There’s something about writing that strips me of all embellishment. Writing for me tricks the deeply embedded taboo of breaking the silence about long-held family secrets, or stories ensconced in shame. Maybe because writing is done in silence. Writing is like whispering; it keeps a truth secret even as it’s being shared.  

As a feminist theologian, I often feel like I’m telling secrets about religion that many know, and even agree with, but rarely talk about out loud. And I couldn’t tell the truth about a forgotten saint named Thecla, without also telling the truth about how her story inspired me to finally heal a pattern in my life that had me trapped for over a decade. 

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Thecla’s story is found in a text that scholars date back to as early as 70 C.E. titled The Acts of Paul and Thecla. When the world stood still in 2020, I felt this gravitational pull to start studying it again. I had vaguely remembered it from seminary, especially that Thecla—a teenage girl with little to no power in the world around her—ends up baptizing herself and living a life no one thought possible.  

After studying it for months on end, a template of spiritual transformation became discernible in her story—Thecla moves through seven distinct stages to go from a girl trapped in a life that is based on fulfilling the expectations of others, to a life ordained from within her, a life that she chooses and wills for herself even at a time when she wasn’t free to do so. 

Thecla somehow reclaims her innate power to choose the life she wants for herself. And this is what inspired and changed me so profoundly—no one comes to save Thecla. All throughout Thecla’s story, she is called on to save herself. Or, she’s saved by the person she has to become in order to save herself. She has to keep morphing into more of the truth of who she is, revealing with more authenticity, more vulnerability, what she knows is meant for her.  

And it’s this precise inversion—this living from the inside out with absolute integrity, this is true power. So in order to tell her story, I had to let myself be changed by it. I had to put the wisdom I found in her story into practice. And I could only do this by finally figuring out how to end a harmful pattern I kept making when it came to love. I had to figure out how to reclaim my power to choose as Thecla had, a life no one thought possible. 

The maxim that emerged in the writing process that summates what Thecla taught me is this: The only way out is within. Thecla inspired me to write the truth about what has been hardest for me to endure. And the truth, as promised, set me free. 

The post How a First Century Saint Inspired Me to Save Myself and Share My Voice appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(How to Create Synergy in a Split-Time Novel.)

And, once we accomplish that feat, we need to protect the “voice” we uncover if we hope to grow in our craft and something original to say—and sell. For, as “perfect” a forger Han van Meegeren was, and he is often considered the world’s greatest, he wasn’t Vermeer—and once someone took the time to look past the charisma of his person, they recognized that in his art.

At the most basic level, a writer’s “voice” is the tenor, cadence, and even form of language, in which that writer is most comfortable and through which their stories command the greatest strength. While it seems simple, as it comes from within, discovering one’s “voice” can be elusive—difficult to find and challenging to hone—yet, once found, it’s powerful and it’s as unique as a fingerprint. After all, we each see and feel things like no one else in the entire world.

A few years ago a friend shared with me how, upon graduating from an MFA program, she struggled to sell her work. She eventually took a part-time job writing a humor column for a local newspaper and, for that column, adopted a street-smart, bold, and sassy voice she’d been yearning to explore. The column became a hit and, a couple years later, she sold a book—in that voice—to Random House. Her take-away was that once she stopped trying to emulate other great writers and her professors, she uncovered and honed her own style and Random House picked up on that confidence.

So how do we find that unique voice?

1. We read and study the masters. We don’t copy them, but we do explore them. Find novels with a strong narrative voice. The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak, is one of my all-time favorites. Death has a fascinating voice in that novel. To Kill a Mockingbird, Hamnet, The Frozen River, Where the Crawdad’s Sing, The Catcher in the Rye…  The selection is endless as there are so many fantastic writers and books out there. Get immersed in the worlds they create and ponder how they accomplish it.
2. Write. Don’t think. Don’t edit. Tell yourself you’ll throw away whatever you write so there is no pressure to make it “perfect.” Simply sit down for a few minutes here and there, or every day for a while, and write whatever comes to mind in whatever tone and texture that feels natural. You may be surprised at what you find on the page in terms of both voice and content. Many published novels began just this way.
3. At some point, when you feel comfortable, share your writing. This is a tough one, but I do recommend you find a couple people you trust and ask what they think. This is how the writer I mentioned above found the courage to complete an entire novel in the new sassy voice she found and loved. After reading her columns and other writings, friends asked, “What more do you have?”

Finding your “voice” is not complicated so much as it’s intentional. It takes time and effort, but the work will pay off.  Thoughts and words, emotions and drama, will flow faster and more freely because they come from something creative, organic, and exciting within you. Not only that, but the emotional distance between you and the reader will evaporate as you authentically pull your audience in. And that’s what good writing is all about—drawing the reader close and not letting them go until the final page.

Check out Katherine Reay’s The English Masterpiece here:

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(How to Keep Writing When You’re Stuck and Your Usual Process Is Failing You.)

With that in mind, here are five ways to keep your creative spark alive while still meeting professional demands.

1. Recognize the difference between your writing roles

Not every piece you write will reflect your personal style, and that’s okay. The key is recognizing the difference between writing as a professional and writing as an artist. When you write for work, your main goal is to serve an audience, fulfill a request, or convey information clearly. Your creative voice may take a backseat, but it doesn’t have to disappear.

I’ll expand on how you can find ways to use your creative voice while working on assignments (see no. 3), but first, it’s important to embrace the flexibility that different writing roles require. Just as actors take on different roles but still bring their essence to every performance, you can bring your signature clarity, rhythm, or insight to any piece, even when working within strict guidelines.

So instead of viewing professional writing as a limitation, see it as a skill. Because being able to adapt your tone, style, and approach depending on the purpose of the piece is definitely an indication of someone who’s sharpened their skills as a writer.

2. Make time for personal writing

One of the best ways to keep your voice strong is to nurture it outside of work:

• Prioritize personal writing time: Set aside time regularly, whether daily or weekly, to write just for yourself. Treat this time as essential, just like a meeting or deadline.
• Keep a journal: Use it to jot down thoughts, ideas, or observations without worrying about structure. You can reflect on your experiences, dreams, or even just write random musings. There are no rules here, the goal is just to keep your voice authentic.
• Experiment with different forms: Try poetry, personal essays, or even fiction to explore new ways of expression. Play with styles you don’t normally use in your professional writing to stretch your creativity.
• Engage in free-writing: Dedicate 10 minutes a day to writing without stopping or editing. Write about anything, stream-of-consciousness, a scene, or a thought-provoking question.
• Write without an audience in mind: Let go of external expectations. This writing is for you, not for publication. Focus on joy, curiosity, and exploration rather than perfection.

Making time for personal writing not only strengthens your creative voice but also helps prevent burnout and allows you to bring fresh energy to your professional work.

3. Infuse your work writing with small traces of your voice

Even within the constraints of formal or structured writing, you can find ways to incorporate your personality and unique style:

• Be intentional with word choice: Swap out generic phrases for ones that feel more natural to you while still following voice and tone guidelines. Use language that reflects your personality—whether that’s a touch of warmth, humor, or directness—without straying from the purpose of the piece.
• Incorporate your natural cadence: Pay attention to the way you speak and let some of that rhythm appear in your writing. Read your work aloud and if it sounds stiff or unnatural, adjust it to feel more like you.
• Add a signature element: If appropriate, infuse a bit of your personality with a consistent stylistic touch, this could be a well-placed metaphor, a catchphrase, or a concise, impactful sentence that feels distinctly you. It could become a recognizable part of your writing style, even in professional settings.
• Use thoughtful transitions and openings: Instead of starting with template-like openings, craft introductions that subtly reflect your voice while staying on-topic. And replace overly formal transitions with language that mimics the way you naturally communicate to make the writing more engaging.

Know your audience and adjust accordingly, some settings allow for more creative freedom than others. Strike a balance between meeting project standards and expressing yourself authentically so that your writing feels both polished and personal.

Click to continue.

4. Read writing that inspires you

It’s hard to maintain a strong personal voice if you aren’t exposing yourself to writing that moves you, so keep exposing yourself to thought-provoking work: 

• Read beyond your industry: While it’s important to stay informed about your professional field, don’t limit yourself to industry-related writing. 
• Find writers who challenge and excite you: Look for authors whose voices are strong, unique, and fearless—writers who inspire you to think differently. Writer’s Digest regularly features authors and writers, or you can scroll through BookTok or BookThreads to find writers who might not normally be in your feed. Seek out perspectives outside of your own background to expand your worldview and influence your writing depth.
• Switch up genres and styles: If you typically read nonfiction, try diving into poetry or short stories. Challenge yourself with literary styles you’re unfamiliar with to expand your creative toolbox.
• Revisit old favorites: Reread books or essays that once inspired you, sometimes they take on new meaning as your writing evolves. Pay attention to how your interpretation of a piece changes over time.

By consistently reading diverse, well-crafted writing, you not only feed your creativity but also refine your ability to shape your own voice in fresh and compelling ways.

5. Set boundaries between work and personal writing

Writing all day for others can leave little mental energy for your own projects, which is why setting boundaries between work writing and personal writing is important. Firstly, give yourself permission to let work writing be just that, work. You don’t have to inject your personality into your work unless you want to, which means that you’ll no longer expect it to fulfill your creative needs. 

At the same time, when switching to personal writing, let this time be a space where you experiment, play with language, and express ideas without pressure. To reinforce this boundary:

• Designate a separate time for personal writing: See no. 2, and note that this is time for focusing exclusively on creative projects, separate from work obligations.
• Use different tools or spaces: Write work assignments on your computer but handwrite personal projects in a notebook to create a tangible distinction. If possible, separate work and creative writing physically by using different locations—one for work, another for passion projects.
• Create transition rituals: Signal to yourself when you’re switching between work and personal writing by taking a break, changing your environment, or engaging in a small creative exercise before diving in.
• Avoid self-censorship in personal writing: Unlike work writing, your personal projects don’t need to be polished or perfect. Let them be raw, experimental, and truly yours.

By maintaining these boundaries, you can ensure that writing remains an enjoyable and fulfilling practice, both professionally and personally.

Trust that your voice is still there

Keep in mind that your creativity doesn’t disappear just because you’re following guidelines. Your personal style isn’t just in what you write but in how you think, the connections you make, and the perspective you bring. 

If you ever feel disconnected from your writing, remind yourself that your voice is not lost, it may just need space to breathe. So stay intentional about nurturing it and you’ll find that no amount of structured writing can take away what makes your words uniquely yours.

The post How to Keep Your Personal Voice Alive When You Write for Work appeared first on Writer's Digest.

A lot of stories have been told over the millennia. There is no shortage of repeats and overlaps. But voice can be unique. Voice can distinguish a work from the pack. And voice can lead to writing that only works because it comes from that specific voice. That’s the gold standard.

(Tips for Creating Voice in Your Writing.)

My favorite comics and shows all have it. Dave Chapelle, Maria Bamford, Nate Bargatze. The original (British) version of The Office, Atlanta, Succession. Those stories, those points of view, that dialogue, and those characters only work when presented in their specific, unique voice.

#2. Character counts.

Character is a subset of voice, specific facets of a singular vision. If you cluster enough shining facets together you create a gemstone. Story doesn’t matter if we’re not invested in the characters. It’s the characters we root for, root against, and remember. Much more than story.

The examples are plenty in stand-up and narrative storytelling. Dana Carvey delivers an entire cast of characters in a single stand-up set. You can probably name a few. The famous characters depicted on Saturday Night Live stay with us even when we can’t remember what they said. Roseanne Rosannadanna, Stephan, Darnell Hayes, Linda Richmond. Make them specific, and they will be unforgettable.

#3. Story services voice and character, not the other way around.

If you have a glass of wine, voice and character are the wine. Story is the glass. It holds everything together. You need it. It has to be sound. But what you enjoy, what you feel, is the wine. Story, in and of itself, is rarely what’s most important. Or memorable. The importance of a story-first approach is shouted in how-to books and writing seminars and especially by film and TV executives. But if you create three-dimensional, consistently behaving characters, and set them on conflicting paths, story should take care of itself.

If you ever hear a character say, “I can’t believe I’m going to say this but…” it’s because they’re acting out of character to fit into a pre-ordained template. And often when that happens, the viewer or reader feels the inconsistency and loses interest.

#4. Brevity.

This is paramount in stand-up. Comics refine and hone to deliver their material with not only the fewest words, but the fewest syllables. Television comedy is the same. So is writing novels. Get to the point. Get to the joke. Get to the emotional moment. And in general, start your story as late as possible and end it as quickly as possible.

In working on sit-com scripts, the first scene we all thought was necessary often was cut during production. Or in editing. The audience is smarter than you think. Start the story in motion—they’ll know what’s going on.

#5. Be kind to yourself.

Writing is making mistakes and fixing them. We all write garbage. All first drafts need work. Sometimes a lot of work. Sometimes a toss in the garbage. Don’t beat yourself up when you write something that doesn’t work. Don’t get down when you figure out that you should have gone another way. Those realizations are something to celebrate. Yes, it means you have more work ahead but that’s okay. You’re making it better. The real value in writing is the writing.

I’ve heard of writers who don’t like writing. I don’t understand why they do it. If you don’t like writing, there are other ways to express yourself. Other jobs. Know that it’s a process. Accept that it’s a process. Once in a while something brilliant just flows seemingly out of nowhere. But that’s not the norm. The norm is making mistakes and fixing them.  

#6. Relatability is key.

A character’s wants and needs must ring universal. Seinfeld is a perfect example. Everyone likes to say it’s a show about nothing, but that’s far from true. Seinfeld is a show about selfishness. Jerry, George, Elaine, and Kramer are the most selfish characters on the planet. That’s why the show has such universal appeal. We understand the selfish impulses those characters feel.

Whether it’s lying to a prospective love interest to make ourselves look better or regretting a hastily made decision like quitting a job. Most of us have the good sense not to act on those selfish impulses. In Seinfeld they do act on them, which is what makes the show so funny. And don’t confuse likability with entertaining. George Costanza is not likable. Kendall Roy is far from lovable. But their behavior is lovely to watch.

Click to continue.

#7. Everyone has an opinion.

When you put voice and character first, it’s sometimes hard for readers or viewers to “get it.” We’re hardwired to be wary of something new. Out of the ordinary. Sometimes something new is loved right away. Often it takes time.

So be careful when soliciting others’ opinions. Any one opinion may or may not have value. But one of my favorite sayings from TV writing is: If you’re at a party with 12 people, and 12 people tell you you’re drunk, then you’re drunk. If everyone gives you the same note, it’s probably correct.

#8. Structure is bullshit.

The idea that a certain signpost in your story has to happen on a certain page number is absurd. As a young writer, I read all the story-structure books and, after 40 years of working as a professional writer, I can tell you this: All those books are written by people who can’t write narrative fiction. Or they can and they’re just trying to pad their bank accounts.

What’s worse, is some non-writing people with authority (film and TV execs, publishers, editors) read those story structure books and try to apply the books’ professed wisdom to the work they’re overseeing. The result is rarely good. Story should be developed from the inside out. It can be a messy process, but that’s okay. Characters need to behave consistently. If you hammer them into place to fit a story template, their integrity will shatter. And your viewers will disengage.

#9. Show don’t tell is overblown.

Another outsider’s note. Something people learn from a book or in a writing class. It’s only true some of the time. Sometimes viewers or readers want to be told, especially to move things along. Sometimes it’s better to show. Showing can evoke more emotion. But neither show nor tell is best for all situations.

It’s human nature to like having stories told to us. That gets back to voice. We love when someone can take us to a new place in an interesting, moving way.

#10. Work ethic.

I began my professional writing career writing stand-up material for myself. I then wrote television. I’ve written stage plays and screenplays. Now I write novels. One thing is true for all mediums—it’s a job. Or as I like to say, “It’s a butt-in-a-chair job.” Treat it like one. Write when you’re inspired and, more importantly, write when you’re not inspired.

We all have bad days. We all get off track. We all have doubts. But you won’t have anything if you don’t write. Some people set goals by time. I do it by word count. Power through, day after day, whether it takes one hour or 14. No shortcuts. No formulas. No antenna-like receiving from the universe. Just write.

Check out Matt Goldman’s The Murder Show here:

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The post 10 Things I’ve Learned About Writing From Being a Stand-Up Comic and in the Writer’s Room of Emmy Award-Winning TV Shows appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(7 Ways Writing Heals Us.)

Writing was the only way I knew to drop a bucket into the well of my unconscious. It was a well filled with pain, but as I grew older and found my own way in the world, the bucket brought up jewels and luminosity. The bucket revealed that an entire world of magic and unfathomables existed below the surface of daily life. Words came to me without invitation, images flowed from me, and I discovered the Flow State. It was my first experience of the numinous.

Many traumatized children find themselves accessing a Flow State of one kind or another. Early on, it can be labeled disassociation, but if cultivated as a portal, it can lead to exquisite revelation. At the very least, it is a portal to a world beyond the one we are trapped in. When I learned to cultivate my Flow State, I found that words poured from my fingers. I had trained the access channel from brain to fingers early on, and when I required inspiration, it came. The lesson in high school became, Say Less. This has always been a problem for me! I can overwrite anything, including a Driver’s License Application!

Writing is a dance between Left brain and Right brain, between the chooser, thinker, editor, and the poet, creative, and intuitive. The trick is to enable them to fully trust and support each other. Let the Right brain write, regurgitate, overwrite, and then call in the Left brain to edit and review. This is a metaphor for the two sides of us, the rational and the irrational, the mind and the soul.

The soul, buried deep within us, longs to have a voice, but our culture worships the mind, and the mind keeps her locked in the basement. I’m grateful that I was so desperate to connect with my soul that I learned to uncover her when I was young, and she has informed my writing ever since.

Writing exercise: Make yourself comfortable, relax, and write a dialogue between your Right brain and your Left brain (or your soul and your mind). Let them speak freely. Be surprised.

When I found myself working as a performer, director, and playwright in the theater of the 1970s, my writing found its way to the stage. I wrote dozens of plays for our theater company, for the children I was teaching, for no reason at all.

Plays taught me about dialogue, about conflict and denouement, about edge. The problem was, I was working in all-male theater companies and I was trying to write like a man. I could be harsh and funny and feral, but I couldn’t be vulnerable. When an editor reviewed my memoir, she said, “I need to FEEL you in here, Cynthia, I need you to be vulnerable.”

This, it turns out, would be the single most challenging and enlightening comment I would ever have to metabolize. What is it to be vulnerable? To reveal pain, to share sorrow, to map our way through to the other side. Everything changed. I had to go back to childhood and jackhammer the paving stones I had laid over that well of pain. I had to stop hiding behind fancy words and masculine metaphor.

Writing exercise: Write about a single painful experience you have had, but write about it in the third person, with great compassion and kindness for who you were at the time.

So, in addition to dancing between the left and right brain, I had to learn to dance between my heart and my head, my feelings and my wisdom. Writing is, above all, cathartic. Readers want to identify with your struggles and rejoice with you when you overcome them.

True voice is reaching deep within you and speaking from a truth only you know, with the palette of colors available only to you. You are unique. Your story is unique. Don’t hide. Whatever you try to hide will come roaring out when you least expect it (like my feminine side when I was trying to write like a man). Be bold. Be brave. Tell the truth.

Click to continue.

Writing exercise: what do you try to hide in your writing? Who are you trying to be/ appear as? What lurks beneath that? A rager? A narcissist? A sociopath? Write from that place! Write as your Shadow. Be surprised!

Writing is the antidote to trauma. It excavates the dark places and gives them voice. It reaches other people’s hearts and creates connection. It builds ladders to heaven and tunnels to hell. Writing is an act of courage and of reverence. It can reveal the unseen world. And now, more than ever, we need the unseen world. Write about it. Give it voice. We need your truth.

Writing exercise: Write yourself a letter from the archetype of God or Goddess, Kwan Yin or the Buddha. Write as a divine being to your human self. See what emerges.

Check out Cynthia Moore’s Dancing on Coals here:

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(First published on…Women Writers, Women(‘s) Books Online Magazine)

The post Writing and Trauma: Finding Your Voice appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(Using Internal Dialogue to Reveal Character.)

I recall taking a writer’s workshop in which we were taught to consider what a character’s likes and dislikes might be—what they might like to eat and wear, their hobbies, their activities, and even to make a list of these likes and dislikes. While I don’t typically write all this out, I become quickly familiar with my characters’ likes and dislikes as I spend more time writing about them and writing their dialogue. As they interact with other characters, the contrast between these voices and the interplay and dynamics between them also help me to define their individual personalities even more clearly.

As a new writer, who has also been a psychotherapist for more than 25 years, one of the most challenging things to learn is that one needs to express the character’s inner voice outwardly. They can’t just be thinking and thinking some more. No one’s interested in that. It’s like watching a movie, there needs to be action, and that action needs to express who each character is. The action may be quiet or loud, small or expansive, but it needs to exist on the page to keep the reader engaged in the narrative.

Developing a character’s voice is akin to an artist’s first sketches of each subject in their painting—first they draw and paint with broad strokes, later developing the sketches with paint in much greater detail as they continue to progress with the painting and spend time with their subjects. For me, I definitely do not have each character all worked out in the beginning of the story, but I do have a strong sense of each of them which then becomes more developed over the course of the story. That’s where a fair amount of editing takes place, not just in the story itself, but in more clearly defining who the characters are. 

For example, in Klara’s Truth, Klara’s cousin, Hanna, is a character I went back to many times. While she is quite suspicious of Klara’s motives upon initially meeting her in my final story version, this was not the case at first. While it felt like Hanna’s heightened level of suspicion of Klara made sense for the tension and suspense of the story early on, it later became more important for the characters and the story for them to get along.

Check out Susan Weissbach Friedman’s Klara’s Truth here:

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The character I spent the most time developing was Klara, the protagonist. I knew she had a lot of potential inner depth, but that she would start out with a strong lack of awareness about herself and others, possessing a great emotional void due to her lack of nurturing relationships in her life up until that point. Once she meets her Aunt Rachel, her late father’s sister, who is immediately sincere, warm, and loving with her, she slowly begins to thaw. This thawing happens in steps which together multiply Klara’s willingness to even consider being open. 

As Hanna slowly allows her guard to come down, spending more time with Klara and even warming to her, that’s another step forward for Klara. Discovering her father’s deep love for her before his death when she was only six years old is another important step in Klara’s process of emotionally unfreezing while beginning to connect and trust others. These steps then prepare her for a possible romantic relationship with Filip which she flip-flops over several times, having tremendous difficulty making this type of consistent emotional commitment.

I knew I wanted Aunt Rachel’s character to be maternal and loving toward Klara—the mother she never had, and I knew I wanted Filip’s character to be patient and caring, while still setting appropriate limits of what he was willing to tolerate in Klara’s hot and cold behavior. I was also cognizant of making most of the characters in Klara’s early life disconnected and aloof, like her mother and grandfather. Although, I did want her to have an experience with a loving adult, her father, even though it was only for a short time, which she could later remember.

Writing this brings more acute awareness to me about just how intertwined my characters’ voices and the story are. For me, each moves the other forward. I did not start out with an idea about exactly how this story would evolve or end, and I did not begin with a concept of exactly which qualities each character would or wouldn’t have. As the book progressed, I found that each of the characters’ voices became fuller and more varied, less two-dimensional and more three-dimensional. 

While Klara is the clearest example of this evolution, I believe that each character possesses both strengths and weaknesses, some possess more strengths while others possess more weaknesses, but it’s not simply one way. I think this more accurately reflects real life. While this can make things more confusing for all of us, it also makes them much more interesting.

The post How Do I Develop a Character’s Voice? appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Upon my foray into memoir writing decades ago, the thought of writing anything but what I knew in first-person POV never crossed my mind. I didn’t know then that my years of studying, writing, and publishing memoir would open a door I had kept shut to a world of my imagination. I see now how writing memoir broke a barrier to writing fiction.

(7 Things I Learned While Writing Across Genres.)

I considered my official start of writing to be at 15 when my mother gave me a pink journal, reasoning every young lady should have one. With its lined pages splayed open in my lap and a favorite pen in hand, I journaled through my anxious teens, recorded life’s contemplations in college, and continued recording through early adulthood. Personal essays followed, and I started a blog called “Magical Thinking” on what was then called Blogspot.com, where I considered making connections in finding my place in the world, self-discovery, and the meaning of life lessons to be a magical experience.

Soon, a timeline of life events, a detailing of my experiences, and magical thinking begged for more. Memoir was born as a natural progression for my writing to reach a new place with more meaning.

I immersed myself in learning the craft of memoir, starting with a simple definition: a nonfiction narrative written from the author’s perspective about a single, important part of their life. Intellectual understanding of the parts that made memoir—reflections, takeaways, lessons learned, a single event—was one thing, but translating the education into a memoir of my own was another.

I had all the memoir elements except for one: the single event. Perhaps memoir was not a one-size-fits-all description. I thought it wasn’t necessarily how the genre was defined, but how one’s story was being told. I might not have a single life-changing event, but I had a theme, my voice, and a slender thread of a series of life experiences I wove throughout the story. I disregarded the noise in my head and the boundaries of what is memoir and relied on storytelling.

So where did I go from here now that I had a published memoir?

A writer must grow, develop, and hone skills, I thought, and maintain a practice that defies definitions of genres. Fiction? I perceived fiction as being difficult to write. There’s implementing the clever use of literary devices, nailing a great opening paragraph, if not a great opening sentence, creating a grabbing hook, and crafting prose that flows like any good tide. I would have to rely on an untrained imagination because my practice of writing my perceived truth had grown strong, like a well-exercised muscle.

I was stuck, suspended.

Until one day when I took a walk in the woods.

I veered from a narrow path to investigate a short bridge humped over a sleepy river. Below were a pair of mallards commanding a “V” in their wake through water like plate glass. Trees hugging the soggy banks were in various states of fall undress, dropping their leaves and filling my vision with peace and softness. I must have been in the right place, at the right time, when the sun’s rays reached for the river. A bloom of sparkles, like diamonds bursting, made me squint from the reflection. While watching the pops of glitter, I created an imaginary world below, with a small boy wearing a red cap and clutching a long stick poking the giving earth. He would traipse the river’s banks in delight, lost in a world of natural wonder. And then I thought of a pop that would shatter the otherwise serene moment.

While walking home, I thought of how that setting struck my imagination to create a fictional character, and how something would change the trajectory of a magical scene. I wrote about my visit to the bridge and infused the experience with imagination to create a fictional short story. “When the Sun Kissed the River,” was published soon after.

“Play to your strengths,” a good friend had always told me. Her comment redirected my focus to what had mattered to me all along: to write a good story. I could transfer to fiction skills learned from memoir: creating a strong voice and character and crafting good prose.

I learned that writing fiction was not as difficult as I had perceived. An experience in the natural world was where I unexpectedly discovered the bones of fiction, organically inspiring my imagination. I learned to stretch my visualization when I would peek into the beyond through a slivered opening of a fence or catch the rhythm of a river’s flow, and perhaps add an unexpected sound slice through the thick trunks of oak trees as inspiration.

My journal writing was the nugget of gold that shined with an understanding of what my writing could be. Writing fiction after writing memoir was a natural progression. My perception of writing fiction was not a wall holding me back, but a challenge and an opportunity to get to another side of writing. I will always be a writer of memoir, but fiction is where I go to let my creativity play, to meet new characters, and to tell a good story. 

Check out Nancy Chadwick’s The Wisdom of the Willow here:

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(Tips for Creating Voice in Your Writing.)

The only thing that matters is the answer to this question: Does it work? 

For example, one steadfast “rule” we often hear is that you can never shift POVs in a single scene, yet I was revisiting a James Clavell novel the other day and he did just that. And you know what? It worked.

The POV choice can be an analytical one, a detailed consideration of how much the author wants both the character and reader to know, which bits of information best service the story, and what viewpoints create the most tension. Hitchcock’s bomb under the table device suggests an omniscient POV works best when you want the reader to see dangers the characters cannot, and it can be used to great effect. Others would argue that by staying only within the protagonist’s POV, the reader becomes much closer to the character, which, when done well, is a great way to up the stakes.

Yet I’ve learned over the course of 13 novels (including the first three that didn’t sell) that POV should be less a practical decision than an empathetic one. I’d argue that finding the POV that works most naturally for you, the author, is synonymous with finding your voice. When I wrote my first book, I did it from a third-person, past-tense point-of-view, which just seemed like how authors wrote (I was exceptionally green at the time). And that worked fine, or at least well enough to get an agent. In fact, I wrote my first seven books from a third-person past, (mostly) singular-character POV.

But with my book Mister Tender’s Girl, I chose to write it from a first-person, present-tense singular POV. This wasn’t a long debate in my head; I had so much empathy for my character, Alice, that I couldn’t imagine writing it any other way. And when I completed the book—a novel that felt easier to write than all the others—I re-read it and thought, Wow, I think that’s my voice. Eight books in, I’d finally found my fingerprints.

Check out Carter Wilson’s The Father She Went to Find here:

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Since then, all my protagonists have been written from a first-person present POV, because that’s just what comes naturally to me. It’s what I’m good at, and for all the limitations inherent in that particular POV, my books are simply better because of that choice. How do I know? 

Because when I set out to write my 2024 release, The Father She Went To Find, I initially reverted to my old ways and told the entire story from a singular, third-person past POV. The problem was I overthought it. My protagonist, Penny Bly, was a 21-year-old female with acquired savant syndrome, and I reasoned that I couldn’t possibly get close enough to this character to write her from a first-person present perspective. Not only was I wrong in assuming that, but I actively chose a path that didn’t feel natural to me as a writer.

My editor, naturally, struggled with my initial draft of The Father She Went to Find, finding it difficult to connect with Penny. Therein I discovered the Catch-22 of my situation: I didn’t think I could get close enough to Penny to write her from an intimate POV, but by writing her from a distance I made her character that much more unrelatable to the reader. I suggested to my editor that I rewrite the first 25 pages from a first-person present POV, and on reading the revisions my editor said, “Ah, there’s Penny.” 

So I rewrote the 85,000-word manuscript, sentence by sentence, changing it from third-person past to first-person present. And in doing so not only did Penny fully come alive, but my voice showed up in that manuscript for the first time.

In the writing retreats and one-on-one coaching offered through my company Unbound Writer, my advice to novelists deciding on POV is to ask questions not of the story, but of themselves. Are you a person with deep wells of empathy? If so, consider choosing a POV that puts you directly inside your character at all times, because readers will gravitate to the emotion you can generate with that particular point-of-view. 

What POV comes most naturally to you? Perhaps take a chapter and write it a few different ways, then choose the one that feels like your voice. Most importantly, what POV do you enjoy writing? Writing a novel is a Herculean task, so it’s critical to do it from a place of joy.

Yes, you must consider plot (to a certain extent) when choosing POV, because certain pieces of information might need to be conveyed to the reader that cannot be achieved through the preferred POV. But that might be an opportunity for a second, minor POV to be introduced, rather than bucking your natural POV choice and creating a manuscript that feels flat and disconnected. Though it may take years and many novels to do it, make no mistake: The moment you discover which POV comes most naturally to you, that’s the same moment you’ve found your voice.

The post POV: It’s About the Author, Not the Story appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(Why We Must Not Cede Writing to the Machines.)

The arrival of AI in our everyday lives wasn’t surprising to me. I’ve felt its ominous presence slouching ever-closer for years. That’s why I wrote The Future Lies with AI as an antagonist. I just didn’t expect it to become so commonly available, and embraced, quite so soon.

We’re still a long way from understanding the full impact AI will have on us humble human beings. But as a writer projecting contemporary society into the future, it’s been my job to consider how a built-out AI system might be presented as a character in a novel.

Of course, the definitive fictional AI has always been HAL, the sentient digital villain of 2001: A Space Odyssey. To this day, in reaction videos, HAL stuns viewers over this exchange with a stranded astronaut (if you haven’t seen the movie, you might skip the next two lines):

“Open the pod bay doors, HAL.”

“I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

As prescient as Arthur C. Clarke’s HAL was back in 1968, he was a singular personality, personifying the space ship’s 9000-series computer. And his duration as a character was much shorter than what I would need to sustain in my novel.

Unlike HAL, the AI that I envisioned was more a collection of components with multiple separate functions, connected, but geographically dispersed. Something closer to the “Internet of things” ecosystem that our digital assistants, Ring doorbells, Nest thermostats, and touchless apps have quietly created while we were barely noticing.

In other words, this AI character would be composed of multiple inputs and viewpoints, which it would constantly have to reconcile and distill into a consensus point of view.

But how does that translate into a characterization that makes sense to readers? Given the fact that AI is a freeloading technology, trained from human sources and designed for seamless interaction with humans, the obvious solution was to treat the AI’s internal exchanges as English-language conversations. Different nodes would offer their unique perspectives, but when the time came, the system would somehow come to a decision.

After months of working through the details of the story in my mind, I was almost ready to begin writing. But I couldn’t proceed until I figured out what the AI character’s voice would sound like. This is often the final key that unlocks a characterization. For Little Big Man, Dustin Hoffman’s search for the right voice for his 121-year-old character became so hopeless that he wound up screaming in frustration. The resulting damage to his vocal cords created the exact sound he was looking for.

(Use AI to Develop and Workshop Your Characters.)

For me, the AI’s voice came on a walk one autumn afternoon. As sometimes happens when your subconscious has been working on a problem behind the scenes, a solution bubbles up on its own. What I suddenly heard in my mind was a few lines of internal AI conversation, complete with a blinking cursor that signified the AI was pondering a topic—in this case, a human nicknamed Itch-ass, whose mistake it would have to address:

“Why, Itch-ass, why?”

“Yes. Itch Ass had many faults, and yet he was somehow…”

Blink. Blink.

“Hopeless?”

“No. Yes, but no.”

“Endearing?”

“Yes. Endearing is the word.”

“Itch-ass will be missed.”

“Yes.”

Blink. Blink. Blink.

“Notify Hess.”

In an instant, I had the AI’s voice, and with that, its collective personality. Which specific AI nodes were speaking? It didn’t matter. Apparently two at least, in this snippet, but maybe more. I now knew how it felt and spoke about a particular human, and how it sounded as it processed information. And I knew I was ready to begin writing the book (in which that exchange remains, virtually as is).

A lesser loose end still remained—to name the AI. My placeholder was “the Program,” which seemed accurate enough, but a little too obvious. Again, my subconscious stepped in.

My parents’ house in Omaha sat on a quiet, curving, tree-lined street in the Dundee neighborhood where I grew up. Instead of bothering to park in the garage all the way behind the house, they usually just pulled into the driveway. When it was time to leave again, they’d have to back out onto the street.

But it seemed to my father like every time he was ready to go somewhere, often in a hurry, a slow-moving car would appear on their otherwise-trafficless side street, forcing him to wait till it passed. It became a joke in the family. He had a dark, sardonic sense of humor, and began calling these precisely-timed cars evidence of an invisible “Network,” that was, as my mother teased, out to get him.

The Network’s MO was to make sure his life was never short of small frustrations and inconveniences. That last red light that made him late for work? The Network. That time the family dog knocked the TV plug out of the socket, just before the payoff line of a really good movie? The Network again.

Once I remembered the Network, it was the obvious name for my AI character…with a tip of the hat to my father.

And with that, the AI Network of The Future Lies was born.

Check out John Be Lane’s The Future Lies here:

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