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.

 

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.

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.

 

Writing Tips, Part 3: Crafting a Clear Narrative

Been on the train for 

Writing Tips Part 1 

and Part 2? 

 

Well, next stop: TECHNIQUE TOWN! Population: 1 writer desperately trying not to sound like a thesaurus exploded into a confusing fever dream. Next Station Stop!

 

We’ve all written a paragraph where we switched from past to present tense three times and suddenly the character is both dead and ordering pancakes.

I know, I know SNORE. Technique! Blergh! While it might seem trivial, basic writing mistakes impact the clarity and cohesion of your narrative. I’m not talking about rigid, stuffy, “perfect” grammatical linguistics being superior to other forms of perfectly decent communication, nor am I promoting that style has nothing to do with compelling writing! Quite the contrary, this blogger-since-2007-who-is-currently-playing-games-with-hyphens feels rules are more than merely meant to be broken, she encourages you to explode the rules altogether. Don’t think outside the box! Blow up the box altogether. Kablamo.

But you can’t explode rules you don’t even acknowledge are there, ready for you to come at ‘em with a jackhammer. And good narratives don’t just happen—they’re built. Carefully, lovingly, with a deep respect for the reader’s time, brain-space, and experience. Having a firm grasp on “the rules” gives you a strong foundation to mindfully make artistic choices within the bounds of English language mores, and also give you more agency over when you break them. That’s technique enhancing natural talent.  

Crafting a clear narrative isn’t about sounding smart — it’s about not confusing the hell out of your reader (by making them feel like they’re trapped in a confusing improv scene with a rogue thesaurus and a drunk time traveler) 

 

So buckle in, grab a red pen, and let’s clean up that storytelling like it’s a murder scene on Dateline.

*

1. Consistent Tense Usage ( aka: Stay in One Time Zone)

Look. You can write in the past. You can write in the present. But if you’re out here switching between “She walks into the room” and “She had screamed in terror” like you’re building a literary time machine? Your reader is going to throw your book across the room and whisper, “I just wanted peace.” A novel unfolds over chapters and settings, making it crucial to maintain consistent tense usage for a seamless reading experience. If your narrative shifts between past and present tense without a clear purpose, readers will find it disorienting and get literary whiplash.  Pick a lane, babe.  Consistency keeps your reader anchored in reality. Consistency creates rhythm. And rhythm creates trust. Strive for cohesion by choosing and sticking to a tense that aligns with your narrative vision.

Try this:

• Do a “tense pass” after your draft is done — highlight all verbs and check for traitors. Are they all dancing to the same beat?
• When you do shift tenses, do it with intention—like a scene change on a stage— not like you blacked out mid-sentence.
• Practice rewriting a paragraph in both past and present tense. Which feels more alive to your story?

2. Be Faithful with Your Pronouns (aka: Keep References Clear and avoid “Pronoun Chaos”)

“They didn’t know if she meant him or her when she said that to them.”

Baby. WHAT?!
 
Who is “they”? WHO IS “HER”?! Pronoun consistency is vital if you don’t want your reader to feel like they’re deciphering ancient scrolls.
If you start a story talking about Valentina, then suddenly start saying “she” without reminding us who she is, readers start mentally flipping back like, “Wait—who’s ‘SHE’?” Clarity is kindness. Make sure your pronouns are pointing in the right direction and staying loyal to their person. You are the GPS of your story. Please don’t reroute us into a ditch.

Try this:

• Every few paragraphs, double-check: does “he” still mean the same “he”?When in doubt, use the character’s name again. Especially if “she” could mean three different people. Clarity > style. 
• If you're writing multiple POVs, color code them in your notes like a messy little genius.
• Read your piece aloud and circle every “he,” “she,” “they,” or “it.” Could a stranger follow who’s being referred to? 
• In scenes with multiple characters, reintroduce names now and then to keep us grounded.

3. Balancing Active and Passive Voice (aka: Let the Verbs Lead and STOP SAYING “WAS”)

If you keep writing “She was being chased,” and “The door was opened by him,” I’m going to gently tip over a chair. 

Active voice gives your sentences backbone. It says: “I did this.”
Passive voice says: “This was done… by someone… maybe?”
 

While passive voice has its place for specific effects, an overabundance dilutes the impact of your narrative, and if you lean too hard on the passive, your prose gets foggy.
Let your characters do things!
Let the actions leap off the page!

What is Passive Voice?
Passive voice is a grammatical construction that places the object of the sentence before the verb. A sentence written in passive voice shifts the focus from the subject doing the action to the recipient of the action. Sentences in passive voice can be less clear, direct, and concise.
 

The biggest problem with passive voice is that it removes agency and responsibility from the individual carrying out the action. This distinction is particularly important when discussing power dynamics.

How to Spot Passive Voice
Not every use of a “to be” verb is passive voice. A passive voice sentence generally goes like this:

[object of the action] + [to be verb] + [past tense main verb].

TIP: If you can add “by zombies” to the end of your sentence and it still makes sense, it is likely in passive voice. For instance, “The pizza was eaten” still works when you add “The pizza was eaten by zombies.” So, this sentence is written in passive voice. You’re welcome.

How to Change Passive Voice
Identify the subject of the sentence and put it first:

[subject] + [main verb] + [object].

That changes the previous sentence to: “Zombies ate the pizza.”

Passive voice isn’t evil — but if your whole novel sounds like it’s being narrated by a terrified butler, we’ve got a problem. Active voice brings the juice. The guts. The oomph.

Try this:

• Take a page of your writing and rewrite every passive sentence into the active voice. See what happens.Keep passive voice for when the receiver of the action matters more than the doer (e.g., “The cake was eaten”—because the cake is the tragedy here). Use passive voice when you want to obscure responsibility (useful for mystery!). Sparingly.
• When editing, ask: “Who’s doing the action here?” If it’s unclear, bring them to the front of the sentence.
• Highlight every “was” in your draft and ask yourself if you’re being lazy or brilliant.

 

4. Punctuation Precision (aka: This Comma Could Save a Life)

Grammar is like deodorant: you don’t have to use it, but things get real uncomfortable real fast when you don’t. Think of punctuation like the conductor of your sentence symphony. A well-placed comma can create breath. A period can drop the mic. Overusing em-dashes or ellipses? That’s like waving your hands in the air. Readers get tired. Know the rules so you can bend them with style—not confusion.

“Let’s eat Grandma” vs. “Let’s eat, Grandma.” 

Respect the comma.
Respect Grandma.

Try this:

• Read your writing aloud, and pause at every punctuation mark. Does the rhythm feel natural, or like a hiccup?
• Beware of overusing “!” or “…”—they can dilute your power. Trust the words themselves.
• Learn the difference between an em-dash (—) and a hyphen (-). They're not the same. 
• Use commas to separate ideas, not glue them all together into one endless sentence. If your sentences read like breathless text messages from a manic ghost, your reader will quit on you.
• Use periods. Stop writing 97-word sentences, I beg.

5. Know how to Properly Plan. (aka: Don’t Wing It)

Writers love to romanticize chaos—but a clear story needs some kind of map, even if it's scribbled on a napkin. So plan your story (yes, even you, chaotic Pantser!) 

Relatable content

 

“But I don’t want to outline! I like discovering the story as I go!” 

Wahhh. That’s cute. But guess what? You don’t need to outline every beat on a spreadsheet, but you do need to know the emotional arc. Where are we going? Who’s changing? What’s at stake?
Your story needs bones before you start putting skin on it.

Try this: 

• Write a one-paragraph summary of your book. If you can’t? You don’t know what it’s about yet.
• Before you begin, jot down three sentences: where it starts, what shifts, “Oh Sh*t, Everything's Falling Apart” part, how people change, and how it ends.
• Use index cards or sticky notes to lay out scenes. Move them around like a deranged detective. At some point, something will click.

And the big, big. big one:

6.  "Show, Don't Tell" (aka: Let the Reader Feel It)

When you tell readers something, you make a statement they have not choice but to accept as true. When you show them something, you describe and dramatize it, allowing readers to see what's happening and draw their own conclusions. Readers love to “people watch” as much as ordinary humans do—we all draw conclusions based on the snippets of information we collect as we go, and make meaning of those snippets. This is why people watching is fascinating! Telling, (when used sparingly!) IS an excellent way of conveying a lot of information or exposition quickly, but it doesn't allow readers use their imaginations; it doesn't engage or arouse them.

So. Don’t tell me the character is angry—show me how her hands tremble as she tries to unlock the door. Readers want to feel the story, not be briefed on it. Use action, dialogue, body language, and setting to convey emotion and conflict. You’re not just telling a story—you’re building an experience.
Consider these examples of showing and telling:



 

Telling:

Third-person version:  “She was sad.”
First-person version:  “I’m sad.”




This description doesn't actually provide a clear picture of Sadsack Susan.

In what WAY is she sad?
What KIND of sadness is she experiencing?
In what WAY is she demonstrating her sadness?
What kind of activities is she doing to mitigate her sadness?

Also, this passage doesn't reveal anything about Susan. You don't know what age she is or what kind of life she leads, and you don't really care.



 

Showing:

Third person version:  “Susan picked at her dinner, 10 pounds lighter than last week, her sunken eyes fixed on the blinking cursor of her unanswered email.”
First person version:  “I am eating cold fries in the bathtub while Googling ‘how to be a person’ but otherwise fine.”

Here, you can see Sadsack Susan in action, observe her directly and make your own judgements, instead of having the author telling you what to think. 

The telling version gives us information; the other gives us an experience. Your job isn’t just to relay events—it’s to invite the reader inside the emotional weather of the world. In reality, you do need to tell your readers some details to move the narrative from one dramatic passage to another. But mostly you need to build up a vivid picture, which the reader can visualize like a film passing before their eyes.

So once more for the people in the back:

Don’t tell me she’s sad. Show me the woman standing in line at CVS crying into a melted bag of peanut M&Ms! Readers want scenes, not summaries. Telling skips the good stuff. Showing pulls us in like the nosy little drama goblins we are.

Try this: 

• Take a telling sentence and rewrite it with sensory detail. What does it look like? Smell like? Feel like?
• Cut out 5 “feeling words” in your draft and replace them with physical actions or dialogue.
• Pay attention to body language—it’s often more honest than dialogue. (So swap “She was furious” and transform it to “She crushed the paper cup in her hand and whispered, ‘Coolcoolcoolcoolcool.’”)
• Read your favorite novel’s dialogue or description. Where does it show instead of explain?
• Ask yourself: “Could this be a GIF instead of a sentence?” If yes, show it.

Finally:

Crafting a clear narrative doesn’t mean stripping away magic—it means building a vessel strong enough to carry it. Think of these techniques as lanterns along the path, helping your reader move through the woods of your story with wonder, ease, and light.
 

You can do this. And when you get stuck, just say “Gerald the grammar gremlin is acting up again,” eat a snack, and go fix that passive voice.  And remember: you’re not just writing for them. You’re writing for you, too. So be precise, yes—but also be kind.

Let your story breathe.
Let it shine.

Writing Tips, Part 2: Finding Material to Work With

Continued from Writing Tips: Part One. 

 

7. Be Open to What’s Around You
Look around you. Behold both the natural and man-made world. Observe how people dress, move and behave. Listen to conversations and note people's vocabulary, phrasing, accents and subject matter. Consider their motivations, hopes and fears. Observe colors, feel textures, be aware of smells and sounds. Create images to capture and convey these details to others. 

Everything is material. 

Your neighbor’s screaming baby? Material. 

The awkward interaction you had with the barista where you accidentally said “I love you”? Definitely material. 

You don’t need to travel the world or sit in a cabin in the woods because life is handing you material on a dirty little platter every single day.

Regard these things like a philosopher.
An actor.
A monk.
A teacher.
An animal.
A child. 

 



Be a collector. Collect objects, photos and props to help you in your writing. Put them in a notebook (it doesn’t have to be fancy— mine is very plain because fancy notebooks make me nervous that I have to put brilliant things in them!). Study maps and guidebooks to find tucked-away corners in cities or the countryside. Develop a nose for unusual settings and locations.


Inspiration rarely arrives with fanfare. Sometimes it’s in a half-heard conversation, a peculiar dream, a word you’ve never heard before, a new story that sends you down a research rabbit hole. Nothing is ever too trivial or unimportant to observe and build upon in your writing.


 

8. Read Like a Writer
Read widely and with curiosity. Reread passages you love and ask why they work. What’s the rhythm? The word choice? Use of metaphor? The structure? The linguistic play? Let great writing thrill and please and teach you. 


Becoming a good writer is impossible without reading, re-reading and thinking about what you read. Don't be afraid to be influenced by really good writers; they will have done the same.

Read widely, in all genres.  When something moves you, stop and ask why. 


 

You can learn an enormous amount about plotting a narrative from a potboiler thriller, 
and about imagery from a great poem. 


Newspaper headlines and advertising slogans can demonstrate clarity and conciseness. 


Narrative non-fiction can show you how to make hard facts interesting and personal.


Carry a book with you wherever you go. Actually read the poems on the subways. Read in libraries and bookshops, on the bus, in bed and in the bath. Just read!


Don't be afraid to experiment in your reading. Go to a bookshop and ignore the piles of three-for-two offers and titles that you've already heard of. Read the blurbs on the back of books and consider which ones appeal to you and why. Browse the shelves and pick something obscure that for some reason appeals to you.

 

 

When you read, do so slowly and really think about how the author achieves the effects you enjoy or find interesting.

 Copy out or photocopy passages that you really like and put them in a scrapbook to consult when you hit a problem in your own writing. If you're wondering how to make a piece of dialogue sound natural or convey a personality in a few phrases, you can take a look at how the experts have done it and learn from them.

 

 




9. Learn from Others
You don’t need to reinvent storytelling. Read stuff. Good stuff, weird stuff, stuff you hate.

 

You don't only learn from reading and observing the world around you. You can actively research events, places and people you can't otherwise describe or write about. Listen to authors talk about their process.
 

If you're writing a scene in your novel involving a doctor, for example, talk to one. Read medical books. Interview people who've experienced the kind of illness or accident you're writing about to gain their perspective.



 

You can learn from other beginner writers, too. Listen to their work and take note of mistakes that you've also made. Consider what does and doesn't communicate well. Mentor someone! Loads of scientific research proves that mentoring someone juuuust behind you in any kind of process has enormous benefits for solidifying our own grasp on subjects, particular abstract ones (this data is particularly strong for algebra and calculus, philosophy, and the arts). Start a writing group and meet regularly to share your work in a supportive and constructive way. Discover how to shape your work, delete the parts that don't ring true, cut scenes or verses that go on for too long or provide the crucial information that's missing.



 

Also learn from published authors. Go to their readings, watch videos, and read  essays about how writers work. Listen to interviews with authors on television or radio or live at literary festivals.

Here are a few of my favorites: 

• Toni Morrison – The Art of Fiction No. 134 (The Paris Review)
• Jhumpa Lahiri – At Work
• Stephen King – The Art of Fiction No. 189 (The Paris Review)
• Margaret Atwood – A Living Legend on Creative Process  Zadie Smith – In Conversation with Brick Literary Journal
• Sahlman Rushdie in Conversation with Charlie Rose 
• Alan Moore – Philosophy on Writing

Writing is often solitary, but learning doesn’t have to be! Get some pals to come over and watch trashy TV and notice what keeps you all watching. Stalk your favorite writers and steal all their good habits (and only the legal ones). You can absolutely learn while also laughing at Real Housewives.


10. “Write what you CARE TO UNDERSTAND”
"Write what you know" has always struck me as the kind of advice that sounds wise until you actually try to follow it. Taken literally, it suggests that writers should only draw from personal experience, which can be both limiting and creatively stifling. While grounding your work in emotional truth or familiar settings can bring authenticity, the idea that writers MUST stay within the boundaries of their own lives discourages imaginative risk and experimentation—two things that are essential to great storytelling. 

What if all you know is your grocery store job, your awkward adolescence, and the insides of your own head? That’s a narrow garden to plant stories in. And besides, isn’t part of the thrill of writing the chance to utilize the vast expanse of imaginative possibility? To step outside yourself, to sneak into other lives?
 

What I counter this age-old advice with is these: “Write what you WANT to know.” Or “Write what you are willing to thoroughly explore.” Or my favorite: “Write what you CARE TO UNDERSTAND”
Powerful fiction comes from curiosity, empathy, and the ability to ask “What if?” Writing should be a process of discovery, not just reflection. It’s not about what you already know—it’s about what you’re hungry to understand and make meaning of. When we write beyond the boundaries of our own experience with curiosity and care (this includes utmost respect for people, cultures, realities and existences far beyond our own), we don’t just create richer stories; we also expand our own worldview. Isn’t that what the best writing does—change both the writer and the reader?

If writers only stuck to what they literally knew firsthand, we wouldn’t have Beloved (Toni Morrison was never an enslaved woman), or Life of Pi (Yann Martel did not, to anyone’s knowledge, survive a shipwreck with a Bengal tiger). Mary Shelley was 18 when she dreamed up Frankenstein, and she wasn’t exactly surrounded by galvanic experiments—she was surrounded by poets and stormy weather and big questions about science and ethics. That was more enough.

Here’s the thing: writing isn’t a diary entry. It’s an act of empathy and imagination. You don’t need to have been a surgeon or a spy to write about one, but you do need to be curious and thorough. You need to ask good questions and care about research so you get the answers right. That might mean reading memoirs, interviewing people, going down research rabbit holes, or just sitting very quietly and asking yourself what it might feel like to live inside someone else’s skin. If you can do that—if you can make another person’s experience feel vivid, true, and specific—you’re doing something much richer than “writing what you know.” You’re writing what you care to understand.

So if you want to break out of your own story, start small. Give a character a job you’ve never had. Set a scene in a place you’ve never been. Let someone make a choice you never would. Follow your questions instead of your memories. Writing adventurously doesn’t mean accuracy over imagination; it means combining the two. It means being courageous enough to leave the trodden paths of what’s familiar, and trusting that your curiosity will steer you somewhere fascinating… somewhere you might never have believed… and the world has never conceived of before.

Writing Tips, Part 1: YOU and Your Writing

Dear Writer,

You. Yes, you. The one with notebooks full of snippets, bits n' bobs of nice words, characters, plot lines rolling about in your skull. 

 

Okay, listen. I don’t have some magical MFA or a sexy oak desk overlooking the ocean where I write the Great American Novel in linen pants while sipping something with a twist of whatever. I wrote my first real thing in dressing rooms across the earth, between scenes, and then back at home hunched over a laptop with two-day-old pizza on my shirt and a vague sense that maybe I had something to say, if only I could stop binge-watching crimes shows long enough to say it. 

 

So, you’re standing at the edge of the writing world — heart full, hands unsure. You’ve got the spark. Maybe even a brilliant idea or a dozen, and perhaps even a quiet ache at the pit of your gut because you know there’s something in you waiting to be written— but you’re not quite sure how to begin.

I remember that feeling. It’s not hesitation; it’s frozen passion. And it means you care deeply— which is already a good sign that you very well might write something worth reading. 

If you're reading this because you think you might want to write but also you're overwhelmed, terrified, deeply lazy, or just don't know where to stick the first sentence — congratulations! You are already one of us! Let me throw some tips at you like a big sister who’s been through it, swears a lot, and wants you to win even though she can’t find her bra. What follows is not a list of tips. Just tips! Heaven preserve us from any more RULES. Just some tidbits I wish someone had whispered in my ear when I was where you are now (and even some tips very generous people literally did.) 

 

Think of these as a series of invitations: to risk, to observe, to refine, to endure. Writing is less like architecture than it is like gardening: full of dirt, revision, quiet growth, and the occasional, inexplicable blossom.

 

*

 

1. Write for Yourself
You are your first reader. Always. If you're not excited, curious, or emotionally invested in what you're writing, it’s unlikely anyone else will be. Someone will always criticize your work (or, ya know, a lot of other things like your face or your character or the way you compost or whatever because the internet can be a cesspool). So! Please yourself.

If you’re trying to write the next Pulitzer-winning novel because you think that’s what Smart People™ do, please stop. Write the thing that makes you laugh, cry, cringe, or text your best friend at 2 a.m. That weird little idea you think is too personal or too embarrassing? That’s the one. You are your first and only guaranteed reader, so make it weird, make it yours. Forget market trends and imagined critics! Forget that grouchy English teacher who told you you’d never amount to anything!

 

The number of times I followed a rabbit hole of curiosity and ended up with a new draft. 

The number of ideas that started from simple questions, that became research trips to literal Siberia. 

A pandemic poetry class + a love of Greek mythology = the birth of a major manuscript. 

Get curious. Geek out and get to work.
Write the book you’d stay up all night reading. 

That’s where your truest voice will emerge from, find its strength and very likely show you things you never even knew to be possible within you.

 

Highly recommended. Get it HERE

2. Start Ugly. Start Scared. Just Start.
Look. Your first draft is supposed to be trash. That’s like... the LAW. If your first draft looks like it was written by a raccoon with a caffeine addiction, congrats, you’re doing it right. Get it out. Don’t light a candle or wait for inspiration or buy another fancy notebook. Barf out the words. Pretty comes later.

 

Perfection is a myth that will keep you stuck.  
Remember: Perfectionism has nothing to do with excellence, high standards, or healthy achievement or growth. Perfectionism is a deeply-rooted defensive mechanism rooted in fear and fueled by shame.
 

Dr. Brene Brown has researched perfectionism extensively and has stated: 

“Perfectionism is a self-destructive and addictive belief system that fuels this primary thought: If I look perfect and do everything perfectly, I can avoid or minimize the painful feelings of blame, judgement, and shame.”

 

All perfectionism does is keep you stuck. It also makes you miserable and often, quite insufferably judgmental of others which gets you uninvited to parties.

All to say: write your sh*tty, imperfect thing.
Don’t wait until you’re “ready” or until everything is perfectly mapped out. Don’t wait for a good hair day or for inspiration to strike. Don’t wait for anything. Perfection never arrives. Conditions will never will be ideal. 

Sh*tty First Drafts are allowed to be wild, rough, incoherent, even embarrassing. They’re meant to be. That’s why they’re not called Genius First Drafts. I know someone that brilliantly calls them “Fertilizer Ideas.” I love this! Because sure fertilizer stinks, but it makes things grow! 

 

Think of first attempts as sketches, not sculptures. Think of them as the first horrendous stumble-through of the play you’re rehearsing (you know the one where someone broke a toe, props went missing, we accidentally skipped 34 pages. A disaster. But a start!) The first draft is allowed to be chaotic, overwritten, full of clichés or clunky metaphors. It’s supposed to be. Your only job at that stage is to get the words out of your head and onto the page. The CRAFT comes later — in the revision.

 

3. Create a Routine That Respects Your Energy
You don’t have to write at 5 AM  like some bootstrappy productivity robot. You don’t need to write every day, and you don’t need to lie to yourself about “finding the time.” You don't need to write by candlelight. Or in a leather-bound journal with a quill. What matters is that you show up consistently in a way that supports your life — not disrupts it. 

Are you sharpest at night? Carve out 30 minutes after dinner. Care-taking? Steal 15 minutes during breaks, meal, naptime. Make actual time — even if it’s ten minutes in your car outside Target — and do what you can. Nobody’s giving out gold stars for suffering.

 

Your writing rhythm should support your life, not fight it. Find what works for you and truly honor the ritual the way you would meet any other part of your needs, your wellbeing.

 

4. Gracefully Accept Rejection


Rejection sucks and you will absolutely take it personally. Then you’ll eat a cookie, watch four hours of Love Is Blind, and live. That “no” doesn’t mean you’re garbage— it just means that particular person wasn’t into it. Maybe they have bad taste. Keep going. Be petty and persistent.

 

When you start offering your work, expect rejection. Rejection is not a verdict on your worth — it’s a rite of passage. Every author you admire has been rejected (often many times over). It stings, yes. But it also toughens you, teaches you resilience, and sometimes, if you’re open to it, gives you clues on how to grow. Don't let a "no" from someone else become a "no" from you.

Rejection is a human experience that can be very stressful and unpleasant. That is why many people do anything they can to avoid it.  But just like many stressful and unpleasant things, the more you accept the sensations, allow the feelings of discomfort to move through you like a wave that WILL break and ebb should you allow it to follow nature’s course, bearing it becomes much more, well, bearable!
We feel stressed when we assume an outside circumstance is beyond our ability to cope. Unpredictability, uncontrollability, overwhelm, self-worth being challenged. Give yourself the gift of these experiences. They breed true maturity.
So.
Be business-like about submitting your work.
Keep track of who you've sent out pieces to and file feedback, especially positive comments.
When a story or poem is rejected, just send it to the next person on your list; keep going until no options remain.
After you've finished a piece, start something new. Put the old one aside for now.
Remember that plenty of novelists have two or three unpublished manuscripts under the bed.


 


5. Don't Give Up

You will doubt yourself. 

You will wonder if it’s worth it. 

You will be tempted to quit — maybe more than once.
Don’t. Keep going. 

Take breaks, revise your goals, let the draft sit if needed — but don’t let self-doubt have the last word. The world needs your stories. More importantly, you need your stories.
Don't give up because you're not some jerk’s definition of “successful.” Just keep creating. Unapologetically and with all your heart. 

 

There will be days when you want to quit and take up knitting or go fully off-grid. That’s normal. But if writing is your thing— even if it’s just kind of your thing— you owe it to yourself to keep going. Take naps. Cry. Write again. You’re allowed to take breaks, but you don’t get to ghost yourself.

Also? You never know what will happen later in life or even after you are dead. A historian in times to come may discover your diary and recognize its unique insight into twenty-first-century life. A poem you wrote many years ago may suddenly appeal to someone and be published or get chosen in a competition. A novel that was rejected 30 times might get dusted down and see the light of day many, many years after you first wrote it.

Plenty of good novels don't get published and lots of indifferent ones do. Despite what the world wants us to believe, life is not a meritocracy, and it certainly isn't fair. 

Don't get mad about it. I mean, or do. Punch a pillow or two. Eat your feelings. But then move on.

Keep going, live in hope and be open to whatever happens— and more crucially, whatever could happen that you might not even have the capacity to conceive of yet. 


 

6. You are a Writer Because You Write
Not because you’re published. Not because someone approves. Not because you have an agent or book deal. Not because your sentences are flawless.
You are a writer because you sit down, listen to your thoughts, and try to shape them into something meaningful. Or, in a more Eastern approach to creation: you trust that your work is out there, existing, and your job is to take away everything that is NOT the art. Remove the marble that David is trapped within.
That is the work. That is the art.

You don’t need anyone’s permission to begin — but if it helps, let this be it.
Start where you are. Use the voice you have. Write the thing that won’t leave you alone.
I’m cheering you on, always.
 

Ask Al: When what you're creating is about something deeper...

Dear Al, 

 

You mentioned in [writing] class the other night that you think sometimes there is "something else trying to emerge" from what we originally might have thought our draft was about.  

 

Can you talk more about how to [I'm paraphrasing here] "be in communication" with our work, or how we might better suss out the deeper meanings hidden beneath the surface of our first ideas? 

Thank you,

 

H

 

*

A wonderful question to expand upon. 

First of all, I'll start with a PSA: I am certainly no expert about artistic creation. Yes I do professionally create things, and I also professionally teach and mentor others through the creation of their artworks. But even that doesn't make me an expert in you, your relationship to your own self-awareness, or indeed any aspect of your personal creative process.  PSA ended.

 

That said, in my experience creating my own work and in facilitating the creative processes of others, I've observed that often times, initial offerings can offer hints of a larger "something" at play just below the psychological surface. A kind of (ecstatic or revelatory or totally annoyed) "Ohhhhhh" [lightbulb!]— followed by a realization that what we thought we were writing/acting/singing/painting about... was actually about That Other Thing. And usually— again in my experience— it's The Thing we are always haunted by, working on, avoiding or seeing from a new angle for the first time. 

     "This old thing" our conscious mind says, 

and our subconscious mind is like 

     "Yeah, girl. It's kind of always in some way, about That." 

Like Wagner's light motifs, those familiar themes return to us again and again, ready to be explored or expressed in a new way, sometimes when we were totally convinced we were writing about "Something Totally New and Original and maybe About Penguins!"

Or whatever. 

 

 

Now that can take many shapes and sizes. Let me offer some form-based examples:

- what we thought was a one-act play is actually a screenplay for a TV limited series.

- what we thought was a 1500-word academic essay is actually a 10,000 word collection of personal essays all sharing a similar theme.

- what we thought was a comedic poem featuring "funny words," is actually a very serio-comic poem about the grief of losing a spouse. 

- what we thought was a blog post is actually a full-length memoir (which, of course, is how White Hot Grief Parade came to be)  

The question to ask about psychological truth is "What might this piece really be about?"

And sometimes that Something can come in psychological shapes and sizes. Those might look like this: 

- what we thought was about packing for vacation is actually about our heart-crushing divorce.

- what we thought was about preparing a treasured holiday meal is actually about confronting being abandoned by our mother. 

- what we though was about a poetic observation of the glorious brutality of Alaskan winter is actually about a sense of agency and utter freedom. 

The question to ask when it comes to form is "What else might this be?" 

When we are creating, clarity matters. But we cannot always have these revelations in a timely manner, so we have to be patient, employ trusted eyes, ears and confidants to ask the big questions and press us to present not only our best work, but our truest work, to the world.

 

There was a great example of "something much deeper" from a new student who joined my online writing class [let's call her] Alice last month. She authored a [brilliant, might I say] "funny poem about words that is actually about grief." Alice was actively bored of writing poems about her dead husband, and even announced that fact before she shared her (extremely funny) poem about traveling around Western Europe and learning about all the different words for pastries that she found particularly hilarious. 

"I decided to write a funny poem about pastries and words because I am just sick and tired of my grief poems!" she declared.

After she read the first draft we all talked and laughed. And then I asked her about the origin of this poem. And well, before long, we weren't talking about pastries anymore. She was mentioning how we use strange words to name things in other parts of life. She told a story about visiting her doctor for her annual physical, discussing her health and her doctor using words she found inaccurate, reductive, and even bizarre to name her conditions: 

     "TIRED" and 

     "SAD" 

being two that felt particularly euphemistic.

 

None of the words her doctor used actually named what was going on with her...

 Because what she truly was experiencing was the mental and physical results of 

     "GRIEVING."

She was 

     "HEARTBROKEN" 

and 

     "DEVASTATED." 

 

So no. "TIRED and SAD" just didn't cut it, and this doctor (who was maybe trying, maybe inexperienced, or maybe callous-- who knows?) wasn't using language that named her condition, and might actually help her in a myriad of ways.

All to say: whaddya know? The poem wasn't about funny words and pastries after all. The poem— as much as she was trying to avoid it— was still about her grief.

I think THAT is what I mean. 

 

It is in our best creative (and personal) interest to keep our channels open not merely for what we want to "say" in our work, but for what our work is trying to "say" and tell us. 

 

So here's to staying open to what's happening below the surface, and welcome those messages.