(My 3-Step Process for Overcoming the Blank Page.)

Every time I sit down to write, I worry that I’ve used up all my good ideas and there’s nothing left to explore. This is a common fear for many writers—the dreaded writer’s block. But I’ve come to realize that inspiration can strike at any moment, even in the most unexpected places.

Ideas have a funny way of showing up, sometimes when you least expect them. For me, it’s usually late at night when my mind comes alive with possibilities. That’s why I always keep a notepad by my bed to jot down any late-night thoughts. My poor husband has grown used to being woken up by my excited whispers as I share my latest midnight revelations.

But let’s face it, inspiration doesn’t always come at convenient times. That’s where technology comes in handy. My phone’s notes app is now my go-to place for storing all my random bursts of brilliance. Whether I’m on a crowded train or waiting in line at the store, I always have my phone ready to capture those fleeting sparks of creativity.

When my mind latches onto a concept that won’t let me go, it’s like falling down a rabbit hole and the rest of the world fades away. For those struggling to find inspiration, here are some tips that might help you tap into your creativity.

Embrace the Mundane

Find inspiration in everyday life: Even the most mundane experiences can hold hidden gems of inspiration. Pay attention to the world around you and you’ll be surprised by the stories just waiting to be told. 

For example, people-watching at a cafe can spark all kinds of ideas. Maybe that tired-looking woman nursing her coffee has a dark past, or maybe the friendly man at the next table is not as innocent as he seems.

So next time you feel stuck in the daily grind, take a closer look because within the ordinary lies the extraordinary.

Explore “What If” Scenarios

As a writer, I love asking myself “what if” questions. It’s like having a key that unlocks endless creativity and possibilities. Let your imagination run wild and explore how your “what if” scenario would affect not only your characters but their entire world. Every action has consequences, which can lead to unexpected plot twists.

What if an average suburban neighborhood hides a sinister secret behind its picket fences? What if someone wakes up one day to find they’ve been erased from everyone’s memories? What if a family vacation turns into a nightmare on a mysterious island shrouded in fog?

The beauty of “what if” scenarios for psychological thriller authors is that they invite readers to suspend their disbelief and enter a world where anything is possible. Reality and illusion blur together until you’re left wondering what’s real and what’s not.

Check out L.G. Davis’ The Woman at My Wedding here:

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Draw From Personal Experiences 

Your own life can be a rich source of inspiration. Draw from your experiences, fears, and desires to infuse your stories with authenticity and depth.

For me, drawing from personal experiences is not just about mining memories or events from my past; it’s about tapping into my deepest fears. The fear of betrayal, of abandonment, of being trapped in a situation beyond my control—these are the raw emotions that fuel the flames of my creativity.

By exploring my own fears, I can make my stories feel real and hit readers on a deeper level.

Keep an Idea Journal 

Whether it’s a physical notebook or a digital document, create a space to jot down ideas as they come to you. You never know when a small thought will turn into a great story. Make it a habit to carry your journal with you wherever you go, ready to capture the fleeting whispers of inspiration. Don’t trust your mind to store every idea for you; the best ones have a habit of slipping away within the blink of an eye.

But don’t just use your idea book for fully-formed ideas—also note down fragments, snippets, and half-formed thoughts. Don’t dismiss an idea because it’s not complete. Sometimes the best stories come from unexpected beginnings.

Don’t Force It 

It’s easy to fall into the trap of trying to force ideas to materialize. But like trying to catch a butterfly with clenched fists, the harder you grasp, the more elusive it becomes. Instead, just go with the flow of creativity and let ideas come naturally.

Trust in the process, and have faith that inspiration will find its way to you when the stars align. Sometimes, the best thing is to step back from your work and do things that make you happy—walking in nature, getting lost in a good book, or just letting your mind wander aimlessly.

Good luck with unlocking your creativity and remember, inspiration can strike at any moment, even in the most unexpected places. Keep your senses open and your mind receptive, and you’ll find that the world is full of stories just waiting to be told.

And if you’re anything like me, you’ll probably bore your friends and family to tears with your endless stream of story ideas.

Happy writing! 

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(How One Photograph Inspired a Novel.)

The first page, the first sentence is the most difficult and takes the longest. Add on the fact that today is the day I decided to expand my wings and do something completely different than all the novels I’d written before. The decision to write a story with a touch of magical realism, a dash of murder mystery, and pinch of romance came barreling down out of nowhere, squeezing out all my other ideas for a next book.

Bailey is a dressmaker with the gift of insight. Just a graze of her client’s skin while doing a dress fitting gives her insight into their secrets and most intense desires. Throw in a bit of history about oil in Oklahoma and there we have it. Had I bitten off more than I could chew? As the blank page stared back at me, I told myself to follow the process. Start with one sentence.

The Setting

For me, it’s usually the setting. Where is the story taking place? Being able to build the world first and placing the characters in it, makes the blank page less scary and intimidating. In other words, the story setting matters most. Once I know where the story is taking place and who the characters are, the first level of fear has been conquered. 

I knew from the very beginning that The Secret Keeper of Main Street needed to happen in a small town with charm and characters acclimated to the power of mystic energy. This, meant going back to my family’s hometown where elders could simply be in the same room and know what you were thinking. Reading energy, believing in signs and auras were the kinds of things that happened where my grandparents lived. Building relationships based on instinct, or trusting the gut, made decision-making swift and efficient.

The Timeline

The next step is the timeline. We can ultimately make assumptions about the characters and the plot moving forward based on the historical period. Setting the timeline in the 1950s makes the interaction between characters more personal and intimate. No picking up the phone at the drop of a hat. The historical element is, in itself, a character in the story. 

Mystery and magical realism permeate the moment you set foot in Mendol, Oklahoma, in the mid-1950s. My small, quaint town provides the perfect backdrop for a bridal gown boutique, where prospective brides journey for miles to be pinned and, hopefully, touched by Bailey Dowery, the gifted dressmaker with foresight.

The Inciting Act

Once the timeline is established, we move into the inciting act. What makes Bailey’s story even more interesting? When Bailey touches one particular client, she senses something amiss—a foreboding that foretells of tragedy. Immediately, she predicts there won’t be a wedding, at least not within the three weeks Elsa is scheduled to marry the scion of one of the town’s wealthiest oil families. 

In most instances, the inciting act doesn’t have to be earth-shaking. It’s simply the big moment of the story, the central question that needs to be answered. A stronger foundation allows for bigger steps and risks to be taken. More layers add mystery, and more questions lead to more answers. 

I have to say, I get excited as I’m reminded of the adventures, twists, and turns taken in writing The Secret Keeper of Main Street. Losing yourself in a good story, even if you’re the one writing it, makes for a great day. Three hundred great days by my estimate, which is how long it took to get the full story on the pages.

Fear is quite the strategist in some regard. Overcoming it is far more than half the battle, it wins the war.

Check out Trisha R. Thomas’ The Secret Keeper of Main Street here:

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What’s funny about this—if anything is funny—is that The Companions opens during a pandemic, two years into lockdown, though I call it quarantine in the novel because lockdown is not a term used historically for such scenarios. In the 1970s, prisons and psychiatric hospitals adopted the term to refer to an extended period of confinement, but it wasn’t used to describe isolation in the face of a contagion until 2020. Pretty fitting, actually, considering how lockdown made most of us feel.

(The Two Kinds of Artistic Doubt.)

That said, I was describing the same basic phenomenon—people living in a prolonged state of isolation and fear, over-reliant on tech as their means of connection, although in my book that comes not in the form of Zoom cocktail hours but as the consciousness of the dead uploaded to machines and kept as companions by the living. Who wants to read about that kind of horror when you’re living through something far too similar?

Prior to my debut, the best advice I got (but didn’t take) from another writer was: “Get a therapist.” My writer friends know me to be a bit obsessive. When I get an idea, I write and write until I have a draft. But after my novel came out? I couldn’t write for a long time. For a while, I didn’t think I’d write again. Who was I without writing? It took getting stuck in one of the biggest snowstorms in California history for me to face that question.

It was winter 2021, and a friend was nice enough to let me use her mother-in-law’s vacation home in Twain Harte, a true gift to my two San Francisco-grown kids who dream of snowy expanses. Twain Harte is an old mining town situated in the Sierra foothills—which is to say it’s a place of dreams fulfilled and broken—and named for two famous Mother Lode authors. I didn’t think much of this then, considering I didn’t go there to write.

We arrived at about 3:30pm on a Sunday. I’d been watching the weather carefully, so I’d get there before the snowfall hit. I knew it was coming, but I had no idea how bad it was going to be—no one knew. That’s how it is in our new and ever-changing climate reality, a chronic kind of uncertainty.

I’d been to the house once before, so I felt confident I’d find it even though my phone’s map app was mostly useless above the main road and everything was white with snow. My Mom Car, a city-sensible 2007 Toyota Yaris that clears the ground by about two inches, was absolutely not fit for snow, and my anxiety was peaking. I loved taking adventures with my girls, and so far they’d all worked out, but had I miscalculated?

I started up one unplowed road that I was pretty sure led to the house, passing an SUV very seriously teetering into the trees. Immediately, my Mom Car sank in the snow. I told the girls to sit tight as I ran up the road, maybe a little frantic, to confirm that I was on the right path. And there it was—the house was snow-covered, the yard buried, but I knew I’d found the spot and ran back to the car.

In a potentially dystopian scenario, you have to watch your caloric expenditure, but I wasn’t thinking about that yet. As I was hoofing up the snow-buried path, sweating, I was thinking yay! Someone will definitely get her steps in today.

The kids were fine, bored. “Why didn’t you let us come with you?” Good question. Perhaps I needed a rapid-fire anxiety release. Would I have to dig my car out? I didn’t show my fear as my tires spun in the snow, the car unmoving. In my mind contingencies were forming: we’d leave the car alongside the teetering SUV and plod our way back to the house, wait out the storm. But my car was blocking the road—what if a neighbor needed to get out? So, I rocked the car gently, like a good little baby, until she was free. Then I reversed down that snowy road.

With one road unpassable, I’d have to go the other way, the steep way I’d hoped to avoid. In truth, this was what had been giving me anxiety all day—trying to get my Mom Car up a scary, sharp drive covered in snow and ice. In my mind, I’d seen my car lose traction on that incline dozens of times. I’d felt the helplessness of us careening backwards into a tree, or maybe onto the main road, colliding with a passing truck. I had cables for my tires, not as good as chains. In the nights leading up to the trip, I’d watched YouTube tutorials for installing and removing cables over and over. Could I, in fact, successfully do it?

At the base of that drive, I decided to go for it, no cables. In the end, after all that mounting anxiety, I got up the road pretty easily. Timing, it turned out, was perfect, snow falling heavily by then. An hour later, and we wouldn’t have made it at all. Ahead of us, the drive to the house was blanketed in a couple feet of snow and impassible.

We left the car at the edge of a neighbor’s drive, with a note on the dash, one that would be totally buried in minutes, and tromped toward the house, through snow so high we lost sight of our scrawny dog as he followed in our boot prints.

Check out Katie M. Flynn’s Island Rule here:

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That evening, as my kids and I were playing outside, not one other human in sight, we spotted a deer, then another, another, so many deer we were outnumbered. They weren’t especially perturbed by our presence, bounding in the snow as deer do, and it was magical, the snow really coming down now, maybe one of the more magical moments of my life, and I could tell by my kids’ faces they were feeling it too. This is why you’re here, I reminded myself.

In the morning, the power was out, my car was buried, and the sound of generators thrummed through the trees. The year-round residents were prepared for heavy snowfall and power outages, but I was just a tourist, borrowing a friend’s vacation home, which meant no generator, and absolutely no back-up plan.

I had expected a snowstorm. I was prepared to be stuck for a few days, but this was something else. From the main road, we could hear PG&E working on the lines, so we walked down to ask them for an update. They said they had no idea. So many lines down, all over the place. Could be hours, could be days.

The girls and I camp often. Limited food, quick meals—my kids are used to it. Luckily, the master bedroom had a gas fireplace and I could still cook on the stove. In my usual survivalist fashion, I’d brought far too much food. If we had to, we could survive for a couple weeks, rationing. We had water. What was there to be afraid of? Adjusting your body temperature isn’t that hard when you don’t have a choice. I scurried food down the cold chamber to my kids in the warm womb. That’s what we called the master bedroom even if it was mid-50s in there, just enough to take the edge off.

Whenever I saw a neighbor, I made sure to wave and approach, to tell them about us, a single mom and two kids, a tiny, annoying dog. I wanted the neighbors to know we were there, that we had no power—I was afraid we’d be lost in the storm. Standing in the deep snow, I learned that the next-door neighbor was also a single mom and teacher, and I felt it, that connection. She must have felt it too because she offered the girls and me her couch should we need it, a kindness in the cold that nearly got me crying.

In the afternoons, when the sun was at its highest, I went out to talk to the neighbors, to kick my car loose of snow—so much kicking my shin muscles ached. Perhaps a waste of time and calories, but it helped with the anxiety: I would not find myself needing to leave, but buried. The girls enjoyed this activity, launching snow off the top of the car while I worked on the important stuff, the underbelly, making sure the wheels were free. I tried to keep it playful, to light candles at night and tell them that tomorrow maybe we’ll have power! And if not, we’ll frolic some more in the snow. 

Amazingly they played along, even as I was serving them breakfast in the icy cold, our breath like clouds—that is a special kind of trust. They dutifully ate and put on their snow clothes. When it was dark, they went to bed without complaint, exhausted from all the snowball fights and tunneling. Were they also alert to this feeling of impending doom? I didn’t think so, but I stayed vigilant for us all. I asked them periodically: “If we could leave now, would you?” They were both absolute in their noes, which was good because there was no way we were getting out of there.

Meanwhile, I wasn’t sleeping well. A house in the snow thuds and whines unexpectedly, and I’d get swept up in a worrisome dream only to wake to a strange sound. No power, minimal heat, a beautiful house that was an inaccessible coffin.

That Wednesday I woke from yet another weird dream with an idea, something that would breathe life into a novel project I’d long thought dead. It was confusing, because I didn’t want a writing idea right then; I wanted to get my kids home safely. Somehow in this state of heightened alertness, electric with the potential for disaster, my writing fears and doubts were washed away by more immediate concerns, and for the first time in I don’t know how many months, I could write. When I wasn’t cooking or playing with the kids, I wrote for as long as my laptop had power, and when my laptop died, I continued in my journal until my hand could no longer manage in the cold. A few days later I had the shell of a novel.

On the seventh day, the snow had melted enough that we decided it was time to try our way down that steep drive. The power still hadn’t come back on, and my girls were finally weary of being cold. Out front a few of the neighbors gathered to give me guidance and kick away at patches of ice on the road. I did what they suggested; I took it “low and slow.” Somehow they had become my friends. I guess that happens in extreme conditions though it could go in another, darker direction, I have no doubt. Under such circumstances, you show yourself, and others do too. We all hugged goodbye.

I haven’t been back to Twain Harte—I’m frankly a bit skittish to take my kids into the snow after that experience, and I still drive the Mom Car—yet as release day for my second book grows near, I think about those neighbors often, the deer in the snow, the strange dreams and the idea that brought me back to writing. I’d been waiting for the world to give me something, to tell me that they wanted to hear from me, but no one came looking for my writing, least of all me. That’s the funny thing about writing: sometimes it comes looking for you. 

The post Stuck: Rediscovering Writing in the End Times appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(Writing Mistakes Writers Make: Waiting for Inspiration to Strike.)

Then, in January 2016, I moved to Chicago where my husband, Andy, was a visiting professor at the University of Chicago. The first time my new dog walker came in I asked, “What do you do when you aren’t walking dogs?”

“I’m a storyteller and I host a storytelling open mic. You should come and tell a story.”

I had never heard of storytelling before.

I mulled a story idea about how I had coped with my severe recurring depression when the violence at my community college teaching job made it necessary for me to quit, by going to Australia, alone, to follow Bruce Springsteen’s tour. I knew there was a story there somewhere.

I went to the storytelling open mic just to see what it was like.

“Do you want to sign up?” a woman said.

“No way,” I said.

The first three storytellers were men. The first one talked about how difficult it was for him when his wife was in labor, because she was too distracted to talk to him. The second recounted his trip to Woodstock in 1969 where he cheated on his fiancé with four women. The third man spoke about abusing his first and second wives. But, he was proud to tell us that now, with his third wife, his “transformation [was] nothing less than miraculous.”

A conversation, 40 years earlier with my gynecologist, popped into my head. I signed up.

“I came here to learn how to tell a story about Bruce Springsteen,” I said to the crowded room.

Everyone cheered and Broo-ed,

“But instead I am going to tell a story about sex.”

They all cheered even louder. When I finished telling my story everyone was clapping and cheering.

It was gratifying to get immediate and positive feedback. It was so different than when I sat at my desk and tried to write. The encouragement from these strangers was just what I needed to convince myself I was ready to go to an open mic and tell my Bruce Springsteen story.

The following week, in another back room in another bar, people clapped and cheered for my Bruce Springsteen story.

This gave me confidence to try to write other storytelling stories. It was slow. Bit by bit, I began going to open mics and getting encouraging feedback.

An acquaintance said I had to go to The Moth. I had never heard of The Moth. Then he said, “And you have to tell a story there.”

“Absolutely not,” I said.

He was relentless.

The first time I got up on The Moth stage, the lights were so bright. I couldn’t see the audience. I was terrified. But, I got through it. I soon won two StorySLAMs in Chicago. For months when I returned as an audience member to a Moth StorySLAM people asked me questions about my stories. They wanted to know more. It was so encouraging to know that people were interested in what I had to say.

After Chicago, I moved to New York City. My goal was to win a StorySLAM there. April 1 I won on my first try with a story about a horrible dog I was duped into adopting. Again, people had so many questions because they wanted to know more.

I decided to try to hone my storytelling skills, and contacted a storytelling coach. The first thing she said to me was, “If I could wave a magic wand and grant you one wish what would it be?”

She completely shocked me with that question. Spontaneously I said, “To write a book.”

“Then that’s what you have to do,” she replied.

Initially, I fought myself to keep from doing it. Over three months of not doing it, I became increasingly angry at myself.

I work out every day. It’s how I cope with my depression. Even though I never feel like doing it, I never question it. I just do it. When I’m done l always feel better.

I decided to try this approach to writing.

The first day after working out I sat down at my desk and looked at the clock. It was eleven-thirty. I could not leave my desk until one-thirty. I would not question or ponder or judge. I would put my fingers on the keyboard and tap one key after another. I wanted to write about going to Australia to see Bruce Springsteen. I looked at the blank computer screen, terrified. 

I decided I needed a muse to block the negative voices in my head. I pictured my husband and began typing my story to him. When I looked at the clock it was one-thirty. I’d done it. I had more than done it. 

So it went day after day after day. Anything that came into my head I tapped out. I didn’t dare censor anything that seemed even remotely relevant. I was afraid that if I contemplated not writing one scenario or anecdote, I would soon be going down the dark road to total writer’s block. I wrote and wrote. My first draft was 1,000 pages. The 10th and final draft was 350.

That’s how my memoir, Mattie, Milo, and Me (based on the StorySLAM I won in New York) and my memoir about going to Australia that is being published in Fall 2025 (based on a StorySLAM I won in Chicago) came to be.

Check out Anne Abel’s Mattie, Milo, and Me here:

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Shoving new ideas aside for that long made the idea-generator in my mind go rusty. Instead of ranging far and wide, brainstorming what to write next, I picked my second book topic quickly. I write historical fiction, and with all the research each book requires, I figured fast commitment was more important than exploring my options.

But then the pandemic hit. Despite the chaos, lockdowns, and store closures, my debut The German Heiress did well. But I was starting to realize how fragile a publishing career can be. Events far outside my control can derail a book and undermine years of sweat and perseverence. The only thing I control is my writing and the choice of what to write. But I had forgotten how to make that choice.

Once I finished my second novel, I faced a void. For the first time, I didn’t know what I was writing next. During the lockdowns in Europe, where I live, most of my time was spent homeschooling my kids and worrying about family members in the US. Existential angst isn’t the best environment for creativity, at least not for me. I couldn’t escape into my writing because I didn’t know what to write about. I started to get panicky. Maybe I was done. Maybe I would never write another book again.

A chance comment by my agent put me back on track. During lockdown, I had mentioned how much I missed my former home, Chicago, and she suggested I set my next book there. I liked the idea, but had no idea where to start. With an open mind, I browsed a volume of old photographs of Chicago that I had brought with me to Europe. That’s where I found the spark that would become my third book, Sinners of Starlight City.

It was a photo of the 1933 World’s Fair. The moment I saw it, my mind woke up. A World’s Fair encompasses so much of what I love and missed in the pandemic: crowds of strangers, fun and optimism, the respect for science, international travel. I began to research the Fair, ordered books, scoured the web. I knew I had the setting of my next book. I was back on track.

Except that a book isn’t setting, it’s characters. I wasn’t sure who would populate the story, or what they would do in it. Bits and pieces of ideas were scattered in my mind. I was fascinated by the premature babies put on display at the Fair, and by the fact that the European doctor who oversaw the incubators refused to segregate babies according to the US color line. Early in story development, I decided there would be a baby of mixed heritage, and that her family would form the core of the story.

Family. That was the last piece of the puzzle. I’m Black American on my father’s side, Sicilian American on my mother’s. It was soon clear the baby was going to have the same family background as me, but a hundred years in the past. I was now looking at a story that adressed intolerance and love within mixed families in an age when mixtures were not tolerated.

On video calls and email, I began to ask my family detailed questions. I learned about my Black family’s farm in Louisiana over a century ago. I learned about the emmigration of my mom’s family from Sicily to America. Late in the pandemic, I flew to Sicily to meet my family and explore where my great grandparents came from.

I poured all of this into the story, and what came out was my most personal novel so far. It’s not uncommon for historical fiction to encompass family stories of the author, but when it happens, there’s a special mix of deeply authentic personal history transformed by the creative license of fiction. The Mancuso, Gallo, and Dupre families featured in Sinners of Starlight City aren’t my family, but they borrow elements and issues that are true to my family history.

Order Anika Scott’s Sinners of Starlight City today. 

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As far as I’ve been told, none of my direct Sicilian relatives were in the mafia, but that didn’t stop me from weaving that intriguing line into the story. As I was writing, I got to escape the limitations and challenges of pandemic life and romp through the summer nights at the Chicago World’s Fair almost a century ago. The book was true escape, but also a true return to my roots.

Not every book I write is going to have such direct personal links, but now I know what kind of stories activate me in the most profound ways. When looking for ideas, I know not to write what I think I should be writing, but to write what brings me back to life.

[Click to continue.]

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Either way, we know this all too well as “writer’s block.” Although it can be a little frustrating, it’s possible to beat! Here’s how I do it.

Log off social media, or better yet, get off your phone, period.

There is just too much room for distraction on these little pocket computers we have. A good-natured check for the weather could turn into a rabbit hole of figuring out what ever happened to the main character of that TV show you loved when you were little.

To beat writer’s block, a lot of the time you need your mind to be quiet to work through the next part of your story. As some of the experts say, you need to feel a little “bored” in order for inspiration to strike.

A lot of the time, we cull the impending feeling of boredom with picking up our phone and mindlessly scrolling, laughing at the latest reel to pop up on our feeds. Take some time and sit with your thoughts, and let boredom strike down that writer’s block.

For me, sometimes I pick up my phone out of habit, so I have to set a timer or even place my phone in a different part of the room to resist the urge to pick it up.

Read a book.

When I’m reading a book that I’m really loving, I get really inspired. I think to myself, “Man, I would love to write something this good.” And then I put the book down and start writing.

Picture someone reading a book you wrote and thinking that it’s so good that they have to put it down and start writing something! It’s a cool thought, and maybe even a bit more inspiration to break out of that writer’s block.

Order India Hill Brown’s Rhythm and Muse today.

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Do something other than writing.

Do something that gives your mind a chance to focus on something other than writing, but still fun and worth your time, such as a puzzle, painting, knitting, or even going to a party or singing karaoke. For me, I love cooking—I’m focused on something worth my while (food!!) while getting the instant gratification that I don’t get from drafting a novel.

I also love hanging out with friends and family, or going on random misadventures—sometimes, the little conversations you hear, jokes you make, or funny situations I find myself in can give me an idea for my next story or how to move the needle on the one I’m currently working on.

Do you enjoy running? Throwing around a football in your backyard? Baking? Little moments like feeling the sun on your face, smelling freshly baked bread, or laughing so hard that tears fall down your face, are the real-life experiences that will help inspire you to put pen to paper.

Just start.

You may groan reading this one, but nothing beats writer’s block better than just sitting down to write. Set a timer for 25 minutes (I’m a personal fan of the Pomodoro Method) and see what you can come up with.

You might end up scrapping everything you write, but at least you’ve gotten the ball rolling. Or better yet, take out a notebook and journal through it. Sometimes the writer’s block is mental, and journaling can help you get through whatever isn’t making sense to you through your keyboard.

For me, every story starts with a notebook. I have to journal through my thoughts about the plot, characters, and setting before I can even begin to start typing.

Outline.

I usually do an outline before I start, but occasionally I like to start writing and see where it takes me. Sometimes, though, when I do this, I find myself lost in the story, and I need to outline the rest.

The shorthand version of where the story is supposed to go serves as something like a map—I can refer to it when I don’t know what to do next, but I can also change it when I think of something better. Having it helps anchor me. It helps when I just don’t know what to write next—and also with pacing and story structure.

Writer’s block can be part of the process, but it won’t last forever. Give yourself some grace as you write your words and write freely. Take the pressure off of trying to write something perfect—you can always edit later! For now, just take a deep breath, open that notebook or your laptop, and begin.https://www.writersonlineworkshops.com/courses/fearless-writing

[Click to continue.]

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[Buy a DIGITAL copy of this special issue at the Writer’s Digest Shop.]

This newsstand-only publication includes:

Preparation & Progress

2022 The Year in Publishing: A roundup at the hottest topics in publishing in 2022. By Jane Friedman

The Curiously Effective Way to Beat Procrastination: An author of more than 80 books reveals how he follows his curiosity to beat writer’s block—and why you should too. By Michael La Ronn

Fair Use: A small business attorney breaks down the ins and outs of what “Fair Use” is and how writers can use it to their advantage. By Amy Cook

The Alchemy Required to Finish a Novel: The Executive Director of National Novel Writing Month offers six tips to get through the dreaded mid-novel slump. By Grant Faulkner

Freelancer’s Workshop

Losing the Big One: A seasoned freelance editor who once lost his biggest client tells how to survive the loss—and protect yourself from similar situations. By Jeff Somers

How to Tackle Tricky Source Situations: For freelance writers, talking to those in the know can make or break a story. This article offers tips to avoid potential scams and pinpoint reliable sources. By Dinsa Sachan

How Much Should I Charge: The creator of Funds for Writers did all the research on the going rates freelancers can and should charge. By C. Hope Clark

Book Building

A New View: Award-nominated fiction editor Diana M. Pho shares five tips for looking at your manuscript from a new perspective and avoiding common first-draft mistakes. By Diana M. Pho

Eyes on the Road: Much like a cross-country road trip, writing a series can be quite the journey. Here are five tips to get your readers safely to the final destination and enjoy the ride along the way. By E.L. Tenenbaum

Authoring Change, One Book at a Time: Founder of the Nonfiction Writers’ University, Nina Amir, breaks down the elements you need to write a nonfiction book that makes a positive and meaningful difference. By Nina Amir

10 Reasons to Write 100-Word Stories: Award-winning novelist Ran Walker describes the biggest benefits of writing the smallest stories. By Ran Walker

For Your Reference

The 24th Annual 101 Best Websites: This list singles out the best resources for established and aspiring writers across all genres. By The Editors of WD

Query vs. Pitch vs. Proposal: These three terms appear frequently in writing resources and at a glance, they sound the same. But they each have a very different goal and audience. This article breaks it all down. By Amy Jones

Top 100 Magazine Markets for Writers: WD Senior Editor and editor of the Writer’s Market 100^th Edition, Robert Lee Brewer, has found 100 of the hottest markets and shares all the details for your best bet at publication. By Robert Lee Brewer

What Agents Wish Writers Knew: 22 literary agents share their insights about querying, the agent/author relationship, and the industry so writers can find success. By Ryan G. Van Cleave

Contract Tips and Handling Conflict: Negotiating your best publishing deal. By Amy Cook

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(5 Secrets for Mining the Stories in Your Own Home To Inspire Compelling Historical Fiction)

This wasn’t a sight I was used to.

Indeed, most Black people from yesteryear are usually referenced as slaves or in other forms of servitude. In these pictures were smartly dressed men and women in native and western attire alike. Singers from The African Choir, who toured Britain between 1891-1893; women who lived within the realms of Victorian high society, like Sarah Forbes Bonetta.

Then there were pictures of a little boy. He wasn’t smiling. This wasn’t unusual for Victorian era photographs, but his expression told me a story I perhaps wasn’t ready to confront. His obvious sadness, the displacement and … trauma. A brutal history of colonialism and imperialism written in each of his expressions in every one of those photographs.

I was transfixed.

He had a name—Ndugu M’Hali—and in that moment, I vowed to one day write a book about him. And I began my research the moment I walked through the front door that evening.

Ndugu was brought to England by the famous explorer Henry Morton Stanley. He also died at the age of 12. It’s then I asked myself a series of questions, starting with What if (a useful tool for anyone embarking on writing a novel)? What if Ndugu M’Hali had been allowed to live? What could he have become? Who would he have loved? As an historical fiction author, I get to rewrite history that has previously been whitewashed and here was a chance to do that and so much more.

Ndugu’s life did not end the way he deserved, severed before it had a chance to even begin. My own research cut short due to a bereavement. It would be four years later that I’d revisit his story.

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During this gap, I released two historical fiction novels which had nothing to do with Ndugu. Yet he remained in the background, waiting for me to make a start on what I had promised him one afternoon at an art gallery.

By 2020 when the world stood still due to a pandemic, Ndugu’s voice grew even louder! The subject of racism was now a topic of discussion in more spaces than ever before; statues of explorers just like Stanley’s were being pulled down. Art imitating life at play. How many more “messages” did I need?

It was time to make a start on this special book.

This fresh determination of mine was further tested. A contract for a novel I had written many years previously had three offers on the table from publishers! As any author is aware, publishing deals do not just appear so easily … and yet I could not eradicate the feeling that it was Ndugu’s turn. So, I decided to focus on producing a 50-page proposal of The Attic Child inspired by his life. A story which had occupied my head, my thoughts for four years.

When a publisher swooped in for an offer based on this proposal, it dawned on me that the book I vowed to write, whilst I stood in front of Ndugu’s photograph, was finally going to happen.

The Attic Child weaves dual stories of two very different children, but with similar experiences; a Black child, Dikembe (based on Ndugu) who is let down by an imperialist and racist system in the 1900s; a white child (Lowra) who is abandoned by the social care system in the 1990s.

Historically, Ndugu M’Hali has been a mere footnote in someone else’s story—my aim in writing The Attic Child was to bring him to life, humanize him, and give him a voice.

It’s the very least he deserves.

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I have a heart condition so when my doctor advised me to go to the hospital to check out chest and stomach pains, I listened.

(Richard O’Rawe: On Enjoying the Writing Process)

My wife and I arrived at the triage center of the local Accident and Emergency department at approximately 5 a.m. There was only one other person there, but shortly after we had sat down, a young lady who said her name was Violet arrived, dressed like a goth, accompanied by her debonair boyfriend. The pair looked like they had been partying all night and seemed to be high. They approached the counter, and the caring young man told the receptionist that Violet had self-harmed, whereupon she removed a cloth and displayed her scarred and bloodied arm, declaring all the while that she wanted to die.

Just as the young man calmed down his girlfriend and convinced her to take a seat, someone called “Seamus,” a 30-something-year-old, staggered into the reception area and up to the counter. Seamus’ face was dirty and scrapped to the point where it looked like he had been pulled backwards across a concrete pathway by his feet. The receptionist knew Seamus and asked him how he got his injuries, at which point he turned around to see who was watching him and declared he had been talking to the devil, who had instructed him to murder someone.

Violet’s ears picked up. “Murder me!” she shouted.

“I ……. will,” Seamus shouted back, “the devil told me you’d be here; he told me to murder you.”

“Well, do it, don’t just say it.”

“Don’t murder her,” the young man shouted, “she doesn’t mean it.”

“I do.”

“I will.”

The girl’s boyfriend, frantic that the drunk might have a knife, put his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.

Meanwhile my stomach feels as if the world’s strongest man is firing a 10-kilo medicine bag into it. I suspected that all I had was food poisoning but here I was, in agony, in a hospital reception area, surrounded by troubled souls.

Fortunately, before the confrontation developed any further, security personnel came and talked Seamus into not listening to the devil.

10 hours later I walked out of the hospital with the bones of my new Ructions O’Hare book down in sketch and note form, with Seamus and Violet inserted into the script, thus solving a problem that had confronted me for weeks. So, what did I do? I welded Violet and Seamus together.

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In the opening scene of the yet-to-be-written book, Ructions O’Hare, my protagonist in two novels thus far, and his wife, Eleanor, will be driving up a deserted country lane in County Kildare, Ireland, at night when he notices something or someone lying at the side of the road. He stops the car and inspects an old man with a long grey beard, who appears to be struggling for breath. Ructions puts the old man in his car and takes him to the nearby hospital.

And so, the original Violet and Seamus scene was acted out, only this time, instead of Seamus wanting to murder Violet, he wants to murder the frail old man. Seamus pulls back his arm to punch the old man, but Ructions intervenes and pins him to the ground. Eleanor talks to a screaming Violet who tries to punch Ructions. At that, security personnel arrive and break up the fracas.

In a later scene, Ructions and Eleanor are looking through a glass window of a private hospital room on the old man, who is breathing through an oxygen mask. Ructions asks a nurse if he may have a short visit with the patient.

Inside the room, the old man stares at Ructions, who is sitting, before pulling away his mask. “I’ve seen you before,” he says in a frail clipped English voice.

“I can’t say I recall.”

“I’ve seen you before. I’ve a trained memory. I used to play cards.” The old man points a shaking finger. “Got you. You’re the bank robber. O’Hare, ‘Troubles’ O’Hare, isn’t it?”

Ructions puts out his hand and they shake. “Ructions.”

“That’s it … Ructions.” They shake. The old man thanks Ructions for stopping Seamus from assaulting him.

A nurse arrives, adjusts her patient’s drips, and tells Ructions that the visit is over. As Ructions goes to stand up, the old man’s hand reaches out to touch his arm. “One minute.” The nurse nods and leaves and the old man beckons Ructions to put his ear to his mouth. “I’ve been waiting on someone like you for years. I have secrets.”

Eleanor watches the scene from outside the room. Ructions’ ear is almost touching the old man’s lips at times, then he occasionally pulls back and stares at the patient. It strikes Eleanor that whatever Ructions is being told, it is piquing his interest. Eventually Ructions leaves the room. Ructions stares through the window as the old man’s eyes close. “That’s a remarkable man with a remarkable story,” he says.

“Who is he?”

“As far as the hospital is concerned, he’s Frank Tubridy.”

“Who is he really?”

“You’ll never believe this…”

“Try me.”

“He says he’s Lord ‘Lucky’ Lucan,” (Lord Lucan, the seventh Earl of Bingham, disappeared in 1974 after his babies’ nanny was found bludgeoned to death. He has not been seen since).

“But he’s dead! Isn’t he?”

“Apparently not.”

My point is: Adversary and confrontation are often the mother and father of invention and creativity. Prior to the Violet and Seamus incident, I was having trouble marrying Ructions to Lucky. A goth and a drunk solved that problem for me.

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The post When Inspiration Strikes: Or Opening Yourself to Your Surroundings appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(Grammar rules for writers.)

Rather, we’re looking at bigger picture mistakes and mishaps, including the error of using too much exposition, neglecting research, or researching too much. This week’s writing mistake writers make is drafting solely on a computer.

Writing Mistakes Writers Make: Drafting Solely on a Computer

A lot of my early work (and we’re talking elementary school age, here) was written by hand. My family had a single computer, but I didn’t really know how to use it, and it was really reserved for my parents anyway.

By the time I was in high school, I had my own (heavy, clunky) laptop. And about a million jump drives where I obsessively kept a record of my works-in-progress. I would print out every draft, make revision notes with a pen, and then revise the work in Word.

Years later in my MFA, I had Google Docs on my phone, my computer was small enough that I could throw it in my bag without a problem, and my dorm had its own computer lab if I didn’t want to waste my own printer’s ink.

Right after graduation was when the blank page became intimidating. Without the threat of deadlines and grades, I wasn’t totally motivated to write—not to mention that two years of intense writing left me feeling uninspired, a well that had run dry. I’m still haunted by the hours I spent just sitting, staring blankly at the cursor blinking, blinking, blinking back at me. It became something to avoid.

How did I break this curse? I stopped drafting on the computer.

Mistake Fix: Explore Your Options!

As a last-ditch effort, I bought this weird little notebook (a perfect square with lined pages that weren’t too thick or too thin, with a spiral spine so I could tuck the pages away easily when they were filled), and I started writing by hand. At the time, I was a school photographer—you know, the people who come for one day to photograph every person in the building?—and while we didn’t have a ton of downtime, I was able to snatch ten minutes here and there throughout the often 12-hour workdays.

After a week, I was surprised by the sheer amount of words I’d been able to put on the page. And typing those words up at the end of the week made my work smoother and cleaner in the Word document because I tweaked a little here and there while I typed. And it didn’t occur to me until just this moment that in doing this, I fell back on the way that I learned to write stories in the first place—in a notebook, by hand.

While hand-writing is certainly an option you can explore, I’ve worked with a lot of authors for whom dictating unlocked their story. There are a ton of programs from Temi to Evernote to Nuance Dragon that allow you to speak directly into your phone, tablet, or computer, and it will translate what you’re saying into a written document, ready for you to dive in and revise. While this may be useful for writers with dyslexia, it’s also just useful for people for whom speaking comes more naturally than typing, especially if you want to give your story a very voice-y narrator who feels like they’re speaking directly to the reader.

When nothing else is working, don’t be afraid to switch up the way you do things. Something that worked for you for many years, be it a typewriter or a computer or dictation, may give you some trouble. That’s OK. We’re all changing and evolving as people and as writers; lean into that change and figure out what works for the writer you are now. 

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