Catie-Reagan

When your story matures from its fanciful, free-ranging, cheeky early drafts, it’s time to instill it with the discipline of self-editing. One important method to rein in your earlier wayward tale is to review and review again your word choices. Replace the bland with the bold, chuck bloat, and bolster your voice to hone your craft.

In my passes over passages, I seek out the following words and phrases, then press on them to justify their staying aboard.

It, there — When I come upon “it,” I ask what is it? Did I already make clear to the reader what it refers to? If not, put the answer here. Likewise, sentences that start with, “There is/was” need to be rewritten to be active and descriptive. “There is worry in his smile” becomes, “Worry shadows his smile.”

Was, is, has — In my early drafts I often use these words without much thought. They’re drab stand-ins awaiting livelier actors. Upstage these passive verbs with stronger, specific verbs. Which leads me to…

Adverbs — Are adverbs really terribly awfully bad to use? To find out, I look at the adjective, noun, or verb they modify. In most cases, a stouter, more vivid word or phrase takes the place of both. Other times an adverb is perfectly right.

Look, see, and look again — Let me concede that this one may be a peculiarity that I share with few, if any, of you, but to my thinking, look and see have different connotations. Often, “look” is the character physically sighting an object. Whereas to “see” an object can mean a deeper perception or recognition. In using look, am I conveying information about the scene to the reader or is the character internalizing what they perceive? Then I choose accordingly. Also, look prompts me to write a richer scene by bringing in other senses I may have neglected. Finally, the word look can be dropped when it’s implicit. Instead of “He looked up to read the sign,” instead write, “Above, the sign said, ‘Welcome Home!’”

Feel, think — Like look in the preceding example, the words “feel” and “think” may be implicit in context. Instead of, “she feels a chilly gust,” describe the slashing wind. Strike out “she thinks” from: I should have brought my jacket, she thinks.

Hawing, hedging, hewing — Somehow, somewhere someone (me) somehow sometimes uses ambiguous terms when precision serves the story better. This muddledness reveals to me that I am not being clear in my writing, because I am not clear in my thinking. What do I want to say here? I need to pause, reconsider, and reword.

In other places, I will catch myself being tentative. Perhaps, maybe, probably, appears, seems—and many more noncommittal words undermine my telling. Replace evasiveness with certainty.

And uproot weedy spots that choke vitality. Cut the redundant (stoop down, raise up) and the unneeded (“approaching midnight” can be “midnight”, “few and far between” can be “few”). What remains—clear, crisp, confident prose—will reach your reader with a refreshing impact.

Look, writing definitely seems like an art, so do what feels true to your voice and, hopefully, it will come out not too badly, even great. I think.

About the Author

J. P. Cane is a long-time reader and first-time writer of vampire stories. His debut novel, Shadows Within, begins The Shadowless series, largely set in his hometown of Philadelphia. He hosts a podcast on writing and, as a member of James River Writers, enjoys supporting fellow writers. He and his wife live in Virginia.

About 12 years ago, my youngest child started preschool, and suddenly, my brain became my own again. Well, it was my own for at least 2 hours a day, which was a decent start. I started writing. For a year or two, I participated in a writers’ group. There were some benefits and some drawbacks, but while I had fallen in love with writing, a group writing experience was not for me, at least not then.

Unfortunately, left to my own devices, I am a wildly undisciplined, unproductive writer. If Facebook posts, napping, and binging Netflix somehow translated into word counts, I would have written Stephen King into the ground. Twice. As it was, I couldn’t see that my writing had a future without some kind of guidance. So, I asked some writing friends for help, and then a kind of magic happened: I found my friend, Clara. And this is how she helped me become a writer.

After my initial inquiry, we arranged an appointment via telephone (she lived in NY, and I lived in VA) and she listened to me talk about my writing. She listened to my ideas and my fears and then to some more of my fears. It was like excellent writing therapy. Clara explained what she could offer me: that she would be available initially to review some samples of my work, to help identify my strengths and interests as a writer, to help me write what I wanted to write, and to help me make it good. We could go from there, she said.

After our initial phone meeting, she sent a contract. I signed it. As a start, Clara read several of my short stories and a sad, half-assed novel I had started. She said her favorite of my stories, with the most potential for ongoing life as a novel was Story X, let’s call it. I was thrilled, as this was my favorite too! We were off. Kind of.

I was still at home with three young children. Clara had a demanding career with her own two young children. This has nothing and everything to do with how our relationship developed. Clara understood when I sent emails at 3:30 in the morning; she might be working then too. When a week of writing was completely wiped out due to the stomach flu, Clara rescheduled with sympathy while we both hoped that the funk would pass quickly.

At the same time, Clara was a hardass in the loveliest and most important ways. When I rescheduled two writing consults in a row (probably because of napping and Netflix, combined with the ice-cold fear an empty page can elicit), she gently informed me that if I rescheduled again, we would need to reevaluate our arrangement. The message was: my writing mattered. It could be rescheduled sometimes, yes, because that was LIFE. But when life turned into terminal procrastination, that was a hard “no.” If I wanted to keep working on my writing, I had to…wait for it…keep working on my writing. Clara helped me see that when I couldn’t see it for myself.

We have now been working together for almost nine years. With the help of Clara’s enormous kindness and scary-good expertise, I have completed two novels and several personal essays. I have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and hope to pitch my latest novel to an agent soon. I am not the next Jodi Picoult or Cheryl Strayed. But I am a writer. I know my voice, and I know some stories. Without Clara, my writing would be a collection of wishes, some on paper, most in the ether. I have been fortunate to have found other writers along the way who have nurtured my writing as well, but for me, the choice to hire a writing coach (many identify themselves as book doulas or midwives—with good reason) was and continues to be life-changing. Clara has been my friend on the page and in my life. She has made all the difference.

About the Author

Jennifer James is a writer who works passionately on both storytelling and procrastination as art forms. She writes short stories, novels, and creative non-fiction pieces, and has had several essays published. She lives in rural Virginia with her family, where she spends a lot of time watching wild birds and listening to as many books as possible via Audible.

Being a Writer™ is probably the scariest thing many of us will ever do. When I received an e-mail to write an article for the JRW Newsletter, my initial reaction was “Someone clearly made a mistake. I’m nobody. I’ve won no awards, haven’t written anything important since COVID, three years ago.” Then I took a deep breath, and asked: Why am I so scared?

People much smarter than me have called writing a solitary exercise, a deep-dive into existential dilemma, ultimate self-expression, preaching art. But at its core, I think all forms of art—writing included—are about Fear. I write Fear with a capital F because Fear to me is a living, breathing thing hunched on my shoulder, warm breath on the back of my neck.  A monster that loves me. Even as I write this, Fear tells me to stop. “No one cares about your feelings.” That voice has always been there. A trusted friend and confidante.

We’re all afraid, and usually that is a feature, not a bug. Without a healthy dose of Caution, Consideration, and Foresight, we’d recklessly endanger ourselves. We’d ruin our progress, ignore red flags, and come to grievous harm. Too much Fear, however, paralyzes. Chances we don’t take. Opportunities that pass us by. There are many reasons we write. Many more why someone might give up before they ever start.

It’s too hard.
I am not good enough.
I have nothing important to say.
I will never make it in that industry.
I can’t afford to be a starving artist.

Sensible reasons. Valid points! All born from Fear. We call it perfectionism, being realistic, being honest with ourselves. Fear will say anything to keep you safe. Safe but stuck. And stuck gets boring. Every novel proves this. If a hero has no problems and doesn’t make decisions that could plunge them into danger, we find ourselves bored stiff and toss the book aside for something more exciting. And as much as I hate to admit it, Fear can never be completely killed.

So what can we do about it? I realize I’m sounding all doom and gloom: Too bad, we’re always going to feel like this, might as well pack it in. But that’s not the point. For one, this is excellent news! It means we are not alone. We are perfectly sane and normal. That’s amazing! That said, I do have some suggestions, developed from years of expertise being a grade-A chicken.*
(*This is neurotypical advice. Your Mileage May Vary.)

• Overcoming Fear involves a lot of psyching it out, keeping it on its toes.
• I leave my known environments for somewhere new.
• I switch up projects and work on something else for a while.
• I reach out to a trusted friend to remind me that I should definitely not just quit and become a CPA.
• I tell myself I’ll only work for five minutes, after which I get to doom-scroll the night away.
• I tell myself I’ll only type “This is stupid.” and “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
• I allow myself to feel anxious. If, in those five minutes, all I do is write one sentence, a single paragraph, that’s something, isn’t it?

In 2022, I resolved to do one thing each week that scared me. Now I’m not suggesting that to fight Fear you must quit your day job and invest your savings into Moleskin journals, though if that floats your boat and you have the privilege, go for it? I’m referring to more garden-variety Anxieties, the Lesser Worries if you will. I encourage us to Slay That Dragon, as Delilah Dawson might say.

Make that phone call. Read that letter. Send that text.

We start small, overcoming one little hurdle at a time. As that gets easier (over time), we push harder.

Write that scene. Send that manuscript. Query that agent. Pitch at that conference.

Half the time it ends up being “not that bad!” Courage does not throw Fear off our backs. Courage just means to do it scared, to borrow a phrase from the inestimable Elyse Myers. Then make our characters do it, too. Even when we don’t think we can.

Do it anyway. Do it scared.

About the Author

Dr. Laura Q. Jimenez is a speculative fiction author, scientist, and professor in the heartland of Virginia. Her short fiction has appeared in a Dragon Soul Press anthology, and her dieselpunk-fairytale Piper was the editor’s top choice for that year. Her poetry has also appeared in the Horror Writers of America Poetry Showcase. She is a member of James River Writers and the Richmond chapter of NaNoWriMo. She’s one of those rare breeds who is not afraid to speak in front of crowds, as her scientific career has seen her lecture and present to groups ranging from 10 to 100 people.

I love it when readers ask, “How long did it take you to write this book?” It never fails to make me laugh.  Should I include the years I thought about the story? How about the nights spent staring at the ceiling?  And then there are the months I left the draft in the drawer, giving it time to “rest.” Can I tell them about the first, second, and third drafts and the years in between? Does the agony of submission count? If so, the rejections should be given three months each, which includes ego recovery time. Perhaps I should count the time rewriting for my publisher. And then there are the weeks of copyediting, corrections, and draft revision.

The Summer of Grace began as a series of Southern short stories I wrote back in the 1980s. I was living in Princeton, NJ, and desperately homesick for the South. I volunteered at a local emergency room and, during the overnight downtime, shared the stories with a young doctor. He loved reading them and encouraged me to write a book. Life intervened, and I spent twenty years in television news as a journalist and on-air anchor/reporter. Daily broadcast news taught me to write fast, write well, and tell the story. I loved it and had little time for anything else. But during those years, Miss Emily sometimes would show up and nod her head approvingly as I interviewed a celebrity, Marcell often visited me on the long drive home after the 11 p.m. newscast, Uncle Ben would stand over my shoulder as I banged out a story for the deadline, and Jane … Jane would occasionally stand to the side of the studio, arms folded across her chest, laughing as I was on-air. Should I count these years too?

Early retirement led me to teach writing camps, mentor young authors, participate in writing conferences, and write four other books. But always, the characters from those Southern short stories kept me awake at night. Aunt Martha sometimes peeked over the footrail, Great Granny Jane sat beside me as I read the stories out loud to my classes, looking for affirmation and courage. And Sissy? Well, Sissy would occasionally drift by her snarl, knocking the wind right out of my sails. But perhaps it was simply the lullaby of Brown Hound’s imaginary baying as she hunted in the sultry night swamp that provided the push.

So, when readers ask, “How long did it take you to write the book?” I tell them ten. Little do they know I’m not talking about years but characters. Characters who would not leave me alone. The Summer of Grace took ten characters to write.

About the Author

Broadcast journalist and freelance writer Karen Jones is the author of The Summer of Grace, Up the Bestseller Lists! A Hands-On Guide to Successful Book Promotion, Death for Beginners, and The Highland Witch. Jones has fifteen years of experience in television news as an on-air anchor and feature reporter, where she wrote and produced the Associated Press Award-winning series The Haunting of Virginia. She co-directed the Chesapeake Writer’s Conference, was an advisor to The Bay School of the Arts, and is a member of the National League of American Pen Women and the Authors Guild. She has taught writing seminars at the University of Richmond, Christopher Newport University, and LSU. She has held week-long intensive writing camps for adults on Ocracoke Island, North Carolina, and will be holding her next writing camp in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains. For contact information please visit kjwriter.com.