Trust me: The more we dig, the more sense it’s going to make.

Whether you’re watching The Sound of Music or Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon: a group of people come together, and as they interact, their emotions grow—until they boil over.

At which point, there is singing or there is fighting.

That emotional peak is like the crest of a wave.

Your pulse rises. Your senses are engaged.

Like all waves, it must recede, and the story dips down into the trough. That cooling off period is like a pressure release valve. The characters need it, but so do you.

Because there’s another wave coming.

That’s what waves do—they rise and fall, much like a story should. And in a really good story, those crests and troughs are going to get bigger as you go along, building to a climax: a soul-stirring song or a fight to determine someone’s fate.

Good fights and good songs are cool, sure, but they’re not there because they’re cool. They advance the story. They make you a promise. Most of all, they make the characters more accessible and draw you closer to them. On a technical level, these genres are great for establishing their authority. But on an emotional level, putting characters in a place of emotional or physical vulnerability makes it easier to identify with them—and to root for them.

It’s in recognizing these things that you can become a better storyteller.

World-Building

In the 1999 film The Matrix, humans have been enslaved by machines and stuck into a virtual reality designed to keep them docile. A group of rebels led by Morpheus (Laurence Fishburne) recruit Neo (Keanu Reeves), who they believe is the chosen one meant to free them.

Neo’s training begins, via virtual downloads, because the war will be fought on a digital landscape; in the realm of the mind rather than the physical body. After 10 hours of this training, Neo proclaims, “I know kung fu.”

Morpheus responds: “Show me.”

And they’re whisked into a virtual program, which Morpheus explains was designed to teach the rebel fighters that they’re only limited by their minds—some rules of physics can be bent, while others can be broken.

Then they fight!

Neo is bursting with excitement at his newfound prowess. Morpheus defends himself in a confident, almost detached manner. Neo grows frustrated, unable to land a single punch.

Morpheus chides him. “You’re faster than this. Don’t think you are. Know you are.”

Neo takes a breath. He drops into a place of stillness. They engage again. This time, Neo is faster, more focused, and the fight ends as he nearly strikes Morpheus, his fist hovering a fraction of an inch from his mentor’s face.

What did we learn here?

The whole sequence lasts a little under five minutes, but we got some great world-building on the rules of the virtual world—dictated and simultaneously expressed through combat. We got a sense of both characters. We watched them emotionally develop, as Neo comes into his confidence, and Morpheus recognizes Neo’s aptitude. We got to cheer for Neo as he took another step toward the ultimate goal of saving humanity (something we all have a vested interest in, even in a fictional setting).

It’s the zenith of that old writing adage: “Show, don’t tell.” Neo telling Morpheus he knows kung fu is meaningless. He had to show him—and us.

Plus, we got a really cool sequence designed by the legendary fight choreographer Yuen Woo-ping, because what’s the point if we’re not having fun?

After that, we take a breath. More world-building. More character stuff.

Until the next action sequence comes, which is slightly bigger, each acting as a plateau that drives the narrative to the next foundational level.

Character

West Side Story. A spin on Romeo & Juliet, set in the 1950s and featuring two rival New York City gangs, the Jets and the Sharks, both grappling for turf on the Upper West Side. For the sake of this exercise, we’ll refer to Steven Spielberg’s 2021 film version (there are clips of this song and the aforementioned fight scene on YouTube, if you want to follow along).

Ansel Elgort plays Tony, a Jet on parole, trying to live a more virtuous life. He meets and falls in love with María (Rachel Zegler), who is engaged to a Shark.

Things are not destined to end well.

Pretty early into the story we get “Jet Song,” which introduces us to, you guessed it, the Jets. The number starts with the gang discussing Tony: members are worried that Tony is out, but their leader Riff (Mike Faist) insists Tony is still one of them—through the power of song.

Riff learns about the Jets: their culture, their values, their hierarchy. It’s clear they consider themselves a family, and Tony leaving is a threat to their strength and identity. When we see the familial bond these characters have, we can better understand why they fight so hard for each other. We can all identify with the power of family—whether it’s the kind we’re born with, or in this case, the chosen kind.

And they don’t just tell us they’re a powerful unit by means of the lyrics—they show us through choreographed action. The gang dances in tandem through the streets, wandering into traffic as cars screech to a halt. People see them and recoil or run in fear.

The entire performance lasts less than three minutes, but in that brief time we got world-building, a musical dissertation on the stakes, and an introduction to one of the movie’s major factions. It established the gang’s bond, their tough-guy bona fides (as tough as a group of theater kids can be), and their technical proficiency as singers.

Structure

These are great scenes, but I doubt anyone would rank them as the best in their respective films. A good storytelling wave isn’t a horizontal line. It climbs, reaching its height at the climax.

Do you put the biggest and the best fight at the beginning of The Matrix? Nope! It comes at the end. Neo versus nigh-invincible computer programs in the form of black-suited agents.

“Jet Song” is a fine piece of singing, but it doesn’t carry the emotional weight of María singing over Tony’s dead body (that’s not a spoiler, the first production was in 1957, and anyway, I already said the story was a spin on Romeo & Juliet).

It’s important to think about this prioritization of impact when structuring your own narratives.

If you break it down, Spielberg’s West Side Story has 22 numbers, each one offering a crest, with a trough of character development and scene-setting and breath-catching in between. The Matrix has approximately seven major action set pieces (that’s if you consider set pieces within the last act as separate [the helicopter rescue, the subway fight], which, I do).

More than that, every song and every action sequence has to be relevant and transformational to the story.

Cool, but functional.

Stephen Sondheim, who wrote the lyrics for West Side Story, said that anyone can write a “bad song,” but even worse is writing a “wrong song,” one that doesn’t have any purpose or meaning.

And dancing is a little like fighting, right? Moulin Rouge! The Musical choreographer Sonya Tayeh said she watches shows “without music and [edits] accordingly, making sure every breath, every inch of movement is driving the story.”

You ever see a plot diagram? You can find one pretty easily online. It looks like a mountain, with the beginning, then a straight slope up, consisting of rising action, until you get to the peak—the climax. The slope down is the falling action, until you get to the end.

To my mind, the lines in the classic plot diagram are far too straight.

I believe a good storytelling line has little crests and troughs in them throughout—which tend to be much more apparent in genre stories, because of the expectations they set through the promises they make to the viewer: that some form of peril is imminent.

Pacing

Pacing is so important, and it’s everywhere. If you take a quick turn to Broadway, you realize how technical the format is. The ebb and flow of action and information is built into the foundational structure of many shows, so much so there are terms for them.

Most musicals have a big Opening Number, clearly establishing the world, the characters, and the show you’re about to see. In “Alexander Hamilton,” the first track in Hamilton, the whole cast comes out to tell you about the life of the play’s subject, and Aaron Burr literally tells you he’s going to shoot the guy (again, not a spoiler, because, history).

There’s the I Want song, where the protagonist literally tells us … what they want. In “The Wizard and I,” which Elphaba belts early in Wicked, she dreams about meeting the Wizard (of Oz) so she can find the love and acceptance and beauty she’s always craved.

And then there’s the 11 O’Clock Number, which comes toward the end of the show, and is meant to be a showstopper—a reward for an audience that stayed up late, but also, the culmination of the emotional journey. See: “Memory,” from Cats. I’m not entirely sure what the show is about, but it’s a really dope song.

I’m not saying all stories need to sound the same or follow the exact same format.

But I am saying that some things work because they work.

Head and Heart

We covered world-building, character, and structure. Just as important is the way these stories make a promise by creating a heightened sense of reality, and through this, establishing authority.

This is something Fight Club author Chuck Palahniuk talks about. That once you establish authority, “the reader will trust you, believe you, and you can do anything with the plot.”

There are two ways to do this, he says. The “heart” method, through honesty and frankness, and the “head” method, by demonstrating knowledge or proficiency.

Both kung fu movies and musicals are excellent for establishing a high level of technical prowess. It’s easy for us to trust people who are good at things and then to accept the reality their skill sets create, where everyone is a martial arts master or a Broadway-caliber singer.

And there’s an amplified emotional intensity in both of these genres that is captivating and undeniable. The characters are drawn closer—into hitting or kissing range—and we learn more about their true selves in these high-stakes scenarios.

What they want, who they love, what they’ll fight for, and who they’ll die for.

It’s this emotional or physical peril that gives us the opportunity to cheer for them.

Whether it’s Elphaba’s singing “The Wizard and I” or Neo battling for the fate of humanity, these are the moments that truly highlight the stakes, when our allegiance to these characters becomes strongest.

The Bigger Picture

We don’t need to explicitly focus on kung fu movies or musicals to understand the point here.

In fact, I don’t want you to.

I start with those because it’s a little bit funny and will get you to pay attention, but it underscores something really important: You should be reading and watching stories outside your chosen format so you can better see the invisible strands of storytelling common across all genres.

Pull the camera back a little and instead of kung fu, just think about action movies in general. Look at Mad Max: Fury Road. For as propulsive as it is, there is a sense of rising and falling action that gives the juggernaut a heartbeat. There are still moments in which director George Miller allows the audience to catch their breath, but only for a moment—and even that intentionally shortened space amplifies the feeling of perpetual motion.

Crests and troughs. They’re everywhere.

You’ve got dancing in Saturday Night Fever.

You’ve got gunfights in John Wick.

You’ve got boxing in Rocky and football in Friday Night Lights.

I could go on. But I don’t think I need to. Because at this point, I bet you can see it.

Moving forward, those crests and troughs—what they accomplish, what they offer you as a creator—ought to stand out just a little bit more, and you should be better equipped to utilize them in your own stories.

Click to continue.

The post Better Story Structure Through Musicals and Kung Fu Movies appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(21 Popular Thriller Tropes for Writers.)

As much as some writers thrive on letting their characters lead the way and making split-second decisions about what happens next (also known as “pantsing,” aka flying-by-the-seat-of-your-pants), I know now that I’m not one of them. Here’s why I’m a plotter, not a pantser.

1) I’m less likely to quit

At the start of my writing journey, I’d get to a tricky point in the story where I needed to do more research or where I didn’t know how to get my character out of a sticky situation, and I’d just grind to a halt. Soon, months would have gone by and picking the narrative threads back up felt more and more insurmountable. Eventually that novel would slide away into an archive folder on my computer, forgotten forever.

If I’d known what was going to happen next or what I was aiming for, maybe I could have continued writing. If I’d understood what research I needed to do before I started writing, perhaps I wouldn’t have had to pause and lose momentum.

I know now that I need to plot my novel before I start writing, so I’m less likely to quit.

2) I can see the big picture of my novel at a glance

One day I decided to try a new approach: plotting! So I turned to Writer’s Digest and found an article which has taught me skills which helped me write four novels, and which I’ve shared with countless other novelists who needed help to plan their novels: Use a Spreadsheet to Outline Your Novel.

Using the spreadsheet template in the article, I tore apart an early draft of my debut novel and laboriously plugged every scene into each row on the sheet. Suddenly, I could see everything: which scenes weren’t doing enough work, which scenes could be combined together to do double work, and which needed something extra to really sing. That spreadsheet helped me get to “The End,” and that novel became my published debut, Secrets of a Serial Killer.

3) I find more space for creativity

Some writers—Stephen King included—believe that plotting removes spontaneity and creativity. I disagree. I’ll maybe concede it changes when you can be spontaneous, and yet creativity is just as abundant throughout the process.

The plotting phase is full of fun and creativity, and is my favorite part of writing. I love sitting at my desk, staring into space and letting these new people wander around in my brain poking at stuff until they have a goal. The writing phase is a different and equally fun phase of creativity for me. I have the scope to ask questions like, “What kind of character might do the things I’ve plotted for them in future chapters?” To me, that’s hugely creative.

Sure, if you already know your beginning, middle, and end, then it’s unlikely that your characters will unexpectedly win the lottery and jump on a flight to Barbados when that wasn’t what you intended. But many writers find that knowing your major plot beats and where you’re heading enables you to play around more creatively within the space you’ve invented.

4) I get the structure right

No matter what genre you write in or what plotting advice you follow, structure is a key element of writing good fiction. I write psychological thrillers, and readers of this genre expect key things: inciting incidents, little twists throughout, a big midpoint twist, and a climactic final act. Often these elements need to be carefully placed, especially the midpoint twist—and plotting these things out in advance really helps me, both at the writing stage and in the later editing stages too. 

After the early draft I still have to go through structural edits where some things will change, but the amount of work I have to do on rewrites is significantly reduced if I have plotted in advance. And I think the books I write are better for it, too.

Since learning to plot and writing my debut novel, I have written three more novels: The House Fire, The Baby Monitor, and my newest release, My Husband’s Ex—out May 3rd from Bookouture. Each of these benefited from what I learned from Michael and his spreadsheet, and for the rest of my writing career I will be wholeheartedly a “plotter,” and never a “panster.” 

Check out Rosie Walker’s My Husband’s Ex here:

Bookshop | Amazon

(WD uses affiliate links)

The post 4 Reasons I’m a Plotter, Not a Pantser appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(Want to Write an Unputdownable Book?)

Read on to discover 10 ways you can incorporate secrets in your fiction to captivate readers and keep them eagerly turning the pages. (Warning: spoilers ahead!)

Strategic Revelation Timing

Timing is everything when it comes to unveiling secrets in your narrative. Consider strategically placing revelations at pivotal moments to maximize their impact. Build suspense by dropping hints and foreshadowing, creating an air of anticipation that keeps readers engaged.

Example: Gone Girl, by Gillian Flynn

Flynn strategically reveals that Amy is alive and has been orchestrating her own disappearance as an elaborate revenge plot against Nick. This revelation comes at the midpoint of the novel, reshaping the reader’s understanding of the characters and the events leading up to that point.

Character-Driven Secrets

Weave secrets into the fabric of your characters, making them integral to their identities and motivations. A character’s hidden past, unspoken desires, or undisclosed intentions can add depth and nuance, creating a rich tapestry that readers find irresistible.

Example: The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini

The central character, Amir, harbors the secret that he betrayed his childhood friend Hassan by not intervening during a traumatic incident. This secret motivates Amir’s actions and shapes the trajectory of the story, exploring themes of guilt, redemption, and the consequences of one’s choices.

Layers of Complexity

Secrets should not be one-dimensional. Infuse complexity by introducing layers of secrets that interconnect, creating a web of intrigue. This complexity not only enhances the storytelling but also provides ample material for plot twists and character development.

Example: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, by Stieg Larsson

Larsson introduces a complex mystery involving financial corruption, a family’s dark past, and the unsolved disappearance of Harriet Vanger. These layers of complexity are gradually revealed, creating a compelling narrative with interconnected secrets that keep readers engaged.

Consequences and Repercussions

Every secret should carry weight and consequences. Explore the fallout of revelation, delving into the emotional and psychological impact on your characters. This adds realism and depth to your narrative while keeping readers emotionally invested.

Example: The Secret History, by Donna Tartt

In The Secret History, a group of students commits murder, and the secret surrounding this act has profound consequences for the characters. As the truth unfolds, the characters grapple with guilt, paranoia, and the weight of their actions. Dynamics fracture, and the psychological toll on each member becomes increasingly apparent.

The Unreliable Narrator

Unreliable narrators can be powerful tools for delivering secrets in your fiction. Craft characters with questionable perspectives or hidden agendas, leading readers to question the reliability of the narrative itself. This technique adds an element of mystery and keeps readers guessing until the final reveal.

Example: Fight Club, by Chuck Palahniuk

Palahniuk’s narrator is revealed to have dissociative identity disorder, and his alter ego, Tyler Durden, is responsible for the chaotic events in the story. The unreliable narrator conceals this secret, creating a mind-bending narrative that challenges the reader’s perception of reality.

Symbolic Secrets

Use secrets as symbolic elements that resonate with broader themes in your story. A hidden object, a cryptic message, or a recurring motif can serve as more than just a narrative device—they can become powerful symbols that enhance the overall meaning of your work.

Example: The Da Vinci Code, by Dan Brown

In The Da Vinci Code, the secret of the Holy Grail is presented as a symbolic mystery with hidden codes and symbols. The narrative explores the symbolic significance of these secrets, adding depth to the adventure and enhancing the thematic complexity of the story.

Tension Through Withholding

The art of withholding information can be just as powerful as revealing it. Build tension by strategically holding back key details, creating a sense of mystery that compels readers to keep turning pages in search of answers.

Example: Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier

Du Maurier withholds the true circumstances of Rebecca’s death until the climax of the novel. The mystery surrounding Rebecca builds tension as the protagonist and the readers are kept in suspense, questioning the nature of her demise and the secrets hidden within the grand estate of Manderley.

Multiple Perspectives

Employ multiple perspectives to unveil secrets gradually. Each character may hold a unique piece of the puzzle, and by shifting perspectives, you can create a mosaic of revelations that piece together the overarching secret. This technique also allows for diverse and engaging storytelling.

Example: The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver

Kingsolver employs multiple perspectives within the Price family in The Poisonwood Bible. Each perspective reveals different secrets, such as the hidden motives of the patriarch Nathan Price and the personal struggles of each family member.

Foreshadowing

Master the subtle art of foreshadowing to prepare readers for upcoming revelations. Cleverly placed hints and red herrings can pave the way for a satisfying reveal later, ensuring that the secret feels earned and seamlessly integrated into the narrative.

Example: Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, by J.K. Rowling

Rowling foreshadows the revelation that Professor Quirrell is working for Voldemort and seeking the Philosopher’s Stone. The subtle hints begin early in the story, with references to the Defense Against the Dark Arts position being cursed.

Reader Engagement

Foster reader engagement by encouraging speculation and discussion. Pose questions without immediate answers, prompting readers to theorize and form their own conclusions. This interactive element can turn your narrative into a shared experience, enhancing the impact of your secrets.

Example: The Girl on the Train, by Paula Hawkins

Reader engagement is heightened through unreliable narrators and strategic information withholding. Hawkins invites readers to piece together the puzzle through multiple perspectives, gradually revealing secrets tied to Megan, Rachel, and Anna. The deliberate information gaps encourage readers to become detectives, speculating on Megan’s disappearance and the hidden truths.

The Takeaway

Secrets, when wielded with skill, can transform your fiction into a riveting journey of discovery and revelation. By strategically incorporating these 10 secrets into your storytelling, you can create a narrative that resonates with readers long after they’ve turned the final page. 

Check out Jen Craven’s Her Daughter here:

Bookshop | Amazon

(WD uses affiliate links)

The post 10 Secrets for Using Secrets in Your Fiction appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(5 Tips for Helping Writers Empathize With Your Villain.)

Morgan Freeman says, “heroes are out of fashion,” in the 2006 Bruce Beresford film Contract. And more recently, Maya Rudolph says, “I hear the universe saying ‘your heroes are dying,’” in Amy Poehler’s Wine Country. In response, there’s been a resounding rise of the anti-hero, from the begrudging Nolan Batman in Dark Knight to Deadpool, Joker, Logan, and even last year with Oppenheimer, Napoleon, and The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes. As Alfred ominously foretells in the Dark Knight, “You either die a hero or you live long enough to become the villain.”

Nonetheless, they point to an important question: Is the hero’s journey dead? Well, yes and no. It’s true, we have been seemingly stuck in endless calls to adventure, but the hero’s journey is just the first half of a greater process of lifetime growth. The rest of it entails embarking upon a heroine’s journey.

Most famously, George Lucas used the hero’s journey in making Star Wars—A New Hope, based on Joseph Campbell’s theory of the monomyth, which essentially argues that all of mythology’s epics could be boiled down to 17 steps, which then Christopher Vogler further sanitized and distilled into 12. The idea is that if you utilize these stages, drawing fundamentally from mythological motifs and archetypes, you’re guaranteed to tell a psychologically satisfying story that readers and audiences will want to read or watch again and again. 

The proof is in the success of Star Wars, a film that no one wanted made, no one really believed in. Up until then, fantasy sci-fi was for kids. But Lucas bent the genre to put cowboys in space on a journey of mythological proportion, breaking records and becoming the highest grossing film of all time, surpassing Jaws, which led Steven Spielberg to take out a congratulatory ad in the New York Times where Artoo reels in Jaws. 

(Exploring Star Wars and the Hero’s Journey.)

When asked about his storytelling methods, Lucas pointed to Joseph Campbell as his mentor, even inviting him to Skywalker Ranch to do a 6-hour PBS interview with Bill Moyers, which was later published as The Power of Myth and stayed on the New York Times bestseller list for 58 weeks in 1988. The notion that storytelling had a blueprint galvanized Hollywood into churning out copy-cat blockbusters hoping to follow in Lucas’s footsteps, eventually leaving some writers to wonder if it’s all too formulaic.

Thus, beyond a mere passing character thought, there seems to be an authorial critique, a consensus that the hero’s journey has become a tired trope. William Miller believes that the problem is in the sequels. What happens to the hero after? Generalizing here, but his argument goes: Every great movie has produced seriously bad sequels. But you don’t have to look too far to debunk this assertion, given the success of so many films in the Marvel universe or the Fast & Furious franchise juggernaut. 

Ken Miyamoto makes the bold claim that the hero’s journey is dead because the truth is, we all hated Luke Skywalker. Really? That’s a proof when Star Wars still ranks as the #2 top lifetime grossing film, when adjusted for inflation, beat out only by Gone with the Wind. Christoph Vandewiele says that either the hero’s journey must die or the author is redundant. He calls it an “outdated theoretical model.” 

But is it outdated or have we Boomers, Gen-Xers, and some Millennials—we who have been raised on Star Wars—have we simply outgrown it? Have we middle-aged out of the genre? To say that it no longer speaks to us as a model, doesn’t mean that it doesn’t still speak to some. We can’t make the mistake of assuming that because we’ve tired of it, all future generations must be as well.

George Lucas wrote about the coming-of-age experience, and Luke Skywalker is a prime example of a young adult coming into adulthood, representing the ego-defining psychological experience of individuation—separating from the all-consuming “self” and becoming an individual without an inflated ego. It’s a process, and mythology has already paved the way, hence the reference to its archetypes. As Lucas says, “I’m telling an old myth in a new way.”

Still, what comes after coming of age? Campbell argued that the monomyth stood for the journey of “everyman” (what he explains to mean as every person regardless of gender … also let’s not forget that he wrote this in 1949). The proof of the monomyth was in mythology and psychology, a claim he never takes the time to actually prove. But if we may revert to the Jungian psychological underpinnings of his theory, individuation—that psychological path of coming into selfhood—is represented by the hero’s journey, if only partially. 

Check out Nadia Salem’s The Monomyth Reboot here:

Bookshop | Amazon

(WD uses affiliate links)

Initially, your ego and self are born together, undifferentiated. Through the process of individuation and coming of age, confronting archetypes such as the persona and shadow, your ego inflates and deflates until, at the conclusion of the journey, it is properly sized and wholly separated from the self. This is a heroic, praiseworthy achievement. But it’s not done. Once fully realized as a distinct entity different from the self, the ego yearns for a return and reintegration with the self. This is also a process, and it’s known as the heroine’s journey.

The best articulation of the heroine’s journey has been Maureen Murdock’s, The Heroine’s Journey: Woman’s Quest for Wholeness. In it, she explains that in her practice and experience, women go through nine stages to achieve wholeness, stages drawn from Campbell’s monomyth and retooled. I would add that for storytelling purposes, the heroine’s journey is as genderless as the hero’s journey. Just as the hero’s journey is a coming of age, the heroine’s journey is a coming of middle age, a journey accessible to anyone on a path of growth and individuation—with the ultimate goal of achieving a reunion with the forsaken self.

And so, in some respects, I agree with William Miller. At times, there has been a paucity in sequels that matched the tenor and verve of its origin story. Take for example the sequels to The Matrix, which were so bad, people are still talking about it 20 years later. At the end of those, Neo dies at last, putting audiences out of their misery. For the Wachowskis, they were taking a deconstructionist, postmodern approach, which is a bit much to put on a movie and it showed. They failed to realize that the end result of postmodernism followed to its logical conclusion, according to Friedrich Nietzsche, is nihilism. 

However, in 2021, Neo is resurrected because his consciousness is incomplete unless and until he’s reunited with Trinity, his other (better) half, in The Matrix Resurrections. Philosophically speaking, this is the transmodern turn, recapturing some salient, necessary old ways, traditions, beliefs, or manners that were previously deconstructed as categorically baseless or untrue but are now being seen as true enough for some. Monomythically and psychologically speaking, Neo embarks on a heroine’s journey to be reunited with his “self” in the conclusion of a life fully individuated to achieve harmony and a lasting peace. In The Matrix, he came of age, in Resurrections, he came of middle of age.

Lana Wachowskis is not the first or the last to employ the heroine’s journey in story. Its blueprint can be found in the mythology of Eros and Psyche, the novels Jane Eyre, To Kill a Mockingbird, Their Eyes Were Watching God, TV series such as Picard and Mandalorian, and movies from Snow White to Frozen, and myriad others including Star Trek (2009), Skyfall, Guardians of the Galaxy, Oscar winners like A Beautiful Mind, Rocky, Gladiator, Moonlight, and The Shape of Water, oldies like It’s a Wonderful Life and The Sound of Music, and newbies like Barbie, plus countless others.

Yes, as intimated by Alfred, actualized by Neo, and embodied by the monomyth, die a hero and be reborn in the footsteps of the heroine.

The post Are We Over the Hero’s Journey? appeared first on Writer's Digest.

When I began to employ this new-found (to me) plot structure in my own writing, I quickly confronted a question: How does a writer help the reader to navigate from the exposition to the rising action? At best, that’s a bit of a leap to go from setting up a story to cranking up the conflict. I would later understand that this missing component of the plot pyramid was something commonly referred to as an inciting incident. In short, the inciting incident is the event that triggers the shift from the exposition to the rising action. If the exposition shows us a normal day in the life of the character, then the inciting incident serves as that catalyst for when that normal day shifts into a world full of conflict or a series of obstacles the protagonist must now confront. While some people consider the inciting incident to be a part of the exposition, others view it as a missing ingredient from the plot diagram. Either way, few, if any, writers would disagree that it is a necessary component to writing a good story.

After writing 30 books, many of them in which I had to strongly consider this particular point, I have come to understand that there are five key things that have guided me and that I feel other writers should consider when it comes to using the concept of the inciting incident in their own works.

1. Don’t rush to it.

As writers, we often have a strong idea of what we want to happen in a story. We also understand that our readers might not be particularly patient when it comes to getting to the good parts of the book. As a result, we use techniques like in medias res or the use of carefully crafted, engaging first sentences that push the plot farther along. All of these things are wonderful techniques; however, the plots, especially for longer works, tend to eventually come back around to the idea of setting up the core conflict of the story at some point, thereby requiring some kind of inciting incident. Knowing that you have that element to look forward to when you begin writing, you might feel tempted to zoom past the other exposition in the story to get to that moment. I whole-heartedly understand where that notion originates, but the exposition allows us to understand and appreciate the characters enough to care about what they are going through. As a result, you can pace yourself as you work to get to that point of the story. We don’t want to unnecessarily drag our feet, but we definitely don’t want to run toward the inciting incident so quickly that we can’t appreciate how we arrived there.

2. Don’t rush past it.

Just as you had to patiently navigate yourself toward the inciting incident, you will also want to avoid running past it. The inciting incident is a pivotal part in the story. The weight you are about to place on the shoulders of your protagonist should be understood and appreciated by the reader. Full empathy for the character comes when the reader is acutely aware of the stakes involved in your story, from where the stakes arose, and what choices the character will have to face to move forward. In the aforementioned movie, Friday, the inciting incident occurs when the protagonist is offhandedly dragged by his best friend into efforts to pay an ice cream truck-owning weed dealer back a certain sum of money. Prior to the dealer’s arrival, our protagonist, Craig, was having a regular day (or as regular a day as he could have, given that he’d been fired on his day off). The notion that Craig has been dragged into the hijinks of his best friend, Smokey, immediately kicks off the struggles that will propel his character through the rest of the movie. Still, in that moment of discovering the obstacles that lay ahead, the character is given a moment to allow this alteration to his daily plans to sink in. One might also view this breathing space as the opportunity for the character to completely digest his situation and get a glimpse at the obstacles that lie ahead. We as viewers or readers get to share this moment, and that shared recognition of the inciting incident is what allows us to root for the character even more enthusiastically going forward.

3. Use your exposition wisely to set up your story for the inciting incident.

Just because we are aware of the need for the inciting incident doesn’t mean we shouldn’t spend the time carefully crafting how we arrive at this point. Carefully crafting your exposition is akin to not only driving there (which is essentially the focus of my first point), but also doing this in style. It goes without saying that pacing and style are not necessarily synonymous, but they do impact each other. How you layer in the exposition can affect the impact of the inciting incident when it does arise. One of my favorite short stories to teach my students, Charles Waddell Chesnutt’s “Baxter’s Procrustes,” is an excellent example of this. The story is about a group of literary aficionados calling themselves the Bodleian Club and a mishap that happens with one of its members. The story is narrated by one of its members, Jones, who gives a detailed background of the club and its value so that when we encounter the inciting incident, we can appreciate the magnitude of the dilemma that will follow. “Baxter’s Procrustes” might have one of the longest sections of exposition I have come across in a short story in quite some time, as it is meticulous about establishing the mood and tone of the story. In fact, a casual reader might not even recognize the exact moment in which the inciting incident occurs—or whom the protagonist really is, for that matter. The inciting incident is far more impactful, not just because of the pacing, but the manner in which the exposition was developed while reaching the inciting incident.

In my second novel, 30 Love, I used this technique to establish the events of the novel. The inciting incident of that book is when Dizzy asks Lailah, his best friend of 30 years, to marry him, based upon an off-handed agreement they’d made 10 years earlier. In building up to this turning point, I establish the nature of their friendship and how they have interacted with each other over the years through the telling of how they celebrate their joint birthdays (since they were born on the same day to parents who were best friends, as well). By using the exposition more efficiently, the inciting incident carries much more emotional resonance when it occurs, especially since Lailah’s response is not a foregone conclusion. Inciting incidents are more likely to hook the reader when readers are invested in the characters, so make the most of your exposition.

Order a copy of Ran Walker’s 30 Love today. 

Bookshop | Amazon
[WD uses affiliate links.]

4. Recognize what that moment means for your character.

Now that we have arrived at the inciting moment, how does this moment affect your character? This is not merely a question of what the character should do; it must also take into account how the character’s personality is equipped to deal with this turning point. Some characters will willingly accept the charge and move forward. Others might piddle around trying to make sense of how to proceed. Whatever reaction the character has to this inciting incident should be explored and understood, as it will usually factor into how the character elects to approach the obstacles of the rising action. It is always good to know what makes your character’s reaction unique in that moment, given what you have developed about them in the exposition of the story. For example, in Kate Chopin’s short story “The Story of an Hour,” we meet a woman who has just learned her husband has passed away in a train wreck. Her grief quickly turns way to relief, as she has a chance to really consider what his death will mean to her regaining her freedom to be something other than his wife. Without giving away the story’s conclusion, it is worth pointing out that the protagonist’s reaction to this inciting incident is a big part of the story’s plot. As you write your inciting incident, it would be helpful to keep in mind how your character will respond to this.

5. Always understand what your inciting incident is, even if you choose not to show it in the actual story.

There are numerous stories, whether due to their length or the style of structure they employ, that simply do not illustrate the inciting incident directly to the reader. Instead, the inciting incident is implied and understood upon a closer reading of the text. A good example of this is Ambrose Bierce’s short story “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,” a classic tale in which a Confederate sympathizer is put to death. What he did, however, is never directly stated in the text, only implied, yet those very actions have created the situation in which he finds himself. Of course, this reading of the story only comes from considering the totality of the plot (including those things that occur “offstage”). For readers who seek an inciting incident within the text, they might turn to the snapping of the rope as this turning point, but using the definition I stated earlier, the point at which Peyton Farquhar’s life takes a turn away from the normal is when he decides to help the Confederate cause by taking the information shared to him by an undercover federal scout and do something bold and punishable by death if he’s caught (which, spoiler alert, he is). As I consider my own microfiction, I realize that having an understanding of where the inciting incident is will help me to write tighter stories. Many of my stories occur after the inciting incident would have, theoretically, occurred. This is by design, as much of microfiction is about implication. Still, in the absence of showing it, my stories are much stronger because I still recognize that it’s there, just like an implied “you” or implied “that.” Whether or not you choose to actually have the inciting incident as a part of your story in a direct way, you should still have an understanding of what caused the change in your text and set in motion the conflict that will anchor your story. This harkens back to the theory of the iceberg, where most of your story is underwater and never actually seen by the reader, yet it is incredibly important to the writer, especially in terms of how they choose to craft the portion of the story that is seen by the reader.

Final Thoughts

My wife is fond of telling me that it’s important to know your why when it comes to doing things. Understanding the purpose and the function of an inciting incident is essentially having a complete grasp of your character’s why. Why is this situation important to your character? Why does your character choose to react to this situation in this particular way? Why does the character feel compelled to follow this trail of conflicts in the quest for a resolution? There is a certain logic that arises when you are acting from an understanding of the why, and this understanding and appreciation of inciting incidents will help you to deliver the stories you long to tell in a way that has a greater chance of satisfying your readers that much more.

Click to continue. 

The post This Changes Everything appeared first on Writer's Digest.

My book opens five years later, introducing readers to characters who have already become legends—and how poorly they’re dealing with the aftermath.

So Let Them Burn is far from the first book to look at what happens after the world’s been saved. Chosen Ones, by Veronica Roth, tackled PTSD and celebrity in a world very like our own. The Afterward, by EK Johnson, showed us queer characters drowning under their own reputations. And Strange the Dreamer, by Laini Taylor, focused on the scars that war left behind, no matter how justified that war might have been.

Stories like that fascinate me in the same way cozy fantasy novels fascinate people looking for more personal stakes in their magical worlds. Because the journey of recovery after a world-shattering, life-defining war is deeply personal. In So Let Them Burn, Faron and Elara were 12 and 13 respectively when they left for battle. At 17 and 18, they are both broken. Faron, unwilling to face the expectations her powers and actions have placed on her, has regressed as deeply as she could into childishness. Elara, incapable of dealing with being a footnote in her younger sister’s story, has adopted a mindset of toxic heroism.

Both of them left vital parts of themselves behind. Both of them are broken. Both of them are doing their best.

That, to me, is so rich with narrative possibility. And not just because I can’t stage a battle scene to save my life.

It is a tragic fact of the human condition that there is always a war, a conflict, a battle, a fight, somewhere in the world. But it is also a wondrous fact that life happens in and around those terrifying times. People can learn to live—sometimes even thrive—in unimaginable conditions. To come together to get one another through the day. To laugh. To love. To hope.

If there’s one thing that human beings of all ages are, it’s resilient. As much bad as there is in the world, there are those who are filled with so much good. People who will give you directions in a new city or hand over their lunch to someone who’s hungry. People who will find you a first edition copy of a book you mentioned liking once and people who will take you in when your house has burned down. People who tell stories to console terrified children and people who give their seat to the elderly. The world spins wildly onward, and humanity continues to shine in ways large and small.

I wanted to write a book about that journey. About that space between wars, when there is nothing left to distract you from facing those jagged pieces of yourself you’ve been desperately holding together. About the consequences that must be faced and the growth that must be doing and the hope, that unflinching hope, that there is light on the other side of so much darkness.

I wanted to write a book about a Chosen One whose mission was complete, but that didn’t stop them from being trapped with the title and responsibility. I wanted to write a book about the damage and trauma that is dealt from fighting, at such a young age, for your own humanity. I wanted to write a book about two sisters who loved each other so much—fiercely, loyally, and perhaps a bit codependently—that they would do anything for each other. Even doom the world.

And as a Jamaican-American, born on an island that still bears the fingerprints of its colonizers and moved to a country with its own dangerous history of slavery and cultural erasure, I wanted to write a book about a country being created rather than destroyed. San Irie struggles with its national identity, struggles to rebuild all that the colonizers destroyed, and mourns the things they will never get back after the war—all struggles that I hope ring true to Black Americans of all cultural backgrounds.

I love books about looming war and evils triumphantly defeated at the end of a pyrrhic battle. I grew up on Song of the Lioness and Eragon, The Chronicles of Narnia and City of Bones. But for my debut novel, I wanted to take a glimpse at the after. I wanted heroes in recovery, fire-forged relationships put to the test of normalcy, and the joy and fear of having an adventure when you thought you’d retired from having adventures.

One day, I’ll write a book like the ones I grew up with. But, for me, the best part of So Let Them Burn is that it’s not about THE war or the next war. There will always be a war. So Let Them Burn is one look at how to keep living when you are the biggest threat to yourself, when you peaked at 12 and now the world is what you make of it, and when you have no idea who you are because everyone has always told you who they think you should be. It’s about learning to live in the world that you’ve saved, when you’ve spent so long just trying to survive.

So Let Them Burn is that first tranquil breath you take after danger has passed. I hope it brings readers that same kind of peace. 

Check out Kamilah Cole’s So Let Them Burn here:

Bookshop | Amazon

(WD uses affiliate links)

The post Why It’s Fun to Write About What Happens After the World’s Been Saved appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(How to Write Inner Conflict in Fiction.)

One such way to achieve this tension is to leave the reader wanting more—that is, disturb the narrative equilibrium enough by dropping a carefully placed bombshell or hanging a carrot just out of reach. These and others, are examples of cliffhangers, which when used effectively, prompt curiosity to learn more. And that’s when you’ll find readers bingeing their way through a book.

While literary cliffhangers have long been a popular literary device, many believe the word got its meaning from Thomas Hardy’s A Pair of Blue Eyes, an 1873 novel in which the protagonist is left—quite literally—hanging from a cliff. In the early days of fiction, stories were largely serialized in publications, meaning that cliffhangers were a fitting ploy (more on writing series later). Today, readers see cliffhangers in some shape or form in a variety of genres, most notably, but not exclusively, thrillers and mysteries.

Why use cliffhangers in your writing? On the whole, this strategy can:

• Create suspense and add to tension
• Give a shock
• Reinforce reader investment
• Avoid predictability
• Propel reading momentum

Like many storytelling devices, the term “cliffhanger” is used widely for any instance when the author hopes to incentivize the reader to continue. However, on the writing side of the equation, there are different ways you can implement a successful cliffhanger. Let’s take a look at four unique types:

1. Cut and Leave

Your protagonist is at the height of peril and BOOM, you end the scene. Perhaps the character is in a race against time, or there has been an unexpected accident, or he must make a major choice. Either way, the scene or chapter ends before any resolution, leaving your reader desperate to know what happens next. 

And you know what that means? You guessed it—they’ll keep reading. This type of cliffhanger creates a kind of pain-in-pleasure response in the reader, where he must find out how the protagonist moves forward.

TIP: You don’t want to resolve the cliffhanger too quickly. Instead, switch POVs to draw out the tension even further before returning to the moment of peril. More tips later!

An example of this type of cliffhanger is from Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games. Katniss, the main protagonist, is fighting for her life in a dystopian game of kill or be killed. Collins ends chapter 16 with: “For a moment, everything seems frozen in time. Then the apples spill to the ground and I’m blown backward into the air.”

You try putting in your bookmark after that—it’s nearly impossible!

Check out Jen Craven’s The Baby Left Behind here:

Bookshop | Amazon

(WD uses affiliate links.)

2. Lights Out

This cliffhanger is, in all respects, a loss of consciousness. Just when your character is in jeopardy, he blacks out. An author might use comparable wording, along the lines of “and everything faded to black.” Readers will find themselves thinking, “What happened? Is he okay? I better read a little more to make sure.”

Here’s the tricky part with this type of cliffhanger: You want to be careful of wake-up scenes, as readers can find them lazy. The character must wake up as dramatically as he blacked out. Don’t let the tension plummet.

Take this example from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: “Voldemort had raised his wand. His head was still tilted to one side, like a curious child, wondering what would happen if he proceeded. Harry looked back into the red eyes, and wanted it to happen now, quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control, before he betrayed fear—. He saw the mouth move and a flash of green light, and everything was gone.”

Dun, dun, dunnnnnn. Okay, one more chapter.

3. The Big Reveal

As its name suggests, this type of cliffhanger divulges something major. There are three subcategories, all of which are similar in that they expose a key piece of the story, but different in their approach.

• Identity reveal: Surprise! The good guy is actually the bad guy. Or vice versa, the bad guy is actually the good guy. This is depicted in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince when Snape’s true identity is revealed.
• Plot reveal: Watch out! The plot just got turned on its head. For instance, in Gone Girl, when we learn Amy is alive and well.
• Reader reveal: Shhhh! The reader just learned something important, but the character(s) are still in the dark. This can create beautiful dramatic irony and keep readers on the edge of their seats.

Reveals often end up being plot twists, another literary device used often in genre fiction. You’ll never hear a reader say, “I knew exactly how it was going to go and that was satisfying.” Readers want to be surprised. They may enjoy guessing the plot along the way, but part of the joy of reading is the unpredictable journey.

4. All the Emotion

Unlike the other types of cliffhangers, this one is much more internal, meaning that the character experiences something that causes a subtle but emotional reaction. Imagine the scene as though it were a movie where the camera zooms in on the actor’s face. You can see something in their eyes without words being spoken. 

In literature, it might be internal dialogue, in which the character comes to a poignant realization. It could be a bad omen, a sign, or a general sense of foreboding. Perhaps there is a sudden loss, and the reader will then wonder how the character feels about it, how it affects the rest of the cast.

In Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch, young Theo is grappling with the sudden death of his mother. When two strangers show up on his doorstep, the chapter ends with the following line: “…but though they both had kindly expressions on their faces, I understood the instant I saw them that my life, as I knew it, was over.”

Can’t you just see his face here? Doesn’t it make you want to keep reading to see how exactly his life would change?

Tips for Writing Effective Cliffhangers

Writing cliffhangers should never be as simple as cutting a scene in the middle with no thought. Likewise, they shouldn’t be thrown into the story haphazardly. Like any plot technique, they take thoughtful application and appropriate timing. Here are some helpful tips for those who want to take a stab at using cliffhangers.

• Use them at the end of chapters or before paragraph breaks, but be sure to follow up the cliffhanger with a solid opening to the next chapter/section. Keep in mind, however, that too many cliffhangers can cheapen the reading experience. Use them intentionally.
• Delay cliffhanger resolution as much as possible without stringing your reader along tediously. Consider jumping POVs in between to drag out tension.
• Be sure to eventually resolve all cliffhangers, otherwise they can be considered plot holes, and readers never like that. However, avoid falling into deus ex machina, wherein resolutions feel improbable or unlikely as a way to reach a tidy ending.
• Don’t prolong the cliffhanger. They should be short and “pulsy,” where readers can sense lurking danger followed by a sudden stop.
• Use foreshadowing throughout your story as a way to lead up to a cliffhanger. Readers love being able to pick up on hints along the way.
• Avoid cliffhangers at the end of a book, unless it’s part of a series—in that case, conclusion cliffhangers are an enthusiastic YES. Nothing makes a reader pick up the next book in a series more than a cliffhanging ending in the previous one.
• Ambiguous endings are not the same as cliffhangers. Open-ended books allow the reader to come to their own conclusions. However, cliffhangers come with a promise for an answer, which is why they should only be used at the end of a book that’s followed by a sequel.
• Use flashbacks as a delivery method for cliffhangers. Make the reader question everything they’d read to that point.

Put It To Use

Ready to write a cliffhanger in your story? The best way to practice this skill is to try some writing exercises. Take a character from your work in progress and invent problems for her. What could make her life worse? 

Go there. Then take it a step further. Type the words “And then…” and see where it goes. Try moving the last paragraph of a scene to the next (or later) chapter. Ask yourself rhetorical questions like “Will they ever find him?” or “Will he get there in time?” or “Which one will she choose?” Don’t give the readers the answers right away.

Remember, the key centers on conflict, and conflict comes from tension. Maybe you won’t rename yourself Dan Brown, but weave these things throughout your story, and you’ll have a book readers won’t want to put down. 

The post Want to Write an Unputdownable Book? Try a Cliffhanger (Or Two) appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(What Is BookTok and Why Should Writers Care?)

The Skit series eventually developed into an episodic format with interconnected storylines, featuring a grumpy villain, his sunshine assistant, a slow-burn romance, and office hijinx in a fairytale setting. These developments were a natural and slow evolution with each new plot point and storyline. By the time I was ready to sit down and write the book, I felt like I knew these characters. I knew their backgrounds, their stories, their hopes, and dreams. 

A skit format can be limiting, but putting words to a page is boundless. That first day I sat down to write their story, I could not get the words down quickly enough. When characters and a plot live in your head for so long they beg to come out, to be seen and to unfold.

Essentially what the book became was taking an already developed group of characters and putting them in situations where they became more real. So, the first thing I tackled was backstories. When the characters would come up in the skit series I would start to ask questions. Who are they? Where did they come from? Why are they here? What are their strengths and weaknesses? Because I had those thoughts already forming, all that was left was to put them to page.

Dialogue came easily as well, in the skits we only see one perspective, the assistant. But every time she spoke on camera; I would be imagining how characters would respond behind it. Their repertoire was familiar because it existed long before the book did, it just wasn’t visually in front of me yet. Putting it into a book format was fulfilling a need I’d created in the series and was finally answering the question. How is the person I can’t see on screen responding to what the assistant said?

Check out Hannah Nicole Maehrer’s Assistant to the Villain:

Bookshop | Amazon

(WD uses affiliate links.)

Setting was where things became really fun. Because the series was filmed first in my small college townhome, to my parents living room. Alas, I did not have a fairytale kingdom on hand for background ambiance. But that was just fine, because putting my characters to page allowed me to create the setting I always saw them in. This story in its quirkiest twisted way is a fairytale. 

(3 Ways I Wrote My Novel With BookTok in Mind.)

So, the setting needed to reflect the energy the characters were giving, familiar comfortable. All my favorite stories as a child were magical and full of whimsy, so I took that feeling and the setting was born!

Lastly and depending on your view, most importantly, plot. The plot in the beginning was tricky. Unlike the skit series, which I still make regularly and has over 200 installments. A book has a start, a middle, and an end. My goal was to create the familiarity of the skits, the characters, the humor, the slow-burn romance, and give them one overarching problem to work around. 

In the process of doing this, I wove elements of storylines from the skits throughout the book where they fit. Like an evolution of the old into something new, something you’ve seen, but haven’t. The plot needed to be something new for the people who’d been following the skits, while also delivering the same energy we started with. 

In all the years I’d imagined my first novel, I’d never quite imagined the story being born this way. Creating the skits first allowed me so much time to familiarize myself with my characters, until it felt like in a way, they became my companions. It was them championing me to write their story, and I’m so grateful I was able to tell it.

The post The Creative Process of Turning BookTok Skits to Plot appeared first on Writer's Digest.

She teaches writing and is a member of the steering committee of New Directions, a writing program for scholars and psychotherapists offered by the Washington Center for Psychoanalysis. At Politics and Prose, she co-leads sold out workshops helping writers find the imagery–and language–that is uniquely theirs.

The mother and stepmother of three foodies, she has been married for 38 years to her rye bread co-conspirator, John Melngailis, a retired professor of electrical engineering at the University of Maryland. The couple live, cook, and entertain in Chevy Chase, MD. Follow her on Facebook and Instagram.

In this post, Michaele explains how she discovered the structure of her memoir, what she rediscovered during the writing process, and more.

Name: Michaele Weissman
Literary agent: Eleanor Jackson, DCL
Book title: The Rye Bread Marriage
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Release date: August 15, 2023
Genre/category: Literary Memoir/culinary history
Previous titles: God in a Cup: The Obsessive Quest for the Perfect Coffee; Deadly Consequences (with Deborah Prothrow Stith); A History of Women in America (with Carol Hymowitz)
Elevator pitch for the book: The Rye Bread Marriage is a memoir that explores the roots of my husband’s obsession with Latvian rye bread; while telling the story of his dramatic wartime childhood; and plumbing the complexities of our marriage with this question in mind: How do partners who are opposites, live together without wringing each other’s necks?

Bookshop | Amazon
[WD uses affiliate links.]

What prompted you to write this book?

The Rye Bread Marriage found me, as books sometimes do. The title popped into my head one morning as I woke. I didn’t know what it meant. That, after many false starts, I would write a literary memoir exploring the meaning of rye bread and the meaning of marriage, while recounting my husband’s story and my own, was beyond anything I could have imagined when I began.

How long did it take to go from idea to publication? And did the idea change during the process?

John and I traveled to Latvia (with side trips to Estonia and Lithuania) in 2010 and 2012, but it wasn’t till 2013 that I produced a partial, very boring first draft. Only slowly did it dawn on me that I was writing a memoir not a journalistic food narrative.

I wrote many drafts between 2014 and 2018—some of what I wrote (in my opinion) was beautiful, but the whole did not cohere. In 2018, I realized that my problem was structural: My chapters were too long, preventing me from moving nimbly among my three subjects.

Reading Abigail Thomas taught me that when it comes to structure there are no rules. I broke the book down into segments—chapters—of varying length, interweaving longish chapters and very short ones; narrative chapters and chapters in which I commented on my own experience. This enabled me to return time and again to the subject of the bread without getting bogged down.

My agent, the wonderfully patient Eleanor Jackson sent the book out in 2019. It didn’t sell. I rewrote a bit and she sent it out again in 2020, just as the pandemic brought the world to a halt. The book sold in February 2021. Two publishers were interested, and I got a decent deal.

Due to the pandemic and the assiduousness of the Algonquin’s editorial process—the book will be published on August 15, 2023. Happily, this delay meant that I will be able to market the book live, meeting readers in person.

Were there any surprises or learning moments in the publishing process for this title?

The Rye Bread Marriage is my fourth book, so I had a pretty good sense of the publishing process. I was surprised, however, and delighted by the quality of my editors at Algonquin. The acquiring editor, Abby Muller, was only 26 when she bought this book describing a marriage that has lasted many more years than she has been on this earth.

Despite the differences in our ages, Abby got me and my book. She became its inhouse champion. When Abby was recruited by another publishing house, she made sure that my book, rather than being an orphan, became the property of Algonquin’s brilliant editor in chief, Amy Gash.

Amy was respectful of Abby’s fine editing. I will forever be grateful to Amy, however, for honing in on something I had missed: in several key spots I had glossed over the implication of my own words, my own story, chickening out from fully knowing myself. Amy encouraged me to think again, and I had the brains to take her advice.

Were there any surprises in the writing process for this book?

Memoir requires a depth of focus, a condensation of language, and a discovery of imagery and structure (the material determines the structure) that go far beyond a simple recounting of facts and a telling of stories. I hadn’t known if I were capable of working at this deep level, until I did it.

The other happy surprise: I rediscovered—and fully owned—my own humor. A million years ago when I was single, I had written humor for Cosmopolitan Magazine: first person humor pieces about my life as a single woman in New York City. Writing funny came naturally, but I felt these magazine pieces only skimmed the surface. I had a sense that someday, when I was a better writer, more able to write in depth, I would return to writing in the first person and writing humor.

And, in fact, that is precisely what happened.

What do you hope readers will get out of your book?

This is a tough one: Readers get what they get, and I respect that, although sometimes it is a bit surprising. In an ideal universe, I would like readers to come away with a new understanding of and appreciation for the impact of history and of stories on all of our lives. I would like them to understand what it means to be a refugee, a displaced person. I would love it if they were able to view their relationships, all their relationships, with a new understanding of—and tolerance for—psychological complexity. I want them to have a deeper understanding and appreciation of food in general and of bread, this first and most fundamental food, and I would like them to laugh.

If you could share one piece of advice with other writers, what would it be?

Allow yourself to experiment. Allow yourself to play. Understand that overcoming your fear of your own literary insufficiency, is part of the writing process. Work hard, but don’t rush. The book will take as long as it takes.

If you feel stymied. Take writing courses—but only from teachers who know their stuff and are kind. Hang out with other writers when it works for you, but allow yourself to (temporarily) withdraw if that is what you need.

Learn to trust yourself and your own story. Oh and this: Having an agent is great (I am infinitely grateful to Eleanor Jackson), but your agent cannot save your life. By which I mean, you have to find your story by yourself. No one else can do this work for you.

[Click to continue.]

The post Michaele Weissman: On Finding the Answers to Bread, Relationships, and Herself appeared first on Writer's Digest.

So, grab your lock-picking tools, put on your best disguise and queue up your ultimate heist playlist while we check out eight key tips for writing the perfect heist novel.

The Mastermind

The heart of any heist novel is its central character. Whether it is charm and charisma (think Danny Ocean in Ocean’s Eleven) or a motivation that justifies the daring caper, the mastermind (not always the protagonist, as in Hustlers) drives the emotional core of the story with the plan and vision to make things happen.

Character backstory is key. What drives the mastermind? What brought them to this crossroads, and why are they qualified to lead the heist?

The Stakes

The stakes need to be sky-high to convince the reader to jump on board the runaway train that is every heist. Each member of the crew will have their own reason for getting involved. Whether it is a quest for vengeance and reparations as in The Italian Job, or a fight for survival and saving innocent lives as in Die Hard, or just a need for money, the stakes fuel the narrative, making readers empathize with the reason behind the heist.

In my novel, To Have and To Heist, the central character Simi is trying to save her best friend, a single mom, who has been framed for the theft of a $25 million necklace, and the only way to do that is to steal it back from the thief, the leader of an organized crime family. The crew come on board, not just out of a desire to help, but because each of them is struggling financially to the point that the potential reward outweighs the risk.

Order Sara Desai’s To Have and to Heist.

Bookshop | Amazon
[WD uses affiliate links.]

The Crew

The charm of a heist lies in its motley (or vibrant as in Inception) crew, each with special skills that they bring to the table. The bosses—mastermind, partner in crime, and money person—keep things organized and the crew in line. The specialists—hacker, gadget person, and explosives expert—thrill us with their incredible inventions and expertise. The thieves—grifter, distraction, contortionist, safecracker, and pickpocket—dazzle us with deception.

The supports—driver, muscle, fixer—often take a back seat but often pull the heist together (think of Baby Driver). A crew can be as small as two or as big as 13 (Ocean’s 13). Each character adds layers to the plot and their interactions can provide comic relief. They are the gears that keep the heist running.

The Plan

Crafting an engaging heist plan is akin to choreographing an intricate dance, and seeing it all come together is part of the fun. In Snatch, the preparations and scheming by a group of wildly different criminals are packed with mishaps and comical conflicts. In Money Heist, the plan is spun out for the entirety of the series. Your characters need to envisage potential challenges, design solutions, and prep every aspect of the heist. Research is key.

If your crew needs to break into a bank vault with 10 levels of security, then check out the real-life story of the Antwerp Diamond Center heist in which Leonardo Notarbartolo broke into a seemingly impenetrable vault and made off with $100 million worth of treasure, only to be caught because of a carelessly tossed garbage bag. The meticulous planning phase forms the crux of the plot, keeping the readers intrigued, and building tension as the hurdles and risks are revealed.

The Big Day

Time to mess with the reader’s expectations! Even with the best laid plans, the initial heist goes terribly wrong, often leading to a thrilling encounter with the antagonist (think of Heat). Whether the crew is betrayed by an inside informant (Reservoir Dogs), the intended object of the heist is missing (The Art of the Steal), or the heist spirals out of control (Dog Day Afternoon), the crew is forced to retreat and regroup. The roller-coaster ride of successes and setbacks keeps readers turning pages.

The Revision

Armed with a revised plan and tech marvels (think Mission: Impossible), and often with an injection of self-discovery and support from an unexpected source, the crew tries again. Their innovative tactics and resilience inject adrenaline into the narrative, pushing the limits of their wit and resourcefulness. This is their moment, the culmination of everything they have worked for, and the reader gets a respite from the tension and a chance to savor the moment.

The Great Escape

With the object in hand, the crew makes their great escape. Riddled with misdirection and surprises (The Usual Suspects), an unexpected double-cross, a chase scene, a visual treat (think of the Minis in The Italian Job) or a last-minute snag, this part of the story provides one last pulse-pounding thrill before the big finale.

The Aftermath

Whether it is the sweet taste of success or a twist of poetic justice, readers should leave with a sense of satisfaction at the end of the journey, even if the story ends with a lingering question (Inception) or a touch of ambiguity (Now You See Me) that could set the stage for a sequel.

Writing a heist novel is a high-stakes literary game of cat-and-mouse that catapults the writer and the reader into a whirlwind of intrigue, danger, and breathtaking feats. So, grab your pen or keyboard, find your target and put together your crew. It’s time to plot your heist. Happy stealing!

[Click to continue.]

The post 8 Tips for Plotting a Great Heist Novel (or How to Be a Thief) appeared first on Writer's Digest.