Write Your Novel in 30 Days

YOUR COMPLETE GUIDE TO A SOLID FIRST DRAFT

WRITER’S DIGEST presents

Proven Strategies for Success

• MASTER THE ELEMENTS OF FICTION

• DEVELOP YOUR STORY ARC:

� PROVEN METHODS

• START STRONG FROM THE FIRST PAGE

Secrets for Staying on Track

• A DAILY PLANNER FOR WEEK ONE

• � TRICKS FOR MANAGING YOUR TIME

• ��-DAY CALENDAR: YOUR GOALS AT A GLANCE

INCLUDES �� WORKSHEETS FOR PLANNING YOUR DRAFT!

Plus: FREE Bonus Worksheet

Downloads

WRITE YOUR NOVEL��

�� DAYS

KEEP THE MOMENTUM!

• THE ULTIMATE REVISION CHECKLIST

• NOVEL QUERY BASICS

��If you think writing a book in a

month is an irrational pursuit,

you’re a little bit right. Sometimes

we have to do crazy things to get

headed down the right path.

To stop the procrastination, you

need a bold goal. A 30-day chal-

lenge can motivate you to do what

you’ve put o� for too long: dedi-

cating yourself to your writing.

�is guide is helpful for any beginning-to-intermediate �ction

writer. And—even if you don’t want to write a book in 30 days—

this guide still o�ers essential milestones and worksheets that can

help you no matter what kind of time frame you use. Here are

three potential paths.

��

You don’t have to prep if you don’t want to—especially if you’ve

been contemplating a speci�c story idea for a while, and just need

to start. Use the 30-day calendar on pages 38–39 to begin writing

and outlining immediately on Day 1. �is schedule integrates a

few key steps into your �rst week that will build the basic frame-

work for a successful story line.

��

Before you mark Day 1 of your writing, read through the sec-

tion “Lay the Groundwork” to create realistic goals, manage your

time well, and identify the kind of story you want to write. To fur-

ther ground your e�orts, you may also want to outline your work

beforehand (see “To Outline or Not To Outline” on page 23).

However: Don’t get sucked into the trap of over-preparing, or

using outlines and research as a procrastination tool. Set yourself

a speci�c day to start your 30-day writing e�ort.

��

Excellent! You can still use the 30-day method, and you should

complete all the worksheets, which will help you uncover poten-

tial problems in your story. Depending on how much of the man-

uscript is written, you may want to designate a week or two of your

month for revision. Refer to “�e Ultimate Revision Checklist”

on page 86 to help you create a revision plan.

So—no more excuses. You’ll never feel or be more prepared

than you are now. It’s time to start writing.ph

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�� DAYS

WritersDigest.com� ��

��WRITE YOUR NOVEL IN �� DAYS

LAY THE GROUNDWORK

4 How You Can Write a Book

in a MonthBY VICTORIA SCHMIDT

It’s not impossible to write a quality

manuscript in 30 days. Get ready to

accomplish the goal of a lifetime.

9 7 Tips for Time ManagementBY VICTORIA SCHMIDT

Stop making excuses. Everyone has time

to write—as long as you have the right

mindset. Here’s how to get it.

14 How to Set Writing Goals

You’ll Actually KeepBY VICTORIA SCHMIDT

Don’t start that manuscript without knowing

what motivates you, and committing to paper

what you intend to accomplish.

18 Uncovering Fresh Story IdeasBY JOSEPH BATES

Tap your daily life, as well as your imagination,

for novel-worthy characters and plots.

23 To Outline or Not to Outline?BY JAMES SCOTT BELL

It’s one of the biggest questions facing every

novelist. Here are the pros and cons—plus

�ve proven outlining methods.

31 Word Count BasicsBY CHUCK SAMBUCHINO

Know your goal so you can plan how many

words you need to write each day or week

to complete your book in 30 days.

GET A RUNNING START

33 Your 7-Day JumpstartBY VICTORIA SCHMIDT

Say good-bye to intimidation. Here’s a

game plan for your �rst week—including

essential checkpoints for long-term success.

38 30-Day CalendarBY VICTORIA SCHMIDT

Use these tips, reminders and steps to help

you stay on track.

40 Your First ScenesBY SARAH DOMET

You don’t have much time to hook the

reader. Here’s what you need to accomplish

in the �rst act of your novel.

45 Assemble Your CharactersBY NANCY KRESS

Here are four paths for building your cast

of essential characters, plus the question

you need to ask of each: changer or stayer?

presents


�� DAYS


52 Common Chapter One PitfallsBY CHUCK SAMBUCHINO

What types of �rst scenes or story

openings should you avoid? Industry

insiders speak out.

BUILD OUT THE STORY

56 Your �ree-Act StructureBY JAMES SCOTT BELL

During the 30-day challenge, you should

frequently re-evaluate your structure so

you end up with a compelling story.

63 Scenes: �e Building

Blocks of Your NovelBY JORDAN ROSENFELD

Learn how to master the scene, and you’ll

be assured of a strong dra� that won’t fall

apart on you during revision.

70 5 Techniques to Keep Your

Story Moving ForwardBY JOSEPH BATES

It’s called the “Mushy Middle” for a reason.

Find out how to keep readers interested

during Act II and beyond.

77 �e Art of Closing WellBY JOSEPH BATES

Readers deserve a satisfying ending. Here’s

how to anticipate and shape a memorable

climax, closing act and denouement.

EVALUATE, REVISE, SUBMIT

86 �e Ultimate Revision ChecklistBY JAMES SCOTT BELL

Here’s how to take your �rst dra� to

polished manuscript.

97 Preparing a Novel Query

and Submission PackageBY K AREN WIESNER

A�er you have a polished and �nal dra�,

these steps will help you submit your work

to publishers or agents.

WORKSHEETS

101 Worksheet Index

102 Story Tracker

(Act I, Act II, Act III)

105 Story Idea Map

107 Scene Card

108 At-A-Glance Outline

113 Character Sketch

115 Character-Revealing Scenes

116 Climax

117 Denouement & Closing Scenes

FOR INSPIRATION

128 �e Final Word

FRIDAY

��


��

��

We all have issues that keep us from ful�lling our goals. Any big

undertaking will bring those issues to the surface in the form

of resistance. Resistance is the way your subconscious tries to

protect you from taking risks. Ever get really tired the second

you tried to change a habit? Sudden fatigue is a great indicator that resistance

is at play. Let’s take the �rst step and answer some of the questions that may

be �oating through your head.

Has anyone written a book in 30 days?

Yes! I know a group of genre authors who do just that—ever hear of Nora

Roberts (also known as J. D. Robb)? Or how about Dame Barbara Cartland?

She wrote a book a week, becoming one of the most proli�c writers

in history.

Yeah, but how good were those books?

�at’s a judgment question (and we’ll take a closer look at the role our inner

critic plays in the writing process later in this introduction). We don’t have

time to judge the work of others because that only leads us down the path

to judging our own work. Drop “judging” from your vocabulary! �ere have

been great and horrible books in every genre, whether they took 30 years

to write or 30 days. Besides, it’s unlikely that your 30-day manuscript will

emerge fully formed, ready for the printing presses as is. �at comes with

skill, practice and a lot of polishing ... but you can’t start down that path to the

rewrite unless you have a complete manuscript ready to work with.

If I can’t �nd the time to write now, how will I �nd the time to write a whole

book this quickly?

Short deadlines can actually be invigorating. What I mean by this is, if you

tell yourself that you have to set aside six months to get a dra� down, it will

HOW YOU CAN WRITE A BOOK IN A MONTH

It’s not impossible to write a quality manuscript in 30 days. Get ready to accomplish the goal of a lifetime.


seem like a huge task (will you really ask your family to

make a sacri�ce for six months?).

But what if you only have to ask your family to pitch

in for one month? If 30 days does not seem like much

to write a book, then, hey, 30 days is not a big sacri�ce.

Give it a shot. �e kids, family and friends can pitch in

for that amount of time without too much strain. More

important, you’ll have given yourself a very narrow and

focused time frame in which to work.

Can this guide help me rewrite my manuscript if I’ve

got a �nished one that I really want to try to salvage?

Yes. �is guide works for anyone starting fresh, or

rewriting an earlier dra� instead of starting a new one.

What about writer’s block?

You are the source of your own blocks, which means you

have the power to eliminate them. Stop resisting and go

for it. Numerous working moms and overextended col-

lege students have done it!

What if I’m still not sure I can do it?

�e biggest obstacle to accomplishing this goal is your

own inner critic and personal psychology. �is guide

will do its absolute best to help you be a successful

writer, giving you critical information and techniques

in 100-plus pages, but you have to put your butt in the

chair and start typing. We are all di�erent, and our

needs change as we grow and develop as writers, so use

what works for you.

But be open to new solutions, techniques and exer-

cises. Many are included in this guide. In the end it

really doesn’t matter how “good” or “bad” your manu-

script turns out to be. First dra�s are �rst dra�s, no mat-

ter who writes them, or how fast! Instead, it is all about

the journey. You’re reaching for a lo�y goal, and as you

meet and face down your blocks and your resistance,

you will �nd that what you’ve learned along the way has

helped you to grow in more ways than just as a writer.

��Is it really feasible to write a book in 30 days? In a word:

yes. But there are �ve secrets you need to know before-

hand in order to be successful. Few books or courses

that profess to teach the art of “quick dra�ing” actually

teach these �ve secrets, which makes it very di�cult for

the writer to actually produce his dra�.

In truth, these �ve secrets might seem, at �rst, very

simple, but once you begin to apply them, you will see

why these are necessary not just to keep your book mov-

ing, but to keep it moving forward.

�e �rst three deal with techniques, tools and tricks

you can use to maintain forward momentum and focus.

�e last two deal with the writer himself; there is a bit of

psychology here.

�e �ve secrets to successfully writing a book in a

month are:

1. Work “as if.”

2. Leave out subplots.

3. Be realistic.

4. Examine your self-esteem.

5. Trust yourself.

��

Working “as if ” means that you keep writing—that you

keep moving forward with your story—without stop-

ping to rewrite every time you change your mind about

a character, plot or setting detail. Instead, you take notes

on a worksheet to stay on task while still remembering

changes you’ll need to make later. As new ideas or new

directions come to mind, jot them down—in an orga-

nized way, of course—and keep writing as if you’ve

made those changes already. �ere is an excellent rea-

son for doing this, one that every 30-day writer should

keep in mind:

You cannot write and rewrite at the same time if you

want to �nish a book in 30 days.

Now, all of the changes you come up with while in

the process of writing are no longer taking up valuable

space in your brain, and you are free to keep moving

forward, free to generate more ideas, free to keep get-

ting those pages done. Your new ideas and revision

notes can be stored safely on worksheets until you have

�nished your �rst dra� without interruption. To keep

things organized, it is best to break your notes down

by act—a traditional three-act structure consisting of

beginning, middle and end—and then supply speci�c

details under the following categories: character, plot,


��

subplot and setting. Let’s take a closer look at what such

notes might consist of.

�� Let’s say for some reason you want—

or, more likely, need—to change the name of your char-

acter from Anne to Barbara, and you want her to be a

pianist instead of a waitress. Instead of going back and

changing every page that contains a reference to Anne

or her occupation, instead you jot down:

Change Anne to Barbara and make sure she’s a pianist in

all of her scenes, check pages 3–42.

�en you do the obvious: You use the name Barbara

from this point forward and write as if she is a pianist.

Likewise, you can keep similar notes for changes to

a character’s background. If you need, for example, to

change the childhood issues for one character so you

can make her “gritty and jaded” when she goes home for

Christmas, make the appropriate note on your work-

sheet and write her as if she were “gritty and jaded” from

this point on.

�is type of change may—and probably will—a�ect

other characters, like her parents, so make sure to note

any implications the change might have in terms of

relationships between characters, motivations, histo-

ries and so on ... all concerns for you to address later,

in revision.

If this seems at �rst to be too-obvious advice—per-

haps a bit too easy or too hard, depending on your tem-

perament—consider the reason for addressing charac-

ter changes in this way: You’ve reached a problematic

point in your story, a point where the story has dictated

a change must be made, and you’ve made it. Now, rather

than retreating to your previous pages to make metic-

ulous corrections—essentially “bookkeeping”—you

are free to explore the possibilities presented to you by

your story ... the very possibilities that necessitated the

change in the �rst place.

You are free, in other words, to write.

�� You are absorbed in your writing, and all of

a sudden you realize you should have included a �ght

scene between Chris and Mike two chapters ago. It is

the only way this current scene you are writing will

make sense. No problem. Jot down on your worksheet:

Fight scene between Chris and Mike in Chapter 2. �e

outcome is X because Y. �e point is Z. See page 132.

You can also get out your red pen and write on the page

you wish to include this scene:

Insert �ght scene here—see worksheet notes.

Whew! �is is such a quick way to get that idea

down and keep moving forward. �ink about it: If you

stopped right now to write out that whole �ght scene,

how much time would it take you? Are you the type of

writer who might get sidetracked by it? Sometimes we

go back to change one thing and then �nd our minds

wandering toward new ideas on top of new ideas. �is is

classic writing self-sabotage! Don’t let that happen; just

keep your notes, keep them clear and keep moving for-

ward. Use the Story Tracker worksheet on page 102 of

this guide.

��

Many writers churn out a quick version of their stories

with subplots to be added later. �is really depends on

your writing style and level of mastery. Most of us do

better if we can just focus on the main characters and

plotline, and race through to the end. �ere is nothing

Is it really feasible to write a book in 30 days? In a word: yes. But there are �ve secrets you need to know beforehand in order to be successful.


wrong with that. So feel free to leave out the subplots

for now.

As you write, you can keep track of what subplots you

might return to in revision:

Add subplot: Cari meets with hero to plan the surprise

party Alex doesn’t know about.

And then continue on with the main plot. �is way, you

know where you want the subplots to �t in and how

they will progress, but you don’t waste a lot of time

and brainpower working on them just yet. Why not go

ahead and write them? Because subplots are always the

�rst to go, or change, during a rewrite.

Once you get to the end, you will be able to see:

• where the story is a little slow

• where things don’t make sense

• what new information needs to be added

• what characters need to be changed or dropped.

Can you see that working too much on subplot can be

a waste of time? Even if you keep all the basic subplots

you create during these 30 days, they will still change;

the main plot will require them to change because it will

change and grow as you write—new settings, new char-

acters, new information, new transitions, new purpose,

new goals, new subtext. �e subplots will have to re�ect

these changes. Don’t waste your time unless it is abso-

lutely necessary. You’re in charge here, so do what you

think is best. Just know that it is okay to forego the sub-

plots when writing a dra� in 30 days.

��

Most of all, you need to be realistic—if you work two

jobs, have kids to care for and have health issues, don’t

push yourself to �nish a book in 30 days. Instead, resolve

to complete a story synopsis. A synopsis is an unstruc-

tured outline. You work out the beginning, middle and

end, and develop characters and their goals. You also

work a lot on your opening lines and hooking readers.

You can write anything within this 30-day time period.

Be gentle on yourself and your creativity will continue

to �ow. Set a goal too high and the creative blocks will

be more di�cult than ever!

Be careful about getting too upset about setbacks and

delays. Remember, one bad day can become three, and

three can become ... well, you get the idea. �en you

might �nd yourself dreading the process and �nally giv-

ing up. Don’t let yourself have a bad day. Try to �nd the

bright spot. Stay positive.

��

Never guilt or shame yourself into writing, or put your-

self down too harshly for not writing. Guilt and shame

never helped anyone’s self-esteem, and self-esteem is

what you need to complete a book in a month.

Self-esteem allows you to commit to your goals, and

it allows you to make time for what is important to you.

Self-esteem means you can say to yourself, “I matter,

and so do my goals.”

It’s okay to be dedicated to others in your life, but

you still have to take care of your needs. Sometimes

setting a good example is the greatest thing you can do

for your loved ones. Many kids would prefer to have

a happy, ful�lled mother rather than a fancy home-

cooked meal.

If you agree with more than two of the following

statements, your writing self-esteem could use a boost.

• I blame someone or something for not being

able to write.

• I constantly blame myself for not writing enough,

even if it’s not my fault.

• Instead of �nding time to write, I do what others

want even when I don’t want to.

• When someone criticizes my work, I feel like

they’re criticizing me.

• I’m reluctant to set and announce my writing

goals for fear that I won’t attain them or that I

will be ridiculed.

• I’m �lled with big writing dreams and goals, but

I just can’t get started or follow through.

• I give up at the �rst hint of rejection.

• I feel like I have no control over my time and how I

spend it; writing is always pushed to the wayside.

• I really don’t see that I have many choices in life

to do what I want to do.

Boost your self-esteem by focusing on your

strengths. �is is why many writing teachers tell you

to stay away from negative people when writing and

keep your work to yourself in the beginning. Listen


��

to them! Once you have �nished your manuscript and

are happy with it, you can then sort through criticism

from others. Until then, keep your work to yourself.

Or tell the person looking at your work you only want

positive feedback for now.

You need to feel as if it is your right to have these 30

days. You need to stand up for yourself. Writing down

your feelings can help you to crystallize what really mat-

ters to you.

��

Here’s the big question: Do you trust yourself? Some-

times we don’t achieve our goals because we devalue our

capacity to deal with whatever may arise when reaching

for them. Trusting yourself may be the greatest gi� you

can give and receive. When you stop the worry by say-

ing, “I trust myself to deal with whatever comes up,” the

anxiety li�s away. Here are some remedies to ward o�

the most common writing worries:

What if this manuscript isn’t any good? Even if that

were the case, you have the ability to rewrite it. Trust

that you did your best. If you honestly do your best,

there should be no room for regret.

What if I get rejected? Don’t see your manuscript as

an extension of yourself; instead, trust that you will be

able to deal with rejection if it happens. Trust yourself

to honestly recognize when rejection is constructive

and when it is hurtful. Learn from constructive criti-

cism and do better next time.

What if I can’t reach the goal? Sometimes, it’s easier—

and more comfortable—to sabotage yourself and blame

others. When you actively prevent yourself from suc-

ceeding, it’s easier to accept failure. Instead of working

against yourself, if you don’t reach your goal, then trust

that you will take an honest look at the reasons why this

happened and adjust your goals for next time. Don’t

simply beat yourself up over it.

What if I feel really anxious about this 30-day task?

Trust yourself to deal with whatever may come up these

30 days, and then just go for it. Really now, what is the

worst that can happen? You won’t �nish a manuscript.

We’re not talking life and death here!

Most of our writing blocks come from lack of self-

trust, pure and simple. We wouldn’t get upset, worried,

angry, accusatory or anxious if we trusted ourselves to

deal with whatever might come up, in any situation. So,

visualize yourself dealing well with your biggest writ-

ing fear (perhaps rejection) right now. Imagine how you

will handle it and overcome it.

Every day is a new day, a new chance to begin again.

Give yourself permission to mess up one day, and

make it a good one! Does that take some of the pres-

sure o�?

We all have lives to lead; we all have reasons for not

writing. Writing a book in 30 days will test your dedi-

cation to becoming an author, so if you can’t articulate

why you’re writing, then you just might run in to trou-

ble. To prepare you for this, let’s pause here to explore

your motivation and commitment to writing:

• Why do you want to write?

• Why do you have to write?

• How will your life be di�erent a�er you �nish

this manuscript? What will change?

• How will your life be di�erent a�er you �nish three

manuscripts? (Will you feel like a “real” writer?)

• How will you feel about yourself a�er you �nish this

manuscript? (Will you have more con�dence?)

• How will this feeling help you accomplish other

things in life?

��This is a fast-paced, intense world, but when you

have a guide, you will find fun instead of stress. After

all, you’ve set out to do something few ever risk

doing—accomplish your dream. You will finish that

novel and give life to your characters, and you will

do it in 30 days’ time. It may not be a perfect man-

uscript, ready for publication, but it will be a com-

pleted manuscript.

Just imagine for a moment that your manuscript is

�nally written. Go ahead—visualize your completed

manuscript right now. Doesn’t that feel great? Many

writers have written a book in 30 days; some have

done it in one week. So commit to your project, and to

yourself, and let’s get started!

��

��

“Guard well your spare moments. �ey are like uncut diamonds.

Discard them and their value will never be known. Improve them

and they will become the brightest gems in a useful life.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Too many writers use lack of time as an excuse not to write. When

you say you don’t have the time, what you are really saying is,

“Something else is more important right now than writing.”

Many parents with a thousand things on their to-do list find

time to write; writing is just number one thousand and one. Nora Roberts

had a lot on her plate when she started writing—still does—yet she’s found

the time to pen more than a 150 novels. How does she, or how does any

author, take on the daily duties of life and of writing at the same time?

Successful authors manage their time, pure and simple.

��The easiest way to create a new habit is to make it one of the first things

you do each day. As each new day progresses, you can be pulled in a num-

ber of different directions. There are simply too many distractions that

come on once the day is set in motion, not to mention fatigue.

Time management is really self-management.

What you resolve to do first thing—or at least early in the morning—

you will do. It is so much easier to sit down, write a page or two, then

conduct your daily business.

��Have you heard of the Pareto principle, or the 80-20 rule? It is the prin-

ciple that 20 percent of your time and effort generates 80 percent of the

FOR TIME MANAGEMENTStop making excuses. Everyone has time to write—as long

as you have the right mindset. Here’s how to get it.

��

7 TIPS


results, or that 80 percent of what you accomplish is

caused by 20 percent of your effort. Most things in

life were found to be distributed this way, like the dis-

tribution of wealth: 80 percent of all the money goes

to 20 percent of the people. Another example is the

number of writers to the percentage of total books

sold: 80 percent of books are sold by 20 percent of

the authors.

So, if 20 percent of your effort causes 80 of your

accomplishments, wouldn’t it be great if you focused

on that 20 percent of result-getting effort for 100 per-

cent of the time? Of course it would! Think of all the

free time you would have if you had to do only a frac-

tion, the most effective part, of the daily grind. We all

waste time and effort every single day. We do things

that will get us nowhere, and that won’t yield any

value in our lives. This stuff takes up 80 percent of

our effort if we let it. This means that you must:

• drop all that busywork that gets you nowhere

• drop all the negative friends who drag you down

• drop all the manuscripts you don’t really love,

or those that you started just because you

thought they were marketable

• drop all your high expectations (you don’t have to

have the cleanest house on the block—one writer

was spending six hours every Saturday cleaning

her house, and she had no kids or pets!)

When you focus on things that don’t truly matter to

you, you are working within the 80 percent of effort

that won’t get you the 20-percent results you want.

You want to write a book (it’s your goal—or you

wouldn’t be reading this, right?). Focus on this every

day for the next month and you will be happy! How

wonderful will you feel when you hold that manu-

script in your hands? Eliminate your 80 percent of

wasted effort. Keep track of your writing time every

day. Make it a habit to write down the number of

hours you spend on each writing project. Or track

word or page counts.

��

“Don’t ask for time for yourself. If you ask, people

can say no. If you just do it, then you’ve done it and

you’ve got it. Your being happy is the only change

they’ll notice.”

—Dr. Mira Kirshenbaum

The point Dr. Kirshenbaum is making is that, while

writing may be important to you, few people in your

life will see it as important. Many will just see it as

an unnecessary indulgence. So just find the time any

way you can and take it.

��Henry Kissinger once said: “There cannot be a crisis

next week. My schedule is already full.”

For many of us, things that aren’t scheduled don’t

get done. We sometimes live from appointment to

appointment, trying to squeeze little tasks in between.

In fact, without an appointment, some of us just don’t

know what to do and often fall victim to another per-

son’s request. So, make an appointment with yourself

so you can fill your time with writing.

When you have concrete plans, it is much easier to

say no to others. You don’t have to make up excuses.

“I have a 1 �.�. appointment” is all the explanation

needed. Only you need to know what, when and

where you are going.

Appointments tell your creative brain that writing

is important. They also tell your muse to get ready:

Work time is coming.

��Again, from Dr. Mira Kirshenbaum: “Use money to

buy time by using money to get people to do things

for you that will save you time.”

Okay, maybe you don’t have tons of money to get

babysitters and hire maids, but could you barter for

some of these things? Buy frozen dinners? Whittle

your cleaning routine down to a bare minimum, once-

a-week chore?

How much money is spent on hobbies and enter-

tainment in this country? Billions of dollars. Yet when

it comes to finding the time to write, we are reluctant

to spend any money at all to do it. Why is this? Most

hobbies, desires and activities cost something to par-

take in it. And these things usually are not part of our

lifelong dreams and goals. They most certainly don’t

��


have much of a chance of giving us a return on our

investment. So what’s the problem?

One writer I know spends $80 a month on a hair-

cut, yet he can’t imagine splurging on a new notebook

to jot down his ideas. For $30 a month, he could have

a new laptop computer to write when he has to travel

for work, but there is no way he will ever buy it.

It’s all about choices. Remember the financial gurus

out there talking about forgoing a latté every day to

put that money in the bank? If you stopped treating

yourself to that daily latté, you would have more than

$100 extra cash every month. Imagine if you factored

in the price of a daily muffin. That would be more

than $200 every month. What is your “latté” expense?

Make it your writing expense now.

��Every time someone or something comes into your

life, hold it up to your list of priorities and see if you

still want to talk to that person or do that activity.

Talking to your angry, gossiping neighbor can take

valuable time away from your family and your writ-

ing goals.

I know a writer who realized she spent four hours

a day watching television. She never saw it before, but

logging her time made it clear. Were watching soaps

and talk shows worth not finishing her manuscript?

“No way!” she said. “They weren’t even that inter-

esting.” (She’s now happily published and occasion-

ally records her favorite shows to watch at night.)

Write down a list of your main priorities so you

will know where to draw the line when requests are

made for your time. Once you know your priorities

in life, write down a list of things that take up your

time and are not on your priority list.

Can you get rid of the things that aren’t priorities?

If not, can you make small appointments to do these

things so they don’t take up too much of your time?

Can you delegate them to others?

��Why do so many of us have trouble just saying no?

Because most of us have been programmed to say yes,

to be a people pleaser. Usually the problem is that we

are afraid of conflict. We think, “What will this per-

son do or say if I don’t help out?”

Well, if you can’t stand con�ict in life, then you sure

won’t be able to write con�ict on the page. Con�ict

is what stories are made of, so get used to it. Enjoy it.

When writers can’t stand to do bad things to their char-

acters, they usually are terri�ed of con�ict. �ese writ-

ers rarely have successful careers. Be assertive!

This tip is also all about sticking to your guns,

because once you say no to someone, you have to

stand firm. If you backpedal, you will lose momen-

tum for saying no again in the future. Be true to your

word and to yourself. If you say no, it means no.

Also be careful of maybes. Sometimes we feel guilty

for saying no, so we instead decide to say maybe to

get out of an uncomfortable situation. Don’t do it.

Maybes only lead other people on. It leaves them

thinking there is hope and that they can wear you

down. It also shows them that you devalue your other

commitments and aren’t sure of yourself. Always say

no firmly and directly. If you really feel bad, say, “No,

not until I am finished with a current commitment.

Please feel free to check in with me later.”

We have so much more time available to us now

than at any other time in history. There was a time

when women spent 10 hours doing the laundry by

hand; now, we just pop it into a machine. Where did

those 10 hours go?

Studies show we actually have too much time available

to us, and we squander it. We �ll our days with mean-

ingless tasks. We have never been so free, yet failed to

realize the extent of our freedom. We have never had so

much time, yet felt we had so little. Modern life bullies

us to speed up our lives ... but going faster only makes

us feel like we’re always behind.

�e trick is to know both your “to-do” and “not to-do”

list, to know your wants as well as your don’t-wants. You

want to write, so act and plan accordingly.

��

��



��

HOW TO

SET WRITING GOALS YOU’LL ACTUALLY KEEP

Don’t start that manuscript without knowing what motivates you, and committing to paper

what you intend to accomplish.

��


As a writer, you are a self-employed creative

professional. You create a product (a manu-

script) and try to sell it. �at is a business,

and all businesses need a plan. Writing

down your goals is the �rst (and most important) step

to formulating one.

As writers, we always seem to have ideas bouncing

around in our heads. If we chased a�er every one of

those ideas, we would never get anything accomplished.

You know the old saying: Fail to plan, and you plan to

fail. It really is true; ask any successful person, and she

will tell you that once she wrote down her goals, things

really started to happen. Somehow putting things down

on paper makes them real. �e subconscious mind is

really impressed by it and will usually fall in line and

help out. Writing down your goals also makes you

think deeply about them. Self-improvement guru Gene

Donohue puts it another way: “�e di�erence between

a goal and a dream is the written word.”

��e �rst step in goal setting is identifying the right proj-

ect. To choose the right project, you must �gure out

who you are as a writer, or what you’re most passion-

ate about—and work that passion into your story. It is

important to do this before developing your story idea

because your passion will—or should—have a direct

in�uence on the idea. Why?

�ere are no shortages of ideas. You cannot copy-

right an idea because it is not, by itself, uniquely yours.

It is the execution of that idea that makes all the di�er-

ence, and that is where goals come into play. Your goals

should be detailed enough to ensure that the type of

project you pursue re�ects who you are and what you

want your story to encompass.

Take a few minutes to think about the things—the

values, the characteristics, the beliefs—that matter most

to you:

• What are you passionate about?

• What gives you energy and motivates you?

• What keeps showing up again and again in your

stories or the stories you love to read?

If you don’t have a �rm understanding of what you’re

passionate about, developing your writing goals can be

very hard to do. You’ve got to tackle the big questions:

Who am I? What genre should I specialize in? How do I

want to be remembered? Many writers have never even

considered these questions. �e answers to these and

other questions help you �nd your own unique way to

execute story ideas.

If you want to stand out in the slush pile, this is

extremely important, so pay attention. Let’s take the

answers to questions you just completed and go a

little further:

• What is important to you creatively? Do you

want to educate? Entertain? Scare?

• Do you have a personal cause or agenda that

de�nes you? (Animal rescue? Global warming?)

• What types of books do you enjoy? Movies? Music?

• What types of stories did you like as a child?

Once you’ve identi�ed your passions, it’s time to

start �guring out how to express them in your story.

Remember, if you have an emotional connection to the

material you’re writing, it will be that much easier for

you to stay invested over the long haul and reach your

goals. Beth Mende Conny, a wonderful writing coach


��

�e �rst step in goal setting is identifying the right project. To choose the right project, you must �gure out who you are as a writer, or what you’re most passionate about.

and founder of WriteDirections.com, came up with the

following exercise that I have found to be very helpful in

capturing the essence of a story idea.

��Imagine yourself older, not just by a few years, but by

decades. You’re on a porch in a rocking chair, rocking

slowly but enjoyably. It’s a lovely day—bright, warm

sun, knock-your-socks-o� blue sky, the kind of day that

makes you want to sit and rock forever.

Lazily, your eyes sweep the horizon, the vast expanse

of grass that gentle �ows into a distant range of so�, wel-

coming mountains. You’re feeling peaceful, re�ective as

you think back on this gloriously crazy but interesting

thing called life.

You remember all you’ve done, from �rst steps to �rst

kisses to the �rst time you realized you were a grown-up.

You draw to you the faces of those who touched your

life, so�ened its rough edges, those you loved with an

aching heart.

You think of favorite places and things: your room as

a child, a piece of jewelry still tucked away in a bedroom

drawer. Your mind si�s through these memories as if

through a box of photographs, each a vivid reminder of

where you’ve been, what you’ve done, and who you’ve

become. You understand that you won’t be in this rocker

or on this porch forever. Life passes quickly … too quickly.

But with this bit of knowledge comes another—you

know now, in a way you’ve never grasped before, the

importance of leaving some part of yourself to the world.

You know that you were put on this earth for a reason,

and while you may not know the answer in full yet, you

know that in part, your purpose was in some way ful-

�lled by the writing of your book. You remember it with

pride—how writing it demanded your best, making you

draw on strengths you never knew you had.

You remember, too, that while your book may not

have changed the world, it touched lives. Certainly, it

touched yours. It was, as you now know, your way of

leaving your mark on the world, your way of saying, “I

was here. I mattered.”

�e title of that book was:

And it was about:

�is is a beautiful exercise, and by writing the title

and what your book was about, you now have some idea

of who you are as a writer. You don’t necessarily have to

write this book now. In fact, you may never write this

manuscript. �is exercise is about getting in touch with

the elements of who you are as a writer. Within your

answer you will see certain topics, genres, ideas and

directions that best suit you.

��

“If your success is not on your own terms, if it looks good

to the world but does not feel good in your heart, it is not

success at all.”

—Anna Quindlen

As your passion and story idea merge, be careful you

don’t limit yourself. Let’s say you want to write a book

that’s about “a strong heroine who overcomes obstacles

and learns to love herself.” �is doesn’t mean you have

to write chic-lit; it just means that maybe your stories,

even if your genre (or editor) calls for a male action hero,

should have strong heroines in them, as well as women

who overcome obstacles. Can you write a fantasy with

this? Yes. Can you write a horror novel with this? Yes.


�e answer you provided in the Rocking Chair

Exercise, which may evolve over time as you evolve, is

the core idea and theme of your work. It is what really

interests you enough—and therefore motivates you—to

put your butt in the chair and write.

Now that you have some insight into who you are as a

writer, answer the following questions to see if your cur-

rent project represents a blend of your passions:

• If you had to describe your work as a whole in a

single line, what would that line be? (Heartfelt

stories that make you cry? Smart, steamy ro-

mances? Hardcore heroes who risk everything?)

• How should your work be remembered?

• Which genre is best for your writing style and

interests?

Does your current project meet most of your answers to

the above questions? Is this project in line with who you

are as a writer? Agents, publicists and publishers also

want to know this about you. �ey want to know what

makes you di�erent from all the other writers out there.

�ey also want to know how to market your work. �ey

want something they can sink their teeth into.

��Here are a few crucial tips on goal setting:

• Make sure your writing goal is something you

personally want for yourself. Make sure it is your

goal and not something you think you have to

do to become successful, like write for the cur-

rent market trends, or write something because

your mom always wanted you to write it. (Uncle

Joe’s life may be funny, but is it 300-pages funny?

Do you care?)

• Make sure your writing goals don’t work against

each other. You can’t write epic novels and ex-

pect to write �ve novels a year.

• Make sure your writing goals don’t work against

your life in general. You can’t write 20 romance

novels this year if your other goal is to travel the

world by boat with �ve friends.

• Always create positive writing goals. Write what

you will do, not what you won’t.

• Keep your writing goals speci�c, but leave some

wiggle room for creativity.

• Actually write down your writing goals!

• Revise your writing goals as you grow and devel-

op as a writer. Every 6–12 months is good, though

you will do it more o�en in the beginning.

Start small so you don’t get overwhelmed. Just write

down your core writing goal for the next 30 days. Make

it simple and easy to accomplish. �en if you reach your

goal, or even surpass it, you will have given yourself a

nice con�dence boost.

Want to write 100 pages in a month? �at seems like a

lot … but it’s really 25 pages a week, or, better yet, about

three to four pages a day. �is doesn’t seem like too

much, and if you happen to miss a day, well, you’ve only

fallen behind by three pages. Surely there’s no reason to

beat yourself up over that!

When things get tough and you feel like giving up,

you can tell yourself that you only have to write four

pages today. Write them as quickly (and as horribly) as

you need to, but write them. If your goal breaks down

to two pages a day … well, you really can’t argue much

with that. You could write those during commercials.

No excuses.

��Make sure you reveal your goals only to those who will

encourage you. Some friends and family members will

always see you as you used to be—the “non-writer.” It

is very common for a family unit to discourage change

among its members, even if it is for a member’s bene�t.

When one member changes, it can stir up too many

things for the others. �ey may be forced to look at

areas of their lives that they have yet to change for

themselves. Many people will �ght this sort of self-

exploration. Be sure to surround yourself with sup-

portive allies.

As the saying goes: A little child can knock down a

sapling oak tree before it has grown strong roots, but

once the oak has grown tall enough, almost nothing can

knock it down. Establish your roots �rst, then go out

there to network and share in your dreams.

��

��

��


UNCOVERING

FRESH STORY IDEAS

Tap your daily life, as well as your imagination,

for novel-worthy characters and plots.

��


Every novel you’ve ever read—including that

one that felt so real, you were surprised when

you closed it to �nd you were sitting on your

couch or propped up in bed—began in the

same simple way: with a �eeting thought or image that

caught the writer’s attention, held it for a moment and

led him to begin asking, “What if … ?”

I don’t mean that the writer began debating the idea

intellectually, trying to complicate the idea on purpose.

Rather, the writer witnessed something every day that

led him to begin daydreaming, not just asking ques-

tions but imagining possible answers, constructing sce-

narios. Writing a novel begins not in a moment of work

but a moment of play, with an intriguing idea or image

inspiring the mind toward unexpected leaps and unan-

ticipated connections.

For those of us stealing time to write, the implica-

tion should be heartening: Your work doesn’t begin the

moment you sit down in front of the computer, bor-

ing down on the blank screen, wondering what you

should write about and trying to “come up” with some-

thing. �ere are story ideas all around us—ideas rich

enough to sustain a lifetime of work—if we’re willing to

pay close attention to those things we glimpse out of the

corner of our eye, as John Updike once put it, and then

let our imaginations linger.

Of course, not everything we glimpse will be enough

to form the basis of a novel. What makes a novel idea

sustainable is the degree to which it contains, or at least

suggests, all other aspects of the book: character, con�ict,

plot, tone, theme and more. Put another way, the best

ideas already have the potential for a full world. Drawing

out that potential, building on it in ways both surprising

and inevitable, is the focused work of the novelist.

��To illustrate, let’s take a look at a fairly clear-cut exercise

I use for my creative writing students to get them think-

ing about the way initial ideas suggest the larger story.

(See the sidebar on this page.)

When I bring this exercise to a class, it usually takes

on the feeling of a game, as it should. I ask students for

combinations that stand out as interesting or compel-

ling, and they call out whatever catches their attention

so we can discuss it. “Racist suicide-hotline volunteer”

once prompted 45 minutes of discussion on its own, get-

ting laughter at times and, at others, thoughtful silence.

We’d come up with a pretty full picture of that twisted,

pitiable character by the end of the discussion; maybe

one day one of those students will write his story.

Occasionally a student will call out a combination

that seems a likely �t and which, for that very reason,

ends up being rather useless as grounds for �ction …

“kindhearted nun,” for example, or “vain supermodel.”

When such an obvious pairing is made, other students

usually chime in on why the pair won’t work: We expect

our nuns to be kindhearted, just as we expect our super-

models to be vain (we’re speaking generally here), and

thus there’s nothing surprising or particularly interesting

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in the combination. We’d be writing caricature instead of

character. �ere’s little there to catch or keep our attention.

Sometimes a student will raise her hand and ask why

Column A is such a bummer: racist, vain, suicidal, neurotic.

Would it kill me to make a column where happier things

are going on? To which I respond: It wouldn’t kill me, but

it’d probably kill our story before it started. Fiction thrives

on con�ict, and a workable story idea is one in which the

con�ict is clear and present in the basic premise.

Again, “kindhearted nun” gives us nothing besides what

we already know, but what about jealous nun? Jealous of

whom? Jealous over what, exactly, and what might this

jealousy lead her to do? Maybe, and we’re just thinking

out loud, she’s jealous of a younger nun in her convent

and her closeness to God (and notice that as soon as we

have a younger nun, our �rst nun becomes older).

As we begin to ask and then answer these questions, the

ideas, digressions, wrong turns and occasional direct hits

begin to form a story by addressing four basic problems:

1. What does the combination really suggest in terms

of what might happen?

2. What would be motivating or driving our main

character in such a situation?

3. What would be opposing the character in the situ-

ation? (�is could, and probably should, prompt many

di�erent answers, some of them small and personal in

scope, others large.)

4. What are the emotions evoked by or from the prem-

ise that we might consider universal? In other words, what

could any reader identify with, regardless of whether or

not she’s ever been in this exact situation?

And there you have it: plot, character, con�ict and

theme. We also have a setting, which we’ll want to do some

research on (get thee to a nunnery!), and a tone, which is

getting pretty dark. We also have a supporting cast to begin

thinking about, most notably in the pretty young nun.

��Once you start recognizing the story ideas that pres-

ent themselves almost daily—and paying attention to

where they lead you—you’ll want to keep track of them

and recognize which ones might suggest workable sto-

ries. To that end, you’ll want to engage in the following:

��Get in the habit of writing your

ideas down in a journal so you’ll remember them later.

�is should be something small and convenient enough

to keep with you at all times; even a back-pocket-sized

notebook will do.

��When you come across a new story

idea—or, if you already have an idea you’re pondering—

put it to the same kind of test as the example from the

exercise, seeing how the idea begins to bring up other

elements of story (character, con�ict, motivation, plot,

setting and so on). Does the initial idea or concept lead

to these elements, building step by step? If not, can you

�gure out where the idea breaks down? Does the prem-

ise suggest a character? Does the character have a clear

motivation? Does the motivation suggest a potential

con�ict in the story? And so on.

��It’s true that story ideas will come to you if you learn to

pay attention to what’s going on around you and recog-

nize those moments when your mind has begun to cre-

atively wander. But there are also other ways, and places,

you might look for inspiration when you need a boost.

��Sometimes a compelling story idea comes

not from any conversation overheard, or anything you catch

a glimpse of, but from a little voice that whispers a strange,

interesting line in your ear … say, “I have always had an

irrational fear of �rst kisses,” or “Her husband had become

hooked on daytime soaps,” or “For as long as I’d known her,

Jenny had claimed that her dream was to become the ninth

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Mrs. Larry King.” A good �rst line begins to suggest char-

acter, con�ict, plot, tone and theme the same way a compel-

ling initial idea or image does. For example, what do you

see present or suggested in the following �rst lines?

In the town, there were two mutes and they were

always together. (Carson McCullers, �e Heart Is a

Lonely Hunter)

Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday, I can’t be sure.

(Albert Camus, �e Stranger)

Something is wrong in the house. (Kathryn Davis, Hell)

��A well-written headline contains enough

possibility to get our imaginations working in the right

direction (since the headline writer wants us to be

intrigued enough to wonder about the story behind the

headline and read it). For the �ction writer, we need not

read the piece that goes along with a good headline—and

in fact we probably shouldn’t. Instead, the headline will

make us want to know the story behind it and begin writ-

ing it. What really happened isn’t as important to us as

what might happen.

Here are a few real-world examples to consider, any

one of which might suggest a sustainable story idea:

17 Burn at Same Time to Break Record

S.C. Cheerleader Hunts, Kills 10-Foot-Long Alligator

Game Show Looks to Convert Atheists

Jedi �rown Out of Grocery Store

�� Sometimes inspiration for a book will begin

before you’ve even hit the �rst chapter, with a title that

starts you thinking. I suspect the reason for this is that

good titles are o�en di�cult to come up with, so when

a good one comes along, it suggests possibilities imme-

diately. Keep a page in your notebook just for title ideas.

One of them might bring a story along with it.

�� At the risk of sounding obvious, good

writers are �rst and foremost good readers. I realize

that in our rushed lives, especially for writers with full-

time jobs, it can sometimes be di�cult to slow down, sit

down and enjoy a good book. But there can be nothing

more instructive, nor more inspiring to your work, than

reading a book from an author who does it right. (In

fact, it o�en takes me longer to read a great book than a

bad one, simply because every few pages I have to stop

to jot down some idea inspired by the text.)

It’s true that you might want to avoid reading other

writers when you’re in the midst of your own book, for

fear of being in�uenced too much or losing the sound

of your voice; that’s a matter of personal preference. But

reading consistently, and reading as a writer, can be a

constant source of inspiration. Find writers you love,

then �nd the writers they love. Reading is the best cre-

ative writing course you’ll ever take.

�� Finding beautiful art that

speaks to you—no matter what kind—tweaks your art-

ist’s brain and opens you up for creative thinking. So, if

you ever �nd yourself bere� of inspiration, go out and

see a �lm that’s been well reviewed, or rent a classic �lm

you’ve never seen. Take a weekend trip to an art show

or go browse the art books at the local bookseller. Put

on that classic album you haven’t heard in a while, turn

down the lights, and really listen to it (rather than hav-

ing it on as background noise while you run errands or

try to get chores done).

��ere are two pieces of writing advice that are so perva-

sive, so well known, that even non-writers have heard of

them: “write what you know” and “show, don’t tell.” �e

problem is, both are to some degree misleading—and

even potentially damaging to the creative process—if

taken too literally.

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In terms of your initial ideas and thinking about your

story, “write what you know” can be tricky advice. �e rea-

son for this is in how most interpret the expression: “Write

what I know? I’d better start thinking back to things that

have happened to me in the past so I can write about them.”

Such a writer then begins re�ecting on those personal

moments that had an impact on him or her—purely per-

sonal and subjective moments that don’t necessarily mean

anything to anyone besides the person remembering.

All of us have had the frustrating experience of try-

ing to explain something that aggravated us, or made us

happy, or upset us, to someone who wasn’t there, only

to have our listener say “uh-huh” and glaze over. In such

awkward moments, at least we have a sure�re exit strat-

egy: “Well, you just had to be there.” But we don’t have

any such luxury when we try to take our personal, sub-

jective experiences and make use of them in the public

form of the novel. �e last line of your novel can’t be,

“Well, you just had to be there.”

Mining our real life for �ction can be problematic.

In life, things o�en happen for no apparent rhyme or

reason, and, more than that, we o�en do things for no

apparent reason, too. We act on impulse, behave in

strange ways; we’re contradictory, inconsistent, con-

fusing or confused. �us, when we try to use our own,

o�en-ba�ing personal experiences in �ction, the result

can be confusing for a reader. (Why did the character

behave like that? I thought the character wanted [blank],

but then she forgot all about it.) Fiction, unlike life,

has to be logical, has to build in meaning for a reader,

whereas life can be rather chaotic and disjointed.

But this isn’t to say that we don’t ever write what we

know. In fact, every time we write we’re bringing some-

thing of ourselves and our personal hopes, fears and expe-

riences to the text—in how we think about our charac-

ters and their experiences, how we think about the ways

we would react or feel in a certain situation. �is is how

we connect with our characters and stories—by �nding

something familiar in their motivations and con�icts,

something we’ve felt before that has a bearing on the

work, then exploring that feeling in the context of your

story—and this is how our readers begin to connect with

our characters, too. Even if your story takes place on Mars,

in the way-distant future, there’ll be something about the

characters’ plight that is identi�ably human. Finding that

everyday human element, and using your own feelings

and experiences to explore it further, is what takes a story

from a series of things that happen to a complete and

meaningful experience for both reader and writer. It’s

not a process of telling people what you already know but

discovering what you know—and sometimes being sur-

prised by what you �nd—through your characters.

��New novelists seem to have a particular hang-up about

making sure their idea has “never been done before.” If

you have this worry, let me try and put your mind at

ease: It’s all been done before.

�is might sound a bit depressing, at least initially, but

once it sinks in you’ll �nd it rather liberating. �ere is no

completely new, 100-percent-unique plot idea. �ere is

no undiscovered or unheard-of theme or motivation. As

high-school English teachers used to say, and probably

still do, all of literature might be boiled down to a half-

dozen con�icts, and as far as motivations go, there are

still just seven Deadly Sins (and maybe as many virtues).

�e point is that it’s not the idea but the approach that

makes a work original. �e Western canon has no short-

age of revenge stories, but there’s still only one Moby-Dick.

Bookstores are �lled with coming-of-age novels—they

could make a complete section of them, if they wanted.

What makes your book di�erent from every other

book out there is that it’s been written by you. It forms,

and is formed by, a singular vision that’s uniquely yours

(even as a part of your vision has been informed by

other people’s visions, the books you’ve read, the litera-

ture that inspired you to write in the �rst place).

So don’t get discouraged when you begin to think

of books similar to yours, as you undoubtedly will, or

when you discuss your story idea with someone who

chimes in, without thinking, “Oh, it’s like [blank].” Just

nod your head and say, “Sorta.” Because it probably is

like a number of other books … but it’s also a particular

product of your distinctive vision and voice, which is

what makes the work important.

��

��


��

One of the most common questions new �ction writers ask is,

Should I do a complete outline before I write? And if so, how

extensive should it be?

To put this in a little historical perspective, let us look at a

long-standing feud between the NOPs and the OPs.

�e NOPs are the “no outline” people. �ese happy folk love to frolic in

the daisies of their imaginations as they write. With nary a care, they let the

characters and images that sprout in their minds do all the leading. �ey fol-

low along, happily recording the adventures.

Ray Bradbury is a NOP. In Zen in the Art of Writing he says:

Plot is no more than footprints le� in the snow a�er your characters have

run by on their way to incredible destinations. Plot is observed a�er the fact

rather than before. It cannot precede action. �at is all Plot should ever be. It

is human desire let run, running, and reaching a goal. It cannot be mechani-

cal. It can only be dynamic.

�e joy of being a NOP is that you get to fall in love every day. But as in love

and life, there is heartache along the way.

�e heartache comes when you look back and see nothing resembling plot.

Some fresh writing, yes, but where is the cohesion? Some brilliant word gems

�ash, but they may be scattered over a plotless desert.

�e OPs—outline people—seek security above all. �ey lay out a plot

with as much speci�city as possible. �ey may use index cards, spread out

on the �oor or pinned to corkboard, and rework the pattern many times

before writing.

Or they’ll write a plot treatment, 50 pages written in the present tense.

�en they’ll edit that like they would a full manuscript. And only then will

they begin the actual novel.

TO OUTLINE OR NOT TO OUTLINE?

It’s one of the biggest questions facing every novelist. Here are the pros and cons—plus �ve proven

outlining methods.

��


Albert Zuckerman, an OP, says in Writing the

Blockbuster Novel:

No sane person would think of setting out to construct

a skyscraper or even a one-family home without a

detailed set of plans. A big novel must have the literary

equivalent of beams and joists strong enough to sustain

it excitingly from beginning to end, and it also must

contain myriad interlocking parts fully as complex as

those in any building type.

�e value of the OP approach is that, with experience,

one can virtually guarantee a solidly structured plot.

�e highs and lows will come at the right time. �ere

are no unhappy tangents.

�e danger, however, is the lack of that freshness and

spontaneity the NOPs are known for. An OP may get to

a place where one of the characters is screaming to do

something other than what’s written down on a scene

card. �e OP �ghts the character, whipping him back

into submission. But in doing so, he may have missed

the exact angle that would make his plot original.

��ere is no single, inviolable way to lay a �ctional foun-

dation. Some of the best writers out there have di�er-

ent approaches.

Robert Crais, author of Hostage and �e Last Detective,

is an OP, a self-described “plotter.” He likes to know as

much as he can about the story and scenes he’s going to

write before he gets going. But his books are still action

packed and full of surprising twists.

On the other side of the fence is NOP Elizabeth

Berg, author of such titles as Range of Motion and Never

Change. She starts with a feeling rather than a roadmap.

For her, the joy in writing �ction comes with the daily

discoveries of things she did not know were inside her.

David Morrell, author of numerous bestsellers, takes a

middle path. He likes to start a free-form letter to himself

as the subject takes shape in his mind. He’ll add to it daily,

letting the thing grow in whatever direction his mind takes

him. What this method does is mine rich ore in the subcon-

scious and imagination, yielding deeper story structure.

But when it comes to the writing, says Morrell, “I try

to let the story’s drama carry me along and reveal sur-

prises. O�en, the best moments in a scene are those that

I never imagined ahead of time. In a way, I try to enter-

tain myself as much as I hope to entertain the reader.”

Jerry Jenkins is the author of the bestselling �ction series,

Le� Behind. Naturally for a project of that length, Jenkins

must have constructed a huge outline, so as not to get lost.

He didn’t. “My structure is intuitive,” Jenkins says,

“and I write the whole manuscript, beginning to end,

chronologically, bouncing from perspective to perspec-

tive by instinct. I’m grati�ed people think it looks care-

fully designed, but it’s not blueprinted in advance.”

When readers ask him why he chose to kill o� their

favorite character, Jenkins responds, “I didn’t kill him

o�; I found him dead.”

��My personal message to the OPs and the NOPs: Be true

to yourself, but try a little of the other guy’s method. You

may be delighted at what you come up with.

For example, NOPs could look at their �rst dra�s as

if they were big outlines! �at �rst dra� might be the

exploratory notes for a plot that works. Once it is done,

the NOP can step back and see what’s there and reformu-

late the outline into something that is more plot solid.

A simple way to do this is to read over your �rst dra�,

then write a two- or three-page synopsis. Now put on

your plotting hat and edit that synopsis until you come

up with a roadmap for your story.

�en you’re ready to do a second dra� in NOP style.

As Bradbury advises, don’t rewrite it, relive it.

You OPs could work on your outlines as if they were

�rst dra�s. If you do a manuscript-style outline, write it

with passion and a sense of play. Let things happen that

you don’t plan.

If you work with cards, generate whole bunches of scene

ideas, even crazy ones. �en put the cards all together and

shu�e them. What sort of pattern does this suggest?

You can tighten your outline then, according to your

OP instincts. But you’ll have generated some things that

couldn’t have come from a strictly le�-brained regimen.

Any method will work so long as it is your method. But

I would counsel you to do two things before you write.

[1] Use the LOCK system. As explained in “Plot Made

Simple” on page 59, these are the elements that give you a


solid foundation for your novel. If there is a glaring weak-

ness in your story, it will probably be revealed here.

Work with the elements until they are strong enough

for you to consider writing a whole book.

[2] Write the back cover copy. When you are com-

fortable with your LOCK elements, move on to the writ-

ing of your back cover copy. �is is the marketing copy

that compels a reader to buy your book. �is is what you

see on the back of paperback novels in your bookstore.

What you want to do is create a few paragraphs

that excite your own interest, enough to compel you

to move on to the next step. You can even pause at

this point and share your back cover copy with some

trusted friends to get their take on it. If no one can

see the excitement in the story, you have the chance to

rework things before spending all that time writing an

outline. For example:

Sam Jones is a cop who has fallen from grace. He’s battling

the bottle and losing his family. �en he is assigned to the

biggest murder case in years—the mayor has been killed

in a gruesome way.

It seems open and shut, with a prime suspect—a polit-

ical rival—being the target of the investigation. It may

just be the case that brings Sam out of his darkness.

But as he gets closer to the truth, things are not as

clear as they �rst appeared. Not only that, but the killer

is stalking him and his family. �e message is clear—

drop the investigation or lose your life.

Will Sam be able to stay alive long enough to �nd out

who really killed the mayor? Can he save his own family?

And if he does, what will the cost be?

Add plot elements to the back cover copy. You are get-

ting more speci�c. Hone these paragraphs until you are

bubbling over with excitement.

Now you’re ready for the next step—employing a

plotting system.

��You may think that if you are a pure NOP, there is no

such thing as a plotting system.

Not necessarily. In fact, you will bene�t greatly by

going at your wild �ights of literary genius with a little

bit of le�-brain discipline.

Don’t worry, you will be allowed all the freedom

and joy of creation you desire. But you’ll be happy in

the long run that you added a little order to your cre-

ative chaos.

[1] Set yourself a writing quota. If you plan to �nish

your novel in a month, this is almost mandatory. But

even if not, each day you write, do not leave your writ-

ing desk until you have completed your quota.

If it’s going good, you press on and do more. You

have fun; you let your characters tell the story.

Can you go on and �nish a whole novel this way?

Certainly, but you will have a lot of rewriting and

rethinking to do. �at’s all right. Some writers like to

do it that way.

[2] Begin your writing day by rereading what you

wrote the day before. I recommend you read your pre-

vious day’s work in hard copy. You may not be able to

make major changes or additions at this time if work-

ing on a 30-day deadline—but you should take note of

things you might want to change in the future.

[3] One day per week, record your plot journey. Take

time to record what you have done using a plot grid.

What you are doing is using Ray Bradbury’s terms,

recording the characters’ footprints in the snow. �is

will be incredibly useful to you later on.

You also use this grid to record dates and times so you

know at a glance how your plot is stacking up logically.

�ere you have it. �at wasn’t so painful, was it? Be glad.

You are still a NOP.

��There are as many ways to outline as there are writ-

ers. Most working OPs develop their own systems

over the years, picking and choosing from what other

writers do.

I’ve written novels every which way, from NOP to OP

and in between. So I feel quali�ed to o�er a selection of

systems for you to choose from. Try them out. See what

works for you. �at’s the way to go and grow.

��

Writers have been using index cards since index cards

were invented. I suppose they used slips of paper before

that. Blaise Pascal, the great genius of the 17th century,

��


was planning to write a huge treatise in defense of

Christianity. He kept his notes on pieces of paper tied

up in little bundles. He died before he could start his

magnum opus, but his notes were published as the

Pensées, one of the great books of the Western world.

So index cards may be just right for you.

�ere are so�ware programs that simulate index

cards and allow you to manipulate them on the screen.

Some writers �nd it a little too constricting, however, to

be bound by the parameters of a computer monitor.

Personally I like the feel of the cards in my hands. I

can take them with me anywhere. (�ere’s nothing wrong

with being a bit of a Luddite when it comes to writing.)

With index cards, you can then spread them out before

you on the �oor, pin them to a big corkboard, or do what-

ever else you want to do with them. Cards can be easily

switched around or thrown away. You can put them in

your pocket and work on them while you’re sipping your

morning co�ee at the local café. If inspiration hits you

while you’re in the shower, you can towel o� and jot a

note on an index card, and throw it on the pile.

Flexibility is the key with index cards, and if you tend

to be somewhat right-brained most of the time, index

cards are a great way to harness your frequent bursts of

genius. Later, with the help of your le� brain, you can

lay out a solid story.

��You can begin your scene cards

at any point in the planning process. Perhaps you want

to do some work on your LOCK elements (see page 59)

or your characters. It doesn’t matter. What matters is

that you create a stack of scene ideas and then arrange

them for structure.

Here is one suggested method. Spend a few hours

coming up with vivid scenes in your mind and record-

ing these scenes on index cards. You don’t have to do

this all in one sitting. In fact, it’s better if you don’t. You’ll

�nd as you start collecting scenes that your writer-mind

will work in the background, and when you come back

to the cards, you’ll have ideas bubbling up to the surface

that will be exciting to you.

A scene card can be as simple as this:

Monica drives to John’s house; chased by bikers. Saved

by Fireman Dan.

Carry around blank index cards in an envelope or

pocket. When you have free time or scheduled creative

time, take out the stack and start writing scene ideas.

Don’t think about structure yet. You’ll come up with

scenes in random order. Just let your mind play.

And don’t think about what scenes you’ll keep. Later

you’ll toss out the ones that don’t work (only don’t toss

them out for good; put them in a discard pile because

you may want to come back to them at some point).

You also can make your scene cards more formal,

with a setting as the key indicator:

STARBUCKS

Bill confronts Stan about Monica.

Fight.

Ex-Green Bay Packer Lyle throws Bill and Stan

through window.

�� Eventually, you’ll have a stack of

scenes. You’ve done your LOCK work and written the

back cover copy. You’re ready to start getting serious

about structure.

�ink about your ending. You should have a possible

climactic scene in mind. Perhaps all you know is that

you want your protagonist to win in a big way and you

want a certain kind of resonance. Fine. Put that down

on a card. �is will be your last, or next-to-last scene

card. Give it as much detail as you’re comfortable with.

�e point is to have something to shoot for.

�� Now spend some time thinking

about the major scenes that your plot will require. You

will no doubt have in mind a number of these. �ey

may be less than fully formed, but you have a feeling

about them. Give them as much detail as possible, but

don’t sweat it.

Come up with a gripping opening scene (if you

haven’t already), and put that on a card.

�en �gure out the disturbance, and put that on a card.

Next, create the doorway of no return that leads into

Act II, and the second doorway that leads into Act III

(see pages 56–62).

�� . You are now ready to lay out your

cards for the �rst time. Use the �oor or a large table or

wherever else you’re comfortable being the hovering

god over your story.


Put your opening scene card on the le�, and your cli-

mactic scene card on the right. Put the disturbance card

near the opening, and the �rst doorway a bit a�er that.

Put the second doorway card near the end.

Now �ll in your story in between. Space out your big

scenes in the most logical order, usually meaning that

the scenes grow progressively more intense as you move

toward that last card.

If there seems to be a gap between scenes, space that

needs �lling, put a blank card or cards there. Try to get

a feel for the rhythm of the story this way.

You should be getting an idea of the big picture now.

Your plot will begin to feel like a cohesive whole.

��Play with these cards for at least

a week. Add scenes and take scenes out. If you have

the sense that a certain scene is going to go in a certain

place, but you’re not sure yet what the details will be,

put a blank card there. Maybe you want to have a reac-

tion scene following some intense action. You can write

“Reaction scene” and move on.

�at’s the beauty of the index card system.

You can get even fancier. If your plot involves mul-

tiple leads or numerous subplots, each of these can be

recorded on di�erent colored cards. Or you can get

sticky notes of di�erent colors to put on the cards as

codes. You can lay out the cards by color in straight lines,

so the plots all run parallel to each other. �en, from

above, you can integrate the di�erent cards at di�erent

points in a single line, and there is your master plot.

Or you can put your cards out in a plotline and char-

acter line. �e plotline records the action, and a char-

acter line records what’s going on inside the character

along the way. You can then create a nice character arc

for your story.

Once you’ve got a pretty solid order, number the

cards in pencil. �en you can get them back in order

a�er you shu�e the cards!

�at’s right. Shu�e them like a Vegas poker deck. �is

is a cool idea from Robert Kernan’s excellent Building

Better Plots. Now go through the cards two at a time in

this random order.

What you’re looking for are new connections between

plot elements, some fresh perspectives on the story. You

may then want to revise your structure accordingly.

�ere are variations upon the index card system. One

writer friend of mine, a very successful novelist, takes

a long section of butcher paper and along the top puts

down the various beats of the three-act structure and

hero’s journey. She makes a long column out of each

of these beats. �en she gets di�erent colored Post-It

notes, representing her major characters, and records

scenes on these. She then sticks them on the paper until

it becomes a symphony of colors.

At the end of the day, she rolls up the butcher paper

and places it in a tube that is designed to hold large

maps. �is tube has a strap so she can carry it over her

shoulder. When she wants to work on it again, out it

comes, unrolling in all its glory.

�� Finally, you begin writing, scene by scene.

I suggest that a�er each group of three or four scenes,

you lay out your cards again. New ideas and twists may

come to you. Create new cards if you want. Rearrange

others. Add to what you’ve written on the cards.

It’s all up to you. You’ll �nd this system highly �exible

and creative.

��

E.L. Doctorow compared his plotting to driving at night

with the headlights on. You have an idea as to your direc-

tion, but you can see only as far as the headlights. When

you drive to that point you can see a little farther. And so

on, until you reach your destination.

In other words, you can outline as you roll along.

And why not? Nothing in the writers’ rule book—even

the OP’s rule book—says you have to outline completely

before you begin writing. In fact, even for an OP, that

may not be the way to go.

Why not? Because there is so much you discover

about your story and characters as you write that it is

sometimes best not to have a comprehensive outline

chiseled in stone. �at might cause you to resist the

fresh material that has come up and get back to your

preset ideas.

With the headlights system, you don’t face that ten-

dency. Here’s how it can work.

Begin your journey, as always, with the LOCK system

and back cover copy. You should have an idea of where

you want to end up. �at would be the �nal chapter.

��


What sort of feeling are you going for? It can be vague

and may even change radically, but it’s always nice to

start a journey with a destination in mind.

First, write your opening chapter.

When you get to the end of the chapter, immediately

jot down your ideas for the next few chapters.

You should have plenty of story material cooking in

your mind at this point. Now look at what your head-

lights see up ahead.

Generate scene ideas by asking the following questions:

• What is my character’s emotional state at the end

of the scene? How will he react in the next scene?

• What is the next action my character needs to take?

• What strong scene up ahead needs transitional

scenes before it?

• Do I need to add any new characters? Has a

character in the scene I’ve just written suggested

other plot developments?

Your notes can be as full or as scanty as suits your

preference. For example, let’s say you’ve written an

opening to your coming-of-age story, which has your

lead character, a teenager named Sally, moving into a

new house in a new town. At the end of the chapter, she

sneaks a peek out her bedroom window and sees a boy

from across the street staring at her.

Now what? You write the following:

Chapter 2: Next day, Sally walks to store where she sees

the boy again. He tries to talk to her. She runs away.

Chapter 3: �at night, Sally’s father lectures her on

how to make friends. �ey don’t communicate well.

Blow up.

Chapter 4: Monday. First day at new school. Sally is

harassed by a jerk. �e mystery boy saves her.

And there you have your outline for the next few scenes.

If you want to �esh out the scenes a little more before

writing them, go ahead. For example:

Chapter 2: Next day. Raining. Sally walks to the store

to get some school supplies. She is at once enchanted by

and somewhat afraid of her new environment. �ere

are contrasting images of beautiful gardens and run-

down homes, of fresh smells and the odor of dirty, wet

streets. She thinks about her friends back in Connecticut.

At the store, she is about to grab some notebook paper

when she sees the boy. Once again, he’s staring at her,

this time with a smile on his face. He comes toward

her. Frightened for some reason, Sally tries to get out

of the store, bumping into people, etc. She is sure she’s

being stalked.

�at’s how, step by step, you both discover and out-

line your novel. You drive as far as your headlights allow.

Enjoy the ride!

��

Some very successful writers, such as Ken Follett, cre-

ate long, narrative outlines for their books. �is is also

called a treatment. It can run between 20–40 pages,

maybe more.

�e narrative outline is written in the present tense. It

can include a bit of dialogue, but only what is crucial to

the story. What you’re trying to create is a large canvas

overview of the story.

Here is what a treatment might look like:

Randy Miller is a big man at Ta� High School. He is

the star of the football team and hangs around with all

the right people.

So why should a scrawny little guy like Bob be of any

interest to him? Because Bob is teased mercilessly by

the bigger guys, yet seems to have a serene way of tak-

ing it. �ere is a serenity inside Bob that Randy wishes

he could �gure out.

Randy would like to talk to him, but doing so would

be socially unacceptable—uncool! �ere is a real class

system at school. �is is especially evident at lunch

time. �ere is only one cool table, where Randy and

friends sit, and one de�nite outcast table where Bob

sits, o�en alone.

One day Randy observes as his buddies pull down

Bob’s pants and stick him head �rst in a garbage can.

As Bob struggles out amidst the laughter all around,

Randy just shakes his head at him. “Man, you are such

a dweeb. Why don’t you stop being dweeby?”

“What do you mean?” Bob says. “Everybody’s got

potential. You want me to teach you?” Bob doesn’t

answer, and Randy just waves him o� as a lost cause.

Meanwhile, Randy is struggling in American Lit, taught

by the tough Mrs. Agnes. Tough because she cares about


these kids, and will not let them just skate by. She tries

to bring out of every student deeper insights than they

otherwise have, through poetry and books. Bob does

well in this class …

�is narrative outline will be revised and edited sev-

eral times until you feel you have a solid story.

��

I’m a big fan of the books of David Morrell, especially �e

Successful Novelist. Morrell’s method is geared toward

getting deeper into your story idea, �nding out why you

really want to write it. It’s a trip into the subconscious

and the place where real writing power resides.

It’s a simple concept. You write a letter to yourself.

You ask yourself questions about your idea. �e most

important question is, Why? Keep asking that one over

and over.

I used this method for my novel Breach of Promise.

Here is the �rst part of what I wrote:

Why am I writing this? I am writing this because I want

readers to feel the story of a man coming to learn what

it is to be a father, only to have the system tear his guts

out. And the fact that he’s discriminated against even

while doing what’s right … wow. What does he do?

Is that all? Well, I want readers to love Mark and

follow his spiritual journey. And why do people love

someone? If he cares about someone else (his daughter,

of course; another character?). If he is vulnerable (wor-

ries, fears, hopes—and he’s the underdog).

What, exactly, is the journey about? He goes from

being a guy trying to be an actor, to someone who dis-

covers deeper values—his daughter, for one. He really

loves his daughter.

Why? What is it about having a daughter that is so

important to this guy? Maybe he had a kid sister? Who

died in a terrible way? And maybe Maddie helps him

cope with that. (Or maybe that’s too much. It detracts

from the real part of the story, which is just him trying

to get Maddie back?)

Is there some other reason for Mark to be so attached

to Maddie? Maybe because he’s never been really suc-

cessful at anything—he failed at baseball, even though

injured, and his acting deal isn’t coming along. �ere

might be a moment where Mark realizes that he had

better be a success for his own daughter. Too many

other people mess this job up. Let’s get back to the spiri-

tual journey.

Every day I would add to this journal, deepening my

understanding of the material. �is is a powerful tech-

nique even NOPS will love.

��

If you are a pure OP, if you desire to know just about

everything that is going to happen in your novel before

you begin writing, here’s a simple plan to help you get

there. I call it the Borg outline.

�e Borg, as Star Trek fans know, is a cybernetic life

form that assimilates all life forms it can in order to cre-

ate a collective, advanced consciousness. If you are a

super OP and you want that kind of all-encompassing

system, this will work for you.

You go from the general to the speci�c, and then you

tweak the speci�cs until you’re ready to write.

Here are the steps for you to follow:

[1] De�ne the LOCK elements (see page 59). A solid

plot needs at least four things:

• A protagonist

• An objective for the protagonist

• Confrontation in the form of an opposing force

• An idea of what kind of knockout ending you want

So spend a good deal of time de�ning your LOCK ele-

ments. It can be as simple as this:

Sam Jones is a cop who wants to �nd out who really

murdered the mayor. He is opposed by the killer, who

turns out to be the mayor’s wife. In the end he is trium-

phant, but I want the feeling to be bittersweet.

�at’s very general, as it should be. If you’re going to

construct a complete outline you don’t want to commit

yourself too quickly at any point in the proceedings. Stay

loose to give your imagination some breathing room.

[2] Write your back cover copy. As I recommended

earlier, begin by getting your summary statement into

shape. �is will be your overall story guide as you con-

tinue to put together the outline.

[3] Create the overall structure. �ink in terms of

three acts. For example:

��


Act I: Sam gets the case. Act II: Sam struggles to solve the

case. Act III: Sam solves the case.

Next, think about the two doorways of no return. Ask

yourself why Sam must solve the case. What incident is

going to force Sam to take the case? It might be as sim-

ple as being assigned the case. �at means he has a duty

that he must obey. �at would be the �rst doorway.

�en Sam comes across a major clue or su�ers a pos-

sible setback, which becomes the second doorway. �is

may be a vague scene at �rst, but write it down in gen-

eral terms either on an index card or however else you

like to keep track of your scenes.

Come up with a possible ending scene and add that

to your list.

[4] Do some character work. If you like to do exten-

sive character biographies, now would be the time to

work on those. I �nd it handy to distill all my character

work into a one- or two-page grid with the following

information:

Name, Description, Role

Objective & Motive

Secret

Emotion Evoked

[5] Create act summaries. You have three acts already

laid out. Give a summary of each act. What is going to

be accomplished in each? Get more speci�c.

[6] Create chapter summary lines. For each act, start

creating one-line summaries of possible chapters. Again,

you can put these on index cards or simply list them. You

will be manipulating them a lot, so be �exible. Some of

your chapter lines for act one might go like this:

Prologue: �e mayor is murdered.

Chapter 1: Sam questions a witness in an unrelated

homicide. �e witness freaks out.

Chapter 2: Sam is dressed down by his captain for

being overzealous.

Chapter 3: Sam gets drunk and complains to his

partner. Doesn’t want to go home.

Chapter 4: At home, Sam yells at his wife and daugh-

ter. His wife drinks.

Chapter 5: A newspaper reporter corners Sam about

the witness incident. Sam is assigned the case with a

partner, Art Lopez.

Chapter 6: �e killer’s point of view: watching the

news on television.

And so on. �is part of your outlining can take a long

time—and it should. Give yourself a realistic deadline

and strive to meet it. (You would not want to attempt

this style of outlining while also attempting to �nish a

complete dra� in 30 days.)

Lay out your plot on index cards or in some other

form so you can get the big picture. Give yourself some

time away and then come back to your plot once more

for �ne-tuning. Maybe you’re going to want to add or

subtract scenes. In fact, you should.

[7] Do full chapter summaries. Expand your chapter

lines into short summaries of the scenes you are going

to write. Put down the locations, times and characters

involved. Strive to keep these summaries to less than

250 words.

[8] Take a breather. You deserve it.

[9] Write your novel. Follow the chapter summa-

ries, step by step, as you write your book. If you come

to a place where you’re absolutely compelled to deviate

from your outline, pause and think about it, and if need

be, change the outline from that point forward. Yes, it

involves work and new chapter summaries. But you are

an OP, and you love this.

[10] Revise your novel. See pages 86–96.

On a �nal note, if you remain unsure of what outlin-

ing approach is best for you (if any at all), then make a

list of your favorite novels. Is there a similarity to them?

Are they heavy on plot and action, or do you prefer more

character-driven books? Or is there a mix?

�ere are more NOPs on the literary/character-

driven side, and more OPs on the commercial/plot-

driven side. Take this into account when choosing a

system. You should be writing the type of novel you

most like to read.

��

��

��

��


This is a de�nitive guide to word count for �c-

tion (novels, young adult, middle grade), as

well as memoir.

�e most important thing is to realize that

there are always exceptions to these rules. (People love

to point out exceptions—and they always will.) However,

you cannot count on being the exception; you must count

on being the rule. Aiming to be the exception is setting

yourself up for disappointment. What writers fail to see

is that for every successful exception to the rule (e.g.,

a �rst-time 175,000-word novel), there are hundreds of

failures. Almost always, high word count means that the

writer simply did not edit his work enough. Or, it means

he has actually written two or more books combined

into one. With that in mind, let’s break down some gen-

eral word count guidelines.

��Aim for between 80,000 and 89,999 words. �is is a 100

percent safe range for literary, romance, mystery, sus-

pense, thriller and horror. Now, speaking broadly, you

can get away with as few as 71,000 words and as many

as 109,000 words. But when a book dips below 80,000, it

might be perceived as too short—not giving the reader

enough. (�e one exception to this rule is the chick-lit

genre, which favors shorter, faster reads. If you’re writ-

ing chick lit, 65,000–75,000 is a better target range.)

While it can be permissable to go over 100,000 words

if your book really warrants such length, don’t cross the

six-�gure mark by much. Agent Rachelle Gardner of

Wordserve Literary points out that more than 110K is

de�ned as “epic or saga”—and chances are your cozy mys-

tery or literary novel is not an epic. Gardner also men-

tions that passing 100,000 in word count means you’ve

written a book that will be more costly to produce—

making it a di�cult sell.

��Science �ction and fantasy books tend to run long

largely because of all the descriptions and world-build-

ing involved. �e thing is: Writers tend to know that

these categories run long so they make them run really

long, and hurt their chances with an agent.

With these genres, 100,000–110,000 is an excellent

range. It’s six-�gures long, but not excessive. �ere’s also

nothing wrong with keeping it a bit shorter; it shows

that you can whittle your work down.

In broader terms, anything between 85,000 and

125,000 may be acceptable when writing science �ction

and fantasy.

��Middle-grade �ction—that is, novels for readers in the

9–12 age range—usually falls within 20,000–45,000

words, depending on the subject matter and target

WORD COUNT BASICS

Know your goal so you can plan how many words you need to write each day or week to complete

your book in 30 days.

Aim for between 80,000 and 89,999 words. �is is a 100 percent safe range for literary, romance, mystery, suspense, thriller and horror.


��

reader age. When writing a longer book aimed at 12-

year-olds (who could be considered “tween”), using

the term “upper–middle grade” is advisable. �ese

are books that resemble young adult �ction in matter

and storytelling, but still tend to stick to middle grade

themes and avoid hot-button, YA-acceptable themes

such as sex and drugs. With upper–middle grade, you

can aim for 32,000–40,000 words. You can stray a little

over but not much.

With a simpler middle-grade idea (such as Football

Hero or Jenny Jones and the Cupcake Mystery), aim lower.

Shoot for 20,000–30,000 words.

��Perhaps more than any other, YA is the one category

where word count is very �exible. For starters, 50,000–

69,999 is a great range.

�e word from the agent blogosphere is that these

books tend to be trending longer and can top out in

the 80,000-word range. However, this progression is

still in motion, and trends can be �ckle, so you may be

playing with �re the higher you go. Make sure you have

a compelling reason for exceeding 70,000 words. One

good reason is that your YA novel is science �ction or

fantasy. Once again, these categories are expected to

be a little longer because of the description and world-

building they entail.

Concerning the low end, fewer than 50,000 words

could be acceptable, but be sure to stay above 40,000 to

remain viable in this genre.

��e standard for this category is text for 32 pages, which

might mean one line per page, or more. Aim for 500–

600 words; when a manuscript gets closer to 1,000, edi-

tors and agents might shy away.

��Marketable manuscripts in this genre can be anywhere

from 50,000–80,000 words. A good target range is any-

where around the 65,000-word mark.

��Some literary agents such as Kristin Nelson of Nelson

Literary say that you shouldn’t think about word count,

but rather you should think about pacing and telling the

best story possible. While that sounds good in theory,

the fact is: Not every agent feels that way and is will-

ing to give a 129,000-word debut novel a shot. Agents

receive so many queries and submissions that they are

looking for reasons to say no. And if you submit a proj-

ect well outside the typical length conventions, then you

are giving them ammunition to reject you.

Some writers may just take their chances, cross their

�ngers and hope for the best.

But don’t count on being the exception; count on

being the rule. �at’s the way to give yourself the best

shot at success.

��

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This is where we plan and outline your four weeks of writing, as well

as provide a special roadmap for the �rst 7 days. �e mandatory

rule: Focus on one story. To complete a book in a month, think

about your word count goal like this:

• Week 1: Act I = 25 percent of goal

• Week 2: Act II, Part 1 = 25 percent of goal

• Week 3: Act II, Part 2 = 25 percent of goal

• Week 4: Act III = 25 percent of goal

�ere is nothing more frustrating than reaching 60 percent of your goal

only to realize you are still setting up the story in Act II. Plan ahead and

watch your act breaks.

Many times, a writer is great at writing Act I and will go on and on, set-

ting everything up, while another writer loves to get to the end and will

breeze through Act I in a race to get to the good stu�. Segmenting your writ-

ing time over these 30 days into acts helps you avoid these mistakes.

Remember, actually �nishing the story is most important. If your goal is

to write 80,000 words, that is wonderful. But you could easily write 80,000

words without ever getting anywhere near the ending, so the acts help you

stay on task.

For instance, 80,000 words could mean:

Week 1: Act I = 20,000 words

Weeks 2 and 3: Act II = 40,000 words

Week 4: Act III = 20,000 words

YOUR

7�DAY JUMPSTART

Say good-bye to intimidation. Here’s a game plan for your �rst week—including essential checkpoints for long-term success.

��

��


How you break it down is up to you and might also

depend on the genre you are writing for, but guidelines

are always helpful. �e acts are guideposts to manage

your word and page counts.

Aside from setting and meeting a weekly word count

goal, here is a special to-do list for the �rst seven days,

to help ensure you have a successful �rst dra� a�er

one month.

��What’s the one-liner for your story? Can you say, in one

sentence, what your story is about? �is is tough, but

give it a try. Just include the very basic elements of your

story idea, the overall story in a nutshell. Don’t include

the plot points or acts, just create a tagline of sorts to

tell readers what your story is about. What would pub-

lishers put on the back of the book to let readers know

what your story is about?

If you took everything away—the plot points, sub-

plots, settings, etc.—what is the core storyline that is

le�? For instance:

• A rich girl and poor boy meet and fall in love on

the ill-fated voyage of the Titanic.

• A Hobbit named Frodo, entrusted with an an-

cient ring, must now embark on an epic quest to

destroy it.

�e point of this exercise is that, if you can’t express

in one line what the core of your story is, then you may

not have much to focus on while writing. You can’t get

from A to Z, especially in 30 days, without some kind of

map. Even those of you who hate to outline must do this

little exercise. You have to have some kind of direction,

even if that direction is a broad one.

�is is your one-sentence outline. It is what all other

elements of your outline will be held up to, should you

choose to work with one. For instance, if you �nd your-

self wondering whether or not to include a particular

scene, you can �nd the answer to this question by ask-

ing, “Does it �t with my one-sentence outline?”

For example, in Titanic, you want to add a scene

where Rose learns to play the harmonica in her room

because you just love the harmonica. Does the scene

really have anything to do with the love story (the sto-

ry’s core idea)? Does it have anything to do with how

poorly the ship is made or that it will eventually sink

(the plot’s core idea)? Does it do anything to advance

the core story? Not really.

Unless you can make it �t with the core story and

advance it somehow, drop it.

�e one-sentence summary is similar to a thesis

statement in non�ction. All the ideas you have are held

up to it to see if they �t with the story. �is way, you

don’t go o� on tangents, spinning your wheels in the

wrong direction—oh, what a writing block that is!

If you have no outline, you’ll also want to use this

�rst day to brainstorm ideas for your Act I arc using

the Story Idea Map on pages 105–106. �is worksheet

outlines the basic Act I structure, using your setup to

develop the basic plot situations or problems into con-

�ict (where Act II will begin).

Don’t censor yourself; just jot down any ideas that

come to mind. List any potential characters, both major

and minor, as they occur to you—perhaps there will be

characters you would expect to �nd in this kind of story;

perhaps you’ll be surprised by unusual or atypical char-

acters (possibly used to further comedic or dramatic

e�ect, depending on your goals). If you get an idea for a

setting, prop, secondary character, what-have-you, write

it down and keep brainstorming. Don’t be afraid to twist

an idea around and create an outrageous Act I.

��ink about how your story should progress, and jot down

details as they come to you, revising as you go along. (For

more on using index cards to track scenes, see page 25.)

You will keep using these cards to �esh out, add

and change scenes as you write. �e cards should be

small enough so you won’t go overboard and write too

much, which can leave no room for creativity as you

write the story.

As you begin, you may want to think of your story

in terms of 10 key scenes. �is will help you focus your

idea so you can pepper the story with the more impor-

tant details later.

��Many writers don’t like to outline, which is �ne. But

when attempting a book in a month, it is critical to


have, at the very least, a solid direction to go in. �ere

just isn’t as much time to “go with the �ow” and wait

to see what comes up. �ings will come up and you can

go with them, but you have to give yourself a road to

travel down in the �rst place. Remember: It is much

easier and faster to rewrite an outline than to rewrite

an entire manuscript.

You don’t have to have a detailed outline with every

scene mapped out (though that would be great!), but

at least know the direction you want to go in, the gist

of the main characters—will they succeed or fail in

the end?

�e At-A-Glance Outline (pages 108–112) o�ers a

quick way to �ll in the blanks of your story. It guides

you to answer the right questions for each area of your

story, the questions that will come up fast when writ-

ing. Remember: Writing without a plot usually means

being okay with heavy rewriting.

So, �ll out the At-A-Glance Outline. Don’t panic if

you don’t know how all of your story’s pieces �t together

yet—sometimes di�erent elements of your story reveal

themselves to you as you write. Right now, just �ll out

what you can. If a part of the outline stumps you, don’t

get frustrated. Just think it over. Brainstorm some pos-

sibilities and try to �ll it in as best you can, because

this outline will act as your road map. If you’re still

stuck, leave that box blank. Don’t stop the whole pro-

cess because you can’t answer one question. Keep mov-

ing forward and do your best.

��While a 30-day plan is usually all about getting down

the plot, characterization is still extremely important.

It doesn’t matter if you are writing a character-driven

story or a plot-driven one.

Many writers like to map out their characters before

they start writing, while others like to wait until they

have written a little of the story and met their charac-

ters before mapping them out. �e worksheets o�ered

on pages 113–115 represent a middle ground of sorts—

allowing you to think through certain aspects with-

out going too deep too early in the writing process.

�ey help you plan for and chart character growth

throughout your story.

�� For each major charac-

ter, create a mini-pro�le. Use the worksheet on pages

113–114 as a guide. �is worksheet provides a quick

overview of your main characters, and help you get a

handle on the basics of who a character is. For more

extensive planning, use the Character-Revealing

Scenes worksheet (page 115) to plan how you will

reveal each character’s strengths, weaknesses, skills

and motivations.

Note: Remember that you have in your story not

just a protagonist, whose goal is shaped or informed

by who he is and where he’s been, but you have an

antagonist, whose goal is in con�ict with that of your

main character. At the moment, having a clear under-

standing of what your villain’s goal is will be enough

to keep your story moving in the right direction. But

as you write, you’ll come to understand more of who

your villain is and what parts of his own life have

pushed him toward this goal. Rather than trying to

map out the villain’s upbringing, likes and dislikes,

or personal tragedies now, taking up valuable writing

time, keep a blank character sheet handy and make

notes to yourself as more of your villain is revealed

to you.

��A turning point is basically an event or new informa-

tion that turns the story in a new direction, for the read-

ers or for the character (sometimes readers know what

will happen but the character doesn’t). �e best turning

points are the ones where readers have no idea they are

coming. On one page readers think things will go on

one way, then the next page (turning point) everything

changes, and the readers are excited about the possi-

bilities. For example:

�e heroine meets the love of her life, and readers

expect the story to progress along, leading to a mar-

riage at the end. Readers are enjoying the story, but not

expecting too much, when all of a sudden the heroine

sees the hero with another woman but can’t be sure

about what is going on. Now what the readers assumed

was going to happen may not happen; something is at

stake here.

��


�e heroine meets the love of her life … then she gets

news that she has only six months to live.

�e heroine meets the love of her life … but he has

a secret life.

�e heroine meets the love of her life … then she

walks out of her o�ce building and �nds someone

shooting at her.

�ings have been turned around in a new direction!

��If you haven’t already started on your �rst scenes, refer-

ence “Your First Scenes” on pages 40–44 for guidance.

As you write those first scenes (or afterward),

you’ll need to think about backstory. Backstory is

crucial to adding richness and depth to a story. It

helps readers better understand a character and/or

situation, as it is directly related to the story’s main

problem and is usually the source of a main charac-

ter’s f laws. Take a look at your At-A-Glance Outline.

You might find that you touched on crucial back-

story elements in several sections, especially in those

related to setup and character motivation. Your

character worksheets also should provide you with

some insight into the story’s backstory. Now, not all

of this potential backstory is going to make it into

your story—some of it will, and some of it will sim-

ply inform or color what you write without you ever

having to mention it directly.

Determine which nuggets of backstory are just for

you—the writer—and which ones actually belong in

your story. Next, make sure the details you choose to

include are relevant to the frontstory (if they’re not,

then think about whether you really need to include

them). A�er that, think about where this information

would �t best. Perhaps you want to reveal your main

character’s backstory slowly, dropping only a small

clue in the opening scene. Or maybe you’re planning

a big �ashback scene near the end of Act I that’s going

to foreshadow events in Act II. Whatever you decide,

just make sure that your backstory has a direct tie

to your frontstory and that you don’t overload your

opening scene and bog down your readers with too

many details that won’t mean anything to them yet.

If you’ve already completed your opening scene,

it’s important to make sure you haven’t explained too

much. Most editors say writers tend to go into unnec-

essary backstory before �nally getting the story rolling

in chapter two. Take a look at your opening scene, and

consider the following questions:

• Does it lack forward momentum?

• Do you have a lot of explanation?

• Do you leave readers wondering what the

con�ict is?

�e best way to �gure out if you’ve overdone it with

the backstory is to go through your opening chapter

and highlight in yellow all your descriptive words and

action-related passages where the character acts, reacts

or makes a decision.

�en go through your opening chapter again and

highlight in pink all passages that convey backstory

information. �ese passages may explain what is going

on, what happened in the past, or why things are as

they are.

What do you notice?

If you have a lot of pink highlighting, then you have

way too much backstory going on. Find some back-

story passages that really don’t need to be there right

now, jot them on your notes sheet, and delete them.

�en later on, while you are working on Act II, per-

haps, you can work that information into the story in

a more interesting way.

If you have a lot of yellow highlighting, then you

either have just enough backstory or perhaps too lit-

tle. �e best way to �gure this out is to have someone

else you trust read just the opening chapter to see if she

understands the story. If she does, then you are prob-

ably right on track here.

Ultimately, it is your call. Editors like it when you

start the story early, but they also like to know what is

going on. Find a balance between the two.

��Once you have your �rst 10,000–20,000 words, you

should start looking for holes in your story. You don’t

want to write 100 pages only to have a friend say, “Why

would they do that?” or, “�e whole premise just doesn’t

seem logical.”


�ink about the questions on the following checklist

as you review your story a�er the �rst week. �is does

not mean you should go back and rewrite if you �nd

holes. Take notes on what needs to be �xed later, and

keep writing.

��

• Does everything in the idea/summary make sense?

• Are the characters motivated?

• Will the readers suspend disbelief?

• Will the characters act as they are expected to?

If not, did you set up why they won’t?

• Is the story’s world set up properly?

• Is it clear why the antagonist is doing what he

is doing?

• Is it clear why the protagonist cares about the goal?

• Does the protagonist come into contact/con�ict

with the antagonist in a manner that is organic

to the story?

• Do all the characters have a purpose, a reason

for being there?

• Are all the setting props organic to the setting?

• Is the goal feasible?

Traditional stories won’t have as many holes as the

more challenging, unusual stories will, but even so,

take a moment to see that your outline and the writing

you’ve done thus far make sense. In other words, make

sure your story has verisimilitude, a sense of plausible,

consistent and believable reality.

For instance, if you have three elderly characters

escape from a nursing home in the United States to run

o� to Egypt, let the readers know how this came about.

It isn’t normal for this to happen, certainly, and having

them decide go on a whim isn’t believable; otherwise,

why wouldn’t they have gone the day before? A week

before? What is it that motivates this particular action

now? �ey need some major motivation and opportu-

nity for this to happen, which requires plausibility and

consistency on your part in both motivation and the

way the action is pursued.

Writers of more fantastic or far-out stories must

pay particular attention to verisimilitude, as the rules

that govern “real life” aren’t necessarily those that

govern your story. For example, if one dog in the story

is able to talk when no other dogs can talk, you should

explain how this happened. Ask yourself: “Will read-

ers just buy this, or will they question it?” If every ani-

mal in the story can talk, then readers will just accept

it, because you have created a world where all dogs

talk. Remember, the reader will allow you to set the

rules of your world as long as those rules remain con-

sistent; no one likes the rules to change in the middle

of the game.

Once you �nd a problem, decide if you really need

that element in the story and then brainstorm ways to

explain it. You’re making this world from the ground

up, a�er all; make sure it sets and follows the rules you

need it to.

��

• Have you set up and built all the major characters?

• Do you introduce the protagonist and antago-

nist in a way that makes a strong �rst impres-

sion on readers?

• Do you announce the story goal (or at least hint

at it)?

• Does everything make sense to the readers?

• Do the main characters act “in character”? If

not, why?

• Have you used any of your revealing scenes? If

not, can you tweak a scene to add one?

• Are all actions motivated?

• Do the characters react to the turning point in a

believable manner?

Come up with your own questions to ponder, as

well, and make notes of these things on your work-

sheets. Don’t go back and rewrite just yet, even if you

�nish Act I ahead of schedule. Keep moving forward

and get a jump on Act II if you want to, but don’t stop

to rewrite. You are just making notes of holes to �x

when you rewrite. By the time you get to the end, you

will forget a lot of Act I issues, and you don’t need

to take up valuable creative mental space with such

information.

��

��

��


��Use these tips, reminders and steps to help you stay on track.

1 2 3 4

WEEK �: ACT I

• Write a one-sentence

story summary.

• Map Act I using the Story

Tracker (pages 102–104);

complete the Story Idea

Map (pages 105–106).

• Start drafting Scene

Cards (use index cards or

the worksheet on page

107). Identify at least 10

key scenes.

• Start your At-A-

Glance outline

(pages 108–112).

• Begin to take notice

of what you’ll need

to research.

• Learn more about your

characters using the

Character Sketch (pages

113–114), and Character-

Revealing Scenes

worksheets (page 115).

5 6 7 8

• Identify and develop your

Act I turning point.

• Explore each character’s

backstory and decide what

to include in your story.

• Take a look back and

identify any weaknesses

in your story.

• Finish Act I.

��% COMPLETED!

WELCOME TO

WEEK �: ACT II, PART �

• Stay solution-oriented

as you head into Week 2.

Complete the Story Tracker

for Act II (page 103) if you

haven’t already.

9 10 11 12

• Plan your Day 30

celebration—this is an

excellent way to stay

motivated!

• Speaking of … make

sure your characters are

properly motivated.

• Check the stability

of your plot; evaluate

your progress by

checking your At-A-

Glance Outline.

• If you don’t yet know your

climax, review the Climax

worksheet (page 116).

• Evaluate your descriptions

to make sure every word

is pulling its weight.

• Evaluate your story

structure by reviewing

suggestions in “Your

Three-Act Structure”

(pages 56–62).

13 14 15 16

• Enrich your subplots to

keep your story interesting

and readers on their toes.

• Make sure your scenes

are connected and in a

logical order.

• Check your week’s work

for any potential plot

holes that you’ll have to

address later.

• Finish Act II, Part 1.

��% COMPLETED!

WELCOME TO

WEEK �: ACT II, PART �

• Start thinking about

your story’s theme

and how to weave it

into your storyline.

(See page 83.)

• Evaluate the wholeness of

each scene and the scene

sequence. Reference

“Scenes: The Building

Blocks of Your Novel”

(pages 63–69).

��


17 18 19 20

• Set up your Act II

turning point by

crafting your reversal.

(See worksheet on

page 118.)

• Keep an eye on

your pacing.

• Make sure your story still

fits into the genre in

which you’re writing.

• Identify your best writing

hours so that you’ll know

when to be at your desk.

• Make your villain more

complex—the big face-

o� is coming up.

• Complete your Act II

turning point.

• Check to make sure your

hero is on the right path.

21 22 23 24

• Give your hero a reason

to keep going.

• Finish Act II, Part 2.

��% COMPLETED!

WELCOME TO

WEEK �: ACT III

• Complete the Story Tracker

for Act III (page 104) if you

haven’t already.

• Take a look at how

your main character is

progressing. Review your

Character Sketch.

• Develop final obstacle

for your characters

to overcome.

• Craft a riveting

climactic scene.

25 26 27 28

• Determine how to best

reveal your theme.

• Prepare for your story’s

resolution—remember,

no loose ends.

• Reference “The Art of

Closing Well” (pages

77–84) and complete the

Closing & Denouement

worksheet.

• Check your progress

against your goal word

count—you have only a

few days to go.

• Do a final story check to

identify areas that may

need to be revised later.

29 30 NOTES

• Come up with several

alternative endings. If

one of them seems better

than what you’ve got,

consider plugging it in.

• Finish Act III.

• Celebrate!

��% COMPLETED!

��


The �rst few paragraphs of your novel will help a reader deter-

mine whether or not she wants to buy the book, and the �rst

scene or chapter will determine if your reader will continue to

read. As such, it’s absolutely essential to begin your novel in

the right place, in the right moment, with the right character, and in the

right manner.

Where you begin your novel shouldn’t be le� to chance. �ink through

the decision, and ask yourself why you think the beginning you’ve selected

is the right one.

In your opening scenes, you’ll introduce your characters, their histories

and the underlying con�icts. But you’ll also want to make the reader feel

immersed immediately in your novelistic world. You’ve got to earn your

readers, one page at a time.

��ink of the �rst lines of your novel as the moment you open the door to

meet your blind date—what’s your �rst impression? Your novel’s �rst impres-

sion on the reader, those �rst few sharp lines, will put your �ctional world

into a sharp and particular perspective. �e �rst lines also serve as literary

bait, enticing your reader to continue on with the next few lines, then the

next few lines, until, suddenly, they are knee-deep in your story, committed

to reading the rest.

Of course, there are many ways to begin a scene, but for the very �rst

scene of your novel, it’s a good idea to provide a hook. Consider, for a

moment, the �rst lines of Alice Sebold’s popular novel �e Lovely Bones:

“My name was Salmon, like the �sh; �rst name, Susie. I was fourteen when

I was murdered on December 6, 1973.”

�e �rst lines of this novel instantly grab the attention of the audience.

First, we get a bit of insight into Susie: She’s young and naïve enough to still

YOUR

FIRST SCENES

You don’t have much time to hook the reader. Here’s what you need to accomplish in the

�rst act of your novel.

��

Where you begin your novel shouldn’t be le� to chance. �ink through the decision, and ask yourself why you think the beginning you’ve selected is the right one.


introduce herself as “Salmon, like the �sh.” �is is a detail

particular to Susie’s personality, and the line immediately

lends the book a childlike narrative quality. �e second

sentence thrusts the reader directly into the con�ict. Our

young protagonist has been murdered—and thus we can

conclude that she’s narrating this novel from the great

beyond. �is particular hook hooked millions of readers

and earned Sebold a movie adaptation contract.

Brainstorm a list of at least 20 opening lines, then

scrutinize them and re�ne them. �en write a second

line for each.

Have you revealed a con�ict yet? Hinted at it? Why

did you start at this moment instead of another? What

is the signi�cance of this particular moment in relation

to the rest of your novel? Spend some time focusing on

the �rst lines of your novel, playing around with up to

20 initial lines. Which one will hook the reader faster?

Which is most interesting? While you don’t want to get

stuck on the �rst few lines of this novel, you also don’t

want to undervalue the importance of these sentences.

��In the very first pages, like in your first few lines,

you’ll need to introduce your character(s) in such a

way that your reader feels immediately invested. You

want your readers to feel like they already know your

characters. Your characters should enter a world with

such a burst of energy and a familiarity that your read-

ers will feel like if they tune out, even for a moment,

they’ll miss something.

Let’s take a moment to consider, again, the opening of

�e Lovely Bones. �is time I’ll provide a few paragraphs:

My name was Salmon, like the �sh; �rst name, Susie. I

was 14 when I was murdered on December 6, 1973. In

newspaper photos of missing girls from the seventies, most

looked like me: white girls with mousy brown hair. �is

was before kids of all races and genders started appear-

ing on milk cartons or in the daily mail. It was still back

when people believed things like that didn’t happen.

In my junior high yearbook I had a quote from a

Spanish poet my sister had turned me on to, Juan Ramon

Jimenez. It went like this: “If they give you ruled paper,

write the other way.” I chose it both because it expressed

my contempt for my structured surroundings a la the

classroom and because, not being some dopey quote

from a rock group, I thought it marked me as literary. …

I wasn’t killed by Mr. Botte, by the way. Don’t think

every person you’re going to meet in here is a suspect.

�at’s the problem. You never know. … My murderer

was a man from our neighborhood.

Before you read on, I want you to ask yourself the fol-

lowing questions and take the time to answer them, if

only in your head:

• What did you learn about the character so far?

• What do you know about the plot so far?

• What are some of the con�icts or complications?

• Did you feel drawn into the story? Why?

We learn quite a bit about the novel and about Susie,

the novel’s protagonist, in this paragraph. We learn

immediately that she’s been murdered, by a neighbor.

(�e fact that she names her murderer tells us this won’t

be whodunit novel.) We know she has a sister, who

turned her on to a Spanish poet—and this detail tells us

something about the sister, too.

We also know quite a bit about her history: Susie was

in every way a typical teenager at the time of her death.

She was concerned with what others thought of her,

with “seeming literary,” and she manifests the typical

contempt for the structure of school of an average teen-

ager. But Susie is no average teenager. She’s dead, and

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she’s narrating from beyond the grave. �ose are signi�-

cant and compelling facts.

��A general rule to keep in mind is this: �e �rst scene

belongs to your protagonist, so it’s vital to introduce

your protagonist as early as possible—in the �rst line,

if you can. While descriptions do have a place in your

novel, waiting too long to introduce your protagonist

or the con�ict can be a novel-killing decision. In the

�rst scene, you should be paying more attention to

quick pacing than to lengthy paragraphs of exposition.

You want your reader to keep turning the pages—to

feel like she is already making progress in the novel.

With that in mind, you should try to reveal some sort

of con�ict or tension within the �rst pages.

In your �rst scene, consider these tips:

• Be sure to explain the signi�cance of the novel’s

starting point. (In �e Lovely Bones, for example,

the signi�cance of the starting is an event: the

murder of Susie Salmon.)

• Provide insight into your character through

dialogue, bits of physical description, and in-

direct thought.

• Pay attention to pacing. In the �rst few pages es-

pecially, avoid any overly lengthy descriptions of

setting or interior thoughts.

By the middle of the �rst scene, your character should

be faced with a con�ict. What is at stake for your character

in this scene? You should turn your readers’ expectations

upside down by putting your character in an unusual or

unexpected situation. If your protagonist is a priest, what

would happen if he ended up at a disco, for instance? If

your character is claustrophobic, what would happen if

she were to be trapped in a meat locker? How would this

be made worse if your character were a claustrophobic

vegetarian trapped in that meat locker?

Leave your �rst scene with an unresolved situation,

so that your reader will remain curious enough to read

the next scene.

��If you’ve written the �rst scene of a novel, you know how

di�cult wrestling a scene into shape can be. It’s all about

balance, including enough of each discrete component to

paint a believable and rich world. You can’t just tell your

reader about your protagonist, setting and con�ict—you

must let your reader experience it on her own. It’s pretty

tricky, but nobody said you’d get it perfect on your �rst try.

As you write further into your beginning scenes, keep

in mind: What kind of information will your reader want

or need to know? Where can you develop your charac-

ter, providing enough �aws to make him sympathetic to

your reader? How can you hint at, if not directly reveal,

the con�ict that your character will face?

Try to write these scenes in as linear a fashion as pos-

sible. And even though you should provide a sense of

your character’s history and past experiences, you should

also aim to stay in the present of your novel as much as

It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone

ringing three times in the dead of night, and the

voice on the other end asking for someone he was

not. Much later, when he was able to think about

the things that happened to him, he would conclude

that nothing was real except chance. But that was

much later.

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possible. Flashing back and forth in time too frequently

can put an end to your story’s momentum, confuse the

reader and prevent a narrative arc from developing.

��ink of the �nal scene of Act One as a mini-climax.

Your character is faced with a decision, an event or a

circumstance that will naturally lead to the rest of your

novel. Perhaps this �rst plot point is an inheritance, a

death or a journey somewhere they’ve never been. �e

possibilities are wide open.

Let’s think about the �rst major plot point in �e

Great Gatsby. Roughly one-third of the way through

the novel we learn that Jay Gatsby, up until this point

revealed only third-hand through the narrator, Nick

Carraway, was once in love with Daisy and has moved

to West Egg to be near to her. Gatsby has asked Nick

to invite his cousin Daisy over for a�ernoon tea, where

Gatsby will unexpectedly show up, surprising Daisy.

Nick agrees, Daisy and Gatsby connect, and their a�air

begins from there. �is �rst plot point sets up the rest

of the novel: Daisy and Gatsby’s reunion, the revelation

of their a�air, the death of Myrtle and the murder of

Gatsby. None of these events would have been possible

without this �rst major plot point, the reuniting of these

two former �ames.

By the �nal scene of Act One, you should introduce

your reader to the �rst signi�cant plot point of the novel.

What is at stake for your character in this moment?

How will his response to this �rst plot point initiate the

events in the next third of your novel?

Fitzgerald ends his �rst act with a provocative line,

indicating the possibilities of Daisy and Gatsby’s reunion.

Nick says, “�en I went out of the room and down the

marble steps into the rain, leaving them there together.”

�e reader might ask, what will they do when they are

alone together? Read on, good friends, Fitzgerald beck-

ons with this cli�anger. Read on.

��

��


ASSEMBLE YOUR

CHARACTERS

Here are four paths for building your cast of essential characters, plus the question you

need to ask of each: changer or stayer?

��

01 02 03 04 05 06 07 0

8 0

9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

21

22 2

3 2

4 2

5 26

27 28 29 30


��

Every drama—and �ction is always a kind of

drama—requires a cast. �e cast may be so

huge, as in Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, that

the author or editor provides a list of charac-

ters to keep everybody straight. Or it may be an intimate

cast of two. (In ‘‘To Build a Fire,’’ Jack London managed

with one person and a dog.) Whatever the size of your

cast, you have to assemble it from somewhere.

Where do you get these people? And how do you

know they’ll make good characters?

You have four sources: yourself, real people you know,

real people you hear about and pure imagination.

��In one sense, every character you create will be yourself.

You’ve never murdered, but your murderer’s rage will

be drawn from memories of your own most extreme

anger. Your love scenes will use your own past kisses,

caresses and sweet moments. �at scene in which your

octogenarian feels humiliated will draw on your expe-

rience of humiliation in the eighth grade, even though

the circumstances are totally di�erent and you’re not

even consciously thinking about your middle-school

years. Our characters’ emotions draw on our own emo-

tions. Until telepathy is common, our own emotions are

the only ones we’ve intimately experienced. �ey’re our

default setting.

Sometimes, however, you will want to use your life

more directly in your �ction, dramatizing actual inci-

dents. �is has both strengths and pitfalls.

�e strength is that you were there. You know the

concrete details and can get them right: the way the

light slants through a church window at noon, the smell

of cooking fat in a diner, the dialogue of cops in the

precinct house. �ese things are invaluable in creating

believable �ction.

Even more important, you were there emotionally.

You felt whatever exaltation, fear, panic, tenderness or

despair the situation evoked. A well-done biographical

incident can therefore have tremendous �ctional power.

�at’s why so many successful writers have drawn

directly on their own lives for their work.

Charles Dickens used his desperate stint as a

child laborer in Victorian England to write David

Copper�eld. John Galsworthy, like his character Jolyon

Forsyte of �e Forsyte Saga, had an a�air with and later

married the wife of his abusive cousin. Nora Ephron,

bestselling author of Heartburn, was frank about bas-

ing her story of adultery and desertion on her own

desertion by husband Carl Bernstein (�ction as

public revenge).

Should you create a protagonist based directly on

yourself? �e problem with this—and it is a very large

problem—is that almost no one can view himself objec-

tively on the page. As the writer, you’re too close to your

own complicated makeup. �is makes it very di�cult

to use that third mind-set and become the reader, who

doesn’t know that the character’s nastiness in the �rst

scene is actually balanced by your admirable sense of

fair play. You know it, and you’ll bring it out later in the

story … but by that time it may be too late. �e reader

knows only what’s on the page, not what’s in your mind

and heart.

It can thus be easier and more e�ective to use the

situation or incident from your life but make it happen

to a character who is not you. In fact, that’s what the

authors cited above have largely done. Rachel Samstat,

Nora Ephron’s heroine, is sassier and funnier when le�

by her husband than any real person would be. You can

still, of course, incorporate aspects of yourself: your

love of Beethoven, your quick temper, your soccer inju-

ries. But by using your own experience with a di�er-

ent protagonist, you can take advantage of your insider

knowledge of the situation, and yet gain an objectivity

and control that the original intense situation, by de�-

nition, did not have.

So where do you get this other protagonist?


��Many, many famous characters are based, in part, on

real people. �e key words here are ‘‘in part.’’

Like characters based on yourself, �ctional creations

based on others seem to be most e�ective when they’re

cannibalized. Using people straight can, as in the case

of using yourself, limit both imagination and objectiv-

ity. So instead of using your Uncle Jerome exactly as he

is, consider combining his salient traits with those of

other acquaintances or with purely made-up qualities.

�is has several advantages.

First, you can cra� exactly the character you need for

your plot. Suppose, for instance, that your actual Uncle

Jerome is quick-tempered and cuttingly witty when

angered and remorseful later about the terrible (but

very funny) things he said while mad. But your charac-

ter would work better if he were a stranger to remorse,

staying angry in a cool, unrepentant way. Combine

Uncle Jerome with your friend Don, who can hold a

grudge until the heat death of the universe. Combining

characters gives you greater �exibility.

�is is how Virginia Woolf created Clarissa Dalloway

(Mrs. Dalloway). Her primary source, according to

Woolf ’s biographer Quentin Bell, was family friend

Kitty Maxse. But Woolf also wrote in her diary that she

drew on Lady Ottoline Morrell for Clarissa: ‘‘I want to

bring in the despicableness of people like Ott.’’ Similarly,

Emma Bovary (Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary)

and spymaster George Smiley (John le Carré’s series)

are composites of people their creators knew.

A second, lesser advantage of cannibalizing traits

from people, instead of just dumping your friends on

the page in their entirety, is that your family and friends

are less likely to recognize themselves and become upset

with you. It also avoids potential lawsuits.

��In addition to composites of people you know, you can

also base characters on people you don’t know person-

ally but have only heard or read about. �is can work

very well because you’re not bound by many facts. You’re

actually making up the character, with the real person

providing no more than a stimulus for inspiration.

Say, for example, that you read about a woman whose

will leaves $6 million to a veterinary hospital she visited

only once, 40 years earlier, with her dying cat. You never

met this woman. All you have is the newspaper story

and a blurry picture. But something about the situation

has caught your attention. What kind of person would

do that? You begin to imagine this woman: her person-

ality and history, what that cat must have meant to her,

why there were no other people important enough to

her to leave them any inheritance.

Before long, you’ve created a full, interesting and

poignant character, someone you might want to write

about. Yes, you started with secondhand information—

but now the character is fully yours.

Sometimes the original spark can be very small indeed.

I once based a character on a photo of a new bride in the

newspaper. I have no idea what the actual woman was

like, but her polished, blonde radiance somehow struck

my imagination, suggesting a pampered joyfulness that

grew in my mind into a complete personality.

As Charlotte Bronte famously remarked, reality

should ‘‘suggest’’ rather than ‘‘dictate’’ characters.

��Creating purely invented characters is actually very similar

to basing characters on strangers. With strangers, a small

glimpse into another life sparks the writer’s imagination.

Should you create a protagonist based directly on yourself? �e problem with this—and it is a very large problem—is that almost no one can view himself objectively.


��

Made-up characters, too, usually begin with the spark of

an idea popping into the writer’s mind. �e writer then

fans the spark into a full-blown person.

William Faulkner, for example, had a sudden mental

image of a little girl with muddy drawers up in a tree.

�at image became Caddy in �e Sound and the Fury,

which Faulkner considered his best novel.

No matter what your initial source—reality or

imagination—characters usually present themselves

encased in at least the rudiments of a �ctional situation.

Caddy is up in a tree (why?). �e deceased lady has le�

$6 million to an animal hospital. You have something

here to work with. Your next task is to look hard at this

character/situation in order to decide if the character is

strong enough to sustain a story. In part, of course, that

depends on how well you write about her and whether

you want to write about this person. Some guidelines

exist for making that decision.

��Not all your characters will matter equally to the story.

One is the star—your protagonist. (�ere may be

more in a long novel.) �is is the person whom the

story is mostly about: Anna Karenina in her epony-

mous novel, Stephanie Plum in Janet Evanovich’s mys-

teries, Harry Potter in J.K. Rowling’s fantasies. Your

star gets the most attention from both the reader and

writer, the most word count expended on him or her

and the climactic scene.

Other characters are necessary to the story and inter-

esting in their own right; these are the featured play-

ers of your cast. �e rest have bit parts. �ey aren’t well

developed and are, essentially, slightly animated furni-

ture in your setting. Who should be which?

Before we answer that, I want to make clear that there

are no simple rules for choosing who should become

your star and who should remain featured players.

Choosing a given character as protagonist will result in

one novel; choosing someone else will result in a dif-

ferent novel, which may or may not be better than the

�rst. Our goal here is merely to analyze each important

member of your cast in order to identify the character

you can become excited about writing.

One aspect of this selection process is to look at each

character to decide if she would be better as a changer

or a stayer. �e distinction is critical to both character-

ization and plot.

Changers are characters who alter in signi�cant ways

as a result of the events of your story. �ey learn some-

thing or grow into better or worse people, but by the

end of the story they are not the same personalities

they were in the beginning. �eir change, in its various

stages, is called the story’s emotional arc.

Let’s look at an example. In John Grisham’s �e Street

Lawyer, protagonist Michael Brock starts out as an ambi-

tious, married lawyer, piling up hours and salary raises

at a prestigious Washington law �rm. By the end of the

novel, Brock is separated from his wife, relatively poor,

and working happily as a legal advocate for the home-

less. �ese external changes have come about because

Brock has changed internally. His world has been wid-

ened and his compassion deepened as a result of some

very dramatic events: being taken hostage by a desper-

ate homeless man, a shoot-out and the death of a child.

Michael Brock, as protagonist, is a changer. His emo-

tional arc is a large one.

Other equally successful protagonists are stayers.

�is tends to be especially true in series books. Janet

Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum is a brash, foul-mouthed,

fashion-impaired, hilarious bounty hunter in her �rst

book, One for the Money. Nine books later, she hasn’t

changed. Nor do her readers want her to. Stephanie is

too much fun just as she is.

Other characters are stayers because the point of the

book is that they come to grief because of their blind-

ness. �ese books present the idea that people cannot

change but instead are locked into destructive patterns,

either personal or societal. In such �ction, the protago-

nists de�antly, destructively go on being as they start out.

An example is F. Scott Fitzgerald’s �e Great Gatsby. Jay

Gatsby cannot become other than he is: idealistic, unre-

alistic and enthralled by love. His obstinacy kills him.

Likewise, Daisy and Tom Buchanan are stayers who will,

we are explicitly told, go on being ‘‘careless,’’ messing up

other people’s lives and then retreating into the safety of

their vast fortune. Only the narrator, Nick Carraway, is a

changer—which is one reason he’s the narrator. Fitzgerald

Changers are characters who alter in signi�cant ways as a result of the events of your story. �ey learn something or grow into better or worse people.


wanted someone in his novel to change because he had

some points he wanted to make about Jazz Age society,

and a changer who became disgusted with the entire

social scene was the best way to make them.

Does that mean that changers are always better than

stayers as protagonists? No. It all depends on the particular

story you want to tell. Nick Carraway is right for �e Great

Gatsby; Stephanie Plum is right for One for the Money.

��Now, the big question: What does all this have to do with

your protagonist? It gives you �exibility to make choices

before you begin writing. Playing mentally with these

choices can help you assemble the right characters for your

cast. �ere are a hundred ways to tell any story, and the

more of them you consider before you begin, the greater

the odds of �nding just the combination that will most �re

your imagination and lead to the best �ction you can write.

Start by asking a few preliminary questions. You

already have some idea of the situation you want to

write about, since characters seldom appear in a vac-

uum. �at old woman isn’t just any old woman—she’s

leaving $6 million to a veterinary hospital. �at man

isn’t just any man—he’s a detective with the NYPD who

has a murder to solve, a drinking problem and his dead

sister’s kid to raise. You’ve got a little information you

can use as a springboard for evaluating your character.

So, to choose your stars, ask yourself:

• Am I genuinely interested in this character? Do I

�nd myself thinking about him in odd moments,

imagining his previous life, inventing bits of dia-

logue? If not, you won’t write him very well.

• Is this character or situation fresh and interesting

in some new way? We’ve seen a lot of NYPD cops

with murders to solve and drinking problems.

Maybe the orphaned nephew will be enough of a

new twist. Do you care about the cop? �e neph-

ew? Is the murder signi�cant in some way?

• Can I maintain enough objectivity about this

character, combined with enough identi�cation,

to practice the triple mind-set—becoming au-

thor, character and reader as I write?

• Do I want this character to be a stayer or a chang-

er? If she’s going to be a changer, does it feel as if

she has the capacity to change through the emo-

tional arc I plan for her?

�is last one needs some explanation. For an emo-

tional arc to work, we must believe that the character is

capable of change. Some people are not. �ere are alco-

holics who are never going to even try to stop drinking.

�ere are believers in a �at Earth who will not be con-

vinced that the planet is round, no matter how many

photos taken from space you show them. In �ctional

terms, there are Tom and Daisy Buchanan.

On the other hand, consider Cuyler Goodwill, a major

character in Carol Shields’s Pulitzer Prize–winning

novel �e Stone Diaries. Cuyler’s life until 1903, when

he was 26, was joyless and deadeningly monotonous:

His family, the Goodwills, seemed le� in the wake of the

stern, old, untidy century that conceived them, and they

gave o�, all three of them, father, mother, and child, an

aroma of impotence, spindly in spirit and puny of body …

when Cuyler turned 14 his father looked up from a

plate of fried pork and potatoes and mumbled that the

time had come to leave school and begin work in the

Stonewall Quarries where he himself was employed.

A�er that Cuyler’s wages, too, went into the jam pot.

�is went on for 12 years.

�en Cuyler meets Mercy Stone, marries her, and is ‘‘mirac-

ulously changed’’ by a ‘‘tidal motion of sexual longing [that]

�lled him to the brim.’’ All this is told in �ashback; the


��

story proper begins with Mercy’s death. But because we

have seen that Cuyler is capable of having released in him a

strong surge of previously unexplored behavior, we accept

his later changes in the book. He has been established as

a person who throws himself completely into whatever

seizes his heart. �us, we believe the author when she sub-

sequently shows us a Cuyler completely given over �rst to

religion, then to business, and �nally to despair. We know

he doesn’t do anything by halves.

How about your prospective character? Is he someone

you can portray as capable of change? If so, he may be a

good candidate to be your star. But don’t decide quite yet.

��We’ve thought about one character who may or may

not end up the protagonist of this story. Now let’s think

about the rest of the actors, plus all the ways you could

cast this story taking shape in your mind. Each would

lead to a signi�cantly di�erent novel.

Let’s say your �rst character is the old woman who has

le� $6 million to the veterinary hospital. Who might be

the featured players in this drama? A few possibilities:

• �e veterinarian, now elderly, who cured her cat

40 years ago. Does he even remember her?

• The woman’s son, furious over not inheriting

her money.

• �e young lawyer handling the will, who is trou-

bled by this situation. If the son can break the will,

it won’t be good for the lawyer’s �edgling career.

• �e veterinarian’s daughter. �e vet will die be-

fore the will is probated. In fact (you just thought

of this while making your list!), the original will is

missing—all the lawyer has is a copy. �e vet dies

under mysterious circumstances. �e daughter

is suspicious.

• �e old woman’s 12-year-old grandson, witness

to all this �ghting.

• �e old woman’s housekeeper, also a cat lover,

who wonders why the money was le� to that

veterinary hospital, which the deceased never

patronized again for all her subsequent cats.

Whew! All these actors, and any one of them could

be the star. �e rest would, of necessity, end up featured

players. What kind of story do you want to write?

If it’s a mystery, maybe the veterinarian’s daughter

is the star. She will be investigating her father’s death,

which she suspects is traceable to the son. He’s very

angry about that will …

Or the mystery plot might be the son’s story. He did not

kill the old vet. But there’s something weird about his moth-

er’s legacy—she was peculiar but not that peculiar. Someone

in�uenced or coerced her, and he’s going to �nd out who

and how. �e son loves cats himself, but this is ridiculous.

Or perhaps you’re not writing a mystery at all. You’re

writing a social drama about how people are corrupted

by money. �en maybe the housekeeper is your star. She

barely makes a living wage herself, she struggles to raise

her own kids, and she observes this greedy family, each

member already comfortably o�, throwing away every

decency and principle for $6 million. �en she herself

faces temptation when she sees a way to make o� with

some of that money.

Or you want to write a coming-of-age story. �en the

grandson might be the star, a de�nite changer, coming

to grips with the weaknesses and foibles of a family he

nonetheless loves.

Or maybe the young lawyer is an animal activist, and

this is his story because he’s enraged that a veterinary

hospital devoted to the care of animal species, which are

fully as worthy as humans, is going to be cheated out of

this inheritance.

You see the point. Any of these could make a good

story because everybody is the star of his own life and

your characters all have lives. You choose your star

based on the following considerations:

• what sparks your imagination

• which characters appeal most to you

• whether you want to focus on a changer or a

stayer; if a changer, who seems to have the poten-

tial for genuine change

• who could progress through an emotional arc

you want to portray

��You’ve assembled your cast, at least tentatively. You’ll

add more characters as the story gets written, and you

may �re some of the ones you already have.


Before you begin writing, do one more thing. Try to

detach from everything you’ve done so far. Instead, look

at your cast with the eye of a reader who as yet knows

nothing about them.

�is is not easy to do.

You know that the housekeeper is going to reveal, in

chapter six, a secret that will knock the socks o� every-

one who reads this book. But chapter six is a long ways

away, and your reader doesn’t know it’s coming. Look at

what he sees now. Is this a collection of people he might

be interested in? Ask yourself:

• Are there enough di�erences among the charac-

ters to provide variety?

• Is it plausible that these people would know

each other or can be brought to know each other

through your planned story events?

• Is the entire group so bland or depressed that no

one will want to spend 400 pages with them? (A

few bland or depressing ones are �ne.)

• Are these the people who might plausibly be

found in your setting? You can certainly plunk

down an émigré Russian princess in 1910

Harlem if you want to, but you better be prepared

to explain how she got there, and there better not

be more than one of her in that setting.

• Do you have all the characters that circum-

stances logically require? For example, if you’re

writing about a murder, you pretty much have to

include professional law enforcement characters

eventually, even in an amateur-detective cozy.

�e pros tend to show up when people get killed,

even if they aren’t integral to your plot. Another

example: In Regency London, well-bred upper-

class young ladies did not travel without, at a

minimum, an abigail or maid. Write her in.

Remember that your major characters, especially

your protagonist(s), should be people you are genuinely

excited about creating. You should know them well. If

you can’t complete a character sketch on each major

character in your book, you don’t yet know enough

about that character to begin writing.

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Ask literary agents what they’re looking for in a �rst chapter and

they’ll all say the same thing: “Good writing that hooks me in.”

Agents appreciate the same elements of good writing that read-

ers do. �ey want action; they want compelling characters and a

reason to read on; they want to see your voice come through in the work and

feel an immediate connection with your writing style.

Sure, the fact that agents look for great writing and a unique voice is noth-

ing new. But, for as much as you know about what agents want to see in chap-

ter one, what about all those things they don’t want to see? Obvious mistakes

such as grammatical errors and awkward writing aside, writers need to be

conscious of �rst-chapter clichés and agent pet peeves—any of which can

sink a manuscript and send a form rejection letter your way.

To help compile a grand list of poisonous chapter one no-no’s, dozens

of established literary agents were happy to speak out on everything they

can’t stand to see in that all-important first chapter. Here’s what they had

to say.

��“I dislike endless ‘laundry list’ character descriptions. For example: ‘She had

eyes the color of a summer sky and long blonde hair that fell in ringlets past

her shoulders. Her petite nose was the perfect size for her heart-shaped face.

Her azure dress—with the empire waist and long, tight sleeves—sported tiny

pearl buttons down the bodice and ivory lace peeked out of the hem in front,

blah, blah, blah.’ Who cares! Work it into the story.”

—L�� M�L��, Larsen Pomada Literary Agents

COMMON CHAPTER ONE PITFALLS

What types of �rst scenes or story openings should you avoid? Industry insiders speak out.


“Slow writing with a lot of description will put me o�

very quickly. I personally like a �rst chapter that moves

quickly and draws me in so I’m immediately hooked

and want to read more.”

—A�� H��, Andrea Hurst & Associates

“I hate reading purple prose, taking the time to set

up—to describe something so beautifully and that has

nothing to do with the actual story. I also hate when

an author starts something and then says ‘(the main

character) would �nd out later.’ I hate gratuitous sex

and violence anywhere in the manuscript. If it is not

crucial to the story then I don’t want to see it in there,

in any chapters.”

—C�� W��, Cherry Weiner Literary

“I want to feel as if I’m in the hands of a master storyteller,

and starting a story with long, �owery, overly-descrip-

tive sentences (kind of like this one) makes the writer

seem amateurish and the story contrived. Of course, an

equally jarring beginning can be nearly as o�-putting,

and I hesitate to read on if I’m feeling disoriented by the

��h page. I enjoy when writers can �nd a good balance

between exposition and mystery. Too much accounting

always ruins the mystery of a novel, and the unknown is

what propels us to read further. It is what keeps me up at

night saying, ‘Just one more chapter, then I’ll go to sleep.’

If everything is explained away in the �rst chapter, I’m

probably putting the book down and going to sleep.”

—P�� M��, Peter Miller Literary

��“A pet peeve of mine is ragged, fuzzy point-of-view.

How can a reader follow what’s happening? I also

dislike beginning with a killer’s POV. What reader

would want to be in such an ugly place? I feel like a

nasty voyeur.”

—C�� F��, �e August Agency

“An opening that’s predictable will not hook me in. If the

average person could have come up with the characters

and situations, I’ll pass. I’m looking for a unique out-

look, voice, or character and situation.”

—D�� C��, Muse Literary Management

“Avoid the opening line ‘My name is …,’ introducing the

narrator to the reader so blatantly. �ere are far better

ways in chapter one to establish an instant connection

between narrator and reader.”

—M�� A��,

Lynn C. Franklin Associates

“I recently read a manuscript when the second line was

something like, ‘Let me tell you this, Dear Reader ...’

What do you think of that?”

—S�� B��, Sheree Bykofsky Literary

��“I don’t really like �rst-day-of-school beginnings, or

the ‘From the beginning of time,’ or ‘Once upon a time’

starts. Speci�cally, I dislike a chapter one where noth-

ing happens.”

—J�� R��, Jean V. Naggar Literary Agency

“ ‘�e Weather’ is always a problem—the author feels he

has to take time to set up the scene completely and tell

us who the characters are, etc. I like starting a story in

media res.”

—E��z�� P��,

Larsen Pomada Literary Agents

“Characters that are moving around doing little things,

but essentially nothing. Washing dishes and thinking,

staring out the window and thinking, tying shoes, think-

ing. Authors o�en do this to transmit information, but

the result is action in a literal sense but no real energy

in a narrative sense. �e best rule of thumb is always to

start the story where the story starts.”

—D�� L�z��, Writers House

��“I hate it when a book begins with an adventure that

turns out to be a dream at the end of the chapter.”

—M�� G��, Foundry Literary + Media

“Anything cliché such as ‘It was a dark and stormy

night’ will turn me o�. I hate when a narrator or author

addresses the reader (e.g., ‘Gentle reader’).”

—J�� D��, Dunham Literary

“Sometimes a reasonably good writer will create an

interesting character and describe him in a compelling


��

way, but then he’ll turn out to be some unimportant bit

player. I also don’t want to read about anyone sleep-

ing, dreaming, waking up or staring at anything. Other

annoying, unoriginal things I see too o�en: some young

person going home to a small town for a funeral, some-

one getting a phone call about a death, a description of

a psycho lurking in the shadows, or a terrorist planting

a bomb.”

—E�� P��, Signature Literary Agency

“I don’t like it when the main character dies at the end of

chapter one. Why did I just spend all this time with this

character? I feel cheated.”

—C�� F��, �e August Agency

“1. Squinting into the sunlight with a hangover in a

crime novel. Good grief—been done a million times. 2.

A sci-� novel that spends the �rst two pages describ-

ing the strange landscape. 3. A trite statement (‘Get

with the program’ or ‘Houston, we have a problem’ or

‘You go girl’ or ‘Earth to Michael’ or ‘Are we all on the

same page?’), said by a weenie sales guy, usually in

the opening paragraph. 4. A rape scene in a Christian

novel, especially in the �rst chapter. 5. ‘Years later,

Monica would look back and laugh ...’ 6. ‘�e [adjective]

[adjective] sun rose in the [adjective] [adjective] sky,

shedding its [adjective] light across the [adjective]

[adjective] [adjective] land.’ ”

—C�� M��G��, MacGregor Literary

“A cheesy ‘hook’ drives me nuts. I know that they say

‘Open with a hook!’—something to grab the reader.

While that’s true, there’s a �ne line between a hook that’s

intriguing and a hook that’s just silly. An example of a

silly hook would be opening with a line of overtly sexual

dialogue. Or opening with a hook that’s just too convo-

luted to be truly interesting.”

—D�� L�z��, Writers House

“Here are things I can’t stand: Cliché openings in fan-

tasy novels can include an opening scene set in a battle

(and my peeve is that I don’t know any of the charac-

ters yet so why should I care about this battle) or with

a pastoral scene where the protagonist is gathering

herbs (I didn’t realize how common this is). Opening

chapters where a main protagonist is in the middle

of a bodily function (jerking o�, vomiting, peeing

or what have you) is usually a �rm no right from the

get-go. Gross. Long prologues that o�en don’t have

anything to do with the story. (So common in fantasy,

again.) Opening scenes that are all dialogue without any

context. I could probably go on ...”

—K�� N��, Nelson Literary

��“I don’t like descriptions of the characters where

writers make the characters seem too perfect.

Heroines (and heroes) who are described physically

as being un�awed come across as unrelatable and

boring. No ‘�owing, windswept golden locks’; no

‘eyes as blue as the sky’; no ‘willowy, perfect �gures.’ ”

—L�� B��, Bradford Literary Agency

“Many writers express the character’s backstory before

they get to the plot. Good writers will go back and cut

that stu� out and get right to the plot. �e character’s

backstory stays with them—it’s in their DNA—even

a�er the cut. To paraphrase Bruno Bettelheim: �e

more the character in a fairy tale is described, the less

the audience will identify with him … �e less the char-

acter is characterized and described, the more likely the

reader is to identify with him.”

—A�� C��, Artists and Artisans

“I’m really turned o� when a writer feels the need to �ll

in all the backstory before starting the story; a story that

opens on the protagonist’s mental re�ection of their sit-

uation is (usually) a red �ag.”

—S�� E��, FinePrint Literary Management

“One of the biggest problems I encounter is the ‘infor-

mation dump’ in the �rst few pages, where the author is

trying to tell us everything we supposedly need to know

to understand the story. Getting to know characters in a

story is like getting to know people in real life. You �nd

out their personality and details of their life over time.”

—R�� G��, Wordserve Literary

��“�e most common opening is a grisly murder scene

told from the killer’s point of view. While this usually

holds the reader’s attention, the narrative drive o�en


doesn’t last once we get into the meat of the story. A

catchy opening scene is great, but all too o�en it falls

apart a�er the initial pages. I o�en refer people to the

opening of Rosemary’s Baby by Ira Levin, which is

about nothing more than a young couple getting an

apartment. It is masterfully written and yet it doesn’t

appear to be about anything sinister at all. And it keeps

you reading.”

—I�� G��, Irene Goodman Literary

“�ings I dislike include: 1) Telling me what the weath-

er’s like in order to set atmosphere. OK, it was raining.

It’s always raining. 2) Not starting with action. I want to

have a sense of dread quite quickly—and not from rain!

3) Sending me anything but the beginning of the book;

if you tell me that it ‘starts getting good’ on page 35,

then I will tell you to start the book on page 35, because

if even you don’t like the �rst 34, neither will I or any

other reader.”

—J�� G��z��, Russell & Volkening, Inc.

“One of my biggest pet peeves is when writers try to

stu� too much exposition into dialogue rather than

trusting their abilities as storytellers to get informa-

tion across. I’m talking stu� like the mom saying,

‘Listen, Jimmy, I know you’ve missed your father ever

since he died in that mysterious boating accident last

year on the lake, but I’m telling you, you’ll love this

summer camp!’ ”

—C�� R��, Upstart Crow Literary

“I hate to see a whiny character who’s in the middle of

a �ght with one of their parents, slamming doors, roll-

ing eyes, and displaying all sorts of other stereotypical

behavior. I also tend to have a hard time bonding with

characters who address the reader directly.”

—K�� S��, Andrea Brown Literary

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YOUR THREE�

ACT STRUCTURE

During the 30-day challenge, you should frequently re-evaluate your structure

so you end up with a compelling story.

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Structure is what assembles the parts of a story

in a way that makes them accessible to readers.

It is the orderly arrangement of story material

for the bene�t of the audience.

Plot is about elements, those things that go into the

mix of making a good story even better. (See sidebar on

page 59 for more on plotting.)

Structure is about timing—where in the mix those

plot elements go.

When you read a novel that isn’t quite grabbing

you, the reason is probably structure. Even though

it may have good characters, snappy dialogue and

intriguing settings, the story isn’t unfolding in the

optimum fashion.

Of course, the author may protest that this is his way,

and how dare anyone dictate what’s right and what isn’t

about his novel!

�at’s an author’s prerogative. But if we are talk-

ing about connection with readers, we have to talk

about structure.

��Why talk about a three-act structure? Because it works.

It has since Aristotle sat down to �gure out what

makes drama. Why does the three-act structure work?

Probably because it is in line with how we live our lives.

A three-step rhythm is inherent in much that we do.

As the writing teacher Dwight Swain pointed out,

we are born, we live and we die. It feels like three acts.

Childhood is relatively short and introduces us to life.

�at long section in the middle is where we spend most

of our time. �en we have a last act that wraps every-

thing up.

Daily life is like that, too. We get up in the morning

and get ready to go to work. We work or do whatever

we do. Eventually we wrap up the day’s business and

hit the sack.

We live each day in three acts.

On a micro-level, three acts is typical. Say we are

confronted with a problem. We react. �at’s Act I. We

spend the greater part of our time �guring out how to

solve the problem: Act II. A�er all of that wrestling,

hopefully, we get the insight and answer—the resolu-

tion of Act III.

�ere is something fundamentally sound about the

three-act structure. As Buckminster Fuller taught, the

triangle is the strongest shape in nature (thus it is the

foundation of the geodesic dome he invented).

Similarly, almost all great jokes are built on a struc-

ture of three—the setup, the body and the payo�. It is

never just an Irishman and a Frenchman entering a bar;

you have to add an Englishman to make the joke work.

In a novel, we must get to know some things in Act I

before we can move on in the story. �en the problem is

presented, and the protagonist spends the greater part

of the book wrestling with the problem (Act II). But

the book has to end sometime, with the problem solved

(Act III).

It has been said in writing classes and books that the

three-act structure is dead (or silly or worthless). Don’t

believe it.

�e three-act structure has endured because it works.

If you choose to ignore this structure, you increase

the chance of reader frustration. If that’s your goal for

some artistic reason or other, �ne.

But at least understand why structure works—it

helps readers get into the story.

Another way to talk about the three acts is simply as

the beginning, middle and end. I like the way one wag

put it: beginning, muddle and end.

Here, then, are the things that must happen in the

three acts. We will be going into more detail on each

act in the next few chapters.

��Beginnings are always about the who of the story. �e

entry point is a lead character, and the writer should

begin by connecting the reader to the lead as quickly as

possible. Robin Hood went riding.


��

Imagine the cour troom scenes in To Kil l a

Mockingbird coming at the beginning of the book. What

connection would there be with Atticus Finch? He’d

certainly seem like a competent, caring lawyer, but

our caring would not be as deep as it is later on. �at’s

because the beginning gives us glimpses of Atticus as

a father, citizen, neighbor and lawyer. We get to know

him better through the eyes of his daughter, before we

track him to court.

Beginnings have other tasks to perform. �e four

most important are:

• Present the story world—tell us something about

the setting, the time and the immediate context.

• Establish the tone the reader will rely upon.

Is this to be a sweeping epic or a zany farce?

Action packed or dwelling more on character

change? Fast moving or leisurely?

• Compel the reader to move on to the middle.

Just why should the reader care to continue?

• Introduce the opposition. Who or what wants

to stop the lead?

��e major part of the novel is the confrontation, a series

of battles between the protagonist and the opposition.

�ey fought.

�is is also where subplots blossom, adding com-

plexity to the novel and usually re�ecting the deeper

meaning of the book.

�e various plot strands weave in and out of one

another, creating a feeling of inevitability while at the

same time surprising the reader in various ways. In

addition, the middle should:

• Deepen character relationships.

• Keep us caring about what happens.

• Set up the �nal battle that will wrap things up

at the end.

��e last part of the novel gives us the resolution of the

big story. He won. �e best endings also:

• Tie up all loose ends. Are there story threads

that are le� dangling? You must either resolve

these in a way that does not distract from the

main plot line or go back and snip them out.

Readers have long memories.

• Give a feeling of resonance. �e best endings

leave a sense of something beyond the con�nes

of the book. What does the story mean in the

larger sense?

��Ever since Star Wars writer-director George Lucas cred-

ited Joseph Campbell for the mythic structure of the

�lm, we’ve had a plethora of books and articles about

the value of this template. And it is valuable because it

is all about elements lining up—which is what struc-

ture means.

Mythic structure, sometimes called “�e Hero’s

Journey” a�er the title of a book by Campbell, is an

order of events. It comes in various forms, but usually

follows a pattern similar to this:

• Readers are introduced to the hero’s world.

• A “call to adventure” or a disturbance inter-

rupts the hero’s world.

• �e hero may ignore the call or the disturbance.

• �e hero “crosses the threshold” into a dark world.

• A mentor may appear to teach the hero.

• Various encounters occur with forces of darkness.

• �e hero has a dark moment within himself

that he must overcome in order to continue.

• A talisman aids in battle (e.g., the shield of

Athena for Perseus; the sword, Excalibur, for

King Arthur).

• �e �nal battle is fought.

• �e hero returns to his own world.

Why does this work? Because it perfectly corresponds

to the three-act structure:

ACT I

[1] Readers are introduced to the hero’s world.

[2] A “call to adventure” or a disturbance interrupts

the hero’s world.

[3] �e hero may ignore the call or the disturbance.

[4] �e hero “crosses the threshold” into a dark world.

ACT II

[5] A mentor may appear to teach the hero.

[6] Various encounters occur with forces of darkness.


[7] �e hero has a dark moment within himself that

he must overcome.

[8] A talisman aids in battle.

ACT III

[9] �e �nal battle is fought.

[10] �e hero returns to his own world.

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I �nd more than a bit of confusion among writers over

terms like plot point, inciting incident and other terms

commonly used by writing instructors, sometimes in

contradictory ways.

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I want to stay away from these terms, and instead

try to describe what actually should happen at crucial

points in the plot. It’s all really simple if you don’t get

hung up on the technical jargon.

I’ll refer here to a disturbance and two doorways. If

you understand what happens with each, structuring

your novel will be a breeze.

��

In the beginning of your novel, you start out by intro-

ducing a character who lives a certain life. �at is his

starting point or, in mythic terms, the hero’s ordi-

nary world. And it’s the place he’ll stay unless some-

thing forces him to change. Unless he does change,

we’re going to have a pretty boring story because only a

threat or a challenge is of interest to readers.

So very early in Act I something has to disturb the

status quo. Just think about it from the reader’s stand-

point—something’s got to happen to make us feel

there’s some threat or challenge happening to the char-

acters. Remember Hitchcock’s axiom. If something

doesn’t happen soon, you’ve got a dull part.

�is disturbance does not have to be a major threat,

however. It can be anything that disturbs the placid

nature of the Lead’s ordinary life. Dean Koontz usu-

ally begins his novels with such a disturbance. Here’s

the �rst line of his �e Door to December (written as

Richard Paige):

As soon as she �nished dressing, Laura went to the front

door, just in time to see the L.A. Police Department

squad car pull to the curb in front of the house.

Now that’s a disturbance, something small to begin

with, but a disturbance nonetheless. We don’t usu-

ally feel complacent about a police car pulling up to

our home.

�e number of possible disturbances is endless. Here

are some examples:

• A phone call in the middle of the night

• A letter with some intriguing news

• �e boss calling the character into his o�ce

• A child being taken to the hospital

• �e car breaking down in a desert town

• �e protagonist winning the lottery

• �e protagonist witnessing an accident—or

a murder

• A note from the protagonist’s wife (or hus-

band), who is leaving

From a structural standpoint, the initial distur-

bance creates reader interest. It is an implicit prom-

ise of an interesting story yet to come. But it is not

yet the main plot because there is no confrontation.

�e opponent and protagonist are not yet locked in an

unavoidable battle.

In Mario Puzo’s �e Godfather, young Michael

Corleone is determined to go straight, avoiding his

father’s way of life. But when the Don is shot and nearly

killed, Michael’s world is rocked.

Yet Michael is not yet thrust into any confrontation.

He can leave New York and start a new life elsewhere.

�e confrontation doesn’t happen, the story doesn’t

take o�, until the protagonist passes through the

�rst doorway.

In the George Lucas �lm Star Wars, there is an action

prologue. Darth Vader and his troops chase and capture

Princess Leia, but not before she dispatches a pod with R2-

D2 and C-3PO in it. �e droids land on the planet Tatooine

and get captured by the Jawas, the junk merchants.

We meet our lead character, Luke Skywalker, at work

in his normal world on Tatooine, where he lives with his

aunt and uncle. His uncle buys the two droids. Within

�ve minutes of this, we have a disturbance to Luke’s

world—the distress hologram from Princess Leia ask-

ing for Obi-Wan Kenobi’s help.

Eventually, Luke connects with Obi-Wan, who

views the hologram and asks Luke to help him

answer the call for help. Luke “refuses the call” (in

mythic terms) by telling Obi-Wan he can’t leave his

aunt and uncle.

�is is still not the doorway into Act II because Luke

can go on with his normal life. But when the Empire

forces destroy Luke’s home and kill his aunt and uncle,

Luke is thrust into the Rebellion. He leaves his planet

with Obi-Wan, and his adventure begins.

��

How you get from beginning to middle (Act I to Act II),

and from middle to end (Act II to Act III), is a matter


of transitioning. Rather than calling these plot points,

I �nd it helpful to think of these two transitions as

“doorways of no return.”

�at explains the feeling you want to create. A

thrusting of the character forward. A sense of inevita-

bility. We are creatures of habit; we search for security.

Our characters are the same. So unless there is some-

thing to push the Lead into Act II, he will be quite

content to stay in Act I! He desires to remain in his

ordinary world.

You need to �nd a way to get him out of the ordi-

nary and into the confrontation. You need something

that kicks him through the doorway; otherwise, he’ll

just keep sitting around the house.

Once through the doorway, the confrontation can

take place. �e �ght goes on throughout Act II, the

middle. But you’re going to have to end the story some-

time. �us, the second doorway of no return must

send the lead hurtling toward the knockout ending.

�ese two doorways hold your three acts together,

like pins in adjoining railroad cars. If they are weak

or nonexistent, your train won’t run.

��

In order to get from beginning to middle—the �rst

doorway—you must create a scene where your protag-

onist is thrust into the main con�ict in a way that keeps

him there.

In a suspense novel, the �rst doorway might be that

point where the protagonist happens upon a secret that

the opposition wants to keep hidden at all costs. Now

there is no way out until one or the other dies. �ere

can be no return to normalcy. John Grisham’s �e Firm

is an example.

Professional duty can be the doorway. A lawyer tak-

ing a case has the duty to see it through. So does a cop

with an assignment. Similarly, moral duty works for

transition. A son lost to a kidnapper obviously leads to

a parent’s moral duty to �nd him.

�e key question to ask yourself is this: Can my pro-

tagonist walk away from the plot right now and go on

as he has before? If the answer is yes, you haven’t gone

through the �rst doorway yet.

Book I of �e Godfather ends with that transition.

Michael shoots the Don’s enemy, Sollozzo, and the

crooked cop, McCluskey. Now Michael can never go

straight again. He’s in the con�ict up to his eyeballs.

He cannot walk away from his choices.

For Nicholas Darrow, the charismatic minister in

Susan Howatch’s �e Wonder Worker, the inner stakes

are raised when he receives a shock to his upwardly

spiraling ministry—his wife and the mother of his two

sons leaves him. It’s a blow that sends him reeling and

forces him to confront his own humanity. He de�nitely

cannot walk away.

It’s crucial to understand the di�erence between

an initial disturbance (sometimes called an “inciting

incident”) and the �rst doorway of no return (some-

times called a “plot point” or “crossing the threshold”

in mythic terms).

In the movie Die Hard, for example, New York

cop John McClane has come to Los Angeles to spend

Christmas with his estranged wife, Holly, and their

children. He meets up with her at a high-rise build-

ing where she works for a large company. While

McClane is washing up in a bathroom, a team of

terrorists takes over the building and all the people

there. Except McClane, of course. He escapes to an

upper f loor.

We are now about 20 minutes into the �lm. �is is

de�nitely a disturbance. But it is not yet the transition

into Act II.

Why not? Because McClane and the terrorists are

not locked in battle yet. �ey don’t know McClane is

in the building. He might open a window, climb out

and scurry away for help. Or �gure out a way to get a

phone call out. While McClane is trying to �gure out

just what to do, he secretly witnesses the murder of the

CEO of the big company.

So McClane gets to an upper �oor again and pulls

a �re alarm. �is is the incident that sets up the con-

�ict of Act II. Now the terrorists know someone is loose

in the building. �ere is no way for McClane to resign

from the action. He’s through the �rst doorway, and

there’s going to be plenty of confrontation to come.

�is all happens at the one-quarter mark.


��

��

To move from the middle to the end—the second door-

way of no return—something has to happen that sets

up the �nal confrontation. Usually it is some major

clue or piece of information, or a huge setback or crisis,

that hurtles the action toward a conclusion—usually

with one quarter or less of the novel to go.

In �e Godfather, the Don’s death is a setback to peace

among the ma�a families. It emboldens the enemies of

the Corleone family, forcing Michael to unleash a torrent

of death to establish his power once and for all.

�ese doorways work equally well in literary �c-

tion. Leif Enger’s Peace Like a River has two perfectly

placed transitions. �e �rst occurs when Reuben’s older

brother, Davy, shoots and kills two people and must

�ee. �is thrusts Reuben into the middle—the quest

to �nd Davy. �e second doorway opens when Davy

reappears, setting up the �nal battle within Reuben—

should he reveal where Davy is?

Is it possible to write a novel that de�es these con-

ventions of structure? Certainly. Just understand that

the more structure is ignored, the less chance the novel

has to connect with readers.

��e three-act structure comes from drama and is used

extensively in �lm. In this formulation, the �rst “door-

way of no return” usually happens about one-fourth of

the way into a �lm (in other words, within the �rst 30

minutes of a two-hour movie):

��

��

In a novel, however, that first doorway needs to

happen earlier, or the book will seem to drag. My

rule of thumb is the one-fifth mark, though it can

happen sooner.

In addition, the �nal act may take place more

toward the end. So while the three-fourths mark is

still a good signpost, you can slide it to the right a

little if you so desire.

��

��

��

Mastering structure and transitions will make your

novels more accessible even if you choose to deviate

from a linear unfolding. Add a ripping good story, and

your novels may turn out to be unforgettable.

��ese basic plot and structure elements will never fail

you. A plot is about a lead character who has an objec-

tive, something crucial to his well-being. �e major

portion of plot is the confrontation with the opposition,

a series of battles over the objective. �is is resolved in

a knockout ending, an outcome that satis�es the story

questions and the readers.

A solid plot unfolds in three acts—a beginning, mid-

dle and end.

In the beginning, we get to know the lead, his world,

the tone of the story to come. We have some sort of dis-

turbance in the beginning to keep away the dull parts.

We move into the middle through a doorway of

no return, an incident that thrusts the lead into con-

�ict with the opposition. We need some sort of adhe-

sive to keep them together, something like professional

or moral duty, or a physical location. Death—physical,

professional or psychological—is o�en structure: what

holds your plot together a real possibility until the con-

�ict is settled. Some setback or crisis, or discovery or

clue, pushes the lead through the second doorway of no

return. Now all the elements are there to get to that �nal

battle or �nal choice that’s going to end the story.

��

��

��


��

You’ve felt the pulse-pounding drama of a good story, you’ve turned

pages at a furious clip, caught up in a book so real you felt as though

it was happening to you. What makes that story, book or essay come

to life? Strong, powerful scenes.

Writing is a wildly creative act, and therefore o�en seems to defy rules and

formulas. Just when a rule seems agreed upon, some writer comes along to

break it. While there is a formula to scene-writing, it’s not straightforward. It’s

not like a paint-by-numbers kit, where you �ll in the listed colors and voila, you

have a perfect painting of dogs playing poker, in all the right proportions. �e

scene-writing formula is more like the messy spontaneity of cooking: You start

with the ingredients the recipe calls for, but you work them in creatively, and

variations on the main ingredients yield di�erent, even surprising, results.

�e only certain result you want is to snare the reader’s attention with your

very �rst sentence. Since writing competes with the fast-paced, seductive

intensity of television and movies, your challenge is to write engaging scenes.

��So what is a scene, exactly? Scenes are capsules in which compelling charac-

ters undertake signi�cant actions in a vivid and memorable way that allows

the events to feel as though they are happening in real time. When strung

together, individual scenes add up to build plots and storylines.

�e recipe for a scene includes the following basic ingredients:

• Characters who are complex and layered, and who undergo change

throughout your narrative

• A point of view through which the scenes are seen

• Memorable and signi�cant action that feels as if it is unfolding in

real time

• Meaningful, revealing dialogue when appropriate

SCENES: THE BUILDING BLOCKS

OF YOUR NOVEL

Learn how to master the scene, and you’ll be assured of a strong dra� that won’t fall apart

on you during revision.


��

• New plot information that advances your story

and deepens characters

• Con�ict and drama that tests your characters

and ultimately reveals their personalities

• A rich physical setting that calls on all the sens-

es and enables the reader to see and enter into

the world you’ve created

• A spare amount of summary or exposition

Arguably, the one thing in that list that makes a scene

a scene is action—events happening and people acting

out behaviors in a simulation of real time—but well-

balanced scenes include a little bit of everything. Mixing

those ingredients together in varying amounts will yield

drama, emotion, passion, power and energy; in short,

a page-turner. Some scenes need more physical action,

while others may require a lot of dialogue. Some scenes

will take place with barely a word spoken, or with very

small actions. Other scenes may require vivid interac-

tion with the setting.

By pacing your scenes well and choosing the proper

length for each scene, you can control the kinds of emo-

tional e�ects your scenes have, leaving the reader with

the feeling of having taken a satisfying journey.

��To help clarify how all of the elements just discussed func-

tion within a scene, here is a complex snippet of a scene

from Joseph Conrad’s richly layered short story “�e

Secret Sharer,” which I have labeled to show its parts.

Before entering the cabin I stood still, listening in the lobby

at the foot of the stairs. [First-person point of view.] A

faint snore came through the closed door of the chief mate’s

room. �e second mate’s door was on the hook, but the

darkness in there was absolutely soundless. [Physical set-

ting that invokes one of the senses: hearing.] He, too, was

young and could sleep like a stone. Remained the steward,

but he was not likely to wake up before he was called. I got

a sleeping suit out of my room and, coming back on deck,

saw the naked man from the sea sitting on the main hatch,

glimmering white in the darkness, his elbows on his knees

and his head in his hands. [Action that provides a sense

of real time.] In a moment he had concealed his damp

body in a sleeping suit of the same gray-stripe pattern as

the one I was wearing and followed me like my double on

the poop. Together we moved right a�, barefooted, silent.

“What is it?” I asked in a deadened voice, taking the

lighted lamp out of the binnacle and raising it to his face.

“An ugly business.” [Dialogue.]

He had rather regular features; a good mouth; light

eyes under somewhat heavy, dark eyebrows; a smooth

square forehead; no growth on his cheeks; a small brown

mustache, and a well-shaped round chin. His expression

was concentrated, meditative, under the inspecting light

of the lamp I held up to his face; such as a man thinking

hard in solitude might wear. [Detailed physical charac-

ter description.] My sleeping suit was just right for his

size. A well-knit young fellow of 25 at most. He caught

his lower lip with the edge of white, even teeth.

“Yes,” I said, replacing the lamp in the binnacle. �e

warm heavy tropical night closed upon his head again.

“�ere’s a ship over there,” he murmured.

“Yes, I know. �e Sephora. Did you know of us?”

“Hadn’t the slightest idea. I am the mate of her—” He

paused and corrected himself. “I should say I was.”

“Aha! Something wrong?’

“Yes. Very wrong indeed. I’ve killed a man.” [Dramatic

tension and plot information.]

“What do you mean? Just now?”

“No, on the passage. Weeks ago. �irty-nine south.

When I say a man—”

“Fit of temper,” I suggested, con�dently.

�e shadowy, dark head, like mine, seemed to nod

imperceptibly above the ghostly gray of my sleeping suit.

It was, in the night, as though I had been faced by my

own re�ection in the depths of a somber and immense

mirror. [Using physical setting to create the desired

eerie mood.]

�ink of the elements illustrated in the marked sec-

tions above as crucial ingredients that you want to

employ in your own writing. Conrad’s story is an exam-

ple of how unique each scene will be, even when you’re

using the same essential ingredients. You might choose

a di�erent method of creating dramatic tension—like

writing in the third-person point of view, opting for

more or less dialogue (or none), or using very di�erent

actions to create a sense of real time—but you can see


that Conrad did, in fact, use all the foundational ingre-

dients of a scene, and held your attention. �is is exactly

what your scenes need to do for your readers.

��What exactly does it mean to show and not tell? Should

your characters be doing wild strip-teases or crying

“Look, nothing up my sleeve,” before pulling out a rab-

bit? Only if you want, but in this case show is a caveat

that means “don’t over-explain; trust your reader.”

Telling, also known as narrating or narrative sum-

mary, is a form of explaining. And while every narra-

tive has some necessary summary, it must be used judi-

ciously. Imagine yourself as the storyteller to a group of

enthralled children gathered around and hanging on

your every word. Say that right at the climax where Snow

White bites into the poisoned apple (a juicy bit of action),

you go o� on a tangent like this: “Snow White thought

about taking a bite of the apple, but she had been having

trust issues since her stepmother had hired the woodcut-

ter to kill her. Remembering her stepmother’s betrayal

sent her into a whirlwind of doubt. …”

Bored yet? You can bet those kids would be bounc-

ing in their chairs asking, “But what happened to Snow

White a�er she bit into the poisoned apple?!” Grown-

up readers respond the same way to telling.

�ink about it another way: Most people read with

their physical eyes and a handy little part of the brain

known as the visual cortex. �e brain is, in fact, consid-

ered more important in the function of sight than the

eyes, and in the act of reading, this is even more true.

�e brain helps the reader with the most important

organ of reading, the inner eye, meaning the eye of the

imagination (not some mystical link to spiritual realms).

�is eye is responsible for constructing in the mind the

visual images that are rendered only in text on a page.

You want the reader to see what you describe as vividly

as you see your dreams at night; therefore, you must give

the reader as much opportunity to do so as possible. You

must be detailed and speci�c, and provide enough sen-

sory clues to make the task of seeing easy.

Narrative summary, on the other hand, o�ers words

only to the reader’s inner ear, as if someone were stand-

ing o� to the side whispering right to him. While the eye

allows the reader to become emotionally involved, and

activates the heart and the viscera, the inner ear seems to

be linked more closely to the function of sound. Too much

stimulation on the inner ear can temporarily lull your

reader, or even put him to sleep. �is is one of the reasons

that narrative passages should be kept to a minimum.

Scenes use the ingredients mentioned earlier to con-

struct a powerful, vivifying experience that mimics life

for the reader. At its best, powerful scene writing allows

a reader to feel as if he has entered the narrative and is

participating in it, rather than sitting passively by and

receiving a lecture. You know you’re in a scene when

your own heart is pumping and you’re white-knuckling

the pages waiting to see what happens next. When you

fall into the story and forget the world around you, the

author has done a good job of immersing you in a scene.

Narrative summaries, when used in place of scene

work or when used in excess, cause the reader to feel

that the writing is boring, condescending, or lecturing—

which will not win more readers.

��One of the bene�ts of writing in scene form is that

the ending of a scene provides a place for the reader

to comfortably take a pause. You may wonder when to

use a short scene versus a long scene. Once again, the

decision rests with you, but we’ll take a quick look at

the bene�ts of using either kind.

At its best, powerful scene writing allows a reader to feel as if he has entered the narrative and is participating in it, rather than sitting passively by and receiving a lecture.


��

��

Generally speaking, if a scene runs to more than 15

pages, it’s on the long side. A scene can be picked up,

read and put back down (though not too easily!), leav-

ing the reader with more information than he had before.

Even the most avid reader wants to pause eventually, and

scene and chapter breaks o�er them chances to do so.

Long scenes don’t need to be avoided, but they should

be peppered in sparingly. Too many long scenes in a

row will cause your narrative to drag.

Use long scenes in the novel when you want to:

• Intentionally slow down the pace a�er lots of ac-

tion or intense dialogue to allow the protagonist

and the reader to digest what has happened, and

to build new tension and suspense

• Include a lot of big action in a given scene (�ghts,

chases, explosions)—so the scene doesn’t hinge

on action alone

• Add a dialogue scene that, in order to feel realis-

tic, needs to run long

��

A scene that takes place in 10 or fewer pages can com-

fortably be considered short. Some scenes are as short

as a couple of pages. Short scenes o�en make readers

hungry for more. But remember that too many short

scenes in a row can make the �ow of the plot feel

choppy, and disrupt the continuity that the wise writer

John Gardner said creates a dream for the reader.

A short scene has to achieve the same goals as a lon-

ger scene, and in less time. It must still contain main

characters engaging in actions based upon scene inten-

tions. New information must be revealed that drives

the plot forward. �e setting must be clear. In the short

scene, you have even less room for narrative summary.

You’re best using short scenes when you need to:

• Di�erentiate one character from another (a se-

cretive, shy, or withdrawn character, for instance,

might only get short scenes, while an outspoken

character may get longer scenes)

• Pick up the pace right after a long scene

• Leave the reader hungry for more or breathless

with suspense

• Include multiple scenes within a chapter

• Create a sense of urgency by dropping bits of

information one by one, forcing the reader to

keep reading

Whether you go long or short depends on your own

stylistic preferences. Just keep in mind that length

a�ects pacing as you decide what kind of �ow you want

for your manuscript.

��Each scene needs to have its own beginning, middle and

end. �e beginning should be vivid and memorable, and

help immediately draw your reader into the scene. Scene

middles are the vast territory where the stakes must be

raised, characters get caught in con�ict and consequences

follow that keep your plot interesting. Scene endings, of

course, set the stage for the scenes that follow, and leave

a feeling or taste with the reader that should be unforget-

table. When all three sections of a scene are handled well,

the result is an incredibly vivid reading experience.

��

Each new scene still has a responsibility to the idea or

plot you started with, which is to communicate your idea

in a way that is vivifying for the reader and that provides

an experience, not a lecture. Scene launches, therefore,

pave the way for all the robust consequences of the idea

or plot to unfurl. Each scene launch is a reintroduction,

capturing your reader’s attention all over again.

You want to start each scene by asking yourself the

following questions:

• Where are my characters in the plot? Where did

I leave them and what are they doing now?

• What is the most important piece of informa-

tion that needs to be revealed in this scene?

Only you and the course of your narrative can decide

which kinds of launches will work best for each scene,

and choosing the right launch o�en takes some exper-

imentation. �is section will provide you with tech-

niques for launching with characters, actions, narrative

summary or setting.

��. It’s generally a good idea

to get your characters on the page sooner rather than

later. And, depending on how many points of view you

use, the majority of scenes should involve your main


character(s) (although there may be scenes from which

your main character needs to be excluded, for the sake

of your plot). If you write fantasy or science �ction, your

characters may not be people, but dragons, elves, robots

or any of a vast miscellany of other life-forms; just be

sure the reader knows who and what your characters are.

�e edict is still the same—bring your character into the

scene as soon as possible.

Remember, if your scene launch goes on for too

many paragraphs in passive description or narrated

ideas without characters coming into play, the reader

might begin to feel lectured to, or impatient for some-

thing to happen and someone for it to happen to. If

your character isn’t present by the second paragraph in

any given scene, you’re in danger of losing the reader.

�� . Many writers believe they

must explain every bit of action that is going on right

from the start of a scene, but narrative summary

defeats action. �e sooner you start the action in a

scene, the more momentum it has to carry the reader

forward. If you �nd yourself explaining an action,

then you’re not demonstrating the action any lon-

ger; you’re �oating in a distant star system known as

Nebulous Intellectulus—more commonly known as

your head—and so is the reader.

Keep in mind the key elements of action: time and

momentum. It takes time to plan a murder over late-night

whispers; for a drunk character to drop a jar at the grocery;

to blackmail a betraying spouse; or to kick a wall in anger.

�ese things don’t happen spontaneously, they happen

over a period of time. �ey are sometimes quick, some-

times slow, but once started, they unfold until �nished.

�e key to creating strong momentum is to start an

action without explaining anything.

To create an action launch:

• Get straight to the action. Don’t drag your feet

here. “Jimmy jumped o� the cli�”; not “Jimmy

stared at the water, imagining how cold it would

feel when he jumped.”

• Hook the reader with big or surprising actions.

A big or surprising action—outburst, car crash,

violent heart attack, public �ght—at the launch

of a scene allows for more possibilities within

the scene.

• Be sure that the action is true to your charac-

ter. Don’t have a shy character choose to be-

come suddenly uninhibited at the launch of a

scene—save that for scene middles. Do have a

bossy character belittle another character in a

way that creates con�ict.

• Act �rst, think later. If a character is going to

think in your action opening, let the action

come �rst. “Elizabeth slapped the Prince. When

his face turned pink, horror �lled her. What

have I done? she thought.”

��. Writers o�en try to include

narrative summary, such as descriptions of the history

of a place or the backstory of characters, right at the

launch of a scene, believing that the reader will not be

patient enough to allow actions and dialogue to tell the

story. In large doses, narrative summary is to scenes

what voice-overs are to movies—a distraction and an

interruption.

Yet a scene launch is actually one of the easier places

to use a judicious amount of narrative summary (since

you’ve only just gotten the reader’s attention), so long as

you don’t keep the reader captive too long.

��

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��

Take the opening of an early scene in Amanda Eyre

Ward’s novel How to Be Lost.

�e a�ernoon before I planned how I would tell her. I

would begin with my age and maturity, allude to a new

lover, and �nish with a bouquet of promises: grandchil-

dren, handwritten letters, boxes from Ti�any sent in

time to beat the rush. I sat in my apartment drinking

Scotch and planning the words.

�e above bit is almost entirely narrative summary,

and the only action—drinking Scotch—is described,

not demonstrated. �ere is no real setting, and the

only visual cues the reader has are vague and abstract.

However, the narrative summary does demonstrate

Caroline’s nature—she feels she must butter her mother

up, bribe her even, in order to ask for something she

needs, which turns out to be a relatively small thing.

It re�ects Caroline’s tendency to live in her head, and

shows us that Caroline is the kind of person who must

prepare herself mentally for di�cult things—a theme

that recurs throughout the book. It’s also useful because

Caroline spends a lot of time by herself, cutting herself

o� from her relationships, and, therefore, it is very true

to her personality. In just one short paragraph of nar-

rative summary, the reader learns a lot about Caroline,

and Ward gets to action in the next paragraph:

Georgette stretched lazily on the balcony. An ambu-

lance wailed below. A man with a shopping cart stood

underneath my apartment building, eating chicken

wings and whistling.

If the entire scene had continued in narrative sum-

mary, it most certainly would have had a sedative e�ect

on the reader, and the scene’s momentum would have

been lost.

Narrative launches should be reserved for the fol-

lowing occasions:

• When narrative summary can save time. Some-

times actions will simply take up more time and

space in the scene than you would like. A scene

beginning needs to move fairly quickly, and on oc-

casion, summary will get the reader there faster.

• When information needs to be communicated be-

fore an action. Sometimes information needs to be

imparted simply in order to set action in motion

later in the scene. Consider the following sentenc-

es, which could easily lead to actions: “My mother

was dead before I arrived.” “�e war had begun.”

“�e storm le� half of the city under water.”

• When a character’s thoughts or intentions can-

not be revealed in action. Coma victims, el-

derly characters, small children, and other

characters sometimes cannot speak or act for

physical, mental or emotional reasons; there-

fore, the scene may need to launch with narra-

tion to let the reader know what the characters

think and feel.

��

Where, exactly, is the middle of a scene? �e term mid-

dle is misleading because scenes vary in length and

there is no precise midpoint. �e best explanation is

to think of each scene’s middle as a realm of possibility

between the scene opening and its ending, where the

major drama and con�ict of the scene unfolds.

If you grabbed the reader’s attention with an evoca-

tive scene launch, the middle of your scene is the prov-

ing ground, the Olympic opportunity to hook the

reader and never let her go.

You must complicate your characters’ lives, and

you must do it where the reader can see it—in scenes.

Doing so is known as upping the ante. �at phrase is

most o�en heard in gambling circles when the initial

bet goes up, making the potential win greater, along

with the risk. What you must ante up in your scenes

are those things your characters stand to lose (or even

gain), from pride, to a home, to deep love. When you up

the ante, you build anticipation, signi�cance and sus-

pense that drive the narrative forward and bring the

reader along for the ride.

�is process is both terrible and wonderful. Terrible,

because you must hurt your characters—you must take

beloved people and possessions away from them, with-

hold desires, and sometimes even kill them for the sake

of drama or tension. Yet it is also wonderful, because

your mucking about in your characters’ lives will make

the reader more emotionally invested in them.


In its simplest form, a traditional �ctional nar-

rative should address a problem that needs to be

resolved or a situation that needs to be understood.

Something like these: A young girl �nds herself preg-

nant and abandoned by her family and her lover, so

she falls into a life of prostitution on her road to spir-

itual redemption; a relative dies and leaves all his

money to one family member, which launches a fam-

ily feud; parents turn around at the mall and discover

their child missing. �e problem or situation must

also include or encompass smaller problems (o�en

called plot points) with consequences, which is where

scenes come in.

Earlier, I mentioned the need to set scene intentions.

(See sidebar on page 67.) An intention is your direction

to yourself as to what aspect of the larger plot prob-

lem you will set into play in a given scene. Remember,

your scenes transform �at ideas into experiences for

the reader.

��

�e end of a scene is a space for the readers to take a

breath and digest all that they have just �nished read-

ing. Endings linger in memory because they are where

things �nally begin to add up and make sense. At the

end of a scene, if it has been done well, the reader will

have more knowledge of and a greater investment in

the plot and characters, and feel more compelled to

�nd out what happens next. In fact, you know you’ve

done your work when the reader reaches the end of a

scene and absolutely must press on. For novels, o�en

each chapter is one long scene.

It is helpful to put scene endings in one of two cat-

egories: zoom-in endings and zoom-out endings. Just

like a camera can zoom in or out on the image cap-

tured in its lens, endings should either bring the reader

up close or pull back and provide a wider perspective.

Anything that invites intimacy or emotional con-

tact with the characters and their plight at the end of

a scene has a zoom-in e�ect on readers, drawing the

readers closer, even uncomfortably close in order to

ensure that they have an emotional experience.

Zoom-out endings pull away from intimacy or

immediacy. �e reader o�en needs a bit of emotional

relief from an intense scene, and pulling back provides

him an opportunity to catch his breath or re�ect on all

that has just transpired.

��. If you really want to be

sure that your reader will not stop for breath and press

forward, you’re best o� employing the cli�anger end-

ing. Cli�angers can happen in a variety of ways and

in almost any scene when you want to leave the reader

on the edge, uncertain of the outcome: A character is

le� in grave peril; an action is cut short at the precipice

of an outcome; or the tables are turned completely on

your character’s perception of reality. What all of those

scenarios have in common is suspense. �ey leave the

reader wondering every time.

Cli�angers draw the reader so deeply into the

action that there is very little chance she will put down

the book at that point. �ey have a tendency to pump

adrenaline into the reader’s heart, so you want to be

careful not to end every scene on such a note.

��An important way you keep your protagonist from

wandering aimlessly about your narrative is to give

him an intention in every scene—a job that he wants

to carry out that will give purpose to the scene. �e

intention doesn’t come from nowhere—it stems

directly from the signi�cant situation of your plot

and from your protagonist’s personal history. An

intention is a character’s plan to take an action, to

do something, whereas a motivation is a series of

reasons, from your protagonist’s personal history to

his mood, that accounts for why he plans to take an

action. In every scene these intentions will drive the

action and consequences; they will help you make

each scene relevant to your plot and character devel-

opment. Intentions are an important way to build

drama and con�ict into your narrative, too, because

as your protagonist pursues his intention, you will

oppose it, thwart it, intensify his desire for it, and

maybe, only at the end of your narrative, grant him

the satisfaction of achieving it.

��

��

��

��


One of the hurdles you’ll face in your story’s second act is �nd-

ing ways to re-raise stakes e�ectively. If you think of suspense

as coming only in big, pulse-pounding moments of action or

drama, with each scene being bigger than the last, then you’re

going to �nd out that constantly one-upping yourself in this way just isn’t

sustainable (nor is it truly suspenseful). Pulse-pounding scenes repeating

back-to-back cease to be pulse pounding at all; it’s like going to see a block-

buster summer movie that has so many car chases, billowing explosions and

hot gun�ghts that the spectacle becomes boring.

I bring up �lm because I think the form has had a negative in�uence on the

way many writers think about building suspense and tension in �ction. We’re

so accustomed to seeing how movies deliver these moments that we lose

sight of the fact that silence is suspense. (Jonathan Demme, who directed the

movie version of �e Silence of the Lambs, has said the scariest thing a �lm-

maker can show is a closed door. �e terror comes not from seeing what’s on

the other side but from the anticipation of what might be.)

Certainly there’s a place for spectacle in �ction, but when you �nd your-

self writing toward those much-anticipated moments of suspense in your

second act, consider how turning down the volume could better serve to

ratchet up the anxiety and intensity of the scene. And that’s exactly where

we’ll start our discussion.

��One of the most horrifying moments in Cormac McCarthy’s �e Road comes

when the father and son, hungry and desperate, stumble upon an apparently

abandoned house, which the father believes—or simply hopes—might have

supplies inside. If the father notices anything odd about the house he gives

5 TECHNIQUES

TO KEEP YOUR STORY MOVING FORWARD

It’s called the “Mushy Middle” for a reason. Find out how to keep readers interested

during Act II and beyond.


no indication; besides, they’re in such straits by this

point they can’t a�ord not to go in. �e boy, on the other

hand, begs for them to keep moving almost as soon as

they’ve spotted the house, in spite of the fact that there’s

no apparent need to fear. �e boy’s feeling foreshadows

the danger they’re about to walk into, an e�ective tool in

building suspense. We’re put on edge because the boy is

on edge, though neither he nor we know exactly why.

Inside the father and son investigate slowly room by

room, deliberately, with McCarthy stretching the ten-

sion and time of the scene through stark detail and

description: “�e ashes were cold. Some blackened pots

stood about … He stood and looked out the window.

Gray trampled grass. Gray snow …”

Finally the two come to a pantry where the father

notices a hatch door that’s been padlocked; something’s

valuable enough inside to keep it locked. �e father goes

out to a dilapidated tool shed and �nds a spade he can

use to pry o� the lock while the boy continues begging

for them to leave.

Once the father breaks the lock, he and the boy open

the hatch and descend inside:

He started down the rough wooden steps. He ducked

his head and then �icked the lighter and swung the

�ame out over the darkness like an o�ering. Coldness

and damp. An ungodly stench. �e boy clutched at his

coat. He could see part of a stone wall. Clay �oor. An

old mattress darkly stained. He crouched and stepped

down again and held out the light. Huddled against

the back wall were naked people, male and female, all

trying to hide, shielding their faces with their hands.

On the mattress lay a man with his legs gone to the

hip and the stumps of them blackened and burnt. �e

smell was hideous.

Jesus, he whispered.

�en one by one they turned and blinked in the piti-

ful light. Help us, they whispered. Please help us.

Christ, he said. Oh Christ. He turned and grabbed

the boy. Hurry, he said. Hurry. He dropped the lighter.

No time to look. He pushed the boy up the stairs. Help

us, they called. Hurry.

A bearded face appeared blinking at the foot of the

stairs. Please, he called. Please.

Hurry. For God’s sake hurry.

He shoved the boy through the hatch and sent him

sprawling. He stood and got hold of the door and swung

it over and let it slam down and he turned to grab the

boy but the boy had gotten up and was doing his lit-

tle dance of terror. For the love of God will you come

on, he hissed. But the boy was pointing out the win-

dow and when he looked he went cold all over. Coming

across the �eld toward the house were four bearded

men and two women. He grabbed the boy by the hand.

Christ, he said. Run. Run.

Our too-automatic tendency in writing such a scene

would be to make it loud, clumsy and chaotic, like a scene

from a hostage movie or a bank heist (Now-now-now!-

Move-move-move!-Let’s-go!-Let’s-go!). McCarthy goes

the opposite direction, and it’s the chilling quiet of the

scene that makes it all the more terrifying and claustro-

phobic, aided by the deliberate pacing, the dark images

and the strange understatement of such an intense,

stomach-dropping moment. �e same can be said for

the scenes on either side of it, too—before, the father

and son searching the house, and a�er, the two hiding

in the tall weeds barely outside the house, the father try-

ing to suppress a cough that would give them away, as

the four bearded men and two women come looking for

them. Turning down the volume turns up the tension.

��Tension-raising dialogue works the same way; it’s too

easy, and also wrongheaded, to think that important

�e power of stillness: an intensi�er, a marker, an ability to define what surrounds it, using anti-dramatic, antinarrative means.” ��

��


moments of con�ict have to be shouting matches, the

same way hysterical characters spit their lines toward

each other in bad TV melodramas. Again, it’s restraint

and silence in dialogue—the not-said—that o�en

reveals the true depth of tension in a conversation, even

more so than what’s actually said.

�e classic example is Ernest Hemingway’s short

story “Hills Like White Elephants,” which is delivered

almost entirely in (understated) dialogue. �e two

characters in the story are an American couple trav-

eling abroad in order to procure a medical procedure

that neither will directly state—but which the reader

discerns—is an abortion. �e levels of the not-said in

the characters’ conversation also reveal the strained

state of the relationship and the imbalance of power.

�ough, again, these are things the characters never

directly state, likely because they don’t want to admit

it to themselves:

“It’s really an awfully simple operation, Jig,” the man

said. “It’s not really an operation at all.”

�e girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on.

“I know you wouldn’t mind it, Jig. It’s really not any-

thing. It’s just to let the air in.” �e girl did not say

anything.

“’I’ll go with you and I’ll stay with you all the time.

�ey just let the air in and then it’s all perfectly natural.”

“�en what will we do a�erwards?”

“We’ll be �ne a�erwards. Just like we were before.”

“What makes you think so?”

“�at’s the only thing that bothers us. It’s the only

thing that’s made us unhappy.”

�e girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out

and took hold of two of the strings of beads.

“And you think then we’ll be all right and be happy.”

“I know we will. You don’t have to be afraid. I’ve

known lots of people that have done it.”

“So have I,” said the girl. “And a�erwards they were

all so happy.”

“Well,” the man said, “if you don’t want to you don’t

have to. I wouldn’t have you do it if you didn’t want to.

But I know it’s perfectly simple.”

“And you really want to?”

“I think it’s the best thing to do. But I don’t want

you to do it if you don’t really want to.”

“And if I do it you’ll be happy and things will be like

they were and you’ll love me?”

“I love you now. You know I love you.”

“I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I

say things are like white elephants, and you’ll like it?”

“I’ ll love it. I love it now but I just can’t think

about it … .”

What’s not being said in this scene are the very things

the two should be saying—the deeper problems in their

relationship, their dueling thoughts on the operation,

the subtle coercion on the man’s part in convincing Jig

to go through with it—and yet we, as readers, under-

stand what’s not being said perfectly; the not-said is

what makes the scene tense and ultimately heartbreak-

ing. Notice, too, just how much emotion is evident, but

restrained, in the scene. Hemingway gets at this very

simply: �ere are no big outbursts, no wild accusa-

tions … No one even raises a voice. Furthermore the

dialogue tags aren’t loaded with fake bristling emotion

via adverbs—she said tearfully, he said bitingly, etc. In

Arguments are most nerve-wracking when the characters imply what they feel instead of coming right out and saying it ... If you’re trying to build pressure, don’t take the lid o� the pot.” ��


fact the tags only seem to be used, when they’re used, to

make sure we don’t lose track of who is speaking. �e

understatement and quietness of the scene are what

create the anxiety. We almost wish they’d raise their

voices to break the tension—which is, of course, why

Hemingway refuses to.

Look for opportunities in your second act to cre-

ate tension in the same way: by getting quiet and using

silence to build suspense.

��Dialogue, for whatever reason, seems to give many

young writers �ts. Maybe this stems from the fact

that such writers believe that their novels have sev-

eral voices: the one that emerges from narration and

then many di�erent ones that belong to the characters.

And to a certain degree this is correct: Your charac-

ters should have recognizable voices that emerge in

conversation to reveal who they are. But these voices

shouldn’t really be separate from—incongruous with—

the voice in narration.

In fact, it might be helpful to think of dialogue as

an extension of narration rather than an interruption

of it. Dialogue isn’t “real” in that it approximates the

way we speak in real life, which, if we were to tran-

scribe it accurately, would be far too redundant and

uninspired for the page. Instead, dialogue is stylized

speech—polished, precise and rhythmic. And when

it is well-styled, well-crafted, the dialogue becomes

authentic to us, in part because of its distinctiveness.

It’s so specific and stylized and concrete, the reader

accepts it as real.

Technically speaking, all dialogue is �ltered through

narration; it’s not as if a narrator gives us only the para-

graphs and then disappears whenever a character opens

his mouth (the fact that dialogue has quotation marks

around it even signals it’s being quoted rather than

directly spoken). It’s styled the same way that images

and metaphors are styled through narration: with spe-

ci�c goals in mind, to create the illusion of a reality, to

create verisimilitude. How you cra� a particular bit of

dialogue depends upon knowing who your characters

are and what they want, but it also has to do with what

meaning you intend to convey from the conversation

and how best to show it.

Consider the following example from Grace Paley’s

short story “A Conversation With My Father” in which

the narrator, a writer, attempts to construct a “happy”

story for her dying father, which isn’t entirely successful:

First my father was silent, then he said, “Number One:

You have a nice sense of humor. Number Two: I see

you can’t tell a plain story. So don’t waste time.” �en

he said sadly, “Number �ree: I suppose that means

she was alone, she was le� like that, his mother. Alone.

Probably sick?”

I said, “Yes.”

“Poor woman. Poor girl, to be born in a time of fools,

to live among fools. �e end. �e end. You were right

to put that down. �e end.”

I didn’t want to argue, but I had to say, “Well, it is

not necessarily the end, Pa.”

“Yes,” he said, “what a tragedy. �e end of a person.”

“No, Pa,” I begged him. “It doesn’t have to be. She’s

only about 40. She could be a hundred di�erent things

in this world as time goes on. A teacher or a social

worker. An ex-junkie! Sometimes it’s better than hav-

ing a master’s in education.”

“Jokes,” he said. “As a writer that’s your main trouble.

You don’t want to recognize it. Tragedy! Plain tragedy!

Historical tragedy! No hope. �e end.”

“Oh, Pa,” I said. “She could change.”

“In your own life, too, you have to look it in the face.”

He took a couple of nitroglycerin. “Turn to �ve,” he said,

pointing to the dial on the oxygen tank. He inserted the

tubes into his nostrils and breathed deep. He closed his

eyes and said, “No.”

�e occasion for the conversation, the motivation of

the characters, is simple—tell me a “true” story—but the

interaction of the two characters through dialogue cre-

ates a full emotional weight in the scene. Notice how styl-

ized the dialogue really is, particularly the father’s lines:

the repetition as he considers the story (“�e end. �e

end. You were right to put that down.”), his occasional

exhortations or declarations (“Poor girl, to be born in

a time of fools, to live among fools.”), even the stark

e�ect of his simple last line, uttered seemingly apropos

��


of nothing as he inserts his oxygen tubes and breathes:

“No.” �e dialogue is at once particular to the individual

characters—the narrator making uncomfortable jokes to

try to lighten the situation, the father calling her out—yet

similar in terms of delivery, cadence and mood. In fact

the dialogue sounds like it could be part of the narration;

we could remove the quotation marks and streamline it

into paragraphs without losing the e�ect.

Again, practically speaking, these are lines you’re

unlikely to hear spoken in real life. �ink back to the

last time you visited someone in a hospital; had there

been a man there in his powder-blue gown sitting up in

bed and exclaiming, “What a tragedy, the end of a per-

son!” you would’ve probably backed away, thinking the

poor man nuts. But in the context of a story, this styl-

ized dialogue seems real to us. We don’t put it up against

a picture of what a real man in the hospital would look

like, but we certainly picture—and hear—what this man

is like. �e dialogue creates a convincing illusion of real-

ity. (And it also, in spots, breaks your heart.)

�ink of your own dialogue in the same way: not

as outside, interrupting voices entering the text but as

extensions of your narrative voice. You might even get

the hang of cra�ing dialogue by omitting the quotation

marks and thinking of the character’s voices as being

�ltered or channeled through your primary narrative

voice. Hopefully what emerges will be as focused and

precise as all other aspects of your narration, while

also being distinctive to your individual characters

and their personalities.

��For whatever reason—maybe because our natural

impulse as human beings is to avoid con�ict, when our

tendency as a novelist should be to welcome it and rush

toward it—too many inexperienced writers linger on

those moments that are of no real consequence in a story

while rushing over or summarizing those moments that

should be built up.

In such cases, we’ll see pages of driving to a destina-

tion, with a protagonist thinking about what might hap-

pen there, or thinking about what just happened, and

we’ll also stop at tra�c lights, go through a drive-thru,

listen to the car stereo.

�en, when the protagonist �nally arrives, instead of

embracing the con�ict in the scene and letting us stay

in the moment, the writer will rush over, gloss over

or summarize the information the scene is designed

to give us so that he can get the hero quickly back in

the car and out of there … having the character think

some more about what just happened as he looks for

another drive-thru.

A lot happens in your character’s day that’s of abso-

lutely no importance to us as readers. �ink of Jack

Bauer in the TV show 24 (but only for a moment, please).

Does this man never stop at a bathroom? No time for

a sandwich? I think we can assume he does eventually

stop his running around, gun-pointing and cell-phone-

yelling to take care of the mundane necessities, but the

directors and writers wisely choose to show Bauer in

moments of con�ict and drama, with brief moments of

repose and release to catch our breaths and to suggest

the next con�ict he’ll face. A full episode devoted to his

looking for a nearby Starbucks when there’s never one

around is about as compelling as when I spend a half-

hour looking for one. Far less so, in fact, because my

co�ee �x is not on the line.

This is not to say that every scene in your novel

must contain a lit fuse snaking toward explosion, or

at least not literally. Quiet, mundane moments are

important, too—as long as they show us something

of the character, situation or what’s at stake. But when

Too many inexperienced writers linger on those moments that are of no real consequence, while rushing over or summarizing those moments that should be built up.


you catch your character ambling, just doing things

because he can, as if bored, then it’s time to tighten

the tension by either refocusing the scene or doing

away with it altogether.

Here are a few tools you might use to keep your pac-

ing tight and your reader’s attention focused:

�� When you or I

have to get across town, in real life, then we have to grab

our keys and wallet, get to the car and crank it up, �nd a

good radio station, obey tra�c laws, spend 20 minutes

navigating the freeway and getting honked at, �nally

arrive, �nd a parking space, pat our pocket for our cell

phone, get out of the car, go back to the car because we

forgot to lock it, etc. In other words, in real life we are

bound by the laws of matter, time and space.

But as a writer, you are not bound by them. You don’t

need to show your character drive across town if you

don’t want to. You don’t even need to show him walk

across a room unless it suits your needs. �at’s because

in �ction, you control time and space … and you do so

with a few indispensable tools:

��We tend to think of dark space, the

print, as the really important part of a narrative, but the

way you use white space is every bit as important. First,

it’s aesthetically pleasing, o�ering the eyes a moment

of much-needed rest. It o�ers the reader a moment of

rest, too, a space to take a breath before moving on to

the next scene. It’s also the ultimate end punctuation

mark, forcing us to slow down and remain on a partic-

ular point, moment or line and really take it in. �ere

can be nothing more upli�ing, nor more devastating

(in a good way), than a sharp, powerful, well-delivered

line followed by a bit of pure white page.

And, in the context of time, space and pacing, white

space is your very own Star Trek transporter. Need a

character to go a dry cleaner clear across town? White

space, then �rst line of the next scene: He walked in,

rang the bell for service, and then took a number, even

though he was the only person there.

Needless to say, white space can be your best friend

in minimizing what’s not important—even getting rid

of it altogether—and maximizing what is.

��Sometimes a single word is enough to

keep your �ction active and forward-moving, as is the

case with the relatively simple transitions, such as before,

a�er, later, eventually, subsequently and more like them.

Transitions like these are shortcuts to future events or

quick trips back to past ones, bypassing the tedious or

unimportant moments between but still giving a proper

sense of time and perspective. If you’re in the present

moment and know you need something to happen later

on with your character, see how easy it is to begin your

next line: “Later, he ...” or “Later on, when he ...”

I know this seems too easy, but you’ll be surprised

just how much material you’ll be able to cover this way,

and cover simply.

��Manipulating the powers of time and space is one excel-

lent way to control the pacing of your novel, but you also

control the focus of your work: what to zoom in on, what

to pull back from, what to minimize and maximize.

��Writers don’t build a reality by show-

ing everything going on but by being selective with what

they show, choosing a few speci�c images or details that

have the e�ect of standing in for and creating the illu-

sion of the whole. �e metaphor used to describe this

principle is the iceberg; all we really see of an iceberg

is the tip, a small part of it, but from that small part, we

understand the enormity of what lies beneath.

To illustrate, think about how you’d describe a place you

enjoy going to, or that you dislike. If you were to describe

either one to a friend—let’s call the place a co�ee shop—

you wouldn’t begin by saying, “Well, there’s a door, and you

go in that door, and then there’s a �oor and you walk on

that. Right by the door on the right there’s a station with

half and half and milk and sugar and fake sugar and nap-

kins and wooden stirrers, and on the other side of the door

is a metal trash can with a black bag sticking out the top,

and just inside the door on the one side are two tables with

four wooden chairs each and two windows, and on the

other side of the aisle are three plush chairs …”

Instead, you’d choose the speci�c details that help

make your bigger point about the place and how you

hate it, let’s say—the yellow lighting, the lack of seating,

the yuppie businessman booming into his cell phone

like he’s talking to someone in outer space—and you’d

let those few speci�cs create the whole experience.

��


�� “Show, don’t tell,” like

“write what you know,” is misleading advice, and

writers who take the advice literally, who think they

should show everything and tell nothing, are really

doing themselves a disservice.

Every writer shows and tells; it’s the proper balance

of these that creates meaning. A good example comes

from John Cheever’s short story “�e Enormous Radio,”

which from the beginning balances both showing and

telling to give us a picture of the protagonists, Jim and

Irene Westcott:

Jim and Irene Westcott were the kind of people who seem

to strike that satisfactory average of income, endeavor, and

respectability that is reached by the statistical reports in col-

lege alumni bulletins. �ey were the parents of two young

children, they had been married nine years, they lived on

the 12th �oor of an apartment house near Sutton Place,

they went to the theatre on an average of 10.3 times a

year, and they hoped someday to live in Westchester. Irene

Westcott was a pleasant, rather plain girl with so� brown

hair and a wide, �ne forehead upon which nothing at all

had been written, and in the cold weather she wore a coat

of �tch skins dyed to resemble mink. You could not say that

Jim Westcott looked younger than he was, but you could at

least say of him that he seemed to feel younger. He wore his

graying hair cut very short, he dressed in the kind of clothes

his class had worn at Andover, and his manner was ear-

nest, vehement, and intentionally naïve.

�e Westcotts are people who want to be part of a cer-

tain social class—or who at least want to be perceived

that way—and Cheever uses some �ne showing to help

make the point (the best example: that Irene dyes her

�tchskin coat so it looks like mink).

But notice just how much of this paragraph involves

telling: that they strive for the kind of respectable aver-

age one �nds in “college alumni bulletins,” showing their

awareness of status and meeting it; that Irene has a wide

forehead “on which nothing at all had been written”;

that Jim struck a manner that was “intentionally naïve.”

All of these give the reader a greater sense of who the

Westcotts are, what they value, while at the same time o�er-

ing sly commentary on them, revealing aspects of their

personality and attitudes that the Westcotts wouldn’t, and

probably couldn’t, tell us about themselves. And it accom-

plishes this much more quickly and e�ciently, by com-

bining showing and telling, than showing alone could.

�� Long

stretches of either narration or dialogue are other ways

of boring a reader, leading him to start scanning, looking

for keywords to get through the passage rather than really

reading. Look out for long passages of straight narration or

uninterrupted dialogue in your work, and when you �nd

them, look for ways to balance the two to keep the pace

quick and forward-moving and to get across information

through interaction rather than summary or soliloquy.

��e end of each chapter should feel like a completion, a

satisfying conclusion to a particular problem or arc, but

it should also urge the reader on, should contain enough

mystery and promise and excitement to make her, even

though it’s late, think, “Well, maybe just one more …”

�at doesn’t mean that you should end every chap-

ter with a kind of cli�anger, like a Saturday-morning

serial from the ’40s. What it means is that the answer

you provide at the end of a chapter raises another

question that propels your narrative, tempts the

reader to keep going and keeps up the momentum—

the pacing—of your work.

��

��

“Show, don’t tell” is misleading advice, and writers who take the advice literally, who think they should show everything and tell nothing, are really doing themselves a disservice.

��


The momentum of the third act—with the momentum of the entire

book behind it—makes the act a whole lot of fun to write, as both

author and reader feel propelled toward the �nal confrontation in

the book and the resolution of the story.

But in spite of the anticipation you feel to �nish the book, it’s important

to remember that you also have a lot of work to do in the last quarter of your

story: ful�ll the major plot and character arcs and resolve these in some sat-

isfying way; resolve any outstanding minor arcs of subplot and supporting

character, making sure none are le� orphaned; build theme from how the

resolution of con�ict speaks to the broader human experience; and �nish

with scenes and lines that bring the story to a gratifying conclusion while

also encouraging the reader to keep thinking about the characters and their

lives even a�er the book is closed.

Let’s consider the art of closing well by �rst determining the shape and

function of a strong �nal act.

��In conventional three-act structure, the third act generally accounts for the

�nal 25 percent of the story and includes the climax—where the protago-

nist faces the con�ict in the most serious, direct way and will either suc-

ceed or fail in the overall quest—and the dénouement, the winding down of

action in which the reader takes stock of the protagonist’s success or failure

and draws conclusions about what the completed arc (and completed story)

really means.

Put in these terms, it might seem as if the final act has relatively little

to do, but of course that isn’t the case: The way your arcs, both major

and minor, resolve plays a direct role in what the reader takes away from

the book and how she judges it. The reader has made a commitment to

THE ART OF CLOSING WELL

Readers deserve a satisfying ending. Here’s how to anticipate and shape a memorable climax,

closing act and denouement.

��


see the story through from the beginning, just as the

writer has, and she expects a compelling climax and

dénouement that:

• answer all the questions the book has posed

• reward the anticipation and suspense felt through-

out with a �nal release

• reveal what the completed arc means for the spe-

ci�c character and his world

• suggest how the completed arc has resonance

and meaning for us out here in the real world

Regardless of whether the story ends happily or tragi-

cally, the reader expects the story to end well.

But while the way you handle the events at the end of

the book—how artfully you tie your story to a close, on a

cra� level—obviously plays a big role in making meaning,

it’s important to realize that, if you’ve set up your story the

right way from the beginning and followed through by

raising the stakes in incremental, logical ways through-

out, keeping the character and his motivation clear, the

events themselves in the �nal act create meaning.

A boy who wants ice cream, gets a cone and then

enjoys it on a hot day conveys a speci�c meaning and

feeling to us; a boy who goes through the same steps but

then immediately drops the cone onto the hot street, his

last dollar in the world melting into the gravel, creates

a completely di�erent meaning, a completely di�erent

story, just by changing the event waiting for him. �e

end retroactively a�ects the way we think about every-

thing that’s come before it.

�e climax, then, has to address and jeopardize the

character’s original external and internal motivations,

and the dénouement has to answer how both of those

goals have been met and what the result means for both

character and reader.

When it’s done right, you can look at the end and see

re�ected back the beginning, or you can �ip back to the

beginning and see the end. �us the ending seems on one

level inevitable, as if the story couldn’t have ended any other

way … yet the �nal outcome hasn’t seemed predestined,

as the heart of the story contains enough perilous con�ict

that the character’s success is never a foregone conclusion.

�e success of the character in his quest—and the success

of the story as a whole—has to be earned along the way.

��Every novel has its own particular needs in plotting a

payo�. It would be impossible to tell you, for example,

“Your climax should be 10 pages,” or, “Your dénouement

should be 20.”

Really, the only thing that can dictate the plotting and

pacing of the end is what’s come before it—what expecta-

tions you’ve raised and have to meet—in the last act.

Still, there are a number of things you might take

into account in order to �gure out how to best pull o�

the payo�.

��

�inking about your third-act events and how you

anticipate the act playing out, try answering the follow-

ing questions:

1. How close to the end of the book is the climax?

2. When should the subplots be tied up? When your

climax comes very late in the book, you’ll need to make

sure that your subplots are brought to a close by the

time you arrive there (unless the climax su�ciently ties

them up). If, on the other hand, your climax requires

necessary winding down—if, for example, you’re writ-

ing a detective story, which necessitates a bit of post-

mortem—then you’ll need to reach the climax quickly

enough to allow for a longer dénouement.

3. Does the climax leave more questions than answers?

If you �nd yourself with too much le� to explain a�er

�e ending must seem on one level inevitable, as if the story couldn’t have ended any other way, yet the �nal outcome shouldn’t seem predestined.


the climax, especially as a result of the climax (rather

than just necessary dénouement), are you trying to do

too much too late? Have you created a complex climac-

tic scene when a more straightforward one might do?

Your ending should become more and more focused

up to your climactic moment and should then wind

down simply, in ways that resolve complication easily

(your reader is likely a bit exhausted a�er the climax

and can’t take on too much responsibility).

So if you’ve still got large knots to untie at the end, try

to �nd ways to simplify the third act—even if it means

going back to your �rst and second acts to simplify

them, too.

��

As we think about constructing a strong ending, it behooves

us to consider e�ective and ine�ective uses of surprise.

Surprises in plot, especially “twist” endings, oper-

ate in a very speci�c way: �ey catch us o� guard in

the moment, but in retrospect they appear to have been

unavoidable, set up and even suggested by what we’ve

already seen.

Consider, for instance, the twist ending we see in O.

Henry’s classic short story “�e Gi� of the Magi” in

which a young married couple without much money

struggles to buy Christmas gi�s for one another.

�e young wife, Della, wants to buy a gold chain for

her husband, Jim, for his prized pocket watch, but she is

well short of the money it would cost. So Della decides

to trade in the one thing she has of value—her long hair,

which she cuts o� and sells to a wig-maker—in order to

buy the chain.

When Jim comes home that evening, he stops short

and stares at his newly shorn wife with a “peculiar

expression” that Della believes is dislike for her new

haircut, and she immediately tells him that it will grow

back, not to be concerned, that she has a wonderful

Christmas gi� for him.

It’s then that O. Henry reveals the reason for the

peculiar expression: Jim has sold his pocket watch for

the money to buy his wife a Christmas gi� she’d love:

combs for her beautiful long hair.

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�e twist is delightful, moving, but it’s also an inevita-

ble conclusion. �e surprise catches us o� guard for just

a moment, feels strangely euphoric, but in the very next

moment the surprise makes complete sense: We realize

we’ve been headed toward that conclusion all along.

�ink of your own favorite example of a successful

twist ending—whether its the O. Henry example above,

or the Twilight Zone episode in which Burgess Meredith

plays the book lover who survives an apocalypse and

�nally has time to read, and then immediately breaks

his glasses, or the end of �e Sixth Sense. �e surprise

works because, once we look back on it, we realize we

should’ve seen it coming, though we’re thankful we

didn’t. �e twist is part of a logical progression.

Ine�ective surprise, on the other hand, is apropos of

absolutely nothing, comes out of nowhere, has no rea-

son to be there, and in fact o�en runs counter to what

we’d been led to believe.

And the e�ect on the reader is momentary surprise,

and then any number of emotions you absolutely don’t

want to evoke in your audience, ever, at least if they’re

directed back at you: confusion, anger, disgust, betrayal,

rage, demands for a refund.

Here is a brief listing of the most common trick-

ending o�enders, the ones that don’t delight the reader

so much as insult and o�end him. Be careful not to fall

back on any of these—not because they can’t be used

e�ectively, but because they rarely are.

��e literal translation, “god

from the machine,” has an even more literal origin:

In Greek tragedy, when playwrights had worked their

characters into such a mess that there seemed no real

way to resolve the crisis, someone would lower a god

onto the stage via a machine, like a wench, so the god

could solve the problem with his godly powers and then

be wenched back o� stage.

In contemporary usage it refers to any resolution

that involves introducing some external solution to the

problem from out of nowhere, such as saying, “And then

he saw the lifeboat!” or “And then he saw the machine

gun!” or “And then he saw the UFO!” where no lifeboat,

machine gun, or UFO existed in the story before.

�ere’s always a way to solve a story dilemma using

what’s already been introduced into the story. And in

those rare occasions when there’s not, then maybe you

shouldn’t be getting your characters into such a compli-

cated mess, huh?

�� At the beginning of every

novel, the author sets the rules for the story and its �c-

tional world, the reader agrees, and thus author and

reader form a kind of contract. If at the end of the

story you suddenly begin changing those rules—in the

process chiding the reader for being such a dope as to

believe you in the �rst place—the reader feels cheated,

because she has been.

Examples of this include such endings as It Was All

A Dream / Hallucination / Virtual-Reality Experiment

or anything else that indicates the contract the reader

trusted at the beginning of the story should never

have been.

��When a twist comes

from the author delaying the reveal of certain crucial

information—withheld for the purposes of deceiv-

ing the reader—the reader reaction is naturally one

of betrayal.

Examples of this include stories that, in the last line,

reveal that the main character is acting so odd because

he’s actually a dog (or a Martian, or a ghost, or a time-

traveling Nazi, or whatever) when that information

should’ve been made part of the rules of the story

up front.

All of these run the risk of alienating a reader, so the

best rule to follow is not to resort to them at all. Rather,

allow surprise to come naturally from the directions

your story takes. Don’t try to manufacture or force sur-

prise, at the end or anywhere else.

��e climax of the novel answers one of the story’s two

major questions: Will the protagonist succeed or fail

in meeting his external goal? (�e second big ques-

tion, addressed in the dénouement, is what the success

or failure means for the character as a person, which

a�ects how we relate to the character at the end.)

In order for the climax to feel truly like a payo�, it

must answer the external question one way or the other—

either with success or failure—and it has to seem like a


natural, believable conclusion, even if the end holds a

surprise or two for the reader.

Keep in mind, though, that while success or failure

are indeed your only two options in concluding the

protagonist’s external arc, the e�ect of either one can

produce complex meaning for protagonist and reader

alike. A failure in the external quest doesn’t necessar-

ily mean failure for the character’s internal quest, and

vice versa. �us a failure of the external quest might

still lead to a triumphant ending in terms of the inter-

nal, and a success in the external might be bittersweet

if the internal goal is nevertheless unmet. (Don’t

believe me? Go watch the end of Casablanca and then

give me a call.)

When writing your climactic scenes, then, go back

to your �rst act—to the point where the internal and

external goals became parallel and launched the hero,

and the reader, on the journey—and consider how

your climax, whether win or lose for the main charac-

ter, answers the questions posed at the book’s begin-

ning. And you should also consider how either a win

or loss in the climax a�ects what you’re able to do in

the book’s dénouement, where the reader can begin tak-

ing stock of everything that’s transpired along the way

(and how your main character has been changed by

the experience).

��

�e climax is the greatest point of tension and con�ict

in the novel, and how that con�ict plays out, how the

tension resolves, is part of the payo� the reader has

been waiting for since the beginning, allowing her to

see the story as a full arc and to draw conclusions about

the character’s journey.

To that end, you’ll want to consider not just how

your own climax will resolve—with the character either

succeeding or failing in the external quest—but what

the implications are in terms of the larger story, lead-

ing to the dénouement and resonant closing scenes of

the book.

Take a look the worksheet on page 116 and consider

how your own climax ful�lls the external arc, bringing

that part of the journey to a satisfying close, while also

leading your reader toward the dénouement, where the

e�ect of the win or loss on the protagonist’s personal or

internal quest will be revealed.

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If the climax answers the primary question of the book,

which is to say, whether the character succeeds or fails

in reaching the overall external goal, the dénouement

puts the victory or failure into perspective, showing

its e�ect on the protagonist and his relationship to the

world. �is gives the reader a way of knowing what to

take away from the story.

�e closing moments are necessarily quieter than the

climactic scene, but they should be no less emotion-

ally resonant; in fact, the dénouement is a moment that

looks back to, and reminds the reader of, the begin-

ning of your novel and what questions were raised

there, particularly in terms of the protagonist’s internal

motivation.

What your character wants personally has been driv-

ing the narrative since the �rst page, even before the

external motivation and con�ict came along to paral-

lel the personal struggle. With the external question

resolved in the climax, what remains is answering the

internal question and addressing the e�ect the story

has had on the character as a person, thus bringing the

character arc, and the book, full circle.

��

One of the most basic de�nitions of a story—in fact a

common test to determine if what you have is truly a

story rather than, say, an anecdote or a yarn or some other

related form—is that it’s a complete action that leaves the

protagonist in some way changed by the experience.

Now, this doesn’t mean that your protagonist needs

to succeed, necessarily, nor does it mean that he needs

to be better, smarter or more excellent than he was at

the beginning; in fact, failure—particularly our own

personal failings—o�en change our lives with more

ferocity than our successes.

But however the events unfold, and no matter where

they leave our protagonist, the e�ect must be signi�-

cant for the character. �e way to gauge the signi�cance

is by looking at the protagonist at both the beginning

and end and seeing a di�erence. If the character seems

unchanged by the end of the story, it must be because

the events he went through weren’t really that impor-

tant. (And if the events weren’t really that important,

why did the reader just spend all that time, energy and

attention reading them?)

So here’s the big question to put to your own work:

Has the protagonist met both his external and inter-

nal goals by the end of the novel? �e correct answer is

either a yes or a no; there’s no maybe. And that yes or no,

that success or failure, should �nally give the reader a

full understanding of both the character and story. �e

reader should feel the personal victory or loss as if it

were her own.

��

�e term dénouement comes from the French (and

earlier Latin) for “untying,” as you would a knot—for

instance, all those knots of plot, character and con�ict

you’ve spent your novel making.

Interestingly, though, when I teach dénouement I

�nd I’m actually using the term in an opposite way

from its literal meaning: dénouement is about tying

up those necessary loose threads and making sure they

are woven back into the novel in some meaningful way

by the end. �e dénouement is about completion.

�e needs of your particular genre will a�ect what

you cover in the dénouement and how you cover it.

A detective story or procedural, for example, might

require a bit of post-mortem (perhaps literally) a�er

the climax, revealing those last pieces of information

that make sense only now that the mystery has been

solved, whereas a fantasy might require very little a�er

the climax for us to understand the overall meaning:

good defeated evil, and that’s all you need to know.

In a love story, what we need is some understand-

ing of what the climactic moment ultimately means

for the lovers, whether they’ll live happily ever a�er

or not.

But it’s important for you to remember that the

dénouement isn’t about o�ering information only;

the artistry with which you answer these remaining

questions, and the mood your strike with your closing

lines, goes a long way to informing the reader how to

interpret the end.

Here’s a quick, beautiful example from Charles

Dickens’s Great Expectations.


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�e plot of the book concerns Pip, a boy of humble

means who receives money—and thus an opportunity

to better himself socially and become a “gentleman”—

from a mysterious benefactor.

�e major (external) question of the book, then, is

about Pip’s making his way in the larger world, which

takes too many Dickensian twists and turns along the

way to name.

But the major subplot—and the emotional heart of

the book—has to do with Pip’s longing for the young

Estella, the ward of the eccentric Miss Havisham.

Pip and Estella’s relationship over the many years

(30-plus) covered in the novel is turbulent, with Estella

toying with Pip at the urging of Miss Havisham and

breaking his heart repeatedly, eventually by marrying

another—though the reader never truly gives up hope

that Pip might �nd happiness with her (since this is

something Pip desperately wants, and we want what

Pip wants).

At the end of the novel, Pip—having by this time

earned, lost and begun rebuilding his fortune—returns

to his boyhood home and to the crumbling ruins of Miss

Havisham’s home, where he �nds, of all people, Estella,

whose marriage is done and who seems genuinely sorry

for having treated Pip so poorly.

�e last lines of the novel are a classic example of

how dénouement artfully ties up the action of the story

while o�ering a bit of understanding—and hope—for

what comes next:

I took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined

place; and, as the morning mists had risen long ago

when I �rst le� the forge, so, the evening mists were ris-

ing now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light

they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another part-

ing from her.

Pip has achieved the major external goal of the book—

he has become a man of means, and self-su�cient in

the process—though the reader turns toward the last

chapter still wondering about that major unresolved

subplot, and meaningful goal, of �nding a measure of

love and happiness.

�e way Dickens addresses these in the dénouement,

and o�ers hope that Pip has �nally found what he’s

looking for, is the perfect, satisfying conclusion we’ve

been waiting for, and it’s achieved through a rather sim-

ple and even understated image: Pip and Estella holding

hands, not letting go.

��

You’re within shouting distance of having finished

the novel, and the most important thing you can do

to see the book through is to remind yourself of how

you got here, looking back at the beginning, remem-

bering what it is that you’re really moving toward,

what needs to be fulfilled (and, importantly, what

you should do in the final act to make the book as a

whole fulfilling).

You shouldn’t get so concerned about any dangling

or orphaned plot points, about polishing, that you

�nd yourself trying to play it too safe. By all means, if

you’ve made it this far you deserve to let go a bit and

have fun.

(Besides, there will be plenty of opportunity in the

next phase, revision, to make your �nal dra� look as if it

came out perfect the �rst time.)

But try to think of the momentum and urgency of

the �nal act as coming from the �rst two acts and what

you set up there. In the end is the beginning, and you’ll

know you’ve really �nished the novel when that initial

question, raised by that very �rst spark, has found a res-

onant, satisfying conclusion.

For some help in cra�ing a compelling close, see the

worksheet on page 117. But keep in mind that ending

well means more than just o�ering the right informa-

tion; it’s about �nding that inspired way of conveying

meaning and emotion to the reader so that she wants to

inhabit the world you’ve created even a�er the reading

is done.

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��


THE ULTIMATE

REVISION CHECKLIST

Here’s how to take your �rst dra�

to polished manuscript.

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Celebrate. You have a completed manuscript.

Most people who think they ought to write

a novel someday never get to this point. You

learn things by �nishing a dra� you can’t

learn any other way.

When it comes to revision, I’ve found that most writ-

ers need a more systematic approach. Too many writers

just sit down and read a manuscript page by page, mak-

ing changes as they come up. Big or small, each item is

dealt with the moment it’s seen.

Much better is to go from large to small. To start with

the most crucial aspects and work your way down to the

�nal step, which is �e Polish.

Feel free to vary the order if you prefer, and add your

own checklist areas. And feel free to use this as is for the

rest of your writing life. It will serve you either way.

�� • Is my protagonist worth following for a whole

novel? Why?

• How can I make my protagonist “jump o� the

page” more?

• Do my characters su�ciently contrast? Are they

interesting enough on their own?

• Will readers bond to my protagonist because he:

– cares for someone other than himself?

– is funny, irreverent, or a rebel with a cause?

– is competent at something?

– is an underdog who doesn’t give up?

– has a dream or desire readers can relate to?

– has undeserved misfortune?

– is in jeopardy or danger?

�� • Is he just as fully realized as the protagonist?

• Is his behavior justi�ed (in his own mind)?

• Are you being “fair” with the opposition?

• Is he as strong or (preferably) stronger than the

protagonist, in terms of ability to win the �ght?

Common Character Fixes �� Lead characters must “jump o� the

page.” �e key to compelling �ction has always been

characters that live, breathe, and have the capacity to

surprise us.

If your main characters seem �at, try the “opposite

exercise.” Imagine they’re the opposite sex. Close your

eyes and replay some scenes in your mind. What’s di�er-

ent about their behavior? What sorts of feelings do they

show? What nuances suddenly emerge? You’re not going

to change their sex in actuality (though you might!).

You’re trying to �nd di�erent shades and colors.

�� Track the inner change

in your character through the three acts. List the plot ele-

ments that are working on the character to instigate the

change. Make the change understandable and logical.

• Go through your manuscript and, with a high-

lighter, mark all the passages of inner life you’ve

given us. �ese can be everything from one-line

realizations to full-on re�ections.

• Now, read through the highlighted sections only,

in order. Is the �ow of the interior life you’re

showing understandable and believable? Are

there places that seem inconsistent? Are there

gaps to �ll with other interior insights?

�� • Is there any point where a reader might feel like

putting the book down?

• Does the novel feel like it’s about people

doing things?

• Does the plot feel forced or unnatural?

• Is the story out of balance? Too much action?

Too much reaction?

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Common Plot Fixes�� All through the revision pro-

cess your mind will be working on your plot. When

you sleep, eat, shower, drive. �e boys in the basement

never stop.

So be able to nab any ideas that occur to you at odd

moments. Have pens and paper handy in your home, car,

o�ce, backpack. Don’t hesitate to jot down what occurs

to you, without judgment. Later, you can si� through

your notes and decide what to incorporate.

�� Create two trajecto-

ries for your main character: a personal problem and

a plot problem.

• He’s in his personal problem as the story begins,

or it develops soon therea�er.

• �e plot problem arises when the main con�ict

is engaged.

�e two don’t necessarily intersect as the story moves

along, though they can. But the personal complicates

how he deals with the plot.

��Ask yourself what the main

character will lose if he doesn’t achieve his objective.

Unless it’s something that threatens tremendous loss,

either physically or emotionally, readers won’t care

what happens.

�� In Robert

Crais’s thriller Hostage, burned-out hostage negoti-

ator Je� Talley is suddenly faced with a tense stand-

o� in an otherwise placid bedroom community. Fine

and dandy on its own, but Crais then adds another

level: �e hostage inside the house has in his posses-

sion incriminating �nancial evidence against the mob,

because he’s the mob’s accountant! �e mob needs to

get that evidence before the cops. To put pressure on

Talley, the mob kidnaps his ex-wife and daughter and

holds them hostage. �is added level of complication

supercharges the entire book.

Don’t hold back on making trouble. Have you been

resistant to making things as bad as possible for your

Lead? Did you pull your punches when creating obsta-

cles, challenges, points of con�ict? Were you too nice to

your characters?

Go through your manuscript and for each scene

de�ne what the point of con�ict is.

��Too few characters can result

in a thin plot. Too many can render it overweight. But

just the right character added at just the right time

presents a whole universe of plot possibilities. If your

plot is plodding, consider adding a new, dynamic

character to the proceedings. Give this character a

stake in the plot. Give him plenty of reasons to be for

or against the other characters. Search out possible

backstory relationships between the new character

and the existing cast.

��Do you have

characters doing things that aren’t justi�ed in the

story? A character can’t just show up. You need to give

your characters a reason why they act the way they do.

Look to:

• desires

• yearnings

• duties

• psychological wounds

• passions

�� Usually the main setting of

your plot is going to remain as is, because you have

so much invested in it. You’ve done research, set up

locations for scenes, and so on. But if it’s possible to

change, give it some consideration. Will it add levels to

your plot? More exciting possibilities? Even if you can’t

change the main location, many of your scenes can be

enlivened this way.

Look especially to these locations:

• restaurants

• kitchens

• living rooms

• o�ces

• cars

These are the places most of us are in most of the

time. For that reason they’re overly familiar. Look at

each instance of a location like the above and see if

you can’t find a fresher venue. For example, instead

of a restaurant scene, what if the characters were

outside eating hot dogs on a pier? Or at a carnival

where there’s too much noise? You don’t have to

move every scene, of course, but this is one way to

sharpen a plot.


�� • Do I open with some part of the story engine

running? Or am I spending too much time

warming up?

• How do my opening pages conform to

Hitchcock’s axiom (“A good story is life with the

dull parts taken out”)?

• What is the story world I’m trying to present?

What mood descriptions bring that story world

to life for the reader?

• What is the tone of my novel going to be? Are

the descriptions consistent with that mood?

• What happens in Act I that’s going to compel the

reader to keep reading? What danger to the lead?

• Who is the opposition to the lead? Is he as strong,

or preferably stronger, than the lead? How do I

show this?

• Is there enough con�ict to run through the

whole book?

Common Opening Fixes�� Give us a character in

motion. Something happening to a person from line

one. Make that a disturbing thing, or have it presage

something disturbing. Remember, a disturbance is any

sort of change or challenge. It doesn’t have to be “big”

to hold interest. If you want to open more leisurely, at

least give us these elements within the �rst paragraph

or half-page.

�� While some

backstory is good in the opening, it should come

only after action is established, and then dropped in

sparingly. Exposition (information) can also usually

be put off until later. Remember the rule: act first,

explain later.

• Are there two characters with opposing objectives?

• Can you rework it so this con�ict is clearer?

• Can you ratchet up the con�ict by making these

objectives more important to each character?

• Can you show us, through inner thoughts, just

how important it is to the viewpoint character?

• Can you make the con�ict hotter, more intense?

Don’t worry about going too far. You can always pull

it back a little in your �nal polish.

�� Readers want to know

who the main character is and why they should care.

If you bring on too many characters, that bond will be

diluted. You can:

• Eliminate characters.

• Delay some character introductions until later.

• Make sure you are strongly in your protagonist’s

point of view throughout.

• Combine characters to reduce the size of the cast.

��

• Do I deepen character relationships?

• Why should the reader care what’s happening?

• Have I justi�ed the �nal battle or �nal choice

that will wrap things up at the end?

• Is there a sense of death (physical, professional,

or psychological) that overhangs?

• Is there a strong adhesive keeping the characters

together (such as moral or professional duty;

physical location; other reasons characters can’t

just walk away)?

• Do my scenes contain con�ict or tension?

Common Middle Fixes�� Alfred Hitchcock

always said the strength of his suspense lay in the

Readers want to know who the main character is and why they should care. If you bring on too many characters, that bond will be diluted.

��


strength of the villain. It makes sense. If your readers

aren’t worried about your lead because the opponent or

opposing circumstances are so�, the middle will seem a

long slog indeed.

Look to the three aspects of death to give your oppo-

sition strength.

• Does the opposition have the power to kill your

protagonist, like a ma�a don, for instance?

• Does the opposition have the power to crush

your protagonist’s professional pursuits, like a

crooked judge in a criminal trial?

• Does the opposition have the power to crush

your protagonist’s spirit?

Once you decide on the type of power your opposi-

tion character can wield, you can go back and explain

it. You can come up with any background material you

choose to show us exactly how the opposition got to be

the way she is.

One caveat: Don’t make your opposition so strong

that she becomes a caricature. Color your opposition.

Make her complex. No one, with the possible excep-

tion of Dr. Evil, wakes up each day thinking of new evil

things to do. Characters feel justi�ed in what they do.

Show us the shades of gray in the opposition.

��One sure way to prop up a sagging

middle is to add a subplot. A good subplot can add the-

matic depth, provide additional outer and inner con�ict,

and power the book with another level of interest.

A few of the types of subplot are:

�ematic: �is is a subplot that can have many per-

mutations, but the main reason for its existence is to

deepen the theme of the novel. O�en, this is a personal

story line that demands the lead grow or learn some

important lesson.

Romantic: �e lead has to deal with romance, which

should threaten to complicate his life. Some of the types

of romantic subplots are:

a] �e lead falls in love with a character he can’t

connect with, due to class, family, or other con-

siderations. �e lovers want to be together but

are prevented by circumstance. �ink Romeo

and Juliet.

b] �e lead and another character hate each other

at �rst but are forced into companionship. �ink

the classic movie It Happened One Night.

c] �e lead is married or committed to another, but

the love interest comes along to generate sexual

or romantic tension.

d] �e love triangle.

Plot Complication: Another plotline comes along to

mess up the protagonist’s pursuit of the objective.

Personal: Some crisis from the lead’s personal life

is making his plot life more di�cult. �e detective on

the hunt for a serial killer has a wife threatening to

leave him.

So what’s the best way to come up with a subplot?

�ere are two primary ways:

1. Character. Take a character other than the pro-

tagonist and bring her into more prominence.

Is there something this character can do to

complicate the life or goal of the Lead? Play

with several possibilities.

Create a new character to plug in. I did this in

a recent book. I felt some sag and thought up a

colorful minor character. �en I did some brain-

storming where the character might �t. Eventu-

ally, I came up with a plotline for him.

2. Plot. Look for a plot need or plot hole and cre-

ate a plot line to cover it. In one of books where

I needed a transition, some important infor-

mation coming to the lead, I came up with a

character to provide the information. �en

I built a plotline around that, expanding this

character’s reach.

��Brainstorm a list of new events

you can add that will bring more trouble to the protag-

onist. Go wild. Don’t throw anything out. You usually

don’t get gold until you’re down past four or �ve possi-

bilities. Keep going.

Some possibilities to get you started:

• An unexpected enemy shows up.

• A friend turns out to be an enemy.

• A minor character turns out to hold more deadly

power than previously thought.

• Someone dies unexpectedly.

• Someone thought dead shows up alive.


• �e protagonist gets �red.

• �e protagonist gets in an accident.

• �e protagonist gets lost.

• A crucial message is lost.

��How can you raise the stakes

for the protagonist? Put him on the horns of a dilemma.

A dilemma presents two choices, both of which are bad.

Make a two-sided table, onscreen or on a piece of paper.

�en brainstorm, on one side, all of the reasons the

character cannot walk away from the con�ict. �ink up

as many psychological, personal, familial, and any other

type of reason the character can’t just quit.

��Sometimes sag is caused by being overweight.

�ere’s simply too much �ab. You can do some trim-

ming here and there, and then strengthen the good stu�

that remains. Try the following:

Combine or cut characters: A character is in your

plot for no apparent purpose, shove him o� the stage.

Maybe this is a character who you thought was colorful

enough to be carried along on charm alone. Not. Each

character must serve a purpose.

If it’s a major character, ask what her stakes are in the

story. How does she relate to the lead character and the

main area of con�ict? If she wasn’t in the story, and the

plot would pretty much be the same, she doesn’t need

to be there.

Supporting characters should also be there as allies or

irritants. If they aren’t helping or hindering the protago-

nist, they have no purpose.

Walk-on characters—those very minor characters—

should appear only to make some thing happen that has

to happen. Like a cabdriver when a cab is taken, or the

waiter when your lead is in a restaurant.

Absorb a subplot. Did you begin a subplot strand

that ran out of steam? Or takes o� on a tangent that’s

too wild? Take what’s good and let the main plot absorb

it. Take what’s good in the subplot—maybe a charac-

ter or incident—and instead of giving it more attention,

give it less.

��

• Are there loose threads le� dangling? You must

either resolve these in a way that doesn’t distract

from the main plotline, or go back and snip them

out. Readers have long memories.

• Do I give a feeling of resonance? �e best end-

ings leave a sense of something beyond the con-

�nes of the book covers.

• Will the readers feel the way I want them to feel?

Common End Fixes��Go back through the man-

uscript and read only those portions relating to the par-

ticular thread.

You know where they are. Read only these parts, skip-

ping the rest. Make notes on your observations. Make a

list of all possible solutions, no matter how o� the wall.

Brood about it for a day or two. Add any ideas that occur

to you a�er sleeping on it. Choose the solution that suits

you best. Another idea is to utilize a minor character to

explain or embody a solution. It used to be a staple of

mystery �ction that the detective would gather everyone

in a room at the end and explain what happened. We’re

more subtle now, but it can still be done in small chunks.

In general, try to tie up your loose ends in the reverse

order of their introduction.

�e following chart may help:

��

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�e solutions come this way:

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Note that the introductory problem is not the big

issue of the book. It’s usually an opening disturbance

of some kind. So at the end, to keep from anti-climax,

make sure you wrap it up in one scene.

��Come up with several alternative

endings. If one of them seems better than what you’ve

got, consider plugging it in.

But don’t get rid of your old one. Consider using it as

a twist ending. You’ll have to tweak the details, but you

might be able to use it.

��


Or use one of the other alternative endings you came up

with. �e �nal twist should be short, to avoid anti-climax.

�� • Is there con�ict or tension in every scene?

• Do I establish a viewpoint character?

• If the scene is action, is the objective clear?

• If the scene is reaction, is the emotion clear?

Common Scene Fixes�� Not rewrite. Relive. Have you

ever imagined yourself to be the characters? Tried to

feel what they’re feeling? �en try it now. It’s not hard.

Be an actor. O�en, a�er I’ve written a scene, I’ll go back

and try to live the emotions. I’ll act out the parts I’ve

created. Almost always what I feel “in character” will

make me add to or change the scene.

You can also vividly imagine the scene, step-by-step,

in your mind. Let it play like a movie. But instead of

watching the movie from a seat in the theater, be in the

scene. �e other characters can’t see you, but you can

see and hear them.

�� Let things happen.

Let the characters improvise. If you don’t like what they

come up with, rewind the scene and allow them do

something else.

Look at the beginnings of your scenes. What do you

do to grab the reader at the start? Have you spent too

much time with description of setting? O�en the better

course is to start in medias res (in the middle of things)

and drop in description a little later.

��What have you provided

that will make the reader want to read on? Some great

places to stop a scene are:

• at the moment a major decision is to be made

• just as a terrible thing happens

• with a portent of something bad about to happen

• with a strong display of emotion

• raising a question that has no immediate answer

Keep improving your scenes and your novel will soon

develop that can’t-put-it-down feel.

��Ask yourself what the core of

your scene is. What’s the purpose? Why does it exist?

How does it meet one of the four purposes of a scene?

If the core is weak or unclear, strengthen it. �ink of

it as the “hot spot” and �nd ways to turn up the heat.

�� If you need to speed up a scene,

dialogue is one way to do it. Short exchanges with few

beats leave a lot of white space on the page and give a

feeling of movement.

To slow the pace of a scene, you can add action beats,

thoughts, and description as well as elongating speeches.

�� Don’t waste any good ten-

sion beats. Stretch them. Make your prose the equiva-

lent of slow motion in a movie.

Show every beat, using all the tools at your disposal:

thoughts, actions, dialogue, description. Mix these up.

In a famous early scene in Whispers, Dean Koontz

takes 17 pages to describe the attempted rape of the

protagonist. It all takes place in a house. Read it and

learn.

�� Each scene needs to

have a clear point-of-view character. �e rule is one

POV per scene. No “head hopping.” �e exception is

when you’re using omniscient POV, which has its own

challenges. Otherwise, stick with one.

Go over your scenes and see if, within the �rst couple

of paragraphs, you have made the viewpoint clear. You

can quickly remedy the situation. Instead of starting a

scene this way:

�e room was stu�y and packed with people.

Do it like this:

Steve walked into the stu�y room and tried to get past

the mass of people.

�roughout the scene, you may need to remind us

whose head we’re in. You can do this with little clues,

like “Steve knew that he had to ...” or “Steve felt the

sweat under his arms ...”

��

• Do I have large chunks of information dumped in

one spot?

• Is my exposition doing double duty? Cut out any

exposition that doesn’t also add to the mood or

tone of your novel.


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Common Fixes��e best exposition doesn’t stick out.

It doesn’t give the feeling that the story has suddenly

stopped so the reader can be fed information. A “chunk”

of exposition is any information of two sentences or

more. �e worst way to present this information is as

straight narrative in the author’s voice.

So, take every chunk of exposition and do one of

the following:

First take out any exposition material that the reader

does not absolutely need to know. If it is just �ller, get

rid of it.

�is is a matter of experience. If, for example, you’re

writing about the history of a place, you’ll want to cre-

ate a feel of the place, and that requires exposition. �e

temptation, especially if you love research, is to put in

everything you know.

Cut what you don’t need for �avor or the under-

standing of the story. Now, put the chunks you have

le� in dialogue or character thoughts. Even better, put

the chunks in confrontational dialogue or make them

highly tense thoughts.

��Be especially vigilant about

exposition at the beginning of chapters. Act �rst, explain

later. Take out all information that isn’t absolutely nec-

essary for the reader to know, especially at the begin-

ning of chapters. See if you can put exposition in later,

not all at once, but sprinkled in a�er action has begun.

�� • Are there sections where the style seems forced

or stilted? Try reading it out loud, or having the

speech mode on your computer do it. Hearing it

sounded out will o�en help identify places to be

cut or modi�ed.

• Is my POV consistent in every scene?

• If writing in �rst person, can the character see

and feel what it is I describe?

• If writing in third person, do I slip into the

thoughts of characters other than the POV char-

acter in the scene? Do I describe something the

character can’t see or feel?

Common Fixes��Put yourself in the head of the POV char-

acter, and visualize the scene through her eyes. Run

through the paragraphs one by one, “seeing” the scene

through the POV character’s eyes.

Look for any beats that can’t be perceived by the char-

acter. �ey’re slippery, but the more you practice, the

better you’ll become at nabbing them.

�� Especially in �rst-person POV, but

even in the others, can you increase the attitude quo-

tient? Get the words more in the voice of the character

by exploring his emotional reaction to the plot.

�� • Have I brought my setting to life for the reader?

• Does the setting operate as a “character”?

• Are my descriptions of places and people

too generic?

• Are my descriptions doing double duty by add-

ing to the mood or tone?

Common Fixes�� Go through your setting descrip-

tions and look for places where you can put in one, good

“telling” detail. One vivid detail is worth 10 average ones.

Smell, taste and touch are underused in �ction, so why

not use them?

Make a list of words you associate with your novel, the

things you’re trying to get the readers to feel. For example:

• outrage

• sadness

• hope

• healing

• victory

Under each word you come up with, brainstorm sev-

eral possible sensory observations that would go with

the word.

For outrage you might think of: red, �re, noise,

crashing, screams, bitterness. Next, go to speci�c

scenes where the feeling of outrage is being established,

and try plugging in one of these sensory elements to

your descriptions.


�ink of these additions as “spice.” �ey work best

when applied sparingly but for a purpose.

��

• Slightly “o� ” responses are more suspenseful

than on-the-nose responses. Can I put in non

sequiturs, or answer a question with a question,

and so on?

• Can I change some attributions—he said, she

said—to action beats?

• Good dialogue surprises the reader, creates ten-

sion. View it like a game, where the players are

trying to outfox each other. Are they using dia-

logue as a “weapon”?

• Dialogue should have con�ict or tension, even

between allies. Does it?

Common Fixes��Read your dialogue aloud. Or have

your computer’s voice read it back to you. Keep a red

pen or �ying �ngers ready to change words.

��See how much dialogue you can actually

do without.

• Try arbitrarily cutting a line of dialogue and re-

placing it with an action beat.

• Try compressing dialogue that goes over two

lines by cutting words.

�� If much of the dialogue from di�er-

ent characters sounds the same, orchestrate it by mak-

ing the individual lines more unique. For example:

• Give the characters their own pet words or

phrases they can repeat from time to time.

• Look at cadence. Some people use more words

than others.

• Make sure you can “hear” each character’s voice.

��is is how you become a real writer. Cutting, shaping,

adding, subtracting, working it, making it better, that’s

what real writing is all about.

Do this, and you increase your chances of getting

published. Or, if you publish it yourself, of having it

read and liked. Now, before you send it o�, give it one

more going over. �is won’t take long in comparison.

But it will add that extra sparkle that could make all the

di�erence. �is is �e Polish.

��

Go through your manuscript reading all the chapter

openings. Consider the following:

• Can you begin a little further in?

• Does the opening grab? Have a hint of con�ict

or action?

• If you open with description, does it do double

duty? If not, put it in later.

• Do most of your chapters begin the same way?

Vary them.

��

Look at every chapter ending. See if you can �nd a place

to end the chapter earlier. One, two, three, or more para-

graphs earlier. How does it feel? It may be better, it may

not. If it is, use it.

If it isn’t, ask if it would bene�t by adding something

that would make the chapter end with more of a portent

or prompt, like:

• a line of moody description

• an introspection of fear or worry

• a moment of decision or intention

• a line of dialogue that snaps or sings

Or your ending may be just �ne the way it is. If that’s

so, don’t touch it!

If much of the dialogue from di�erent characters sounds the same, orchestrate it by making the individual lines more unique. Make sure you can hear each character’s voice.

��


��

• Is there white space in your dialogue exchanges?

• Is your default attribution said?

• Do you vary these with action beats?

• Do you have too many action beats? Remember,

said doesn’t make the reader work.

• Can you cut to make the dialogue tighter?

��

Collect the words and phrases you tend to overuse. You’ll

�nd these in the revision process and when a good edi-

tor or reader alerts you to them. �ese tend to change

with di�erent projects. You’ll �nd yourself repeating a

di�erent word each time, because it gets plugged into

your head. I’m talking about words that stand out. Verbs

like “scu�e” and “scamper.” Bold adjectives. Actions

like cleared his throat.

Do a word search of your manuscript for instances of

those repeated words and phrases you tend to overuse.

�en modify them accordingly.

In addition, look for:

• Very. �is is almost always a useless adjective.

Cut it.

• Suddenly. Again, mostly not needed.

• Adverbs. Cut them unless absolutely necessary

(some writers insist they never are).

��

Identify �ve big moments in your manuscript. Read

them over one at a time. A�er each moment, make a list

of 10 ways you can heighten that moment, make it more

intense, give it more juice. Your �rst two or three ideas

will come quickly. Force yourself to go beyond that.

Come up with 10, even though you may think some of

them absurd. Just do it.

�en sit back and decide which one feels best. Try

rewriting that moment in just that way.

Repeat this for the other �ve big moments.

��

• “So much of successful �ction hinges on one

simple ploy: discomfort.” (Robert Newton Peck)

• Learn always about the cra�, but when you write,

write like Fast Eddie Felson played pool in �e

Hustler, fast and loose. When you revise, revise

slow and cool.

• Con�ict rules. If you can �nd any way to increase

con�ict in a scene, do it. Look at the characters

in the scene. Even if they’re on the same side, can

they have unspoken tension between them?

• Look at character relationships. Can you increase

the web of relations? Lives that intersected in the

past somehow?

• Give each major character a secret, even if it nev-

er comes out. It will give emotional color.

• Don’t let your protagonist be all good, or your

opposition all bad.

• Emotion! �at’s what your readers want! Even

more than technique or plot. You must be

moved in order to move your readers. Write

with emotion!

• Always write lists of possibilities.

• Don’t ever let a coincidence help a main charac-

ter get out of trouble.

��

��

��

Identify �ve big moments in your manuscript. Read them over one at a time. Make a list of 10 ways you can heighten that moment, make it more intense, give it more juice.

��


A�er you’ve completed a solid, polished novel, you’ll need to cre-

ate an equally polished �ction proposal to present to an agent

or editor. �e following guidelines are industry standard—most

editors and agents approve of them, and I’ve received numerous

comments on the professional quality of my submissions when I’ve used

them. �at said, if a publisher or agent has a uniquely speci�ed list of for-

matting guidelines, then always follow it to the letter.

A standard proposal consists of:

• Query letter

• Synopsis (if requested in guidelines)

• �e �rst three chapters or �rst 50 pages (commonly called a partial)

of the manuscript (if requested in guidelines)

��Most publishers and agents accept unsolicited query letters that include a

very brief summary of the story within the body of the letter. If they’ll accept

an unsolicited manuscript submission, or if you’ve already made contact at a

conference or in response to a previous query, you’ll also include a partial.

• Use white paper. I recommend 24-pound paper, since it’s not see-

through. For an editor who spends all day looking at manuscripts,

submissions prepared on 24-pound paper are much easier to read.

• Font or typeface, size 12. Times New Roman is the most commonly

requested font, even over the once-popular Courier. Use the same

font consistently. Authors frequently make the mistake of not print-

ing their query letter, synopsis and partial in the same font. If your

query letter is in Times New Roman, then make sure both the synop-

sis and partial are also in Times New Roman.

PREPARING A NOVEL QUERY AND

SUBMISSION PACKAGE

A�er you have a polished and �nal dra�, these steps will help you submit your work

to publishers or agents.

��


• One-inch margins all around, no page number

on the �rst page. Make sure your query letter,

synopsis and partial match in all of these regards.

Ensure consistency throughout each part of your

proposal package.

• Black ink only. Editors aren’t impressed by fancy

submissions. �ey’re impressed by professional-

ism. While a di�erent color ink could be used in

the heading of professional, personalized letter-

head, it’s not recommended for any other part of

your submission.

• Block style setup for the query and synopsis. In

other words, single-spaced, no indents, and each

paragraph is followed by a blank line. Your par-

tial, of course, will be in standard manuscript

format of double-spaced, indented paragraphs.

Let’s discuss the format of your query letter, starting

from the top of the page.

• Contact information. �is consists of your name,

address, e-mail address, phone and website.

Double space a�er your contact information.

• Le�-align your query. Except for your contact in-

formation, don’t center- or right-align any parts of

the query, not even the date and your signature.

• Use the name of the editor or agent you’re que-

rying. Never submit blindly—your submission

may go unread. Check and double-check that

you’ve spelled the name correctly. Follow the

name with the name of their imprint, agency or

company, and then the address.

• Skip a line and insert the date. Skip another line

following this to include your greeting. “Dear

Ms./Mr. [Last Name]:” is always safe.

• Never use a �rst name unless (1) you know

the editor very well—as in, you’ve met him at

a conference and/or have had lengthy discus-

sions with him in the past; or (2) the editor has

a unisex name and you don’t know whether to

call him (or her) Mr. or Ms. In the case of a

name such as Terry Meadows, you would put

“Dear Terry Meadows:” instead of “Dear Ms./

Mr. Meadows:” Better yet, �gure out if the per-

son is male or female!

• �e greeting is followed by another blank line. If

you’ve met this editor before, or if he requested

the material you’re sending, refresh his memory

in a succinct sentence or two in the �rst line of

your query. Something like: “I enjoyed discuss-

ing �e Story of My Heart with you at the Pikes

Peak Writer’s Conference in April. Per your re-

quest, a proposal of this novel is enclosed.”

��e next portion of your query letter is crucial. Many

people lead their queries with something like “Please

considering reviewing my book for publication.” Any

editor would assume that getting him to review your

material is the point of your submission, so stating the

fact is redundant, and the editor will already be bored.

A much better way to begin a query letter is with a

high-concept blurb that’s about 100–200 words. You

want to hook the editor into your story immediately.

�e basic structure of a high-concept blurb is: A char-

acter (who) wants a goal (what) because he’s motivated

(why), but he faces con�ict (why not). Fill in the blanks

for your story: If you �nd it more appropriate, you can

also use your beginning story spark to begin your letter.

In one to two paragraphs (no more than that, even if

you’re including a synopsis), sum up the most compelling

elements of your story, including what makes your char-

acters so interesting and what their con�icts, goals, and

motivations are. �e paragraph that follows will include

the most basic information about your story, including:

• Title

• Length (approximate length in number of words

is preferred; i.e., 65,000 words, not 64,231 words)

• Genre (be speci�c, even if your story straddles

more than one category)

��Following your hook, include a brief bio. An unpub-

lished author would include anything that makes him

intriguing to an editor, such as:

• Any publishing credits (article or short story

credits count, even if you’re not published in

book-length �ction)


• Organizations of which you’re a member (and

that are relevant to the submission and to writ-

ing in general)

• Any information that makes you an expert on

the subject the book deals with, or any special

research done in the area the book deals with

• Your day job, but only if it’s intriguing or in some

way parallels the submission. (Include only in-

formation that is pertinent to your submission,

or that in some way puts you or your body of

work in a promising, impressive light.)

In the �nal paragraph of your query letter, tell the edi-

tor what you’re enclosing in this package, if anything,

and con�rm that the manuscript is complete, polished,

and ready for review. (Never query for a project in prog-

ress.) Most writers end the query with words similar to:

“I’d be happy to send you the entire manuscript at your

request. I look forward to hearing from you.” �ese facts

are obvious, but their expression is brief, and they do an

acceptable job of closing your letter.

Finish o� your query letter with something simple,

not gushy, such as “Sincerely,” or “Respectfully,” fol-

lowed by three to four blank lines. Type your name

below where your signature will go.

��Let’s talk about how to make your partial so fascinat-

ing, editors absolutely won’t be able to wait to see the

full manuscript.

Always include a cover page on top of your partial. �e

cover page text should be centered, beginning with the

working title (which can be bold and in a larger font),

then word count, followed by your contact informa-

tion, including name, address, phone number and e-mail

address. No header should appear on the cover page.

Each page of the rest of your partial should have a

header including the title of your book, le�-aligned.

Your name and the page number should be aligned on

the right in the header on every page of the partial.

On the �rst page of your partial following the cover

page, space down eight lines and center your title

(again, all capitals, bold, and a larger font are �ne).

A�er another space or two, include your name. Double

space and begin to the le�. It’s acceptable to put the �rst

two or three words in all capitals. Your next paragraph

should be indented �ve spaces.

When you begin a new chapter a�er this point, make

a hard page break, then start just as you did before, with

the chapter number bolded and centered eight spaces

down from the top of the page.

Scene breaks can be indicated by a blank line, with

the �rst one or two words following the blank line le�-

aligned. You can also use symbols to indicate a new

scene is beginning—three asterisks with a blank line

above and below them are the most common device for

this. In order to be consistent with what you’ve done

previously, if you’ve used all capitals for the �rst few

words of the chapter, start at the le� in all capitals for a

new scene.

A partial is either the �rst three chapters (includ-

ing a prologue), or the �rst 50 pages of the manuscript.

Don’t choose 50 pages from the middle of your book-

that would be cheating, and it’s frowned on by nearly

all editors and agents. Send the �rst 50 pages unless the

recipient speci�cally requests otherwise.

�e partial doesn’t have to be exactly 50 pages long.

Remember that you want your partial to end on an

exciting note. If the end of your scene on page 50 or

thereabouts is tantalizing, great. If it’s not, �nd a more

suspenseful place to end your partial. Whatever you do,

make the editor drool to read more.

�e basic structure of a high-concept blurb is: A character (who) wants a goal (what) because he’s motivated (why), but faces con�ict (why not).

��


If editors don’t see cohesive characters, settings, and

plots, they won’t request to see more of your manu-

script. Also remember that these elements need to be

developed almost as well (though much more suc-

cinctly) in the synopsis as in your book.

��Include a self-addressed, stamped envelope (SASE)

with your query letter, along with the partial and syn-

opsis if directed. If you’re sending a partial, put a sturdy

cardboard backing under the pile, and use extra-large

rubber bands to secure the pile both vertically and hor-

izontally. �is will keep it looking neat.

��Let’s go over the most common problems with partials

and how to avoid them.

��What’s

the most important part of a novel? Hands down, char-

acters. You can have the greatest plot on the face of the

earth, but if you don’t have even more exciting charac-

ters, you’ll never pull it o�. Creating amazing characters

that reach out of your query, synopsis, and partial and

grab an editor by the heart should be your paramount

task when you’re putting together a proposal. Nothing

else you do will be even remotely as important. In fact,

I’d go so far as to say that if you completely �ub your

proposal format, but your story characterization is out-

standing, no editor will care about your faux pas. Great

characters can right a thousand wrongs.

��A story must be

made up of cohesive elements. Characters, settings, and

plot must �t together organically. All story threads—

from the main ones to the minor ones—must have a

unity that leads to steady development and satisfac-

tory resolution. Give editors and agent something to

look forward to with pacing that heightens the intrigue.

When an editor or agent sees a lack of cohesion in your

proposal, it’s a clear indication that you haven’t spent

enough time thinking your story through and begin-

ning with a solid foundation.

�� Synopses and

manuscript introductions should begin with some-

thing intriguing. Within the �rst 10 pages, you need to

have the editor or agent hooked.

��. I’m sure most of you have heard

more about this than you care to, but if you submit a

proposal rife with passive writing, not only will the edi-

tor not want to see more of your manuscript, he won’t be

interested in future submissions from you, either. Learn

how to write in an active voice, show don’t tell, and give

your prose impact and a natural, intriguing �ow.

�� A huge percentage of editors

and agents won’t accept head-hopping because trying

to �gure out who’s in viewpoint from one minute to the

next grows frustrating. Only one POV character per

scene—make that a rule from this point forward and

don’t step over that line, because following this rule

really will make your stories radically better.

��Send out your very best material. �is may mean prepar-

ing your submission and letting it sit on a shelf for a week

or two, possibly longer, before going back to view it with

fresh eyes. Only then can you be con�dent in sending it to

an editor or agent. Most editors and agents remember their

�rst impression of an author for years to come. Make sure

their �rst impression of you is that you’re a professional

who’s spent a considerable amout of time preparing a per-

fect proposal with this speci�c editor/agent in mind.

Finally, don’t feel like everything I’ve said here is

written in stone. As long as everything in your submis-

sion is consistent, editors aren’t likely to be o�ended by

a slightly di�erent setup. Just make sure you provide

every editor you submit to the most professional, con-

sistent, and intriguing proposal possible.

�e contents of your query letter, synopsis, and partial—

not to mention how you package them—will play a part

in how the editor or agent you submit to responds to

your story. Armed with a clean, professional setup and

a story that you’ve made utterly irresistible in each por-

tion of your proposal, you can have editors and agents

begging for your manuscript.

��

��

��


To help you successfully complete your book in 30 days, this issue includes nine worksheets to help you keep track

of plot, scenes, characters and revisions. All worksheets included in this issue are described below. You can down-

load PDF versions of all worksheets by visiting http://www.writersdigest.com/article/novel-in-30-days-2011.

�� PAGES 102–104

See: “How You Can Write a Book in a Month,” pages 4–8

These worksheets help you outline before you start writing, and/or keep track of your story’s progression as you go.

�� PAGES 105–106

See: “Your 7-Day Jumpstart,” pages 33–39

This worksheet is especially critical for writers who will be working without any kind of outline. During the first few days

of your 30-day e�ort, you should complete this worksheet.

�� PAGE 107

See: “Your 7-Day Jumpstart,” pages 33–39; “To Outline or Not to Outline,” pages 23–30

Scene cards can be used as an outlining tool before you begin your 30-day e�ort, or as a daily writing and brainstorming

technique. Scene cards can also play a critical role in revision. Index cards can be used instead of the worksheet if preferred.

�� PAGES 108�112


The At-A-Glance Outline o�ers a quick way to fill in the blanks of your story. It guides you to answer the right ques-

tions for each area of your story, the questions that will come up fast when writing.

�� PAGES 113�114

See “Your 7-Day Jumpstart,” pages 33–39

Keep track of the qualities of each major character using these sketches. As you become more experienced as a writer,

you may want to create your own character profile worksheets.

�� PAGE 115


This more advanced outlining worksheet helps you identify where and how you will reveal important aspects of each

major character.

�� PAGE 116

See: “The Art of Closing Well,” pages 77–84

This worksheet helps you consider your novel’s climax, the point where the protagonist faces the conflict directly, with

his goal on the line.

�� PAGE 117


Questions on this worksheet analyze the novel’s post-climax scenes with an eye toward tying up unresolved arcs and

the novel as a whole.

�� PAGE 118


Plan ahead for characters’ changes of heart, new situations, unexpected betrayals and more.


STORY TRACKER

ACT I

CHARACTER PLOT SUBPLOT SETTING OTHER


ACT II



ACT III


��


STORY IDEA MAP

PLOT

MAIN STORY IDEA

HOOK�CATALYST�INCITING INCIDENT

ACT I TURNING POINT

THE STAKES


CHARACTERS

MAJOR CHARACTERS MINOR CHARACTERSMAJOR CHARACTERS MINOR CHARACTERS

SETTING

SETTING PROPS

��


SCENE:

CHARACTERS

SETTING

MOOD�TONE

SCENE OBJECTIVE

SCENE CARDS


AT-A-GLANCE OUTLINE

TITLE

ACT I �WEEK ��

Briefly describe what happens in Act I from the initial story hook to the turning point.

Describe the setup.

Describe how the mood or tone is created (props, weather, emotions, setting, characters, style).

Identify the hook/incident.

Identify the first turning point.

Identify what is at stake (why readers should care).


PROTAGONIST’S INTRODUCTION

PROTAGONST’S MOTIVATION

DETAILS TO REMEMBER

ANTAGONIST’S INTRODUCTION

ANTAGONST’S MOTIVATION

DETAILS TO REMEMBER

SUPPORTING CHARACTER �

SUPPORTING CHARACTER �

UNUSUAL SUPPORTING CHARACTER

SETTING PROPS TIME PERIOD


ACT II, PART � �WEEK ��

CHARACTER

Briefly describe what happens in the first half of Act II, from where the problem intensifies to the temporary triumph.

Describe how you want readers to feel (mood/tone) when reading this act. Also think about how you want the protagonist to feel.

Describe how the problem intensifies.

Describe the temporary triumph. Is it an inner (psychological) and/or external triumph for the protagonist?

Think about how this triumph can be foreshadowed.

Decide whether a subplot plays a role or causes any e�ect.

MAIN SETTING FOR ACT II

OTHER SETTINGS

PROPS

ANY NEWCHARACTERS

WHY THEY ARE NEEDED

THINGS TOREMEMBER

��


ACT II, PART � �WEEK ��

CHARACTER

Briefly describe what happens in the second half of Act II, from the reversal to the second turning point.

Describe how you want readers to feel (mood/tone) when reading this act. Also think about how you want the protagonist to feel.

Describe how you will create and show the reversal.

Describe the second turning point. Think about how it relates to or sets up the final resolution in Act III.

Think about how you can foreshadow the second turning point in Act I or in the first half of Act II.

Describe how the hero’s decisions cause this turning point.

SETTING FOR SECONDTURNING POINT

OTHER SETTINGS USED

PROPS

NEWCHARACTERS

WHY THEY ARE NEEDED

THINGS TOREMEMBER


ACT III �WEEK ��

Briefly describe what happens in Act III, from the final obstacle to the resolution.

Describe the final obstacle.

Describe how the mood or tone is created (props, weather, emotions, setting, characters, style).

Describe the climax.

Think about how this triumph can be foreshadowed.

Decide whether a subplot plays a role or causes any e�ect.

Note any loose ends you might need to tie up in the resolution.

Describe how you want readers to feel when they finish the story.

Think about whether your villain is defeated in the end. If he is, how? What are his crucial mistakes? How are readers likely to respond to his failure or success?

Think about whether your hero wins in the end. If he does, how? What does he learn through his victory or defeat? What is his biggest accomplishment or mistake?

Describe your story’s theme.

��


CHARACTER SKETCH

TITLE:

NAME:

NICKNAME:

BIRTH DATE�PLACE:

CHARACTER ROLE:

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTIONS:

Age:

Race:

Eye Color:

Hair Color/Style:

Build (Height/Weight):

Skin Tone:

Style of Dress:

Characteristics or Mannerisms:

PERSONALITY TRAITS:


BACKGROUND:

INTERNAL CONFLICTS:

EXTERNAL CONFLICTS:

OCCUPATION�EDUCATION:

MISCELLANEOUS NOTES:

��


CHARACTER-REVEALING SCENES

REVEALING SCENES FOR:

SCENES TO REVEAL APPEARANCE: SCENES TO REVEAL QUIRKS:

SCENES TO REVEAL CHARACTER’S LESSON: SCENES TO REVEAL SKILLS�WEAKNESSES:

SCENES TO REVEAL MOTIVATION: SCENES TO REVEAL TRAUMA:


CLIMAX

CLIMAX SKETCH

SCENE SUMMARY:

How is the protagonist’s external motivation or goal at risk in the scene?

What does he hope to accomplish if he succeeds?

Does the protagonist succeed or fail at this moment?

SETTING:

CHARACTERS:

ARCH OF INDIVIDUAL SCENE:

Has the external arc or quest been tied up by the end?


DÉNOUEMENT & CLOSING SCENES

DÉNOUEMENT SKETCH

SCENE SUMMARY:

How the Dénouement recalls the opening of the book and the overall internal motivation:

Tone that should be struck at the end of the book … the feeling the reader should take away with him:

SETTING:

CHARACTERS:

ARC OF INDIVIDUAL SCENE:

Have all outstanding minor subplots or arcs been successfully tied up?

What resonant moment or image should the novel end on?


CURRENT REVERSAL

HOW THIS WOULD ALTER THE CURRENT REVERSAL

NEW INFORMATION

NEW SITUATION

UNEXPECTED BETRAYALS

UNEXPECTED SHOWS OF SUPPORT

LAST-MINUTE CHANGE OF PLANS

CHANGE OF HEART

CHANGE IN PERCEPTIONS

REVERSAL BRAINSTORM


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