly 25% of a story, Act II is 50%, and Act III is the remaining 25%, so the synopsis should be broken up the same. For example, don’t spend two pages on Act I, introducing characters in great depth, only to rush through the rest of the story in a couple of paragraphs.

In most instances, the reading of a synopsis is a bit dry. In that sense, I think they do as much harm as good. So much of a story is dependent upon execution. A synopsis is like showing someone a mere sketch and letting the viewer use that to judge the value of your eventual painting. Synopses can also be confusing, since you have to introduce all of the major elements, but don’t necessarily have the time to fully explain them. But that’s just the nature of the beast. The idea here is to demonstrate your understanding of plotting and story structure, while enticing the reader to ask for the manuscript in order to fill in the gaps.

That said, don’t withhold any pertinent information, such as your “surprise” ending. Save that sort of enticement for your marketing summary or jacket copy. Your audience at this point is a prospective agent or editor who needs to know precisely what makes your story marketable. If the shocking, mind-bending, or heart-wrenching plot twists are integral to their ability to sell this story to readers, then let them know it by revealing what those key moments are.

As for whether to submit a synopsis to a prospective agent or editor, my recommendation would be to read their particular guidelines. Submit a synopsis to those who ask for it. Otherwise, stick with just a query. You might get lucky and have them request the entire manuscript, rather than just your skeletal version of it.

To me, the most important thing about creating characters is knowing their motivation. Do they want to be rich? Do they want to be recognized? Do they want revenge for something? Are they in search of love? Stories are built around conflict, and the surest way to create conflict is to create a situation in which two characters have opposing objectives: a race for the Holy Grail, a boxing match, two princes fighting over a single crown—that sort of thing. So the first thing I ask myself is, what does each character want? This allows me to set characters at odds with one another. The next would be, why do they want it? This often helps to reveal backstory. In Conan the Barbarian, Conan wants to kill Thulsa Doom. Why? Because Thulsa Doom killed his parents when he was a boy. Or maybe you have a character who wants to be a healer because her parents died of illness when she was young. You get the idea. You should also know how each character responds to stress. If placed in a life-and-death situation, what are your character’s defensive mechanisms? Do they laugh? Do they cry? Do they become sullen and silent? Do they become angry and fight back? Most people, of course, have a range of emotional responses, but those responses should seem consistent in order to be believable.

That’s a very general answer, I’ll admit. There are a lot of nuances involved in crafting a character’s psychology, just like there are in real life. But I think those are the big three: knowing what they want, why they want it, and how they react when things aren’t going the way they wish.

In terms of physical description, the best advice I can give is to not simply create a laundry list of features: tall, brown hair, blue eyes, etc. You should have all of that in your head, or written down in your notes. But when describing a character to the reader, it’s often better to focus on just a single, dominant characteristic: a broken nose or a savage scar or pudgy cheeks or stubby legs, etc. It doesn’t have to be just a visual feature, either. It might be the way they move or the way they talk or the way they frown or the way they smell. That’s often much easier for the reader to remember, and thus makes the character that much more memorable. Readers are very good at filling in the blanks, so it’s best not to overburden them with unnecessary details. Easier said than done, sometimes, but most things are.

As with most aspects of writing, there are pros and cons to telling a story through multiple points of view. I don’t know that I’d call it a philosophy, but here are some things to consider when determining when and how to juggle those disparate voices:

Multiple viewpoints can help to keep the reader off balance in terms of who the main hero is, making everyone expendable. While some readers might find this frustrating, I’m one of those who enjoys this aspect.

Seldom does a single person have all the right answers. Through the use of multiple viewpoints, an author can shed light on the same topic from several different angles. This allows the reader a choice as to who he most relates to, and to choose for himself the truth of things.

The main use of secondary POV characters is to make the reader aware of things that the hero is not, which helps to create tension. It’s like letting the audience know that a bomb is about to go off while the hero takes his time, oblivious.

A principal downside is that multiple views lack the seamless, driving impact of a strong, singular voice. Worse, it can become jarring or downright confusing to the reader, switching back and forth. Even when using multiple views, then, the fewer the better. To help manage mine, I try to stick to a prioritized system, assigning each character a numeric ranking. Number one would be the protagonist; number two might be his best friend or sidekick; number three might be the primary villain, etc. Whenever two characters share a scene, the character with the higher ranking is going to assume the POV.

When in doubt, I’ll simply write the same scene from different angles to see which makes the most sense.

Usually, I’ll write scenes from the view of he who knows the least about what’s going on in that moment. I don’t want to give away all the answers; instead, I put the reader in a need-to-know position and try to foster a sense of gradual discovery. For example, picture the scene in Star Wars in the hut of Ben Kenobi, in which Ben first tells Luke Skywalker what happened to his father. Although you could maintain the mystery either way, it’d be much easier to do if you’re Luke asking questions, rather than Ben debating whether or not to answer them honestly.

In general, stay out of a character’s POV if he/she is to remain mysterious and/or unsympathetic. Once you’re in someone’s head, you immediately begin to identify with them to some extent. If you want to foster sympathy, then spend as much time with that person and his/her reasoning as possible.

If you do choose to use multiple viewpoints, each voice should be distinct, since no two people view the world in exactly the same way. This can be a challenge at times, but can also lend spice to an otherwise bland narrative.

These are mere guidelines, obviously. There are very few hard and fast rules. Right or wrong depends on what your particular goal is for that scene, and for the book as a whole.

Names are extremely important to the feel of a novel. Hannibal Lector would not seem nearly as menacing if his name was Grover or Jay or Bob. Names of both characters and places set the tone for who/what that person/place is. While something like this can be difficult to quantify, you’ll know it when you get one right—and it’s definitely worth taking the time to do so.

That said, it’s rarely a good thing to stop your narrative flow during the actual writing process. If you’re writing about a character whose name you don’t care for (or whom you haven’t bothered to name at all), I’d recommend using whatever comes to mind and go back later to replace it.

I keep a long list of names from which to draw, so that when I do need a name in a pinch, I don’t have to work from scratch. As for where they come from, well, in most cases, I steal them. Street signs, peculiar town names, things like that. Visiting foreign countries is great in this regard. Of course, I seldom use the names exactly as they are. Usually I end up tweaking them somehow—changing letters, turning them inside out or backward, that sort of thing. Occasionally, after coming up with a name I like, I’ll even search the internet to make sure that it hasn’t been used a million times before.

It’s only natural for a writer to experience some degree of burnout once the initial enthusiasm for a project starts to fade and the questions and doubts come creeping in. In most cases, I find that this is the result of insufficient outlining. No, not the “Roman numeral I followed by capital A” kind, but the kind in which you have laid out all of the major beats of your story ahead of time, and have taken the time to get to know your characters inside and out.

I’ve covered this before, but it’s probably worth doing so again. Before beginning any story, I like to sketch out its structure, like using a blueprint to build a house. I start with the tent-pole moments: Opening, Inciting Incident, Act One Break, Midpoint, Act Two Break, Climax, and Conclusion. Then, I start to look at what has to happen in between each of those major events, and start devising logical obstacles—roadblocks that must be overcome in order for that event to unfold.

The other thing I do is create detailed character sketches for all of the major players. I like to know who they are, where they came from, what their likes and dislikes are… all kinds of stuff that may never make it into the actual story, but that gives it resonance. The most important thing is to know what they want, why they want it, and how they react to stress. Conflict is the driving force behind any good story, and nothing creates conflict quicker than setting a standoff between two characters with opposing objectives. If you can do that for every single scene, you’ll be in good shape.

However… nothing will reveal story like the actual writing of it. As you work your way through the outline, characters will do unexpected things, new plot wrinkles will occur to you, etc. At that point, I always go back to my outline and modify my sketch. You don’t have to be married to the thing, but it sure helps to use it as a guideline.

My point is that if you already have a good idea of what’s going to happen before you sit down to write each day, it’s much less likely that you’ll get stuck or burn out before reaching the end. It simply becomes a matter of taking the time to hammer out that page or two or five or ten—whatever you can manage. It allows you to focus on smaller chunks, to achieve small goals each day, rather than always staring down a long dark tunnel, wondering what awaits you at its end.

This doesn’t work for everyone, of course. Some people actually find extensive outlining to be counterproductive in that, by knowing all the twists and turns of their own story, they become too bored with it to actually want to write it. In these cases, I’d suggest finding some other way to entertain yourself. For example, maybe you’re writing a murder mystery and are disinterested because you already know who the murderer is. Because of that, however, you’re better able to use foreshadowing and misdirection throughout the first draft, planting clues and red herrings and the like. Sometimes, these are the most enjoyable aspects of writing, knowing that you’re setting the reader up to believe one thing when, by the end, you’re going to surprise them with the exact opposite.

Another possibility is that you’ve lost track of the emotional core of your idea. Something drove you to write this story to begin with, and every now and then, it’s worth taking a fresh look at that basic premise to remind yourself of what that was—giving yourself an emotional boost, so to speak.

Finally, it may be that your subconscious is trying to tell you that you’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere. Something about the story is no longer working as you know it should, though you can’t quite pinpoint why. In these cases, it’s often best not to plow through, but to step back and consider matters from a different angle. Stop to take a fresh look at the characters involved, to see if their motives and behavior are consistent. Look at the staging of the scene, to see if maybe there’s a more dramatic way to present that particular story point. If these efforts don’t help, it may be that you’re trying too hard, and have to distract yourself from the story altogether before a solution will present itself.

Quite simply, there’s no simple answer. Burnout comes in many different flavors, and the solution to it may not be readily apparent. The best thing I can recommend is to take what time you can to reevaluate what you really want to say with your story, and how you mean to say it. Even the very best story ideas are going to leave you crawling through the muck at some point—especially if you don’t have a map as to where you’re going. The choice then becomes to pull yourself out and find the road again, or to keep slogging your way through. Either way, if you want it bad enough, you’ll find a way to overcome.

Are we talking book agents or screenplay agents? Usually that response comes from screenplay agents. I’ve been told that it basically comes down to personal referrals in those situations. How does one get personal referrals? Well, by networking. Many writers (myself included) find this to be a bit of a nuisance, as it takes us away from what we really want to be doing—writing. And yet, if there’s an easier way, I haven’t discovered it. It’s amazing what a difference meeting someone face to face can make, as opposed to submitting a blind query letter. The more functions you can get to that are attended by agents and editors and producers, the better. More than likely, 99% of your leads will come to a dead end. But, as they say, it only takes one “yes.”

Bear in mind, too, that while it’s possible for a disinterested agent to become interested, my experience is that you don’t want to have to twist someone’s arm. You want someone who is genuinely enthusiastic about your work, else they’ll never be able to carry on through all of the hurdles that lie in your path. And, typically, those who say “no unsolicited material” are doing so because they have a full slate of established professionals and are uninterested in taking on newer writers. Better to just look for those who say that they don’t mind rolling up their sleeves and taking on that challenge—because it is indeed a challenge for agents to sell new talent, and in most cases, they’re simply looking for the path of least resistance.

Hope that doesn’t put a damper on your search. I don’t mean to be cynical or depressing, but the realities are what they are, and most people I know have had much better luck seeking out willing agents rather than pursuing those who keep closed doors. Which is not to suggest, of course, that it can’t be done. Whatever route you choose, have faith that good material will always find a way, and focus therefore on perfecting your craft before you worry about how to put it in front of someone.

Of course! You’re more than welcome to contact Matt Bialer at Sanford J. Greenburger when you feel your manuscript is ready, and let him know that you found his name on my site. If you’re asking that I put in a good word for you, well, unless I’ve met you or am otherwise familiar with your work, I won’t have one to give. On the other hand, rest assured that agents and editors tend to make up their own opinions before they ask for professional references. Or at least, that’s how it worked in my case. I happened to have worked closely with a number of well-known authors before I began my search for an agent. But Matt didn’t contact any of them until after he had decided for himself that my story showed commercial potential.

I know that it may seem at times as if the entire publishing industry is conspiring to keep new authors out, but believe me, even busy agents like Matt are on the constant lookout for that next bestseller. The names of great agents aren’t all that hard to come by. Your primary focus, then, should be on making sure that your manuscript and proposal are in the best possible shape before you start pitching it.

Best of luck!

That depends. Is your book scheduled for publication? I’m more than happy to read manuscripts for the consideration of providing a quote/blurb, once that book has found a buyer. If you’re still submitting your book to agents and editors… well, that’s a different story. I’m not saying that to be snobby, only that I’ve been taught there’s no great value in quotes/blurbs until a publisher has bought a story and is looking for ways to help market it. Until then, they’re not even sure who they may want quotes from, and thus, one from me might prove to be of no value at all. At the submissions juncture, all you’re essentially doing is listing references as you would on a resume. To that end, mention in your query the names of any authors you may know, or who may be able to speak positively about your work—if you feel that will impress your prospective agent/editor. If they wish to follow up on that reference, they will call us. Generally, that won’t happen until after they have already decided they may want you as a client.

If you don’t know any authors… well, why not? Most are in the public eye at some point—signing books, teaching at conferences, etc. You might be surprised at how accessible many of them are. And while none of us can get your books published for you, a positive reference can indeed be very helpful in closing up that first deal.

Getting back to the question at hand… authors are contacted by publishers on a regular basis with manuscripts seeking quotes… and can rarely read all that are sent to us. For instance, a number of authors who agreed to read mine never got around to doing so, despite their best intentions, because they simply didn’t have time. As I am constantly behind in that department myself, I feel I should catch up with those seeking quotes whose books are scheduled for publication before I dedicate time to those that haven’t quite reached that stage.

Point is, if you don’t yet have a publisher, then a quote from me would be premature at this time. But do keep me in mind, so that I can provide due praise when the time is right.

Until then, stay focused, work hard, and finish that book!

This is one of those aspects of writing that is almost entirely subjective. After all, some novelists don’t use chapters at all, but rely solely on scene breaks. That said, here are my thoughts on the subject…

My chapters average about 4,000 – 5,000 words. Every now and then, I’ll have an extended battle scene that’ll stretch out for 6,000 or 7,000 words, but I try to keep those chapters to a minimum. James Patterson writes chapters that are often only a page or two long. As with everything else, there are no hard-and-fast rules, but shorter chapters generally increase pacing (just like shorter paragraphs and sentences read faster than longer, drawn-out ones). So, when you want the reader to feel like things are moving fast and frantic (battles, chases, etc), shorten things up. When you want the reader to slow down and feel languid or leisurely (long marches, getting lost in a forest, romance scenes, or something of that nature), then let form follow function with longer stretches of prose.

It’s difficult to define because sometimes a chapter is comprised of multiple scenes, while at other times, a single scene might stretch on for multiple chapters. Most often, a chapter should cover a single major event. But it’s something the author has to decide by feel. You want to break in such a way that the reader is compelled to hurry up and read on, yet you don’t want to cut things off midstream. Think of chapter breaks like a commercial break in TV. Give us a complete movement of thought or action, tie things up with some kind of “hook” or “button” that makes us want to continue, then let us catch our breath. Don’t cram too much story (or too many emotional peaks and valleys) into a single session. As much as readers enjoy reading, they are constantly looking ahead to see where the next “stopping point” is. A 30-page chapter is obviously much more daunting than a 15-page one. Too many of the former, and you run the risk of making your story feel laborious, rather than entertaining.

Let’s see… I took a number of creative writing courses en route to earning my degree in English Literature. I then went on to study screenwriting at UCLA. Basically, any class that calls upon you to analyze or create literature will help you. History classes can be great, too, in terms of generating story ideas. Just don’t forget to have some fun while you’re there. I recommend plenty of softball and weight-training classes in which to hang out with the cute girls. Trust me, your college years will go by fast!

Who said anything about being organized?

Okay, you got me. Organization is definitely important when it comes to writing an epic fantasy novel. It becomes even more important the farther you delve into a particular series. Details about character, setting, etc that may seem unforgettable one moment will in fact slip your mind as time passes and your story lengthens. And having that information laid out somewhere—where you can find it easily—will save you from having to read back through your novels… or worse, making a mistake that readers will quickly point out to you.

My notes happen to be compiled in a single electronic help file—like a website, really, where I have separate pages/files for the various types of information. For each book, I have a story summary, a timeline of events, a cast of characters (including basic descriptions), a list of locations, an outline, a chapter-by-chapter treatment, a page for miscellaneous notes… you name it. I also have a separate page for each major character, where I can delve further into their background, psyche, etc. What’s nice about the electronic layout is that I can hyperlink all these separate files together. I can also search for information that I know is buried in there somewhere. It’s not an exact science; writers out there have to find what works for them. But I would definitely recommend putting as many of your notes as possible on the PC, and sorting it by type (character info vs. plot notes, etc). Better that than having to flip through some loose-leaf notebook or a stack of Post-It notes when, for instance, you forget whether your heroine had blue eyes or brown.

Whenever writing about something with which you don’t have personal experience, you really only have three choices. One would be to research it. For example, if you’re writing about a mother’s pain at having lost her only child, you might interview someone who has gone through it, or else read a book or two featuring characters in that situation. The second choice would be to take an educated guess at how something like this might make a person feel. Use your imagination. It might help to think of a painful situation to which you can relate, and extrapolate from there. It’s also necessary, I find, to know as much as you can about that particular character, since none of us feel things exactly the same way. Something that causes one person a great amount of distress might not bother another person at all. The third option a writer has is to avoid the emotional description altogether. Simply relay the facts, and let the reader fill in the blanks. Most of your readers will have experienced love, loss, joy, pain, and all those other emotions to one degree or another, and readers are generally good at projecting their own emotions onto the characters they read about. In other words, if you can successfully describe the situation, you don’t necessarily have to tell us precisely how those events make the person feel. You can let the reader imagine it on their own.

Ah, back to the question of theory versus execution. Obviously, you must have both to have a story. For most people, theory (idea) is the easy part. But how does one begin to take inspiration and execute (develop and carry out) an actual story? The formula you’ll hear over and over looks something like this:

Success = 10% inspiration + 90% perspiration

That’s right. Inspiration usually comes first, but is really only a small part of the overall equation. What matters most is the thought and time and energy spent sitting in your chair, hammering that story out to its bitter conclusion. Most likely, you’ll encounter a number of hurdles and roadblocks along the way. You may have to correct a few wrong turns or even catch yourself from falling off a cliff now and then. Point is, you have to work through it. You can’t just stand around wondering.

Okay, enough with the general metaphors. The first concrete action I’d advise would be to jot down all those creative thoughts that strike you. At the inspiration stage, you don’t want anything to go to waste. Just get it all down. The trick to actually writing a story is indeed on gathering up all those potential bits of creativity and seeing how those pieces might fit together. It’s very much like building a puzzle. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s like someone went and dumped the pieces to a dozen puzzles in one big pile. Your job now is to separate them into their various piles, to see what goes with what. Start with the central theme of the story you want to tell. Who and what is it about? What’s at stake? What lessons must be learned? What sort of character roles are needed? A hero, obviously, along with a villain, a mentor, and most likely a love interest. There should be others in supporting roles, those who will help or hinder the hero in his journey (whether physical or metaphorical—and usually both). Once you know what roles are needed, examine the various characters who might fulfill them. At this stage, it’s essentially a casting process. Hire those characters who best fit the roles you need, and ask the rest to come back another time, for the casting of a future story. Don’t throw any piece of plotting or characterization away, because it might become one of the keystone pieces to another puzzle down the road.

As I’ve preached before, I’m a big believer in outlining. I wouldn’t build a house without first sketching a blueprint. Same goes with storytelling. Your outline should be flexible, because changes and improvements will reveal themselves during the actual telling of the story. New plotlines will emerge. New characters will appear. When that happens, I go right back to my outline to see how the overall story is affected, to make sure it’s what I want. Point is, once you have it all sketched out, it’s much easier to fill in the blanks with actual prose, and to remain confident as to where you’re going… and why. Without that foundation to build upon, writing becomes a much harder (and scarier) business.

Of course, you’ll also have ample opportunity to revise your story once you have that initial draft down on paper. So don’t spend forever in the planning stages. At some point, you simply have to dive in and trust in the editorial process to clean up the trouble spots.

Rewriting is absolutely a part of the process. By the time your book hits shelves, you’ll have rewritten some passages at least a dozen times. So, best get used to it.

That said, I don’t believe it’s wise to let your overall progress be stalled while trying to make your beginning perfect. The analogy I was taught suggests that when mopping a floor, you go over the whole thing once or twice before going back to scrape or polish the obvious trouble spots. You don’t sit there and polish one tile at a time.

No matter how carefully you plan, your story will evolve as you write it, and those evolutions will necessitate changes. When that happens to me, I simply make a note to myself of things to go back and double-check. I don’t like to stop my train of thought to go back and address them. Time enough for that in the editing stages. Now, if you’re submitting the first chapter or something to an agent or contest or what-have-you, it would probably be worth your while to go through and make it as tight and clean as possible. But my overall advice is to press on, make notes to yourself as to anything you might want to revisit, and simply forge ahead to the completion of your first draft.

Way back in junior high school, when I first began these stories, I developed only a bare minimum of the world’s history—no more than I would touch upon in this particular story, really. Later on, I realized that to be a beginner’s mistake. To properly tell a story set in a make-believe world, a writer must know the most important aspects of that world inside and out. For a character or place to seem real, you the author, at least, should know how they were formed. Think of the people you know. The more you know about their past circumstances, the better you understand them. Same with our own world’s history. Tough to explain today’s conflicts without having a basic understanding of religious extremism, World Wars I and II, capitalism versus communism, etc.

When I set out to rewrite these stories with the intent to publish them, I first took quite some time to develop a thorough understanding of how my particular world was formed, and how it had evolved throughout the ages. I know much more about the world now than has been revealed in the first three books. The hope is that readers will sense some level of depth and timelessness to the world and its peoples, even if I haven’t given them a full accounting of how it all came to be. It also allows me to plan ahead, planting the seeds of story threads that will sprout up later on.

On the other hand, I believe there is such a thing as too much prep work. You don’t want to use planning as merely an avoidance technique for doing the actual work. The story will change as you write it, forcing you to rethink some of your history and planning as you go along. That’s just how it works. My general advice to writers is to take as much time as you need in the planning stages to set a strong foundation, yet realize that very little is set in stone. The sooner you complete that first draft, the better you’ll know what you have before you. You will get many chances during the editing process to fine-tune things like languages and what-not that help to give your story a more authentic feel, so don’t feel like all of those nuances have to be perfected in advance.

I subscribe to the school of world-building utilized by the likes of George R. R. Martin and Terry Brooks, in that history, religion, economics… all is meant to support the story, first and foremost. For instance, while I know which races speak which languages, I haven’t created entire sets of vocabulary like Tolkien did. When I need a foreign word, I’ll come up with one on the spot, making note of it in case I need to use it again. Setting is indeed critical, but there’s no sense in spending your entire life naming rivers and mountains and races and languages and what-not if doing so means that you’ll never get around to telling an actual story. True emotional resonance with your readers stems not from geography, but from characterization. If you can succeed in that department, then as long as your characters aren’t walking around in a void, you should be all right.

This goes back to the notion that I’m somehow an expert on the commercial potential of someone else’s work. Truth be told, I rely on the opinion of my agent and editor to tell me if my writing is publishable. Outside of that, the only way to measure the validity of one’s work is in how badly you want to write it. Rather than read and pass personal judgment on the work of fellow writers out there, let me say this: Whether or not your work is ready for publication is almost entirely up to you. My opinion isn’t going to make a bit of difference in the grand scheme of things. Neither will most of those you encounter. What matters is your dedication to the craft. Like anything else, professional writing is mostly a matter of passion, practice, and perseverance.

In general, I’d say that most people have the potential to write. There are always certain aspects to be improved upon—my own work included—but what fledgling writers need to do, more than anything, is to go ahead and finish a story. When it is finished, write another. And another after that. If you’re like most writers, you’ll find that your skills improve every time out.

Believe it or not, the biggest thing that separates published writers from unpublished writers is that published writers actually finish what they begin. There are a lot of other factors that go into it, but job number one is to write a story you believe in. If you don’t believe in it, then no one else will.

I apologize to those in search of specific feedback. I regret that I’m unable to analyze your work more closely, and flattered that you would think me capable of doing so. It can take a lot of courage to share your work with others, and you should never hesitate to do so. My main goal here is to encourage you to continue writing and to reach your full potential—regardless of what anyone else says.