Blog Posts

Over the past ten years, I’ve published three novels and a short story collection. I’ve knocked on the door of the Big Five and navigated the smaller presses. I’m excited to come back to the JRW Conference to share what I know about staying ambitious yet also realistic as a writer.

We’ll talk about when to gut, reshape, and breathe new life into a project and when to abandon it. Who to invite on your team as you build your career. How to identify and take the opportunities you’ve been given. How to keep up your spirits when you don’t have the success you first dreamed of. And how to foster an expanded understanding of success that starts by honoring and respecting where you are now.

I look forward to hearing your writing stories—the successes and failures, because we learn from both. We’ll come together at the Conference to share practical tips on everything from being an active literary citizen to advocating for oneself with bookstores, agents, and publishers.

In terms of craft, this truism holds up: writing takes practice. Novel writing especially takes time. But how to write a novel effectively is different for every novelist and every novel. For me, it starts when I find myself curious about something. A moment in history. A moment of tension. A lesser-known figure, usually a woman, from an earlier time. I read about that time, person, or people and take notes. I’m not an historian or a sociologist, so I don’t pretend to be one. What I’m looking for in my reading is a jolt of inspiration that can prompt a plot idea or help bring a character to life.

I mull over the world of my future novel for some time and then an opening scene starts to emerge. On index cards, I scribble possible chapter content for Part One. I keep it vague so the story can change as I write. But I like having a roadmap. It gives me the sense I know where I’m going. Then, when I can’t hold back any longer, I set fingers to keyboard.

It takes me around a year to write a first draft. I don’t share what I’ve written with anyone—except my husband, who’s a tough reader, but also encouraging. In recent years, I’ve read aloud to him from my early drafts, and we discuss where the book is headed. After a second pass at the manuscript over another few months, I’ll share with one or two fellow writers. But I don’t do this too early. Not sharing is as crucial to writing as sharing.

After receiving feedback, I think hard about what I want this book to be. Then I revise. I put the manuscript aside for a bit. Revise again. Repeat. Invite another reader or two. It’s like kneading dough—you do it enough so  that the ingredients are thoroughly mixed, but not so much that you squeeze the life out of it.

No matter where we are in our writing journey, there’s always more to learn.

About the Author

Virginia Pye is an award-winning author of novels and short stories. Her short story collection, Shelf Life of Happiness, (Press 53) won the 2019 Independent Publisher Gold Medal for Short Fiction, and one of its stories was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her latest novel, The Literary Undoing of Victoria Swann, will be published by Regal House Publishing in October 2023.

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.