Mistakes to Avoid When Writing: Part 3

Welcome back to Mistakes to Avoid When Writing Part 3: The Hot Mess Never Ends Edition. This is the post where we will address your descriptions that read like an instruction manual for beige paint, your deeply toxic relationship with “just tweaking this one sentence” for 11 hours, and your insistence on writing in total solitude like some haunted widow scratching poems into the walls of a lighthouse. 

 Let’s dig in.


7. Editing As-You-Go (Like a Masochist)
Every time you stop to “just tweak that one sentence,” a writer fairy dies and your book gets one step closer to never being finished. That’s not a fact, but it FEELS true. You are not building the Eiffel Tower out of toothpicks. 

When in this early stage of a novel, getting words onto the page is the most important thing rather than writing the correct spelling or a sentence. You don’t need to polish Chapter One to perfection before you’re allowed to write Chapter Two. Writing is drafting, then shaping. If you keep going back to fix things mid-process, you’ll be stuck in an endless loop of “almost done” that never actually finishes.
 Just write the damn thing.

So repeat after me: Separate your writing and your editing! Make them two different processes, independent of one another. If you are constantly going back and changing small details, you will never move forward. If you are always second-guessing yourself and everything you put into the story, you will be exhausted and the creativity will dry up. Don’t edit a single thing until the first draft is finished. You’re polishing the hood ornament of a car that doesn’t have wheels. Editing as you go is like trying to vacuum the house while the party is still happening. It’s a waste of time, and it kills the flow.

Try This: 
    •    Set a timer: No editing until you write for 25 minutes straight. Just word-vomit.
    •    Use [BLAH] for anything you can’t figure out right now. Come back later.
    •    Write in Comic Sans or some hideous font so you won’t be tempted to make it “pretty” until Draft Two.
It can be trash. It should be trash. That’s what second drafts are for — and third drafts, and crying. 


8. Fluffy Dialogue
If your characters are saying things like:

    “As you know, Bob, we’ve worked at this company for 10 years,” 

please shut the laptop and take a walk. A long one.  

You know what’s worse than clunky, unnatural dialogue? NOTHING. Nothing is worse. Dialogue can skyrocket your story to success, or sink it to the bottom. The difference between these two can be a matter of a few words. People don’t speak in exposition dumps or perfect grammar. 

 

People don’t talk like that. (Well most don’t; I don’t know the weirdos in your life) The first step is to make sure each character has a distinct voice which emerges naturally from detailed character development (as discussed in Part 1 of this series), and which should always come before you dive into the main bulk of story-writing.

Then? Give your characters mess! Give them the kind of weird, specific, spice that lives in your group chats.

Terrible dialogue should never stop your momentum or workflow (as discussed above, you can always edit it later), but in ht grand scheme remember that unnecessary pieces of dialogue only add bulk, and rarely quality. The good news is that tightening up lame dialogue is usually an easy, if not vaguely embarrassing,  process. 

Next, you want to identify and eliminate words that are unwanted or redundant. For [horrifying] example:

    “Kevin, are you upset with John for some reason?” Sarah asked. 
    “You’re absolutely right, I am mad at John!” Kevin replied. 
    “Why is that, Kevin? You do not have a reason to be mad.” 
    “Oh yes I do, Sarah. I have every reason. Can you not see how mad I am?” 

Sure this exchange has clarity, but I regret to inform you: this dialogue stinks and sounds like two customer service reps on a Zoom call.  It is stilted, repetitive, unrealistic to how human beings genuinely communicate, and above all: many parts aren’t even needed. 

Here is how this exchange looks once tightened and compressed:

    “You’re upset with John?” Sarah asked. 
    “Of course.” Kevin said. 
    “I don’t get it.” 
    Kevin felt the heat gathering in his face as his hands began to shake. 

The exact same information is gleaned within a sleeker format, and action that delivers some nice “showing-not-telling.” This exchange thus reads easier and allows the story to keep moving at a better pace. So. What do you do? 

Try this:
    •    Read your dialogue out loud. If you cringe? Rewrite it. If it sounds stiff, it probably is. 
    •    Cut at least 30% of it. People don’t talk that much, I promise.
    •    Watch an episode of your favorite sitcom and write down the actual lines. Study how short, sharp, and weird they are.
Give your characters personality, rhythm, and, most importantly, purpose. 
I beg you. 

9. Bland Descriptions

    “She walked into the room. It was nice.” 

NO. 

Sorry kid, your descriptions are so dry they could crack a lip. Descriptions demand a balancing act:

• Too much description overwhelms the readers and kills a scene. 
• Too little leaves readers feeling lost. 
• And BLAND descriptions leave readers bored and uninterested.

Achieving the right balance means aiming to immerse your readers fully into your world. It gives life to your story and paints the right image in your readers’ minds without robbing them of their own imaginative experience. 

 

Try this:

    •    Go through your draft and highlight every “nice,” “pretty,” or “beautiful.” Replace them with a specific image, texture, or sound.
    •    Take photos of real places/objects. Write descriptions based only on what you see.
    •    Start the descriptions early, and build on them gradually as you go. 
    •    Avoid describing places your characters haven’t been to yet. Describe them when they first arrive. 
    •    Be specific but selective. Be detailed when showing your readers what they need to know, but include only what is necessary and relevant.
    •    Include all senses in your descriptions. Sight, smell, touch, sound, and taste—if applicable.

All to say: don’t write like you’re filing a police report. Descriptions should evoke a mood, a feeling, a sensory anchor. It’s not enough to say the room was “nice” or the trees were “green.” What did it smell like? What did it remind the character of? The right detail — just one — can bring a whole scene to life. What does it feel like in there? Smell like? What made her want to cry, scream, or order a burrito? Give me something, anything, that doesn’t read like a real estate listing.


10. Writing in a Vacuum / Trying to Do It All Alone Like a Martyr 

You are not a mystical genius who has to write your masterpiece in total isolation while slowly unraveling.  

 

Share your mess with people who get it. 

Take a nap. 

Read something good. 
Get out. See sky. 
Let someone else tell you your pacing is off. 
You’ll survive. 
I promise.

I get it. You’re sensitive. You don’t want feedback because what if they hate it? But here’s the thing: writing in total isolation is how you end up with 300 pages of beautifully arranged nonsense. You need other eyeballs. You need humans who will say, “Babe… what the hell is this?”
Feedback isn’t cruelty. It’s community.

Writing a novel is hard. Doing it alone is harder. Share your work with trusted readers. Take breaks to read other books. Talk to writers. Get feedback — and learn how to separate the helpful from the noise. Community and perspective are your best antidotes to burnout, doubt, and tunnel vision. Be a human being with goals and friends and a bathing schedule. I say this with love, but also urgency: let someone read your stuff. 

Try this:
    •    Join (or start) a low-stakes feedback group: 3-5 people, snacks optional but recommended.
    •    Share one paragraph with a trusted friend. Not the whole novel — just dip a toe.
    •    If you can’t handle feedback yet? Read your work out loud to yourself. Even that will reveal weak spots.

Finally:

You’ve reached the final boss level, and spoiler alert: it’s you, hun. It’s always been you. Your fear, your perfectionism, your refusal to let anyone read your work until it’s been edited 486 times and smells like burnt toast from all the stress. 

 

But here’s the thing—if you want to write a story that hits people in the chest, you gotta stop being so damn precious about it. Let your sentences be ugly. Let your characters make mistakes. Let someone else read your stuff, even if it makes you want to barf. That’s the real magic. 

 

Now go on, you gloriously unstable word-witch—I believe in your messy masterpiece.

 

20 Years on

 

TWENTY years ago at the Palace Theatre in London, this barely 22-year-old made her professional debut in Andrew Lloyd Webber’s ‘The Woman in White’ as Laura Fairlie.

It would be absolutely impossible to explain how much I did NOT know, and how generously those around me lifted me up and escorted me not only in to the professional theatre industry, but in to adulthood itself. Many of those wonderful folks are still close friends and colleagues to this day. 

I look at this itty bitty girl now, and I think “my goodness…”  ...how very much I was still so broken, lost and unmoored; how much I still had to heal, and learn, and mature. I used to be so critical of how—despite flying so high publicly—how frightened, unwell and deeply naive she was… I judged and critiqued and maligned her at the time. I would be more compassionate now.

For now? 20 years in all I want to do is wrap my arms around her and say “well done, little one. This is just the beginning of a lifetime in ART—not *just* ‘show-business.’ There will be such adventures and glorious friendships. Allow this first triumph to be proof that life ebbs and flows, that after such loss and tragedy you can soar again, and(!) that despite this triumph there will be hard times ahead again, and on and on. Such is life…”

I don’t know if she would’ve believed me. For that night, all she believed was her heart.

Happy 20 years to me, to her, and to that lovely company. 

 

The "Drammatical Sabbatical" — 25 Tips for the Burnt-Out Creative

We’ve been taught that real artists never stop.
That if you’re not always producing, you must not be serious. That’s a lie.
 
I welcome you, dear reader, to honor the sacred pause—the breath between acts, the quiet before the curtain rises again.

Look. I love art. I love making it, thinking about it, being dramatic about it. But sometimes? Art is the reason I’m lying face-down on my carpet Googling “how to get out of literally anything.” If you’re reading this, there’s a 92% chance you’ve got a half-finished project whisper-screaming your name from under a pile of laundry, and your muse is somewhere in the backyard hiding under a lawn chair.
Burnout is real. It’s sneaky. One minute you’re like “yay creativity!” and the next you’re hate-watching a toddler paint on TikTok and yelling “WHY IS HE MORE PRODUCTIVE THAN ME?!” 

You don’t need another lecture about discipline. You need a break. A soft, juicy, permission-soaked summer of not trying to win a Pulitzer by Labor Day.

Sometimes we chase productivity because we’re afraid of the quiet. 

But stillness isn’t laziness. It’s rebellion. 

You don’t have to earn your peace. You just have to let yourself feel safe enough to rest. 

Burnout isn’t failure. It’s your body begging for wholeness. 

You’re Not Lazy. You’re just a Toasted Marshmallow in a Human Suit

In a culture that trains us to hustle harder, prove ourselves endlessly, and tie our worth to our output—rest becomes radical. 

For artists especially, rest is not optional. It’s how we refill the well. It’s how we remember we’re not machines. It’s how we hear the quiet voice of inspiration again. When you rest, you are not “falling behind.” You’re reclaiming your time. Your nervous system. Your dignity. Your right to be before you do.
 
So I made this list. A list of 25 nourishing, soul-restoring things a burnt-out artist might do during a “summer break” to recover their creativity. Not of “ways to maximize your output” (ew), but of things that might gently coax your soul back into the room after it peaced-out sometime around mid-April. Some are sweet. Some are weird. Some are borderline unhinged. But all of them are here to help you feel like an artist who still has a pulse, not a productivity robot who ran out of battery.

Do one. Do twenty-five. Do none and just lie on your porch drinking a cherry Coke while thinking about doing one. There’s no wrong way to resurrect your weird, wild magic.

 25 Ways for Burnt-Out Artists to Heal Over a Summer Break

1. Take an intentional creative sabbatical (with no guilt). I call mine the "Dramatical Sabbatical" and it not only always gets a smirk and a "that's funny" but it also REALLY WORKS. 
 
2. Delete your social media apps for a week. Or a month. Or forever. 
 
3. Revisit the art you loved before it paid your bills. Just go as a spectator. Be the little kid losing their mind in the audience that screams “I LOVE MUSICALS!!!” at curtain call like a lunatic. Be a giant nerd. Geek out. Turn on music and don't pick it apart, just enjoy it. Read a book and get swept away, instead of writing a review as you read it. You get it. 
 
4. Start a “No Project Journal.” Start a notebook for ideas that don’t have to become anything. 
5. Go analog. Write by hand. Collage. Touch paper again. 
6. Give yourself a week of “bad art on purpose.” (Messy, silly, rule-breaking—just for joy.) 
7. Unsubscribe. Untether yourself from 10 email lists that flood your nervous system with “shoulds.” (Sending them to junk is acceptable too, if unsubscribing is more trouble than its worth)
8. Read something that has nothing to do with your career. Have you heard of reading for pleasure? It’s excellent. 10/10 would recommend.
9. Make one room in your home a “creative sanctuary.” Not for work, just for wonder.
10. Move your body gently. No performance, no punishment—just movement as medicine.
11. Say “no” to something that drains you. Don’t over-explain, and practice this with grace and kindness.
12. Plan an “mute or unfollow party.” Curate your feed with people who inspire, not exhaust. (You can always look the exhausting people up if you need to know what's going on. Once upon a time people sought out news, not news seeking out people. replicate this as best you can in the 21st century)
13. Do an Artist’s Date every week. (à la The Artist’s Way) Indulge in a solo, joyful, inspiration-forward and deliciously unproductive date with your inner artist who is screaming for a playdate. 
14. Wake up early. For the purpose of "not rushing." Just to exist. To sip. To breathe. 
15. Take a “no content” walk. No phone. No podcasts. Just listen to the world. And if you see a perfect flower or a cute dog? Take this opportunity to resist filming it, and use your five senses to simply commit it to memory like our damn ancestors had to do. 
16. Lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling. Really. Let yourself do nothing.
17. Reclaim a childhood hobby you left behind. Macramé, piano, horses, whatever.
18. Write a “permission slip” to yourself. e.g., “I’m allowed to rest without proving my worth.” 
19. Join a workshop or retreat as a participant, not a performer.
20. Write a love letter to your creativity. Especially if you’re mad at it.
21. Rewatch a movie that made you fall in love with storytelling.
22. Try a “no outcome” art day. Create without documenting, posting, or polishing. Just enjoy the sensations. 
23. Declare one whole day “sacred.” No work, no obligations, no guilt.
24. Ask your body what it needs and actually listen. Rest? Get thee to bed. What I call “beauty secrets?” Break out the nail polish. Silence? Embrace it. Connecting with friends? Call them all or go see them. Crafts? Go nuts. Address your actual human needs. 
25. Remember: your art doesn’t need you to hustle. It needs you to come back to yourself

 
 
If all you do this summer is breathe, nap, pet something soft, and scream into a decorative pillow once a week? That’s still “a healing season.” Burnout doesn’t mean you’re broken — it means you’ve been very alive in a system that doesn’t care if you fry. 

Take your time. 
Fill your well. 
Turn down gigs that feel like punishment. 
Eat a peach in the bathtub. 
Let your inner art goblin resurface when she’s good and ready.

Because she’s coming back!!
And you are, too. 
I promise.

Books-by-the-Month: July

July is the month when time both expands and disappears. The days are thick with heat, the air smells of grass, salt, and sunscreen, and the hours unfold like an old quilt—faded, but beloved, patched with both stillness and motion. 

July is made for reading the way winter is made for soup: the two seem biologically destined for one another. It is the month when reading can happen anywhere: under a striped beach umbrella, in the stifling cocoon of a tent, on a rickety porch swing, or simply sprawled across the cool floorboards.
 

Unlike the frantic lists of “New Year’s reading resolutions,” July’s books ask nothing of you but attention. They don’t care if you finish them. They only ask to be carried along—dog-eared, sun-warmed, cat-chewed, maybe a little sandy? In that spirit of gentle adventure, here are six books that feel particularly right for July’s slow, golden hours.

 

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1. The Aliens by Annie Baker

A play may seem an unusual choice for summer, but The Aliens is the kind of quiet, exquisite work that fits perfectly into the languor of July. Set behind a Vermont coffee shop, it revolves around two aimless but endearing friends who spend their days talking about music, Bukowski, and nothing at all—until a high school student enters their orbit. Baker’s dialogue hums with the rhythms of real life: silences, false starts, digressions. It’s a play about not much, and yet it glows with the ache of being young, lost, and alive in the sticky warmth of early summer. Read it on a porch with a sweating glass of something cold, and let its gentle melancholy wash over you.

 

 

2. Travels With Charley by John Steinbeck

There may be no better companion for a July road trip—real or imaginary—than Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley. In 1960, the great American author set off across the country with his poodle Charley, searching for the soul of a nation on the brink of seismic change. The result is part travelogue, part meditation, part love letter to the vast, strange beauty of America. Steinbeck’s observations are sharp but generous; his affection for people and landscapes alike makes every dusty roadside café, mountain pass, and highway motel glow with literary grace. Even if you’re only traveling as far as your backyard, this book makes you feel like you’re in motion.

 

 

3. John Adams by David McCullough

For those craving something weightier amidst July’s breezy distractions, David McCullough’s magisterial biography of John Adams is a feast. History in McCullough’s hands is not dry; it is alive, intricate, and vividly human. Adams—brilliant, irascible, deeply principled—emerges not just as a Founding Father, but as a fully-fleshed character with passions, flaws, and profound loneliness. The Revolutionary War crackles in the background, but it’s the private letters between Adams and his beloved Abigail that linger. "Sit down, John" and read it in the stillness of a July afternoon, when the echoes of America’s birth feel especially poignant in the summer air.

 

 

4. On the Road by Jack Kerouac

No July reading list would be complete without this fizzy, restless anthem to freedom. On the Road is a book for hot nights, for dusty highways, for the perpetual ache of wanderlust. Kerouac’s prose is alive with speed, jazz, poetry, and desperation—the desire to find something, anything, that makes life burn brighter. Even if you’re not setting off cross-country in a beat-up car, reading this in July stirs up the feeling that you could. The open road is always waiting, just over the next hill.

 

 

5. SWAMPLANDIA! by Karen Russell

If July is for humidity, weirdness, and family legends, then Swamplandia! is the perfect literary match. Set in the swamps of Florida, this novel follows thirteen-year-old Ava Bigtree, whose family runs a run-down alligator-wrestling theme park. After her mother’s death, Ava embarks on a surreal odyssey through mangroves and the underworld, crossing paths with ghosts, birdmen, and con artists. Russell’s language is lush and playful, but the heart of the book is tender: it’s about grief, growing up, and the mythologies we build to survive. Best read on a summer night when the air feels thick with stories.

 

 

6. The Summer Book by Tove Jansson

A jewel of stillness and light, The Summer Book is composed of small vignettes set on a tiny island off the coast of Finland, where a six-year-old girl and her grandmother spend the summer together. Nothing much happens—except, of course, everything. Jansson captures the quiet miracles of the natural world and the tender negotiations of family love in prose so clear it feels like sea glass. This is the kind of book you can read in fragments, setting it aside and picking it back up without losing the thread. It is a perfect July companion: gentle, wise, and suffused with the hush of long, golden evenings.

 

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July is a month made for reading that isn’t hurried, strategic, or guilt-ridden. These are books to be savored in slowness, to accompany you through afternoons when the only plan is to follow your curiosity wherever it wanders. Whether you’re stretched out under a tree, half-awake in a hammock, or traveling across states with a paperback in your bag, let these stories keep you company. July, after all, is one of literature’s favorite months: expansive, sun-drenched, and gloriously unhurried.

Mistakes to Avoid When Writing: Part 2

So you read the first list of novel-writing mistakes and thought,
     “Okay, fine, I won’t let my main character have violet eyes, a tragic violin backstory, and absolutely no flaws.” 

Growth! 

But unfortunately (for both of us), the disasters don’t stop there. You’ve merely arrived at the second layer of the flaming lasagna that is writing a novel.
Because guess what? There are still more ways to mess up your writing—and yes, GUILTY, I’ve made every single one of them (while eating cereal out of a mug and calling it “dinner.”)

If your novel is all “vibes” and no story, if your dialogue sounds like it was composed by Alexa, or if you keep quietly skipping every emotional beat because it makes you feel things? I get it. Feelings are exhausting. But so is reading a book where nothing happens and no one reacts to anything. This is the part where I burst through the drywall holding a red pen and a shot of espresso and yell, “WHERE’S THE PLOT, BRENDA?!”

This list Part 2 is here to make sure your novel survives your worst instincts.  
Let’s get you back on track.

 

* 

4. Failing to Plan / Not Knowing the Plot

There are times when a writer reaches the end of a manuscript, and comes to the terrible realization that they have no idea what the hell is going on. 

 

I love a chaotic vibe and all. But if you’re 40 pages in and your main character still doesn’t know what they want, that’s emotional roulette. (Some structure is sexy, okay?) Even a sticky note that says “[something sad happens here]” is better than nothing. Whether you are a fan of outlining or not, planning is essential to writing any kind of complex story (particularly a novel).  

 

I, too, can be lazy and allergic to commitment. But writing a novel with no plan is like driving cross-country with no GPS and a dead phone. You’ll end up in a ditch, surrounded by cacti and plot holes, sobbing into your giant Slurpee. If nothing else, you must know where the story is going. If not all the details, I suggest (perhaps) the beginning, (maybe some kind of) the middle, and, (if I may) the end. 
Here is a mini step-by-step guidance for building a plot structure—just enough scaffolding to guide the story, never enough to trap it. 

Try This: 
Begin with the “big five beats”: 

1. An opening image or situation that captures your character’s normal
2. An inciting incident that disrupts that normal
3. A midpoint turning point that complicates everything
4. A low point or crisis that forces your character to face what’s truly at stake, and 
5. A resolution where something—externally or internally—changes for good. 

These aren’t shackles—they’re scaffolding. You can fill in more steps later, but even this rough shape will help you spot where tension builds, where transformation happens, and where you’re heading. Keep it messy. Let it evolve. Structure isn’t your enemy—it’s your compass. Just don’t forget you’re allowed to leave the path if the story finds a better one.


5. Leaning on Clichés
 If your opening line sounds like the back of a paperback romance in a grocery store clearance bin, delete it. I’m talking: “she was a feisty spitfire with a past,” or “the night was dark and stormy” garbage. In a world chock-full of novels, readers want something original. Nothing will have someone closing a book for good faster than the use of multiple cliches that make your soul itch. We get it.

Clichés include phrases such as:
    •    A bun in the oven.
    •    A diamond in the rough.
    •    When all is said and done.
    •    When it rains, it pours.

These are just a handful of examples, and of course there are many more and ohmygah. I’m already in hives and I haven’t yet read your virtuosic over-use of “through thick and thin” yet. NO. Stop it. I implore thee. 

Clichés are placeholders for real thought. A writer will insert a cliche that makes sense because they don’t want to spend time thinking of a new way to say it. They sneak in when you're tired or rushing or trying to sound like “a writer.” You are better than this. Instead, try to write the same idea in a different way. (And hot tip: first draft cliché placeholders are fine while you wait for something better to manifest, just be SURE to replace them in the next draft. Your secrets are safe with me).

 Don’t write like a robot who read too many Tumblr posts in 2011. Say it the way your weird little brain sees it.


6. Skipping the Hard Emotional Work
A novel isn’t just stuff happening—it’s how your characters feel about what’s happening. Don’t be afraid to go there. Don’t avoid the challenging scenes that require utterly true, un-choreographed emotionality. Emotional truth is what keeps a reader turning pages. If you the creator flinch away from it, the reader will feel the gap.

 

And here is where I get extra real with you. 

Listen, oh valiant writer, dreamer divine and creator extraordinaire: You cannot write something truly great without letting it cost you something. Not everything. But something.  You can write clever plots, interesting characters, and even very pretty sentences from a distance—but the work that moves people will ask you to walk through the fire yourself. There is no shortcut around sitting right in the center your grief, your rage, your shame, your longing, the ugliest parts of you, the most out-of-control parts of you, the humiliating and human parts—all connected to your deepest ache for belonging. 

 

So if you are—even inadvertently— trying to skip that part? You must take a deep breath, and find your courage. 

 

I know. I know personally how valiant an ask this is, on several artistic levels. But if you are in any way waiting to be less afraid, less messy, or more “ready” or “perfect”—you're not creating art, you're managing your image. 

And hey; that’s okay. Many of us start there. 
But if you want to go further, deeper, fuller, richer— the page or stage or screen or canvas MUST become a place where you are more honest, authentic and unabashed than your are polished. As Brené Brown says, “You can choose courage or you can choose comfort, but you cannot have both.” Art requires the choice of courage.

Try this: 

    •    Write the scene you’re avoiding first. Get it over with. It won’t kill you (probably).
    •    Journal as your character. What are they really thinking but too scared to say?

    •    The next time you find yourself resisting a scene, a character, or a theme—pause and ask: what am I protecting myself from? That’s often exactly where the gold lives. You don’t have to bleed all over the page, nor exclusively suffer to make worthwhile art, but you do have to tell the truth—especially the emotional truth you’re tempted to sidestep.  

 
Write the embarrassing version. The “too-much” version. The version you’d never read aloud at a dinner party. That’s the one with life in it. The only way out is through. And when you come out the other side, you won’t just have a better draft—you’ll be a braver artist. And person. 

 

Finally:

 
You made it through Round Two and didn’t throw your laptop into a ravine—I’m proud of you. The truth is, every writer makes these mistakes. But not every writer is brave enough to admit they’re just out here vibes-ing their way through chapter 12 with no outline, hoping the muse shows up like DoorDash. But you? You showed up, officially one step closer to writing a novel that doesn’t make readers scream “WHY” into the void. 

Keep going. 

© hula seventy

42

PRIME TIME. 

 

Here’s to one great trip around the sun, and raising a glass to what  feels like juuuust might be the best year yet. 

 

Something deep, ancient and crucial has shifted in me this last year— it feels like the greatest act of “becoming” and of true maturity I’ve ever experienced. It was? Uncomfortable! But it was also—as all expansions are—worthwhile. I’m grateful for all the “teachers”that appeared around me. 

 

If we accept the notion that life itself is a gift, than that means it is ALL a gift, not just the wins and joys. But also all the adversities, losses, and the Unimaginable. And thus, if we are indeed grateful for the gift of life, than we have to be grateful for all of it. 

 

And I am. 

All the pains. 

The grief. 

The losses. 

The twists and turns. 

The mistakes. 

The agonizing realizations. 

I am grateful. 

It’s all life. 

 

Reflecting upon things today, I now realize that while I was quite “productive,” I truly lost almost all of my 30s to illness at an age when I might have made greater inroads on my original “little Al” dreams. I had to learn to be grateful just to …still be here at all. Thank everything, I am. 

 

Because in the quieter moments I now realize the experiences shaped me to become someone who valued and wanted different things. By surrendering (not collapsing! Surrender and “giving up” are not the same thing!) to the winds of life and the workings of the divine, I allowed life to work upon me and show me things, skills, desires, capacities, that I never knew were possible. 

 

I feel like this year I am properly beginning my “Second Act.” And I say? Bring it on. 

 

So. Here’s to PRIME TIME. 

 

 

“The Curious Case of ‘The Other Iain’ - an AFOOT story

As part of the Edinburgh version of Whisper Walk from the "AFOOT" series, I give you one of the monologues/short stories I have composed for this deliciously Scottish incarnation (that we on the creative team refer to a "whispers.") 

From the press release:  

Confessional stories, unuttered truths and personal memories are whispered through headphones in a documentary-style walking tour through Edinburgh. Whisper Walk is partly inspired by the Japanese Kaze no Denwa (“wind phone”) and explores how memories are deeply connected to a seemingly ordinary place. Each audience member, equipped with their smartphone and a pair of headphones, is guided through Edinburgh as voices gently whisper stories and personal memories tied to the locations they pass. As participants become trusted confidants, they are invited to contribute their own place-related memory – whispered into a phone placed at the end of the Whisper Walk – to be archived in the ever-growing Whisper Museum.

Writer Alexandra Silber said, “Whisper Walk is, I think, a really beautiful and unique storytelling theatrical experience, under the notion that places hold memories. It explores the notion that our memories are tied heavily to place, and sort of revels in the idea that a seemingly ordinary, singular, flat park bench, a tree, a series of steps, a street corner, a churchyard, a pub, a very specific cross-section of longitude and latitude, can contain a multitude of stacked memories belonging to countless people—really holding these stories and memories from every human who ever crosses that location. This is very much the way we receive podcasts nowadays, and certainly builds upon the radio drama tradition, but the individual audience member, as a result of this, will end up in a specific geographical place and will hear a story about the place in which they are standing, and thus serves as a confessional, a confidant, a stranger on the road to whom the speaker of the story can speak more candidly than to a regular person in their everyday lives.” 

And so, with that. Enjoy this sneak peak and see you in Edinburgh, this August, afoot! 

 *


Set: Cowgate under George IV Bridge, Edinburgh

I am Iain Angus Campbell— the first one, or at least, the one telling this story—and I am  standing under George IV Bridge with a large cardboard box labeled “FOR THE OTHER IAIN” and the vague feeling that I have slipped through a tear in the fabric of space-time.

Inside the box I am holding is:
    •    Three veterinary textbooks written in German (I do not read German)
    •    A framed photo of a ginger man on a yacht  (I have never been on a yacht, only vomited near one)
    •    And a very personal letter from someone named Dimitri, written entirely in Cyrillic, which I am almost certain is an erotic poem. (Because, yes, I have had it translated.)

 It’s hard to explain: every time one receives a piece of correspondence with their name on it, one naturally assumes the correspondence is for them. But every time I open mail to The Other Iain, I am, at first, shocked. Then horrified. Then oddly aroused by the illicit nature of opening other people’s mail. I consider myself a relatively ethical person, and I’m not proud to have rifled through Iain Angus Campbell’s private things, read his mail, and texted back his exes. But what am I to do? For you see: THEY ARE ALL ADDRESSED TO “ME.”  

It began with a misdirected email from a veterinary clinic in Dundee, followed by a call from HMRC regarding unpaid taxes on my “falconry side hustle,” and climaxed with an offer to speak at a conference in Amsterdam on “large animal anesthesia”—a subject I know exactly nothing about because I mostly treat cats.

That was two years ago. 


 Iain Angus Campbell— the other one— is real. Or at least I’m real, and the universe has committed to a bit that is now years long and disturbingly elaborate. He has the same name. Is the same age. He is also a veterinarian. Also left-handed (?!) and green-eyed, and redheaded. The algorithms are confused. The tax office is furious. The dating apps are saturated with accusations.
We are, by all accounts, statistically indistinguishable. 

And? We have never met.
Not in the flesh. Not once.
Until—apparently—today.

I got a text:

        “Iain. It’s Iain. Let’s exchange boxes. Cowgate. Under the bridge. Three.”

Which, yes, sounds murder-y. (Or like a compelling romance!) 

But anyway here I am. Under the bridge. With my box. Wearing my jacket. Holding my nerves together with the fragile glue of one too many espressos. And spiraling.
Because if this man is me—not just like me—then what am I, exactly? 
Some early prototype? 
The version of Iain who never had the courage to move to the Netherlands or take up falconry or respond to Dimitri’s love note? 
What if I meet him and I’m just the “Beta Iain?”
Or worse— oh, God: what if he doesn’t show up?

I check my phone. 

3:12.

 Iain is late.

Or maybe early. 

Or maybe me. 

I don’t fucking know.
And I think, not for the first time:
If this isn’t the matrix, then maybe it’s something worse.

Maybe it’s a love story.
But only one of us gets to tell it.

Ask Al: The Power of Saying "No" — Part 1

Let’s talk about the holy word every artist needs to learn to wield like a bedazzled machete: NO.

This post is for every tender, brilliant, creatively exhausted soul who has said yes to an unpaid reading again, agreed to do someone’s weird indie podcast at midnight for “exposure,” or joined a 12-person devised theatre project because "you felt bad." 

 

There’s a moment—just before you type “Sure!” or say “Happy to!”—when your stomach drops.
You know that feeling. That little whisper that says, I actually can’t. Or I don’t want to.
But you override it. Because you’re grateful. Or scared. Or simply trained.

 

You know who you are. And? You are not alone.  

Here’s what I want to tell you, with love and no apology:

You don’t have to take every gig.
You don’t have to say yes just because it’s “something.”
Saying no doesn’t make you difficult—it makes you sovereign.

 

Furthermore: 

You don’t owe your creativity to hustle. 

You don’t owe your art to pleasing others.
You owe yourself honesty. 

 

That might sound like:

“Thank you for thinking of me. I won’t be able to take this on right now.”

 

It’s tender. It’s brave. And it’s allowed.

Your “no” protects your art. Let it.

  

Let’s get into the full-body liberation that comes from saying “nah,” “no thank you,” “not for me,” and my personal favorite: “lol no.”

 

⸻

 

1. Saying "No" Sets Boundaries — and Boundaries = Clarity
“No” is a door.
A boundary. A border. A line in the sand that says:

“I matter, too.”

When you say “NO” with clarity, you give others the map to care for and respect you properly. Clarity is respectful. Without clarity, everyone is just guessing—and often guessing wrong.

Repeat after me: “Boundaries are not cruelty.” What boundaries are are a series containers that helps us care for each other better, communicate limitations, and actually (statistically!) breed more trust, not less. Think of it this way: when we know where the lines on the road are, all parties relax and drive within the lines. 

Boundaries are also how we love ourselves. They’re how we say, “I am a whole-ass person with limits and needs and a spine.” 

As the great Dr. Brené Brown says: 

“Daring to set boundaries is about having the courage to love ourselves, even when we risk disappointing others.” 

But Artists, especially those of us who’ve ever gone through a dry spell (achem), often feel like we have to say yes to every crumb of opportunity, attention, or praise. Yet when you say yes to everything, you’re saying no to something else — like your time, your focus, or the sweet blessed act of sitting on your couch in silence eating honey mustard pretzels. So step one is first about knowing where your boundaries ARE, then practicing exercising them without having a people-pleasing meltdown. 
 

💡 Try this:
    •    Prompt: “When I said 'yes' but wanted to say 'no,' what did it cost me?”
    •    Write: Write a list of your non-negotiables— times you’re unavailable, projects you don’t want to do, vibes you will not tolerate. (More on this exercise in the next post!) 
    •    Action: Practice saying no to tiny things. Decline an invitation. Admit a limitation. Say no to cake (“Do you want dessert?” “No.” [But like… later, hell yes...]). 

 

PSA: Weathering the experience of not taking responsibility for other people's disappointment or squirrely reactions to the word "No," not because you lack accountability, but because not every emotional reaction is our responsibility, and disappointing someone's expectations is very different from causing harm. 

 

 

2. Saying "No" Is Self-Care, Not Selfishness
The next time someone asks you to do something and your first instinct is to cancel your own needs to accommodate them, pause. You don’t have to justify rest. Saying “no” to a gig, a favor, or even a social invite doesn’t mean you’re lazy or ungrateful — it means you know your bandwidth.

Self-care isn’t about sheet masks and bubble baths. Care of Self looks like sending an email that says:

    “Thank you for thinking of me—but I won’t be able to commit.”

You are allowed to protect your time, your energy, and your body. In fact, big picture? By doing do you are protecting your ability to keep serving the wider world long term. If life is a marathon and not a sprint, than making sure you don’t burn out in mile 1 is essential. 

As Audre Lorde said, “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation.” And I bet she didn’t write that quote while doing someone’s 11th rewrite for free.

💡 Try this:
    •    Prompt: “What would my ideal week look like if I said no to things that drained me?”
    •    Write: Make a “Hell Yes or No” list — if it’s not a full-body YES, it’s a polite NO.

    •    Action: Map out your schedule for the week. See what’s making your chest tighten? Start there. 

 

 

 3. Over-commitment = Slow Death and Burnout
There’s a very specific panic that comes from opening your calendar and seeing back-to-back commitments that sounded “manageable” when you agreed to them six weeks ago. Saying no helps keep your time, energy, and life force intact — so you can actually make that thing you’ve been dreaming about instead of ghostwriting someone else’s mediocrity.

 

Let me be blunt: if you say yes to everything, your work suffers. Your health suffers. Your people suffer because you become the cranky goblin version of yourself. Nobody wins.

 

Saying “no” reduces burnout
Over-commitment is a fast train to resentment.
And resentment is creativity’s death rattle.

If every “yes” is a withdrawal, then “no” is how you re-balance the books. Let yourself be a finite resource, not an infinite machine. 

💡 Try this:

    •   Prompt: Ask yourself: "If I say 'yes' to this, what am I saying 'no' to?" Be honest. 
    •   List: Inventory your current “yes” pile. Color-code by “joy,” “neutral,” and “WTF did I do this.”
    •   Action: Rehearse a graceful no: “Thank you for thinking of me! I can’t take that on right now.” (more on exactly how to craft these this in Part 2!)

 

4. Saying "No" Builds Confidence (and a Personality)
Confidence doesn’t magically appear. It comes from tiny, repeated acts of self-respect. Every time you say “no” with clarity and grace, you reinforce the truth that you matter. That your needs are real. That your time is valuable. That your boundaries are worth enforcing.

And suddenly, you’re not some trembling leaf hoping people like you— you’re a whole tree with roots, babe. Watch yourself stand taller. 

 

That’s the real muscle memory we need to build—not just for our art, but for our life.

💡 Try this:
    •    Prompt: “When did I say 'no' and feel proud of it?” Write the whole story. Including the "fallout," "consequences" and freedoms. Really examine which parts are yours and which are not. 
    •    Action: Practice your "no" in increasing levels. Start with “I can’t,” then level up to “I don’t want to.” Own it.
    •   Track: Notice how much energy you save when you stop people-pleasing. Track that.

 

 

 5. Healthy "No’s" Create Better Relationships
Contrary to your inner panic gremlin’s opinion, saying no does not mean everyone will hate you. In fact, clear boundaries make you easier to trust. People don’t have to guess where you stand. 

 

Saying “no” improves your relationships. When you say “yes” while seething on the inside, no one wins.
But when you say “no” with grace and clarity, you allow your relationships to be based on truth, not performance. Real love honors limits. 

 

And if someone does get mad at your no? That tells you something important about them. Spoiler alert: It ain’t good.

💡 Try this:
    •   Action: Practice saying no to someone safe (like a friend who gets it)
    •   Action: If someone guilt-trips you, pause and breathe. That’s about them, not you.
    •   Prompt: “How do I feel when others say 'no' to me? Can I offer myself the same grace?”

 

 

6. Saying "No" Enriches Your Life
Every “no” is a secret “yes” to something else.

Yes to your rest.
Yes to your writing.
Yes to not doing it all.
Yes to integrity.

Your life deserves to be built on choices that align with you.

 

When you’re not constantly performing favors, chasing approval, or duct-taping yourself into projects that don’t align with your spirit, you can finally hear your own voice again. THAT is where the good stuff lives. 

  

That’s where the best art is born. Not in the 14th “quick turnaround” you took out of guilt.

💡 Try this:
    •    Write: Write a mission statement for your artist life. Use it to guide your decisions (it'll help you when you get wobbly!)
    •    Action: Each week, say “no” to one thing that doesn’t serve you. See what happens.
    •    Prompt: “What do I want to make room for?”

7. Saying "No" Supports Mental Health 

Chronic yes-ing is a trauma response. It’s rooted in fear of rejection, scarcity, and shame. 

 

Your brain is not a bottomless buffet of resilience. Every “yes” chips away at your capacity. Saying no lets you preserve what matters. But healing begins when we realize: we don’t need to overgive to be loved. You are allowed to say no without explanation—and still be good, kind, and worthy.
 

It is an act of trust— in yourself, your future, and your worth. It is the artist’s version of spiritual exfoliation: clear away the gunk so you can SHINE.

💡 Try this:
    •    Observe: Notice the difference between “obligation yes” and “aligned yes.”
    •    Action: De-clutter your to-do list with the Marie Kondo method in reverse: does it spark dread? Toss it.
    •    Prompt: “What would it feel like to protect my peace like it was my [INSERT high-stakes answer here: i.e child/ identity/paycheck]?”

Conclusion (Or: A Love Note Wrapped in a “No”)


 

Saying no is not selfish. It’s not rude. It’s not a luxury reserved for the confident, the famous, or the “already successful.” It is a muscle. And the more you use it, the stronger it gets. So here’s your permission slip to say no— loudly, softly, awkwardly, eloquently, whatever works.

Say it while shaking. Say it with snacks nearby. Say it and then log off.
 Say it for the you that knows what you’re capable of.

 

Your “no” is a gift. 
To your creativity.
To your nervous system.
To your future self.
 

Let your no’s be clean. Let your yeses be whole.

 

"Take My Hand and Let's Go Roaming..." — A New Adaptation of Brigadoon

Friends, I humbly share with you all: I made a thing. 

Well. I RE-made a thing. 

And what an honor it is. 

 

Inspired by the giants of Alan J Lerner and Frederick Loewe, and with the support and encouragement of their families and estates, a new Brigadoon is coming in to the world, and it is making its world premiere in my birthplace, Los Angeles, at the Tony-Award winning Pasadena Playhouse helmed by the man who was there for my first American job Artistic Director Danny Feldman.

I love Scotland. I love the theatre. I love music. And I love telling deep human stories.

Many of you who have been readers since the beginning know that when I was 18, a few months after my father died, in a swirl of grief and of an unnameable sense of hope, I picked up my entire life and moved to Scotland. 

I stayed for years (held and nurtured by the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland) and slowly, a part of me healed and grew to be ready to hope again, love again, and join the the world again.

Scotland and its people held me, uplifted me, with its music, language, and poetry; its stark beauty, its searingly unsentimental insistence upon human resilience. The country and its culture continue to be an active part of my life to this day.

How fortunate am I that the art form I love more than anything in the world can provide a vessel for a story I couldn't keep to myself a moment longer. This is both an old Brigadoon— one you'll remember, recall and joyfully celebrate legacy; as well as utterly new— a deepening and enrichment made just for a new generation of theater-goers to appreciate anew.

I've never been prouder of any creative offering I've participated in, in all my life. I've also never been more honored to bow deeply at the altar of Lerner and Loewe-giants of our art form and say:

— "take my hand and let's go roaming..."

See you next season at Pasadena Playhouse. 

 

Mistakes to Avoid When Writing: Part 1

Aspiring writer, we need to talk.

Not The Talk. Not the birds and bees—the one where I lovingly talk in all caps into your face about the ways you are silently (and spectacularly) tanking your project before it’s even crawling out of the draft stage. 

 

Writing is a rigorous journey full of pitfalls, rewarding learning experiences, and everything in between. (Literally: despair, joy, weeping, staying awake for three days and nights, failing to shower, triumph, inspiration, voices in your head, you name it). 

 

Writers have a lot of liberty when writing fiction (it is made up after all), and rules are often bent, beat up, blasphemed, and broken. And no one minds because it’s fiction (unless it’s not, but that’s a different essay).

 

All to say: you’re talented, you’ve got the vibes, that's great; but “following The Muse” doesn’t mean you should abandon grammar, good writing and compelling storytelling altogether. Don't do that. I thank you in advance. You'll be saving my life. Because if I read one more story where the main character “lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding” while “the sun slants like gold syrup over the city,” I am going to walk directly into the sea with my laptop.

 

But don't feel timid or embarrassed or all shame-y. I have made every single writing mistake there is (and some that aren’t even on this list because they’re too humiliating to put in writing—you’re welcome), and I am here, like the Ghost of Drafts Past, to stop you from making them too. This isn’t about shaming! The opposite! It’s about belief in you! Belief in the form of taking you by the shoulders, shaking you gently (but firmly) and saying: CUT THAT OUT. 

So. Here’s your anti-disaster checklist: the most common mistakes to avoid when writing your novel. (Or Screenplay. Or short story. Or one-act. Or whatever. But I’ll be using “novel” as a catch all.)
Use it. Love it. Tattoo it on your forehead.

 

*

1. Writing Unrealistic Characters
 

There are many mistakes to avoid when writing a novel, but creating weak and unbelievable characters is the most detrimental. A story is nothing without its characters. All characters, both big, small, main, and secondary must be believable and REAL. Perfect characters are boring. Real people are contradictory, flawed, and dynamic—so your characters should be too. Embodied. Full-realized. Truthful. Many writers become lazy with their characters and don’t flesh them out enough.

 

Characters shouldn’t just exist to move the story along like chess pieces. They should want things, make mistakes, act out of fear or love or ego. They should have weird urges and panic attacks and make bad decisions. Not every single character that shows up in the story needs a full history and comprehensive backstory, but the main ones certainly do. And if you ask me (and if you’re reading this, you literally are)— “more is more” when it comes to fleshing out a character’s reality. If a character is not well thought out, or deep enough; if your character is doing something “because it needs to happen” for the plot, then Houston: we have a problem. Those are characters who read like cardboard in a wig and serve plot, not truth.

 

The best books, regardless of genre, are the ones that draw tears, laughter, empathy, derision, loathing, desire, pathos and everything that real human beings evoke, from the readers. People are awkward and insecure and say the wrong thing constantly. They cry in CVS. They ghost their friends. They overthink text messages for three hours. You want your readers so invested in your characters that they feel real emotions when things (true things, messy things, unattractive and humiliating things) happen to them. Nobody wants to read about perfect people doing nothing wrong. Give me mess. Give me someone who texts their ex after two drinks, or panics at the self-checkout.

 

As a writer who is also an actor, and has acting training, I find the creation of characters comes more naturally than some of the other aspects of story-writing because the toolkits overlap perfectly. If I am interpreting a character someone else wrote, I ask questions like:

• Who is this person?
• Where are they from?
• What do they want?
• What is their greatest obstacle?
• What do the do to get what they want?
• Why are they the way they are?
• What happened to make them this way?
• How will they change by the end of the story?
• If they do not change, why not? 
• What are they longing for?
• Do they have big dreams?
• What are they afraid of?
• Who do they hate the most? 

Or anything else you don’t already know about them, big or small. Do this for your protagonist and antagonist. Then, start on the secondary characters. It won’t be long before you feel a renewed desire to tell their story.

Start there. Hopefully each answer will propel you forward to ask hundreds more, and before long you are in a dialogue with a chattier that feels like a new, very intimate friend. All the answers your character reveals lead the action and thus, the plot. 

 

Let your characters lead sometimes — they often know better than you do.  Let them fight you. Let them screw up. That’s what makes them compelling.

 

2. No Conflict = No Story (sorry, I don’t make The Rules)

 
This is one of the most important mistakes beginners make in writing. Stories need tension. A story is not a story without conflict. Conflict isn’t just physical fights; it’s tough decisions, emotional stakes, internal battles. Without it, readers drift. A central conflict is what drives the entire plot and moves the story forward. Something needs to disrupt the life of your protagonist. It can be a physical circumstance or an internal redirection, but it must be something life-changing. 

Haven't you screamed at protagonists as they hacked blithely in to their husband's email, waltzed off to Mordor, The Room of Requirement or drunk Facetimed their ex despite all evidence that not doing precisely that would be much more pragmatic? Exactly. Conflict gives the story purpose. 

So don’t be afraid to give me characters in a pickle or three that’s where the story lives. Otherwise, it’s just vibes and no plot, and we already have Instagram for that. Something has to go wrong. Someone has to want something and not be able to get it. If your book doesn’t have a little chaos, betrayal, or at least one ill-advised decision, what are we even doing here?

3. Creating a Confusing Point of View
 

While the point of view is flexible, head-hopping (jumping between multiple characters' thoughts in one scene) is jarring and often confusing unless handled masterfully. 

Aspiring authors often gloss over this detail and write wherever their brain takes them. This is okay for a first draft but you must rectify it in the editing process. If I have to read three paragraphs to figure out whose head I’m in, I’m calling the police.

Being consistent in your POV means that the narrator and POV must remaining consistently inside the POV of one character, or at the very least, one character at a time. (i.e. no head-hopping mid-paragraph). One simple rule? Only one point of view per chapter.

Additionally, a crucial way to remain consistently in the head of your character— is to remember to stay within the consciousness/time period/age/intelligence of your character as well. 

That means that the character (and the narrator describing them) should avoid using language unfamiliar or inaccessible to the character at the time of the chapter being read. (As an example: if the character is going to make a huge discovery in the next chapter, they cannot betray or scribe knowledge of the discovery before the event occurs. 

Another way this manifests is if the character is from the 1800s, it is incongruous and inconsistent with their reality to use metaphors and/or descriptions from the digital era (such as “she didn’t have the bandwidth” or “she was channeling; surfing in her mind.”) 

Not every novel will have this problem as some revolve around one point of view in totality. (This could be a form of the third person or the first person from the same character’s perspective throughout.) But many novels change perspective at times, and this can easily become confusing and give your reader POV whiplash. You can switch later, but not mid-paragraph like some kind of literary magician with no audience. 

 

Know who’s telling the story, what they know, and what they don’t. Your reader will thank you with their attention span.
 

 

Final Remarks
There are many mistakes to avoid when writing a novel, and all deserve your attention. So now that I’ve pointed out a few your literary potholes in the prose version of ALL CAPS, I want you to go hydrate, stretch your neck, and go back to that messy draft like the brave, chaotic genius you are.
Will you still make mistakes? Absolutely. And it’s okay to make them – that’s what editing is for! But now you’ll proceed with awareness, and that’s basically halfway to a Pulitzer. 

Go forth. Write recklessly. And for the love of all that is holy, stop naming your love interest “Blaze.” 

We’re done here.
For now. 

Until Part 2.
    ...and okay, Part 3.