I initially moved to San Francisco after leaving the Midwest in search of greater truth regarding my existence. What I was really searching for, I now understand, was a way to unlock the layers of my person and soul that had been pressed firmly—face and palms first—against the glass ceiling of my normal life. My acceptable and productive life. I carried this quiet awareness that my consciousness was contained in ways I did not yet know how to articulate.

Years earlier, I had visited San Francisco and remembered a particular hike that traced the edge of the Pacific Ocean. When I returned to live there, I sought it out again. Land’s End I came to learn like backyard terrain. Some days I went to just observe the Ocean. To stand in awe, watching the waves thunder against the rock formations. Other days, I was mesmerized, watching the slow undulation of the power held in its belly and feeling my own power pulsate in response.

When I moved, I also started a new position in my medical career. This was noteworthy only in that it indirectly permitted the dissolution of the idealistic fantasies that upheld my commitment to self-abandonment up to that point in my life. The ER by nature, is a gritty place. A demanding place. The sleepless nights, poor diet, caffeine dysregulated nervous systems were its toll. Yet, it was reverent, in its own way.

The dim lights and austere tones feel like a bow to the tragedies it held, and to the people who returned to witness them, day after day. Death was a regular, though unpredictable, visitor that marched the halls, claiming the souls it felt rightly belonged to it. The hardest days were the ones when it stole those that should have never been taken. With ache so heavy it curled my shoulders in some days, I visited the Ocean. On the days I wondered why exactly life had brought me to California, I visited the Ocean. On days, when I simply wanted to hear the conversations in the trees that lined the path, I visited.

This job offered me truth I was not yet prepared to accept. I came to see that each clinical encounter, each moment of supposed care, was laced with invisible negotiations—profit, documentation, productivity metrics. The sacred heart of the work was buried deep, outpaced by systems that rewarded efficiency over presence. Far down on that list was the original true nature of what the work was meant to be. On the day I decided to leave, I visited the Ocean. I wanted it to tell me that I was doing the right thing. The noble thing. I remembered it was uncannily still. No grand waves, no displays of power. Just stillness.

I packed up my life into a small storage container and left, with more questions than I had arrived with. What was this all for?

Click to continue.

When I returned four months later, I found a small studio in Oakland, California. One with beautiful natural light, a view of a community garden and palm trees—an odd combo, I thought—and just enough space for me to feel safe enough to start untangling the knots in my consciousness. The writing flowed intuitively from this place of questioning and restructuring. I wrote, not because I initially intended to write a book, but because the questions would not stop coming. And finally, I was rested enough to hear the answers. I also began working again. This time in a smaller county ER, just outside of the metropolitan buzz. And even there, from across the bay, I made the ritual pilgrimage to Land’s End whenever I could muster the courage to face the Bay Bridge traffic.

Writing this book required distinct stages, though I only realized that in hindsight. The first was seeking permission—permission to write at all, and then also to be open enough to write.

The former went something like this: I’m not a writer. I’m a doctor. I do write, but only in journals I’ve kept since I was a child. I do read quite a bit, I suppose. And I think that if I work my way through this whole existential unraveling I’m having, I could have something meaningful to share that could help others. Okay, let’s give it a try. Let’s learn and grow through this.

The latter task—granting myself permission to be open enough to write—proved much more difficult. The topics I was drawn to were deeply innate. They lived in raw, vulnerable places. The only way I could write something honest—something true—was by going into those recesses. I had to ask myself: What am I afraid of? What areas of my psyche still feel like tender wounds? What do I believe the point of my existence is?

I asked, and answered, through writing. Over and over. I created containers for all the questions I carried, and filled them with what I’d come to understand—through experience, through reading, through witnessing humanity.

The day after I completed the final draft of my book, I visited the Ocean, this time in celebration.

And she was gleeful. She thundered and misted, and rolled high onto the rocks. The sun was also as bright as I had seen in a while through the typical San Francisco fog. My breath quite literally arrested when the realization came over me:

I came to California to meet the Pacific Ocean.

Check out Enia Oaks’ From a Studio in Oakland California here:

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One unexpected effect of the global shutdown was the Writer’s Digest Annual Conference went virtual for the first time. I had the opportunity to meet with agents interested in representing my genre from the comfort of my own home. As a travel content creator, I already knew the power of conferences first hand—brand representatives are more willing to work with you after meeting you in person. It’s human nature. I figured agents would be the same way, and meeting virtually was close enough to count.

Instead of querying blind, I saw this as an opportunity to connect with agents already interested in my work. It was an investment, but I crossed my fingers and purchased my conference ticket with Virtual Pitch Slam add-on.

The agents had all reviewed my query letter beforehand and came with helpful feedback and clarity on where they stood—pass, refer me to someone else they knew, or ask for additional submission materials. This was invaluable for an author in the pitching process, where queries often go unanswered. Already, in having a response provided by each agent I was paired with, I was ahead of other authors in the process. Knowledge is power, after all.

Of the agents who requested additional materials, one stood out. She expressed a genuine interest in my story and passion for travel herself. I accepted an offer of representation.

Selling a travel memoir in the middle of a pandemic was no easy feat. There weren’t a lot of comparable books at the time, and despite the rising trend of solo travel, convincing publishers of its relevance, when the entire travel industry was uncertain, was challenging. Thankfully, my agent, Renée Fountain, President of Gandolfo Helin & Fountain Literary Management, was more than up to the task. Within six months, we had a book deal. 

My book was published on June 4, 2024, garnering favorable reviews by Kirkus Reviews. It was named a Notable Nonfiction Pick for June by Library Reads, had a full-length feature in Forbes, and won an International Latino Book Award, all within the first few months. 

Check out Jen Ruiz’s 12 Trips in 12 Months here:

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One big milestone was seeing my book at major national airports in Hudson Airport Booksellers. We were part of a limited time summer travel promotion. It was surreal seeing my book sharing shelf space with literary legend, Judy Blume!

I am deeply grateful to Writer’s Digest for such a transformative opportunity, and for providing a platform to emerging authors who want to stand out beyond the dreaded blind submission. I recommend the conference, especially Pitch Slam, to every aspiring author who dreams of being traditionally published.

Click to continue.

Promoting my book on a traditional book tour, seeing my book on Barnes & Noble shelves, reading chapter excerpts to an eager audience, and appearing on television interviews was an incredibly validating experience. I hope this is just the beginning.

I’ve descended into a volcano, swam with sharks, swung off the edge of the world, and flown in a hot air balloon. Yet, my greatest adventure has been betting on myself and sharing the stories and lessons I’ve learned along the way.

The post My Home Run at the Writer’s Digest Conference Pitch Slam appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Writer’s Digest is headed to London and Bath for the writing retreat of a lifetime! Join WD managing editor Moriah Richard and Amy Collins of Talcott Notch Literary Agency September 12–20, 2025, for an English getaway to inspire your stories, learn from writers, and finish that manuscript!

“The trip is going to be broken up into two parts: First, the tour, and then the retreat,” says Moriah Richard about writing in London and Bath for the writing retreat.

Amy Collins joins in, “We’re going to be there during the 250^th anniversary of the Jane Austen house. We’re going to get to do all that!”  

We will have plenty of time between sightseeing and group dinners to sit down and write—and we’ll even meet some publishing professionals along the way.

Listen as Moriah and Amy C. are joined by WD editor-in-chief Amy Jones to discuss the itinerary, what to expect, what to look forward to, and more!

Time’s Running Out!

There are only a few weeks left to register for the writing retreat in England! Click here for the full itinerary and to register today!

Get Ready for England!

Want some more resources to prepare for England? Follow the links below for reading resources, details on what to expect from Amy Collins, and more!

• Writer’s Digest Is Going to London!
• Book Recommendations Inspired by England
• What To Know About the Writer’s Digest Writing Retreat in England
  

The post Why You Should Attend Writer’s Digest’s Writing Retreat in England appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Writer’s Digest is headed to Italy! Join editor-in-chief Amy Jones and senior editor Robert Lee Brewer May 3–10, 2025, for an Italian getaway to inspire your stories, learn from writers, and finish that manuscript!

“This year, Writer’s Digest is hosting its first overseas writing retreat to Tuscany,” says Amy Jones. “This is actually half tour, half writing retreat—the best of both worlds, because you get to see a bunch of incredible buildings and art and history to inspire your writing, and then you get the dedicated time to actually do the writing.”

Listen as Amy and Robert discuss the itinerary, what to expect, what to look forward to, and more!

Time’s Running Out!

There’s only a few weeks left to register! Click here for the full itinerary and to register today!

The post Write in Italy With the Editors of Writer’s Digest! appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(How My Travel Writing Strengthened My Fiction.)

As a baseline, you must love travel so much that you are willing to ruin it for yourself. Or at least the glamorous veneer of it. Being a writer, after all, is a human experience. It requires the full spectrum of rapturous joy and crushing loneliness. The real work is in the tedious, unseen details. The endless flights and bus rides. The food poisonings and tropical fevers. The fast friendships and faster goodbyes. You must love the elastic FOMO that stretches across every story and drives you to keep searching.

Here’s the good news. Travel writing requires all types of experiences and voices. There is no right way to go about it. However, we (myself and co-author Caroline Clements) have identified a few core principles that have served us well.

1. Follow your interests

This is good advice for life but especially people trying to make their way as a writer. You are always going to create the most authentic work when you are genuinely invested in the story that you are telling. As a travel writer this means exploring your own interests and style of travel.

When we pitched our third book, Places We Swim California—a guide to the best rivers, lakes, waterfalls, beaches, gorges, and hot springs—we knew we would be doing this trip regardless of if it ever became a book. We wanted to explore California’s wilderness and we would be hiking and swimming our way across the state. We were doing it to satisfy our own curiosity.

If you love architecture and food, that is your angle. If you love tattoos and video games, that is your angle. The trick is to be honest with yourself about your interests and you will find an audience.

2. Do the most valuable work before you leave

The more you can prepare before going on a trip, the easier the travel will be. You often only get one chance at a travel assignment but have a long time to prepare. We read books and articles. We speak to friends and search for local contacts who share our taste. It’s a process of making lists and then checking those lists against other recommendations. We start with a lot of ideas and then slowly refine them through our research. The final distillation happens on the road.

Doing the research ahead of time will allow you to prioritize your experience and itinerary once you arrive. You know what can be ruled out and what should be investigated further. Of course, you always leave space for surprises.

Check out Dillon Seitchik-Reardon and Caroline Clements’ Places We Swim California here:

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3. Don’t schedule every minute

The cost of extensive research is that you often feel like you are missing out on something. It’s easy to get caught up in rushing from destination to destination as you try to check things off a list. However, the best experiences are often the ones that you least expect.

You must build time into your schedule to just be somewhere. You need time to sit and observe. To be unhurried enough that you can have conversations with locals and do so without an agenda. It’s the hardest thing in travel writing, but it is important to let a story evolve organically. The story that you plan for is not always the story that you will write.

4. Trust people and say “yes”

Opportunities constantly present themselves to deviate from your well-planned travels. Sometimes it is a nagging feeling that you missed something, and other times it is a well-meaning person inviting you into their world. We try to say “yes” as much as possible.

Most people are unbelievably kind and curious. If you allow time in your schedule for spontaneity, then you will end up in weird and wonderful places. This is a travel writer’s bread and butter. Trust that invitations are sincere and always have a reason to leave if things get too weird.

5. Keep a journal

This is an obvious one, but something we always come back to. Writers are professional observers. Writing in a journal, especially writing by hand, is a way to ground yourself in a moment or place. 

It’s a practice of observing your internal and external environment. How does it feel to be there? What are your senses telling you? These snapshots, no matter how brief, will trigger your memories later and make the writing process so much easier.

6. Be useful, be a curator

The amount of travel information available to all of us is overwhelming. You can find advice about every place in the world, often expressed as diametrically opposing views. So where does this leave the reader? The abundance of information makes trusted brands and sources more valuable. Most people want advice from a couple of credible sources and know that they are in good hands.

You can be that credible source. Be consistent and clear about your offering. Don’t waste your words on negative reviews. What’s the point? Tell people where to go and why it is great. Celebrate the best of the world. If we don’t like something, we don’t write about it. We write about hiking and swimming as a way to explore beautiful places. These are niche, curated experiences for people who share our love of adventure. 

Our job as writers is to trudge through all the mediocre places so that our readers don’t have to. If you can consistently give useful advice, then you will build a community that trusts you. 

The post 6 Ways to Be a Better Travel Writer appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Or to put it more accurately: Samuel Clemens and his wife entertained guests almost nightly at their Connecticut home and dropped around $100 a week on groceries (around $2,668 today)—so you’d best be prepared for an utter culinary assault.

Take, for example, this menu from one summer night in the latter half of the 19th century, as documented by author Steve Courtney in his book “The Loveliest Home That Ever Was”:

• Olives, salted almonds, and bonbons in “curious dishes”
• Soup of unknown provenance
• Sherry
• Fresh salmon in white wine sauce
• Naturally sparkling mineral water from a spring in Germany
• Sweetbreads in cream
• Broiled chicken with green peas and new potatoes
• Tomato salad with mayonnaise dressing
• Charlotte Russe cake and wine jelly with candied cherries and whipped cream
• And, finally, a plate of strawberries “the size of walnuts.”

Next came the entertainment: Clemens himself. Before the massive oak mantlepiece he had acquired from a castle in Scotland for his library, Clemens read excerpts from his new works; he told lively stories; he recited poetry; he workshopped material in real time, keeping what landed, and dropping what didn’t.

“We think of him as the writer … but he was almost the original improv guy,” says Jodi C. DeBruyne, director of collections at the Mark Twain House & Museum. “He really used the house and the things that were part of his everyday life to become Mark Twain.”

Endless conversation, fine cigars, and hot scotch followed—if he liked you. If he wanted you gone, DeBruyne says he’d hand out the dirt-cheap stogies from his personal stash that he obsessively smoked. Soon, guests would disappear into the night, a procession of stamped-out cigars acting as a breadcrumb trail to the carriages they fled in …

Today, Clemens is ubiquitous with Missouri—and, indeed, his works brilliantly bring it to life. So, what was he doing living in Hartford, Conn.?

DeBruyne says Hartford was a publishing capital of the U.S. at the time, and the Clemenses arrived in the city in the early 1870s, on the heels of his first major book, The Innocents Abroad. Samuel’s wife, Livy (Olivia Langdon Clemens), planned the design of the house, and also paid for it with her own inheritance.

“They really wanted their guests to be impressed by this house,” DeBruyne says. “Livy wanted her home that she was going to manage to be fitting of not only their class, but who she wanted her husband to be—this famous writer.”

Livy worked with architect Edward Tuckerman Potter on the concept of the home, which emerged in the “Stick style” of the era in 1874, complete with 25 rooms across 11,500 square feet of living space. Potter specialized in the design of churches, and the home commands a sense of grandeur inside and out, from the ornate jigsaw work of the exterior to the soaring entry hall. Stories have long persisted that the house was designed to mimic the look of a steamboat … but staff at the home says they’re just that: stories. (Though, they admit, it would make a delightful one to tell guests.)

While Clemens dubbed it “the loveliest home that ever was,” The Hartford Daily Times branded it “one of the oddest-looking buildings in the state ever designed.” Nonetheless, Clemens and co. moved in as the home was still being finished … and the author grew famously cantankerous about the work going on around him. As Courtney documented, in one letter to family, Clemens opined, “I have been bullyragged all day by the builder, by his foremen, by the architect, by the tapestry devil who is to upholster the furniture, by the idiot who is putting down the carpets, by the scoundrel who is setting up the billiard table (and has left the balls in New York), by the wildcat who is sodding the ground and finishing the driveway (after the sun went down), by a book agent, whose body is in the backyard and the coroner notified.”

A key component of the Clemens’ design plan: modern conveniences and the latest remarkable tech of the era. They had central heating. They had hot running water. Two flushing toilets. A system of speaking tubes that carried voices throughout the home. Gas lighting. An electric burglar alarm that reportedly drove Clemens mad in its malfunctioning ruckus, inspiring the comical 1882 story “The McWilliamses and the Burglar Alarm.” The journal American History notes that Clemens claimed his house also had the first private telephone in the country … but it was so staticky that he declined invitations to invest in it, preferring instead to allocate his capital to other inventions, like the Paige typesetter (a fact that will go on to haunt him). “He loved technology, but he really loved to complain about technology,” DeBruyne notes. “I just imagine him having like a million computer viruses if he lived today.”

As Clemens’ fame (and fortune) grew, in 1881 the family hired Louis Comfort Tiffany (whose father founded Tiffany & Co.) and Associated Artists to decorate the home with extravagant, exotic accents. They went on to load the house with ornamentation and design elements from across the globe, from Morocco to Japan to Turkey.

Naturally, despite the brilliant outcome … it all drove Clemens mad.

As he put it (per Courtney):

“O, never revamp a house! Leave it just as it was, and then you can economize in profanity.”

If only future generations had left it as it was. After the Clemenses sold the home in 1903 (more on that in a moment), it eventually became a boys’ school and was even carved up into apartments, before a group formed to preserve and save it and, eventually, restore it.

What makes the Mark Twain House unique on the landscape of writerly homes and haunts today is not just the amount of the family’s personal possessions in the home—scores of objects in every room—but the lengths that the House & Museum have gone to return it to its original state. DeBruyne says Clemens’ daughter Clara was instrumental in the process, returning to the home in the 1957 to create maps showing the original location of various key objects.

She also donated one of the most remarkable objects in the home today: Clemens’ striking walnut bed, which he had originally bought in Venice for $200, about $6,100 today. (He would be famously photographed in it—and he also died in it in 1910.) The pillows are arranged at the foot of the bed, where the Clemenses slept with a grand view of the many carved angels, which the author said brought pleasant dreams. (Which is one explanation, anyway; as Courtney put another unsourced version: “He wanted to see what he had paid for.”)

One key location outlined on Clara’s map (no, it’s not the closet where the kids hid their pet squirrels from their father): the desk on the third-floor billiards room where Clemens composed some of his greatest works, such as Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. Beneath a ceiling painted with Clemens’ own version of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel—cigars, pipes, pool cues—and with his back to his beloved billiards table, lest he get distracted, here Clemens wrote the Great American Novel(s) and defined the country’s literary output in the process. (As he once downplayed things in a notebook, “My books are water; those of the great geniuses [are] wine. Everybody drinks water.”)

His desk in a brilliant state of chaotic disarray, he’d fan his papers out on the pool table, and his first editor was always Livy.

But beneath Clemens’ projected gruff exterior rich with witticisms, DeBruyne says his most productive years were also his happiest years. Moreover, the house existed in deep symbiosis with his literary output, from those constant yet productive parties to nights spent with his daughters at that same Scottish mantel, where he was tasked with inventing stories for them on the spot from the objects on display there. If he repeated any plotlines, he had to start anew.

Ultimately, Clemens was perhaps right to bemoan the ill-functioning tech in his home—because it was a newfangled invention that ended his family’s time in Hartford.

Rather than investing in the telephone, Clemens poured large sums of money into an 18,000-part device called the Paige Compositor, designed to set lead type mechanically, versus by hand. Clemens, himself a former typesetter, saw the utility in a machine that could do so—but the investments (amounting to, today, millions of dollars) proved misguided, and when the machine failed to catch on, Clemens was in deep financial trouble. There is one remaining Paige Compositor, and it’s in the first floor gallery of the Museum Center today. The author would likely be appreciative if you were to offer it a scowl in passing.

The family relocated to Europe in 1891, with Clemens eventually embarking on a speaking tour to add some weight back to the coffers—and plans to eventually find their way back to Hartford. But as he was on a trip with Livy and Clara in 1896, Clemens’ daughter, Susy, died of meningitis at age 24 in the house while visiting. Ultimately, the family found it too painful to ever return to their once-beloved home—and they never did, closing a chapter in their lives that was equal parts transcendent and transformative, and in the end, tragic.

By design, the Mark Twain House & Museum is like a bug in amber. But while it is deeply rooted in the past, its literary programs bring it vividly into the present. There’s an author talk series, courses and workshops on such topics as personal essays and point of view, a series of Clemens-focused conversations, the Mark Twain American Voice in Literature Award—which honors a work of fiction from the previous year that speaks with an “American Voice” about American experiences—not to mention a board of trustees featuring the likes of David Baldacci.

Literary program coordinator Omar Acevedo says the home launched the writerly initiatives to be more connected to the modern age—and, moreover, “we were also thinking, who are the current Mark Twains out there in the world? … Who are those authors who are tackling interesting and complex themes with their writing? So, we began to invite different authors, nonfiction and fiction alike, to come talk about their books.”

There’s even a program where writers can write in the home’s iconic library (just don’t bring a pen—not allowed, lest you risk staining something and bearing the brunt of what is likely a highly abrasive and caustic ghost).

Ultimately, playing off the words of his friend Josh Billings, Clemens once said, “The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter—it’s the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.”

Here’s to the singular place where he found the right words—and, who knows, where you just might, too.

The Mark Twain House & Museum is open year-round, and is located at 351 Farmington Ave., Hartford, Conn. For more, visit MarkTwainHouse.org.

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While I caution many authors to be frugal with spending on their careers, I endorse travel with reckless abandon. Even if it means living on ramen and salad for a few months, it’s always a smart use of funds. My most recent research trip was a weeklong trip to Paris, and these are some tips I gleaned from the experience.

Order a copy of Aimie K. Runyan’s A Bakery in Paris today. 

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• Do: Follow the usual smart travel norms: Book well in advance for the best prices and check for warehouse store and credit card discounts everywhere.
• Don’t: Go without checking when things are open. Even in high season in major sites, museums and attractions are often closed 1-2 days per week. And keep an eye on the news for strikes and disturbances in places like France which are known for them.

• Do: Try to use the trip for the benefit of more than one project. When I was in Paris, I used my time to shoot promotional videos and photos for A Bakery in Paris, which was complete, but several months from release. I took an ARC with me and took hundreds of photos everywhere that was important to the plot of the book or generally pretty. I was also researching and drafting Mademoiselle Eiffel, the story of Claire, the daughter of Gustave Eiffel, who built a certain tower we all know. I split my time between the two projects (mostly focusing on the research) but got a lot of mileage out of one trip.
• Don’t: Plan a trip before you know what your research needs are. Going too early in development may result in time wasted chasing resources you won’t need. Conversely, going too late in the process may result in not using your findings or causing substantial re-writes. I think going after you have a very detailed outline is a great phase, and even after the first draft can be useful, especially if you leave yourself the time to incorporate your findings.
• Do: Look into accommodations on a variety of sites… Some of the quirkier options may be the most fun. Don’t be afraid to see if one of the short-term rental sites has a room for rent in an area pertinent to your book. Rooms were available in two places that are featured in A Bakery in Paris and those experiences could have really enhanced my writing if I were in the drafting phase. As I was focused on another project, I opted for a standard hotel near the museum where I’d be working.
• Don’t: Use frequent flyer miles and credit card points if you can avoid it. These expenses may not be tax deductible and you’d be better off saving those points for leisure travel. Also to note, if you’re travelling internationally, the rules for tax deductions become far more stringent. Read up. If you bring a spouse or child along, you may have to convince the IRS that your trip was business related.
• Do: Contact key research institutions well in advance. Some archives have very limited space and are still (thankfully) enforcing some Covid protocols which may limit visitation even further. If you wait to the last minute, you may be out of luck. I was fortunate enough to secure a spot in the archives at the Musée d’Orsay for my aforementioned upcoming historical Mademoiselle Eiffel and secured my place in the archives before booking plane tickets and a hotel room.

• Don’t: Assume that things are the way they were in 2019 and before. Many of the most popular sites now have timed entry tickets. I very nearly missed the opportunity to go to the top of Eiffel Tower, which was a rather important part of my reason for going to Paris, given the topic of my book. I was able to finagle a ticket through my credit card travel rewards. It cost more because I had to be on a tour, but it was worth ensuring I was able to visit for the first time in over 20 years.
• Do: Plan meals thoughtfully. Make sure to take advantage of the local cuisine, and if you can eat in establishments that were in business when your characters were alive (if you write historical) or that they would love (if you write contemporary), you’re making the experience that much more immersive. I ate tons of baked goods for photo opportunities for A Bakery in Paris and had authentic French Onion Soup with the original recipe from the Café de la Paix that Claire Eiffel might have enjoyed before an opera at the Palais Garnier. Remember, calories are tax deductible when you’re traveling for research.
• Don’t: Overload your itinerary so much that you exhaust yourself for the remaining days of your trip. Take public transport if you’re getting weary and plan time for a bit of rest. I used some downtime to organize my notes and photos back at the hotel, and it was a smart use of time.
• Do: Be flexible. Travel conditions can be unpredictable, so always have a Plan B ready so that when the unexpected happens (and it will!) you can adjust without losing precious research time. Case in point, I was asked to change my research days at the Musée d’Orsay while I was already in Paris, and because I’d made a detailed plan for my time, I was able to shift things around without difficulty.
• Do: Enjoy every moment and remember to savor the magic of travel and marvel at the opportunity to see the world through the eyes of our characters.

[Click to continue.]

The post 12 Dos and Don’ts of Research Travel for Writing appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Well, it turns out that lessons learned from one job can sometimes apply to another. The more I worked on my memoir manuscript, the more I realized that while I certainly needed to adjust my mindset, my experience as a travel writer could help make my new book better.

Regardless of the type of work you do, you’ve probably already learned important skills that can apply to memoir writing, too—whether it’s how to connect with people, how to share a compelling story, or simply how to manage time and expectations. Here are a few things I’ve learned along the way.

(Marcia DeSanctis: On a Decade of Traveling Through Essays)

1. Write an opening that truly hooks the reader.

When I’m traveling on assignment, the first paragraph sometimes pops into my head before I even start typing my report. Other times, I struggle to find the best way to begin my story. Either way, a strong opening is crucial for grabbing readers’ attention.

For my memoir, I began with a powerful visual—namely, the dramatic arrival of my mother in New York City, her face bruised and her arm in a sling. I figured that would pique readers’ curiosity and set the stage for the main storyline, which highlights how we dealt with her physical decline as we revisited our lives together. I thought I was all set.

But I wasn’t. After reviewing the chapter with a trusted friend, I decided that while this was certainly an appropriate way to begin the story, I was throwing readers too quickly into a rather bleak situation. The chapter opening failed to hint at the humor and quirky flashbacks that are also an integral part of the book. To remedy that, I wrote a prologue that was set several decades earlier, describing a lighter moment from my childhood (specifically, how I neglected my seventh-grade homework because I was too focused on creating my own imaginary airline. I was a weird kid). This brief prologue gives readers a preview of the funnier moments that appear in later pages.

In addition, I worked with my wonderful editor and publisher at Vine Leaves Press to come up with a title that’s also designed to lure readers: Prepare for Departure: Notes on a Single Mother, a Misfit Son, Inevitable Mortality and the Enduring Allure of Frequent Flyer Miles.

2. Read other people’s work.

My travel writing gets better when I read the work of other journalists. The same goes for memoirs—especially when I focus on authors with a voice or story that’s similar to mine.

I’ve also learned to be realistic as a memoirist—namely, to be aware that I’m not famous and very few people will immediately care about my story. Sure, we can all find inspiration in bestselling celebrity memoirs, but unless you’re a big name too, your memoir really falls into a different category of work. So when you set out to tell the story of your own life, keep in mind you’ve got a bigger hill to climb than the sparkly folks in Hollywood or Washington, D.C.

You can certainly learn from mainstream celebrity memoirists, but you can learn just as much from lesser-known authors who know how to tell a good story. It’s those writers, in fact, who’ve taught me the most about how to craft a compelling memoir.

3. Engage the senses.

Travel is a multisensory experience, and effective travel writing should be, too. When I’m crafting a travel story, I not only describe what destinations look like, but also how they smell, taste, sound, and feel. Successful memoir writing is similar. To connect with readers, you’ve got to take them on a journey that engages all the senses.

This can be challenging at times, especially when you’re writing scenes that took place decades ago. I’ve found it easiest when I’m seated by myself in a quiet place. I sometimes close my eyes and “look around” the scene that I’m about to write, imagining the sensory details. Whether it’s the slick vinyl seats of the giant Ford my mother drove as she scolded me for sticking my foot into a cake, or the aroma of jet fuel that ignited my wanderlust at Chicago O’Hare International Airport, multisensory descriptions go a long way toward making scenes more realistic.

4. Know your audience.

As a travel writer, I visit places that appeal to different kinds of travelers with diverse interests and budgets. My job isn’t to berate a hotel or restaurant because it doesn’t fit my own personal taste. My job is to understand the interests of the audience I’m writing for and to serve their needs. I must match what I’m writing about with the readers who would appreciate it the most.

A memoir, on the other hand, may seem to be all about you since it is, well, all about you. But if you’re truly looking to get published, you must think beyond the fact that this is your own personal story. Step back and ask yourself: Who are you writing for? What will readers get from this book? Why should people who don’t know you care about your story? Is it funny, educational, emotionally moving?

Comparing your work to other memoirs can help you to identify your audience. In my case, for example, I think readers who enjoy the work of David Sedaris, Samantha Irby, Augusten Burroughs, and Jenny Lawson might like my memoir, since it’s a quirky story that deals with serious topics with a healthy dose of dark humor.

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5. Cast a wide net when looking for publishers.

I admit it. I dreamed of hooking up with a big-name publishing house for my first memoir. But if I’d held out for that, I still wouldn’t have a published book on my shelf today.

I began my career as a travel writer by thinking small. I volunteered to write a monthly travel column—with no pay—for a tiny free newspaper in New York City. Was it glamorous? No. Did it make me famous? No. But it got my name out there, proved that I could write, and gave me clips that I could show to other publishers that did pay. From there, I worked my way up.

I’ve taken a similar approach to memoirs. Sure, you can still pitch to the most legendary literary agents and big-name publishing houses (I certainly did). But unless you’re an established writer or a celebrity, you may not attract much interest. Don’t get discouraged. Keep moving. Submit to indie publishers, too (and you can do it without an agent, like I did). If you’re truly passionate about sharing your story with the world, you’ll find a way to do so.

6. Never give up.

As a travel writer, I’ve pitched countless articles to dozens of editors over the years. And I’ve weathered countless rejections—as well as “nonresponses” where the editor never even acknowledged my pitch. I’ve learned to not take it personally. I’ve worked as an editor, too, so I know they’re busy people.

My extensive experience with rejection helped me immensely as I turned my focus to memoir writing. While some of the students in my writing class were upset about negative responses they received from agents and editors, I was barely fazed. I just kept submitting. Rejections should not be taken as a judgment of your work. They’re just a determination of whether your story is a good fit for a particular agent or publisher, at a particular time.

To bolster my self-confidence as the rejections piled in, I submitted essays from my manuscript to several literary journals. Having my work published there assured me that I was on the right track with my book; there was indeed an audience for it.

Whether you’re a memoirist or a travel writer, the most important lesson of all is to not give up until you reach your destination—whatever that might be.

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People assume that when your father is a Pulitzer Prize–winning, bestselling author, he must have helped you a lot with your first book.

For a while, I thought he might, too.

I’d email first drafts of my chapters for “Strong Inside” to my mom and dad, and I soon discovered why the messages I’d get back only contained suggestions from my mother: my father understood from the very beginning that I’d feel a whole lot better about my book if I knew I did it without major input from him.

Which isn’t to say that he had no influence. His fingerprints are all over it, but more in the sense of lifelong lessons on reporting and writing: avoid clichés and unnecessary words; find the universal in the particular; do the reporting.

Growing up, the people who came to visit our house for dinner or picnics were mostly journalists—I’d sit around on the periphery of the conversations and listen to the joy everyone took in describing great lead paragraphs, or scooping the competition. (I also remember the time Bob Woodward brought my sister and I some 45-RPM records, including “Safety Dance,” and the time Sarah and I tried to trick John Feinstein into eating a dog biscuit). Growing up in the home of a Washington Post journalist meant reading a great newspaper every morning—and reading great writing is the best way to learn to write. (Another childhood memory: Each morning, I’d spread the Post out on the dining room table, read the sports section first, and our family sheepdog, Maggie, would hop up on the table, park her body on top of the rest of the paper, and then lap up the milk from my cereal bowl when I was nearly done. Wow.)

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My father did not become a published author until after I graduated from college, but one of the lessons I’ve picked up from him in this later stage of his writing career is the concept of “go there.” For him, that meant traveling to Vietnam for one book, moving to Green Bay, Wisconsin, for the winter for another, and flying to Kenya, Indonesia, Hawaii and Kansas for his bio of Barack Obama.

In my case, going there meant two things: seeing my adopted hometown of Nashville through the eyes of my subject, Perry Wallace, and trying to travel back in time to the 1960s in as many ways as possible. On the time-travel side, I set my satellite radio to the 1960s channel and spent my 45-minute commutes to my “day job” listening to the songs Wallace and his contemporaries would have heard while he was making history as the first African American basketball player in the Southeastern Conference. I watched movies from the period, and read books about the Sixties that had nothing to do with Wallace’s story but shed light on the culture of the times in interesting ways (in addition to my dad’s many books that are set in the decade, one of my favorites was Mark Harris’ book, Pictures at a Revolution, on the five movies nominated for Oscars in 1967).

It was seeing Nashville through Perry Wallace’s eyes that produced the most valuable anecdotes for the book. I’ll forever remember the afternoon we spent driving around the town he left 44 years ago. He showed me the houses he grew up in, the parks he played in, the schools he attended. Driving past one house, he saw an old friend sitting on the front porch and jumped out of the car to say hello. Driving past a street corner in a now-fashionable part of town, he explained that in 1955, standing on that same corner, he had been stunned by a carload of white teenagers who pointed a gun out their window at him, pointing it, pointing it, pointing it, as the car slowly made its way around the corner. And as we drove past a baseball field, he asked me to stop the car. We got out, and he pointed to a thicket of rocks and trees behind the outfield fence. “See that rock?” he asked. “That’s where I sat and meditated over my decision whether to go to Vanderbilt.”

Suddenly I was standing next to Perry Wallace in the present, but also sitting next to him on that rock in 1966.

“Go there” indeed. Thank you, Dad.

Andrew Maraniss is the author of the new biography, Strong Inside: Perry Wallace and the Collision of Race and Sports in the South. His father, David Maraniss, is a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist for Washington Post and the author of 10 books.

Follow Andrew Maraniss on Twitter @trublu24 and at his website, andrewmaraniss.com.

The post Go There: Lessons In Writing From Dear Old Dad appeared first on Writer's Digest.

BY AMY PARKER

“Write what you know,” the adage goes. But when my heart pulled me way outside my knowledge base to help Rwandan Frederick Ndabaramiye write his unbelievable story, I knew that I had a lot to learn.

Here are a few pointers based on what I did, what I didn’t do, and what you must do … from someone who now knows.

What I Did

I saturated myself in the culture—as much as a Tennessee girl can, anyway. I asked Frederick for photos, read Rwandan news and books set in Rwanda, and listened to Rwandan (Internet) radio. Much of that information never made it into the book, but it enriched my ability to feel the surroundings, see the scenes, and hear the voices that later would be woven into the story.

I went! None of the remote research will enhance your knowledge and sense of setting as much as seeing it for yourself. If I hadn’t, I would have never known that the whole country smells like a campfire or why—almost everyone cooks over an open fire. I would have never known the inexplicable warmth and kindness of the people, felt the breathlessness of climbing the steep Rwandan hills, or known the awe of looking into the eyes of a mountain gorilla.

You’ll learn things that the native people would never think to tell you, and you’ll discover answers to questions that you would never have known to ask. Sure, it can be costly, but it is worth every cent—or Rwandan Franc—you’ll spend.

I begged the advice of those gone before me. And I got answers about everything from car rentals and hotels to what kind of shoes and electrical adapters to take.

This proved to be invaluable, especially in hiring a driver. We tried to rationalize that particular piece of advice away (the per-day fee was as much as a weekly car rental in the States), but in the end, we caved and were greatly rewarded for our investment. Our guide Charles had actually fought with the RPF (the army that ended the genocide) and shared knowledge and experiences beyond what I could find in any book. And as for the driving, we honestly could have never navigated the steep, rutted roads ourselves.

What I Didn’t Do

Learn the language. Of course, I bought the book and practiced some phrases, but I had no working knowledge of the language. So when the Rwandan pastor said something from the front of the church that prompted the entire congregation to turn and look at us, I didn’t know whether to smile or hide. (Thankfully, he was welcoming us.) If you even think that you may be traveling to a foreign-language location, start practicing the language yesterday. I can’t imagine how much more I would have learned if I had.

Ask permission to take photos. Every. Single. Time. It’s a courtesy common to most cultures, and I asked most of the time. But the one time I didn’t—in the market, when I wasn’t really photographing a person, but a place—I greatly offended one lady. And I didn’t need to speak Kinyarwanda to know it.

What You Must Do

Keep a journal. I did this but wish I had done more, had noted more details, went more in-depth about daily experiences. Stay up for an extra thirty minutes each night and jot down every single detail you remember about your day. This will be a priceless gift to yourself, not to mention the much-needed descriptions it will provide for your story.

Try something new. I ate sambaza, best described as fried minnows. And it was delicious. I fell in love with African Tea (like a chai latte with a kick). I’m not an athlete—in any sense of the word—but I eagerly signed up for the mountain gorilla trek. I drank in the culture, and I am forever changed.

Share the experience. I quickly shared my photos on Facebook, but two years later, I have yet to compose the dozen blog ideas that I jotted down while riding in that bumpy SUV. (Okay, so I did write a book, but still.) Find the time—share your experiences.

After all, it is our duty to the world as writers. And in many cases, it’s the only way readers will experience another world for themselves—through your writing, now that you know.

Amy Parker has made her mark as an experienced and versatile writer and editor who has a particular enthusiasm for children’s books. She authored the bestselling A Night Night Prayer and has collaborated with authors ranging from a New York Times bestseller to her own son.

She is the co-author of Frederick: A Story of Boundless Hope from Thomas Nelson, which releases September 16, 2014. You can find her on amyparkerbooks.com or Facebook.

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