I still wonder what the attendees of that Zoom event must have thought when my eyes went wide, I tipped my brow in surprise, and I paused to collect my thoughts before giving this parent the exact opposite answer they were looking for.

(How I Found Success With the Writing and Publishing Process.)

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that… I’m a dream-chaser; every artist is in some way. I would be doing your middle schooler a disservice if I told him to be anything less than what he is. But what I can do is offer encouragement and steer him towards resources that can help make his writing goals achievable.”

Why did I answer this way?

Because I remembered the highs and lows of every step on the road to publication. I remembered my family’s support as I walked away from a 15-year corporate career—with no guarantees—and worked every day to chase down my dream of becoming a writer. And now, more than a decade and 17 publications down that road, I’m grateful I still have people around me who serve as dream-defenders so I can do the work I love.

If I could peel back the curtain, this is what I’d show that middle school dreamer how I spend my days (and making a wage) as a writer:

—-

5:00am—Alarm. [Ugh] Alas, no snoozing. Let’s do this!

5:15am—The non-negotiables. Early in my career, I would sit for 12-hour days and soldier through a novel-writing deadline. I have a different view in 2025. If I want to be at my best and keep doing this job, then every day has to begin with a non-negotiable focus on my health. Whether it’s yoga, strength training, running/walking at the park once the sun comes up (safety first), or hitting local hiking trails, I start the day with one of these activities—sometimes plus an audio book or industry podcast. (Hint: I start each day with what brings peace and clarity, and a much-needed battery charge to set intentions for my day.)

7:00am—Breakfast, baby! Along with the health focus, this typically involves a high-protein breakfast or recovery smoothie and listening to a favorite podcast while I load the dishwasher, do laundry, and straighten up from the carnage teenagers may have left in the living room the night before. (Hint: I’ll do whatever is needed to partner with my family on household chores and keep moving while I tidy up my home workspace.)

7:30am—Writer basics. This is the stuff we all have to contend with… Reviewing my schedule, planning the day, checking email, connecting with my agent or publishing team etc. (Hint: It helps to have copious amounts of coffee with a splash of unsweet coconut milk.) 

8:00am—Writers gotta write. I make sure to plan time in my day that feels like going to a physical office, so I put on clean clothes and “get out” to greet the world. If it’s a writing day, I may get lost in a coffee shop corner and pound a couple of thousand words on the keyboard, work on a freelance editing or coaching project, or I could write articles for an upcoming book release. (Hint: Multiple income streams are the key to the freelance life!)

11:00am—Social media marketing. In autumn of 2016, our family went on a research trip to Ireland. I couldn’t pay the roaming fees overseas, so I only used my phone for the clock and camera. I realized then how much time I’d been burning through by scrolling on social media, so I deleted social media from my phone and it’s not been invited back. Now I design graphics, post about what’s happening in my author world, and connect with readers through scheduled time on my PC. (Hint: If social media goes over time, it will just have to wait until the next business day. )

12:00pm—Community. Oh, does this matter to writers! Much of what we do is solitary, so I might grab a quick salad with a friend. I’ll probably text or talk with author friends. Or I could snag a quick lunch and chat with family when they’re around. (Hint: Connect with your people even when writing on your own; they’ll brighten your days!)

1:00pm—Walking meetings. If I don’t have to be in front of my computer for a meeting, I’ll probably lace up my running shoes and get outside. This could be coaching a client, a call with my agent, connecting with an author friend or listening to an audio book, etc. (Hint: Take advantage of your flexible schedule and keep moving while working throughout the day.)

Click to continue.

2:00pm—Editing sprint. If I’m on deadline, I’ll probably take the afternoon hours to get back to my WIP. I’ll edit what I wrote in the morning, do research, check in on social media, etc. Whatever I need to keep a sharp focus going until the end of the day. (Hint: Healthy snacks help!)

5:00pm—Author to soccer mom. You never know, but by evening I could be sending an email from sports bleachers, attending a virtual book club or in-person signing at a bookshop, or I could have a quiet family evening at home. (Hint: Evenings are almost always “go-with-the-flow” flexible.)

7:00pm—Shut it down. Early in my corporate career, I wasn’t as knowledgeable about boundaries (or wise, I hope?) as I am in this season of my life. Now, whether I’ve been a leader or literary agent or parent, I try to model an intentional work/life balance. It could be cooking with family and gathering in the kitchen to talk about our days, or enjoying a dinner out, but the hours between 7:00pm – 7:00am are non-working and reserved for me/family. (Hint: Set a daily reminder on your phone so you’re “off the clock.”)

8:30pm—Book + Zzzzzz. I’ll settle in with a cup of tea and read, have extra family time, review the next day’s schedule, or catch-up on an episode of my current Netflix show before I crash for the night. (Hint: While readers may long to stay up late… runners and writers know we have to get gooooood sleep if we want to be top of our game the next day! )

Happy writing, dream-chasing author friends!

KC   

Check out Kristy Cambron’s The French Kitchen here:

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(Write What You Don’t Know.)

I also didn’t get anywhere with my writing. Yes, I improved, and I had encouraging beta readers, but I could count the number of full requests I received from agents over multiple books on one hand. It started to feel like this dream wasn’t going to come true.

While querying one book, I started another: The One and Only Vivian Stone. As a lifelong lover of old Hollywood, particularly movies like Gone with the Wind and the sitcom I Love Lucy, this was a compelling time to explore. I wrote the book in first-person POV, but the feedback I received from beta readers was that they didn’t particularly like my main character. Despite spending a whole book with her, they felt like they didn’t know or understand her. There wasn’t anything making them want to keep reading because they didn’t care about her. Ouch.

They were right, though. I tried to model my main character’s personality after what I’d read about Lucille Ball—she had to work very hard to be funny and wasn’t like that off-screen; she was also, supposedly, prone to anger and pettiness. I struggled to write a character like this, and my readers picked up on it. There was a wall in my mind between me and Vivian, and I didn’t know how to break through.

In the beginning of the book, Vivian is an actress struggling to break into the film industry. Surrounded by a sea of talent, she would have had to be worried that a nobody like her would never be taken seriously, would never stand apart from the rest. How long would it take to get somewhere? Would she ever? How long before she threw in the towel?

And then, it hit me: This was how I felt about writing, with those exact worries and questions. Only I hadn’t been leaning into it because I’d been too focused on creating a particular kind of character, one I didn’t truly understand. I needed to tear down the wall between us and rebuild the character was from the ground up—using my own emotions. I needed to become vulnerable for the sake of the character.

Is this obvious? In hindsight, it feels like it. But I’d written three books—four if you count this one before my rewrite—without ever really connecting on a deep, emotional level with my characters. Once I shifted my mindset, the writing became cathartic and so much fun.

“Write what you know?” I finally did.

Click to continue.

The responses from readers were completely different from what they’d been the first time. Vivian had become someone readers rooted for, someone they related to.

I tried to be more strategic about querying this story than I’d been with my previous books. First, I scoured every resource I could find about writing query letters, then I wrote and rewrote mine. I sought feedback and kept fine-tuning. Queries were always a mystery to me. I understood what they required, but I couldn’t figure out how to write a compelling hook and show the character’s wants while also picking out the most important plot strands. But after about a hundred attempts (not an exaggeration), I had a letter I felt confident about.

I also looked for opportunities everywhere: I submitted my query and first pages to The Shit No One Tells You About Writing podcast, which ended up getting chosen, giving me valuable feedback. I submitted to a mentorship program called RevPit. All of the mentors rejected me, but I received a lot of encouraging messages. I also posted on Twitter/X for #moodpitch, which isn’t around anymore but involved posting a mood board and an elevator pitch. I’d done these kinds of contests for previous books, without any success, but this time I received interest from about a dozen agents. These were all great, low-stakes ways to test the waters.

If there had been more opportunities, I would have tried them too. Yes, a lot of people apply, and yes, it’s easy to get lost in it all. But there is also the chance that it can go very well. I had already put so much effort into the book, so why stop there?

Finally, I started querying, confident that I’d done all I could do but still worried because an agent liking a pitch is not the same as them liking the whole book. And while I received plenty of rejections, I also received several offers.

As I’m drafting my next project, I wonder if it ever gets easier to “write what you know.” I hope so. There continues to be the question of which parts of myself to bring to the character and a resistance to the reflection needed to figure it out. What I do know is it’s essential, even if it can feel vulnerable.

Check out Melissa O’Connor’s The One and Only Vivian Stone here:

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(Imposter Syndrome: Battling Self-Doubt as a Writer.)

Mindfulness isn’t just about sitting cross-legged in silence (although you can do that, too). It’s about learning to stay present in the moment, so your mind isn’t racing ahead or spiraling into doubt.

When practiced regularly, mindfulness can reduce stress, sharpen your focus, and boost your creativity—three things every writer needs more of. Here are a few easy ways to bring mindfulness into your life as a writer.

Start With a Breath (Seriously, Just One)

Before jumping into a writing or editing session, take one deep breath. Inhale, exhale. That’s it. You’ve just grounded yourself and shifted out of rush mode into “I’m here, let’s write” mode.

Create a Ritual Before You Write

Light a candle. Make a cup of tea. Put on your go-to playlist. Small rituals tell your brain it’s time to focus. They also create a sense of calm and help you ease into your writing mindset without force.

Take Mini Breaks to Check In

You don’t need an hour-long meditation session. Every 30–45 minutes, pause for a few seconds, close your eyes, and ask yourself: How’s my body feeling? Am I breathing? Am I still focused?

Even a 15-second reset can help your mind refocus and your words flow smoothly.

Be Where Your Hands Are

Instead of worrying about what comes next in the plot, whether your draft is good enough, or if the dog needs a potty break, try this trick: Focus on the feel of your fingers on the keyboard—the movement of your pen on the page. Bring yourself back to the now. That’s where the creativity lives.

No More Multitasking While You Write

Writing while checking email, answering texts, getting the kids a snack, or scrolling social media might feel productive, but it drains your energy and divides your focus. Try a “do not disturb” hour, or tuck your phone in another room while you write. You’ll be amazed at what you get done.

Use Guided Meditation or Writing Prompts

YouTube is filled with short meditations specifically for creativity or focus. Or try mindful writing prompts like:

• What am I feeling right now, and why?
• What does stillness look like in words?
• What’s something small I noticed today that others might have missed?

A writing prompt can help you stay in the moment by:

1. Directing your focus
2. Connecting you to your senses
3. Slowing you down
4. Allowing you to check in with yourself, which opens the door to creativity

Let Go of the Outcome

This is a hard one, but may be the most important. You don’t have to write a masterpiece today. You just have to write. Let the words come as they are. The more you release perfectionism, the more room you give your creativity to breathe.

Final Thought

Mindfulness isn’t about being perfect—it’s about being present.

Click to continue.

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1. Originality Begins in Private 

The privacy required for the author isn’t protection from the government or digital trackers. It’s not about pulling the curtain across to hide domestic or intimate affairs. It’s an intellectual privacy which allows them to develop their inner life. The act of thinking deeply involves a conversation with oneself, questioning, challenging, and refining thoughts, and this process requires no disturbances.

Without solitude, external voices easily overwhelm this crucial internal dialogue. In public spaces, we often adopt predetermined roles and perspectives, but in private, we can release these constraints and allow original thoughts to emerge.

2. Creative Risk-Taking Flourishes in Private Spaces

Most breakthrough literary and nonfiction works began as risky experiments that might have been abandoned if subjected to early scrutiny. Writers need the freedom to experiment without fear of immediate judgment.

Privacy creates an environment where failed attempts, incomplete thoughts, and radical ideas can safely emerge without premature criticism. In privacy, writers can pursue unconventional paths, follow uncertain threads, and test boundaries. The initial vulnerability of new ideas requires protection like seedlings that need shelter before facing harsh elements.

3. Writing Needs Total Focus on the Project

Writers often shield themselves from outside attention to remain faithful to their work’s essence. The writing itself makes demanding claims on attention and energy. Converting fragmented thoughts or fleeting inspiration into coherent prose requires complete concentration without distractions. This demands turning inward, away from external influences. Even seemingly innocent interruptions; questions about progress or, note to impatient editors, reminders about deadlines, can derail the creative process.

Finding this level of privacy is difficult in our publicity-oriented culture. Writers face constant pressure to discuss their methods, workspaces, daily routines, and creative habits. They’re expected to share insights before these ideas have fully matured. Their personal circumstances often become subject to public interest. Literary scholars and biographers frequently seek access to preliminary notes and draft materials. Writers should vigilantly protect these private creative spaces until they choose to share their finished work.

4. A Creative Private Public Partnership

When the work is ready a second opinion is required. A skilled editor or friendly reader guides writers through the transition from private creation to public reception. Unlike social media platforms where ideas face immediate criticism, editors and readers provide a protective intermediary space. They shield developing work until it’s ready for wider exposure.

Editors and readers serve as both nurturers and refiners of ideas—helping underdeveloped concepts take shape while removing elements that weaken the work. By testing the manuscript’s effectiveness and suggesting improvements, they prepare it for the outside world. This partnership requires unusual intimacy. Editors in particular witness the writer’s professional struggles and personal vulnerabilities, both productive days and frustrating blocks. They develop deep understanding of both strengths and limitations. Such honesty and trust can only thrive within a confidential relationship, making privacy essential to effective refining of the work.

5. Privacy Is Necessary for Publicity 

While privacy is essential, writers ultimately create for the public. The paradox of writing lies in the tension that we withdraw to connect more deeply. The private realm nourishes the public one; similarly, a writer’s private contemplation ultimately enriches public discourse.

The writer’s journey involves cycles of private creation and public sharing. Privacy isn’t about permanent isolation but about creating a protected space where thought can develop before engaging with the world. This balance reflects a healthy creative process moving between private reflection and public engagement.

In an era where privacy faces unprecedented challenges, defending the writer’s right to solitude is increasingly important. The quality of our literature and thinking and by extension, our public discourse depends on preserving these private spaces where writers can engage in that essential dialogue with themselves. It is precisely because we are social beings in the act of a public creation that we need privacy not to escape society permanently, but to develop the unique perspectives that allow us to contribute meaningfully to it.

Check out Tiffany Jenkins’ Strangers and Intimates here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click to continue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I came to California to meet the Pacific Ocean.

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

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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. 

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It lasted less than 24 hours.

(Where the Books Wait: A Library Love Letter.)

The next morning I woke up feeling creatively frustrated. I know this feeling well; it’s the sign that there’s another story I need to write. I just need to begin the hard work of finding it. I needed to start a new book, but I couldn’t remember how. This forgetfulness happens to me every single time I finish a book. It’s as though, in the act of writing the final words of one story, I somehow overwrite my knowledge of how to begin another one.

Then a little bit of the fog cleared, and I remembered: I needed to go to my public library.

It’s not surprising that my thoughts would turn to the library, since The Library of Curiosities, my latest middle-grade novel about a family who collects magical objects, occurs in a library setting. For me libraries have always seemed like magical places, and have been a source of great inspiration. In fact, my local library was one of my first stops years ago when I finally, finally, decided to give this writing life a try.

After all, when you step into a library, you’re not just walking into a warehouse filled with books. You’re entering into a cathedral of dreams come true. You’re standing in the company of creators—both past and present—their artistic offerings to this world bound-up in the form of printed pages. It’s a sacred space that houses fine art, better (in my humble opinion) than any museum ever could be, because in a library you can actually take the art home with you for your own personal enjoyment and learning.

So, this past spring, when I was feeling unable to start, unable to begin again, I took myself to my local library. I browsed the shelves. I breathed in the hushed atmosphere, and the scent of paper and published dreams. I reminded myself that before each one of these books existed there was a writer with only a dream in their heart. A writer who may not have known where to start. Or how to start. But somehow, step by step, they figured it out.

And if they could figure it out, so could I. Again.

Click to continue.

I began plucking books off the shelves. Books are dreams come true, yes; but they are also a guidebook. Every single one of them is a master text other writers can learn from. I allowed myself to feel motivated by all the different premises and genres. So many books; so many different stories. So many different voices to tell them and I let myself be reminded that if there was room here on the shelves for these voices there would be room for mine as well.

I paid attention to what stood out to me. If I liked the way an author handled setting, that book went into my tote bag to check out. Same for authors who had mastered other aspects of fiction I admired: tone and mood, point of view, dialogue, and the like. Of all the ways I have pursued the craft of writing fiction—everything from attending one-day workshops to going back to school to obtain my MFA in Creative Writing—the single most helpful thing I’ve ever done is read other writers’ words. My budget won’t ever be able to keep pace with my appetite for books; luckily, my local library is always there for me, day after day, year after year.

It’s been a couple months since that day, and I have returned to the library many times in search of training and inspiration. On any given day I can’t tell you how many library books I have strewn around my house, but I can tell you it’s 30 or under, my library’s check-out limit—an unfortunate downgrade from the pre-pandemic limit of 50. Nevertheless, each time I pick one up, I’m reminded that I’m not just holding a book, I’m holding someone’s dream come true.

Right now I’m still in the very beginning stages of working on a new book idea. This means I spend a lot of time staring out the window, imagining new characters and worlds I might want to build for them. Mostly, though, it means I spend a lot of time surrounded by my piles of library books, soaking myself in the words of others. Filling up my creative well so that, eventually, my own words will overflow and spill out in the form of a new story.

A new book; a new dream come true.

Check out Jenny Lundquist’s The Library of Curiosities here:

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(What Is LitRPG for Writers?)

I’d known since the fourth grade that I wanted to be a writer, but there I was, nearly 30, without a story to my name. Sure, I had lots of ideas rattling around in the attic—little ghosts of characters that haunted me for years, whispering and groaning, pleading to be brought to life, urging me to write.

But therein lay the rub, because I didn’t know how to write. Whenever I’d set myself in front of a blank Word doc, I’d sputter. The characters I made were awkward and one-dimensional. My dialogue was stuttering. The worlds I painted were detailed and lush, but lacked substance and purpose.

What I was missing, of course, was experience. I didn’t know what I didn’t know; I could spot a good story when I read it, but I had no clue what ingredients I needed to cook one up from scratch. And where some overcome their inexperience through writer’s groups, workshops, study, and practice, I fumbled my way into a slightly different approach: dorking around in Dungeons & Dragons.

D&D has enough cultural oomph for me to skip the preamble. By this point, we all get the gist—orcs, wizards, funny dice, greasy fingers, and so forth. When I started playing in my mid-20s, I knew all these things, too. But what took me by surprise was that D&D—and any other game like it, for that matter—is almost more of a framework for communal storytelling than it is, well, a game.

Nobody feels this more acutely than the Dungeon Master, who is both architect and engine of the world that their players experience. And when I became the DM for a group of my pals, I slowly realized that I had stumbled into an immensely effective training ground for both practicing the craft of storytelling and breaking through my writer’s block.

1. Storytelling 101

Any decent dungeon master figures out the basics of storytelling almost intuitively. From theme and setting to character development and narrative pacing, the building blocks of a well-told story are identical to those of a fun, well-run D&D campaign. Your players—the main characters of your campaign—need to undergo change and growth. The world you build must feel solid enough to touch, yet subtle enough to melt into the background—all the better to make your characters shine. Your side characters must be memorable, and serve to move the story forward in their own way.

The best part of all? In D&D, the levers of storytelling are knobs and buttons you get to fiddle around with in real time. You don’t need to ace any of it from the outset. Instead, you iterate as you go. An improvised goblin can become the heart of your story if your players latch onto him. A doodle of a city can become a living, breathing world as you respond to your players’ choices. Each session you play can teach you a little more about what holds your players’ attention, what moves the story, what builds tension—and what doesn’t.

2. Performance & Feedback

Remember: D&D is, first and foremost, a shared experience. Hiding behind my laptop, farting out half-baked chapters of my first stories with no accountability meant I had zero reason to improve. DMing a D&D campaign, on the other hand, is a live performance. Not only did I have to churn out new content every week, but I also had to present it in front of an audience. It didn’t matter if the content was any good or not—what mattered was that I was building the muscles for meeting deadlines, sharing my work, taking risks, and receiving feedback (did the players laugh at the gag I planned out? Did they seem moved by the death of a character? Did I feel their tension when the stakes were raised on a quest they’d been working on?).

This is a crucial exercise that I actively avoided as a novice—the thought of sharing my work with anyone before it was perfect filled me with dread. But how could I possibly approach ‘perfect’ without feedback? Later, when I was in the full swing of writing my debut, I jumped at opportunities to share as much as I could with my friends and family, and to seek guidance from freelance editors as early and often as I could.

Click to continue.

3. Joy

My first stabs at writing over the years always left me feeling low. I felt ashamed that this thing that I had so much passion for felt so alien and awkward each time I tried to reach out to it. And that, in turn, made me fearful to truly embrace my dream of writing, and give it the effort it deserved.

Beating your head against a wall of writer’s block is a recipe for misery. But an experience like D&D is hard not to have a blast with. It’s a joy to watch character arcs you subtly shaped over months come to fruition. It’s a thrill to see where your own intuition can take you in an improvised encounter. It’s a hoot to see people engaging with something you’ve created, in a low-stakes game of dice around your dinner table. And when it comes to feeling like a novice, or butting your head against some stubborn writer’s block, it’s hard to overstate the benefits of remembering that creating things is fun.

—

There are many, many ways to build confidence as a storyteller—most of them come down to putting yourself out there on the line. So, whether you sign up for that creative writing course, meet up with some local writers for a coffee, or gather your nerds for a weekly game of D&D, my advice is this: When you’re feeling stuck, step out from behind your laptop. Speak your stories aloud. Roll the dice—because who knows? You might just find yourself on the adventure of a lifetime.

Check out Raj Sidhu’s Thrash Force here:

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(What to Say When Someone Wants to Kill You.)

The two best phrases anyone told me about how to approach writing—and both basically say the same thing—were “write like a fiend,” which the poet Laura Mullen said to me (I was her student at the University of Iowa), and “keep writing,” which my father told me all the time. The first was perfect while I was an undergrad hellbent on getting into the Writers Workshop, an urging to improve through repeated action (which I did, thankfully), and the second, imparts a practical persistence, good for the long haul. I heard it all the time.

From the time I left home at 17, my dad and I talked on the phone once or twice a week and he ended every conversation we had with those two words, “keep writing.” Depending on how I was feeling, the words were either an annoyance, a joke, or incredibly helpful. Mostly helpful, a frequent nudge to do the work. It got so that in between conversations, I would hear his voice, a gruff half-bark that gave those words an insistence (it was not a suggestion or a request, “keep writing” was a command) that would send me to the typewriter (and later, the computer). It got that I was writing every day, sometimes just a sentence or two, sometimes like a productive fiend, but always something, until it became natural, part of the day, like brushing my teeth.

Then, when my dad died (at the age of 94), I stopped writing, worse, I didn’t want to write and wasn’t sure that I would start again. Apart from the usual anger and grief of losing a loved one, I had a crisis of faith, of sorts. I didn’t write for almost a month, the longest stretch without creative writing since I was nine or 10 years old. I missed my dad (of course), but I also missed hearing him say those words. But they were there. I could hear him. Every day I didn’t write I could hear him. And one day I had a phrase in my head, a phrase that got my attention enough that I scribbled it down and kept in my pocket (an old habit from when I was in college) and would think about during morning walks with one of our dogs.

The phrase led to some sentences and a paragraph, a free-floating idea about conflict between two brothers. It was a few unconnected, scattered paragraphs that weren’t going anywhere. But I was writing, unconnected sentences about a robbery, a fire, a fight, scattered pieces of a pictureless puzzle, maybe not even pieces of the same puzzle. And then, one morning, walking with the dog, it clicked. It was like an old engine that hasn’t been started in a while, that gasps and chokes for a while before it runs. But it ran. I saw the bigger picture; I understood the brothers; I knew the conflict, and I went home and wrote pages. I wrote like a fiend, and had the start of my latest novel, All We Trust. It was simple.

Okay, maybe not that simple. But the concept is: Keep writing. Here are some habits I’ve used to try and keep it simple, useful, and productive:

Collect Writing Ideas

I never sit down to write unless I have something. A blank page/screen will stay blank. However, I hardly ever don’t have something to write. Some writers like to stop writing before they’re finished, leaving a chapter, scene, or even a sentence incomplete, so they have a natural start the next day. I tend to keep notes or phrases or fragments in my pocket (scribbled on paper, or on my phone), which give me a seed of something to work on.

Make the Time to Write

There’s always time. A common complaint/excuse I hear is that someone doesn’t have the time to write; they work, have kids, are busy. But there are plenty of writers who had day jobs (especially early in their careers), from William S. Burroughs (pest exterminator) to Franz Kafka (insurance clerk), Toni Morrison was an editor at Random House for seven years before her first novel was published, and Frank O’Hara worked at the information desk at the Museum of Modern Art, writing many of his poems during his lunch hour (cf. Lunch Poems, 1965). Gabino Iglesias wrote an entire novel during his lunch breaks while working as a teacher, The Devil Takes You Home (2022) received the Bram Stoker Award and the Shirley Jackson Award, proving that 30 minutes a day is enough time to get good writing done.

Click to continue.

Release Expectations

I never have a goal other than to put words on the page. I never know what I’m doing. I don’t know if I’m writing a sentence, a story, a novel, or nothing. The songwriter Jeff Tweedy (Wilco) has said that he never sits down to write a song, he sits down to write and sometimes a song comes out of it. That allows the freedom to do anything, try something I might not try in the framework of a story or a novel, but just have fun, which oftentimes leads to things I can use everywhere (for All We Trust, I had started writing the story from the different perspective of another character—just as an experiment—some of which I ended up using in the final novel). George Saunders is a proponent of writing without a plan—contending that if you’re not surprised as the writer, you won’t surprise your readers—and encourages writing to be fun (if it’s a chore for you, it probably will be for the reader as well).

Work Your Writing Muscles

A lot is trashed, but nothing is wasted. Any writing helps. Not enough attention is made to writing as exercise or practice. There’s a reason musicians play scales (no matter how accomplished) or baseball players spend time every day in the batting cage (or whatever your favorite sports analogy is); writing is that way too. Musician Brian Eno famously devised a series of flash cards (“Oblique Strategies”) to promote creativity for musicians (e.g. “not building a wall, making a brick” or “repetition is a form of change”) by engaging in productivity not directly related to the task at hand (what Eno calls “lateral thinking”). I’ve had abandoned stories, fragments of failed novels, provide direction or sometimes characters of subplots in novels (Raymond Chandler famously “cannibalized” his short stories for his novels, using them also as testing grounds for his longer works). No effort is fruitless. Exercise, practice, keep writing.

Understand What Works for You

Find what works for you. There’s plenty of advice out there. The only thing that’s going to work is what works for you. For me, it was a steady refrain from someone I loved and listened to, but in the end, it had to come from me. You write because you have to; you have something to say that no one else has said before, or in the same way. You either write or there’s silence. It’s that simple.

Check out Gregory Galloway’s All We Trust here:

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Be a reader. If you can’t read yet, hound your father to read The Watchbirds until tears of mirth pour down his face. Beg Mom to read Old Yeller aloud, never realizing that she changed the ending so the kids wouldn’t be up all night crying. Listen to your grandmother reading Enid Blyton and Judith Viorst in her comfy chair while you suck on wintergreen-flavored pink pillow mints. Listen to the teachers who read to the class every day—Half Magic, Tom’s Midnight Garden, Caddie Woodlawn, Johnny Tremain.

(15 Things a Writer Should Never Do.)

Load up your bike basket with so many library books that you can’t steer as you ride home. Tell your mom some bullshit story about crashing your bike to avoid hitting a puppy, so you don’t get in trouble for ripping a hole in your new pants.

Remind people that Charlotte’s Web is the most important book ever written.

Take notes like Harriet in Harriet the Spy.

Let The Diary of Anne Frank destroy you over and over again.

Step Two

Be a storyteller even before you learn to read or write. Tell your mother stories and make her write them down. Illustrate the stories. Make them all about a girl who is stuck up a tree with bad things below, trying to menace her, until at the last minute, she saves the day. Realize that this formula works for you, and use it in every story you write.

Step Three

Be born a middle child. Even better—a middle child who is left-handed. Fight with your older brother. Fight with your younger sister. Cry into your dog’s fur and tell him all your troubles.

Embrace the day you transition from manuscript printing to cursive writing. Write in cursive about your mean big brother and bratty little sister. Write every day. Self-publish “A Book About Some Bad Kids” and beam with pride as your Grade Three teacher reads it aloud to the class.

Step Four

Rewrite the classics. Dispute the ending of Of Mice and Men and rewrite it so Lenny doesn’t have to die. Find a way for Madame Bovary to live with herself instead of…well, you know. Convince readers that Anna Karenina didn’t have to…well, you know. Write all your school papers in the style of Ernest Hemingway. Or the beat poets. Or Virginia Woolf. Everything is fair game when you’re learning to think like a writer.

Step Five

Fall in love with books about characters who strive, who fail, who pick themselves up, and strive harder—everything from The Carrot Seed, by Ruth Krauss, to The Once and Future King, by T.H. White, to Tom Joad in The Grapes of Wrath. Read The Color Purple in one sitting, and immediately turn back to page one and read it again.

Click to continue.

Step Six

Become obsessed with the way words look on the page. Learn words like synesthesia, siffilate, disingenuous, atelier. Care deeply about etymology. Do the crossword. Do the Wordle. Win at Scrabble. Become obsessed with how books are made—the copyright page, epigraph pages, endpapers, and “A Note About the Type.” Be picky about office supplies—the luxurious kind. Kaweco fountain pens. Binders and accordion files. Silky smooth paper from Clairefontaine. 

Step Seven

Try other outlets for your creativity. Take dancing lessons. Piece together a quilt. Color outside the lines. Play the cello. Try Fair Isle knitting. Practice plein air painting. Faux finish flea market furniture. Pay attention to all aspects of alliteration. Realize you can’t ever escape the stories in your head.

Step Eight

Get serious about learning the craft. Scour the bookstore for Techniques of the Selling Writer, by Dwight Swain. Read Aspects of the Novel, by E.M. Forster. And Writing Fiction, by Janet Burroway. And The Writer’s Journey, by Christopher Vogler, and Writing the Breakout Novel, by Donald Maass. And sink into Into the Woods, by John Yorke. Read them and flag your favorite passages.

Realize you’re spending all your writing time reading how-to books instead of working on your novel. Donate the books to the library, because you’ve internalized the important parts anyway. Go to writing workshops and take notes in your fancy notebooks. Highlight the important parts and never look at them again.

Step Nine

Just write. Get up an hour earlier every day and work on your novel. Stop cooking. Stop cleaning. Tell your kids not to interrupt you unless their eyes are bleeding. Realize it’s more important to show your kids that you’re going for your dream than it is to show them you know how to fold laundry or whip up an omelette.

Remember that Anthony Trollope finished 50 novels by writing for an hour before work every day. Forget that you’ve never read an Anthony Trollope novel.

Don’t tell anyone you’re writing a novel. They’ll only bug you, asking when that book will be done and available in stores. Tell them you’re writing worksheets for your students. If you’re a lawyer, tell them you’re writing legal briefs. If you’re a doctor, tell them you’re writing a case study. If you’re a bartender, tell them you’re writing a tell-all memoir about your friends. This will usually shut them up.

Name all the bad characters in your books after people who treated you mean in high school.

Listen to “The Last of the Mohicans” theme music when you write.

Get up and dance around the room when you write something gorgeous. Realize you’ll probably need to cut it later.

Love your characters. Hate them. Worry about them. Don’t let them off easy. Make their conflicts as hard and compelling and important as life itself. Make them earn their happy ending.

Feel bashful when you meet a real published writer. Stand in line for an hour, waiting to meet your idol. When you finally get to the front of the line, forget what you were going to say and stammer, “I love your books.” Then kick yourself for not saying more.

Grow your hair out so you look like a historical romance heroine. Get your author photo taken. Tear it into a million pieces because it’s awful.

Design your own covers. Picture your published book on the stands.

Send your finished book to a literary agent, one who doesn’t charge fees. Get rejected. Learn from the comments. Repeat until the end of time, or until someone says, “Yes,” whichever comes first.

Step Ten

Get an offer from a publisher. A real publisher that pays you royalties. Feel the world shift on its axis.

Realize your book is not your baby anymore. Getting feedback can be painful. When someone says, “This doesn’t work for me,” believe them. They’re always right. Learn to think like a reader. You don’t get to sit next to her and explain the parts that aren’t working for her. So when your editor gives you notes, don’t argue. Revisit the story and write it better.

But when someone says, “Here’s the way you should rewrite it,” don’t listen. You’re the one who has to fix it. Don’t write their story. Write yours.

Conclusion

The writing life is like a good novel—vivid, exciting, filled with unexpected twists and turns. Every writer who has been at it for a while has fallen down. She’s been rejected by publishers, flayed by critics, denigrated by readers, ignored by booksellers, patronized by literary snobs. Her books might fail to sell, often for reasons she can’t control, like a bad cover or lack of publisher support or an inopportune release date.

The writer who succeeds is the one who picks herself up, who aims at high targets, and who sometimes soars with wings of eagles when she gets it right—when a reader says the book touched her heart, or comforted her, or showed her something brand new.

When the whole world says “DON’T” but your gut says DO IT, then you should do it.

Check out Susan Wiggs’ Wayward Girls here:

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