At first glance, the picture I painted of the well-adjusted writer might resemble some spineless creature. But even if writers tend to absorb ideas from the world around them like a sponge, that doesn’t mean they should lack backbones.
I know I’m not the first to tackle this topic, but there seems to be a dearth in articles pertaining to some of the more intangible qualities that, in my experience, benefit someone who wants to succeed—or simply survive—the sometimes schizophrenic lifestyle of an artist.
Titles represent anywhere from a few hundred to hundreds of thousands of words. They have to be worthy of all that hard work you put into your short story, novella or novel. And they must be marketable.
On a very basic level, the creation of a story can be divided into two parts: concept and composition. Without a command of both sides, a writer is bound to fall short of greatness.
When a fledgling writer first takes a stab at the craft, he or she is apt to make a few fundamental mistakes. One such error is assuming that the more words one uses, the better.
One of my earliest college writing assignments involved a little espionage.
Anyone who has studied literature surely has stumbled upon them: a group of extremely talented writers who came together to exchange ideas, encourage one another, and, sometimes, to form a movement.
Whenever I imagine my future novels sitting on a bookshelf, I see my full name on the spine. Mine and mine alone.
It’s a piece of advice I’ve heard on many occasions: short stories first, then novels.
In my experience, writing the end of a novel has to be the hardest part.