Here’s a truth: I have earned precisely zero dollars for my fiction. Two decades of studying the craft, thousands of practice pages, tens of thousands of hours. But you know what? That’s OK because I don’t write for money. I write for me, not for anyone else. My stories don’t have to be commercially valuable in order for me to know they matter. Writing is a labor of love. I write because I would shrivel into a sour crab-apple of a raisin-lady if I didn’t have at least a sliver of time to write each week. I wouldn’t love writing more if I made money doing it. Artists are supposed to starve. We are supposed to suffer for our craft. Therefore, I’m OK if I never earn a dollar on my fiction.

Here’s another truth: I am absolutely not OK if I never earn a dollar on my fiction. I long for a hefty book deal. I want my time (and my husband’s support and patience) to be rewarded financially. When supportive friends ask, “How’s the writing?” I want to say something other than, “Well, I’m still plugging along. I still love my agent. Still working on book #3.” I want to write a manuscript that creates a bidding war. I want to financially contribute to my family. I don’t write just for myself. I write because I want other people to read (and buy) my books. I want to earn so much money on my books that my husband can retire and we can afford out-of-state college tuition for the kids and fix the siding on the south wall of our house.

Man, does that last statement feel crass. Crass and stupid. Writers should never be writers if they are writing for the money.

On the other hand, I am a product of a society that uses money to assign value to things. I believe my work has value. I believe my time has value. Shouldn’t I be compensated? Isn’t it OK to want money?

Clearly, I have some inner turmoil when it comes to money and art. 

The Shoulder-Voice

Part of the inner conflict comes from the nasty voice on my left shoulder that whispers, “Your art doesn’t matter. You should be spending your time not stringing words together, not romancing the notion of the starving artist, but helping other people be less starving. Hungry people in Seattle matter. Very, very hungry people in Yemen and South Sudan matter, because dear God, have you seen those hungry children? How about (the shoulder-voice says) you use your energy to do stuff that actually matters?”

The nasty shoulder-voice is called Ron. Sometimes I know he’s being an idiot. Other times, I worry he’s right. Doctors and teachers should be compensated. So should pilots and sanitation engineers and scientists researching cures for mental illness and cancer. Librarians should earn great salaries. Directors of homeless shelters and farmers. But writers? Does their work feed the hungry?

Yes. I know, with 100% certainty, that novels feed people. They save lives, generate empathy, and allow us to better understand other people (including ourselves). Stories matter. A world without stories? I don’t want to live in that world. Nor am I sure that I could … then again … of course I could survive. Writing matters, but it’s certainly not a matter of life or death.

The Starving Artist

The myth of the starving artist does nothing to decrease my ambivalence. The dead white Romantic poet William Blake said (in the mid-1700s): Where there is money there is no art. In other words (I think) once we attach money to art, the art is tainted. Made impure.

The opposite, I suppose, is just as true: Where there is art there is no money.

Yep, that’s just the way it is. While perhaps artists don’t need to literally starve, their road should not be without speed bumps, toil, rejection and frustration. But why? How have I come to believe this? Do I believe that my friend, Robin, a lawyer, must experience bumps, toil, rejection and frustration in order to pay her dues? Certainly not. Do I feel my sister, a farmer, should have to endure struggle and major hurdles in order to earn her living? No way. My friend, Steph, a realtor, shouldn’t have to starve before she starts earning commission. Why does part of my brain think artists need a more difficult road than doctors, lawyers, pilots, teachers or bankers?

I worry that it shows I value some professions simply because those professions require degrees and earn good money. I worry that I have been duped into cherishing status and wealth. My ambivalence results in, I fear, treating this fiction-writing gig as if it’s a hobby-job. A jobby. And people tend not to get paid for jobbies.

But I wonder if the starving artist trope also helps me keep working and practicing without getting too disheartened. Artists and writers are not supposed to be rich so I’m doing just fine! If I had been practicing law for two decades and not earned a dollar, I would give up. If I were a doctor and I earned no money, I’d find another way to earn an income. Not so for writing. In my case, the myth of the starving artist allows me to keep going.

Still, we writers cannot undervalue our time and our effort.

A few months ago, one of my dear writing partners was negotiating a book deal (via her agent) based on her nonfiction book proposal. She told me, “I won’t accept an offer below [X]. Unless I can get an advance of [X], I can’t afford to write this book.”

I was taken aback for two reasons. First, [X] was roughly ten times what I would be thrilled to receive on a book deal. Second, I knew she could afford to write this book. She could, like I do, cobble together other freelance writing and teaching jobs that allow me to shoehorn fiction-writing time into my paid-work life.

But her comment shows that she respects her time. She values her work. She knows her writing matters, and she knows she should be adequately compensated just as other hardworking professionals are.

Do I write with the knowledge that I must write, even if I never get paid, knowing that no amount of money will satisfy and reward me as much as the act of writing? Absolutely.

Do I write because I want to earn money and sell a lot of books? Absolutely.

Do most artists and writers struggle with similar ambivalence? I imagine the answer is also, Absolutely.

I am both helped and hindered by the myth of the starving artist. How about you? Do you believe, as William Blake did, that where there is money there is no art? What percentage of you writes for love and what for money? Does your need for money and your passion for art ever get you into a professional pickle?

Thanks, friends, for sharing!

Photo compliments of Flickr’s CafeCredit.

Leaving the Old City

My partner and I recently became outsiders, quite by accident. You see, this spring we took up residence in a modern building several blocks from our prior home in a converted row house in the Dupont Circle area of Washington, DC. We knew the move would bring changes. Indeed, we welcomed them. But it wasn’t until unpacking boxes several days later that I had an unexpected epiphany. Scanning the urban landscape from our new living room, the Washington Monument hovering on the horizon, I realized our current building sits just outside the boundaries of the “old city,” those streets and avenues built in accordance with architect Pierre L’Enfant’s original city plan.

In the weeks since, I’ve continued pondering this juxtaposition, enamored by the idea of hovering on the periphery, observing the comings and goings of inhabitants of the preordained community laid out literally before me. I think to myself, “Isn’t this the role of writers, ultimately, to step beyond the turmoil, all too abundant these days, and to incorporate the insights we gain into our work, consciously and subconsciously?”

It seems to me that it is, and in that regard the move has awakened my writing. Somehow moving out from the tended gardens and streetscapes of an established historic district to the more bohemian buzz of our new neighborhood has given me freedom to sprinkle a little grit into scenes. My characters have grown thicker skin. They are more prone to speak up or act out in pursuit of their goals, which don’t skew quite as noble as they began. And while the overall plot trajectory may not have altered (yet), the tone has undergone a notable shift.

This ongoing evolution has me thinking about how change impacts the writing process, nudging writers, characters, and ultimately readers in new directions. Here are a few observations on the act, and consequences, of “shaking things up,” both on and off the page.

Stretch Yourself

Keeping with today’s historical theme, you might be surprised to learn that Thomas Jefferson is the source of the quote, “A little rebellion, now and then, is a good thing.” He went on to explain a political context for the observation, but let’s steer clear of that association for now. The point today is sometimes we as writers need a jolt; and being self-starters, it is often up to us to supply the voltage (masochistic as that may sound).

The good news is you don’t have to ship yourself and your belongings across town to gain a new perspective. My back, in fact, suggests placing that step low on the list. But you do have the power to act on the key thing you’re avoiding, or to make the leap you’ve been holding back (you know the one). Drop that critique group that’s become more burden than assistance. Or take that class you fear. Heck, offer to teach one, ignoring the nagging voice whispering you aren’t worthy. Most importantly, adjust your daily schedule so that writing remains the priority, truly, and not merely a penciled-in suggestion.

For whether you’re revising your first short story or have published a dozen times, it is vital to keep growing. And sometimes the best way to get those juices flowing is to lean in and find a new shaft of sunlight. Just do it, even if Jefferson may not have coined that particular phrase.

Let Your Characters Run

But why should you have all the fun? Given that stories are about transformation, switch things up for your characters too. And by that, I don’t mean simply throwing obstacles in their paths. Give them a different voice. Better yet, give them freedom to speak for themselves. Perhaps draft a scene in which a secondary character takes on your protagonist, calling them out. Loosen the reins and let your beloved handle it on their own. See how they defend themselves … or what they confess.

Bestselling author Joyce Maynard (To Die For, Labor Day) has said she starts each of her novels focused upon a single character. She begins with that character, and then allows the drama to emerge out of human nature and the character’s relationships. Of course, not all of us write that way. But even if you’re a devoted plotter, wearing the hat of a pantser for a scene or two may lead you in a new direction. At a minimum, you’ll gain a broader perspective of your characters, whose complexities likely include a smidgen of the unexpected.

Challenge Your Readers

Literary icon Margaret Atwood once wrote that “you need a certain amount of nerve to be a writer.” That forthright attitude shows in her novels, which never shy from exploring unsettling aspects of humanity. But you don’t have to write high drama to include sharper edges in your tales, regardless of genre. A children’s story can have a serious underpinning, even if details are given a soft touch. A cozy mystery can contain genuine emotional depth. And the best comedies have long challenged prevailing notions and beliefs, cloaked in laughter.

The key is to respect your audience, not to protect them. Allow your story to raise uncomfortable questions. If the characters and premise remain compelling, they’ll follow. The dose of reality may in fact add to your story’s appeal. So step back and consider those sections where you may have dialed back, perhaps subconsciously, and instead press deeper. You may be surprised by what you discover. You may also be amazed at what lessons you have to share.

Those are some of the observations drawn from my recent detour beyond the proverbial gates of the city. What tips do you have for keeping your process, and your writing, fresh? Do you have techniques to allow your characters to surprise you, even well into the story?  Do you feel it important that your writing both entertain and challenge your readers? Please share your thoughts. I look forward to hearing them.

Please welcome Louie Cronin back to WU today! Louie’s debut novel, Everyone Loves You Back, has been named a semi-finalist for the 2017 VCU Cabell First Novelist Award and a finalist for an Indie Excellence Award. A little more about her:

For 10 years, Louie Cronin (a.k.a. “Cronin the Barbarian”) served as Car Talk’s traffic cop, producing the show and ensuring that every call was entertaining. With an MFA in creative writing from Boston University (and a keen eye for the absurd!), Louie is a recipient of the Ivan Gold Fiction Fellowship from the Writers’ Room of Boston and has had fiction and essays published in Compass Rose, The Princeton Arts Review, The Boston Globe Magazine, and on PRI.org. Her short stories have been finalists for both Glimmer Train and New Millennium Writings awards. Louie has been awarded residencies at the Ragdale Foundation, the Virginia Center for the Arts, and the Vermont Studio Center. Currently she works as a technical director for PRI’s radio show, The World.

You can learn more about Louie on her website, and by following her on Twitter.

Stupid Advice I Have Taken about Writing

When I was 31, I retired from a “good” job as an audio engineer at ABC in San Francisco to write a novel. (“Good” for an engineer, hell for a writer.) I was the first engineer across the US to take ABC’s seemingly generous offer: one year’s salary to get lost. How could any writer turn that down? How could it take longer than a year to write a novel?

Right after I retired, I got on a plane to Boston. (The novel could wait; first I had to visit my parents.) The shaggy-haired, famous-looking, cigarillo-smoking man seated next to me asked what I did for a living. (Funny how men were so interested in my career back then.)

“I just quit my job to write a novel,” I said, beaming.

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?” Turns out he had connections in the writing world. Lucky me! I was so excited I forgot to press him for details.

“Have you written anything before?” he asked.

“In high school,” I said. “And a little in college.”

“Ever published?”

“Uh, no.”

“Do you write every day?”

Did he have any idea what the life of an audio engineer at the networks was like? Of course I didn’t write every day. I barely slept every day.

“I’ve got bad news for you,” he said. “If you haven’t already started writing, you’re not going to do it now. Real writers write. Every day. They can’t not write. You’re just kidding yourself.”

I was such an idiot, I believed him, this random man on a plane. If only I hadn’t sat in the smoking section!

I did try to write during that ill-fated year (at the end of which I broke my leg at the skating rink and spent the remainder of my year’s salary on a walking cast, physical therapy, and an orthopedic brace.) But writing was hard. I was out of practice. I didn’t really have an idea for a novel, just the longstanding urge to write one. I kept hearing this stranger’s voice in my head. Real writers write. You should have started earlier. You’re too old.

I was 31.

At 35, I tried again. This time in New York. I threw myself into it. Classes, a private coach, a writing group. I wrote on the subway platform, on the train, in coffee shops, on my lunch hour. Words spilled out of me. I reveled in the writing life. And I was so happy to be admitted to the club, that when a teacher advised me not to tell anyone at work I was a writer, I believed her.

“No one wants to hire a writer,” she said. “They’ll think you’re not committed. They won’t take you seriously. You’ll never get a promotion!”

So I hid it, which wasn’t that hard. It’s not like my name was appearing in The New Yorker or the New York Times Book Review. And I was good at concealment. I was working at ABC again, never mentioning that I’d already retired from there once, afraid they might demand their money back.

As predicted I did get some pretty negative reactions from employers who figured out I was writer. (Hoarding a month of vacation days to head off to a writers’ colony was probably a tip off.) One boss accused me of “not owning my job,” another of “treating my job like a job.” Well, duh!

And I’ll admit, I did run screaming from job interviews where I got a whiff of exploitation, like the one at the hippie, progressive school where the teachers wore cultish, calf-length skirts and bragged about how much unpaid overtime they put in. Unpaid overtime? My whole writing life is unpaid overtime.

I finally came out as a writer when I applied for my current job, at The World, as an engineer filling in for a maternity leave, a five-month gig. At the interview my boss warned me, “This isn’t permanent, you know. She’s coming back.”

“Perfect,” I said. “I just finished a novel. I don’t want to be tied down right now.” (It had taken me 28 years to write that first novel. I imagined in five months I’d be jetting back and forth to New York for lunch with my agent and editor, and then on a multi-city book tour, trying to sandwich in interviews with The Paris Review and Terri Gross.)

Every so often my new boss and coworkers at The World would ask if I had sold the novel yet. When I said no, they’d wish me luck, cheer me on. The maternity leave ended. I stayed on for a while longer. And then a little while longer. My boss kept asking if I sold the novel, at first excitedly, then politely, then ironically. After a couple of years, he stopped asking altogether.

Five years later, out of the blue, I won a contest and got the novel published. Everyone at work was shocked. You’re a writer? How did that happen? Turns out my big coming out never really took. They thought of me as an engineer. I am having to come out as a writer all over again.

But guess what? That long ago teacher, whose name I don’t even remember, was wrong. My colleagues are happy for me. They take me more seriously, not less. My new boss and my old boss each read my book on vacation. Everyone keeps asking what the next one is going to be about. And the big surprise, lots of my colleagues confess literary yearnings of their own.

So I let a total stranger and a teacher I can’t remember mislead me. What is it about the lure of the writing life that makes otherwise sane people follow these commandments like they came down from on high? Is it that the whole process is so opaque, the chances of success so slim, the rewards so few, the challenges so very hard?

Or is it that when you have no control of the outcome, you get a little superstitious?

In any case, from now on, I intend to IGNORE all writerly admonitions, including, but certainly not limited to:

• You have to get up before the sun rises to be a writer.
• If you enjoyed Stephen King, you can’t be a writer.
• If you need to go to a colony to get work done, you’re not a writer.
• If you love to sleep, you can’t be a writer.
• You can’t write a novel without an outline.
• Real writers don’t binge watch.
• If you’re over 22, forget it! All the readers at journals are 18.
• You have to enjoy poverty to be a writer.
• No one reads anymore, so don’t bother.
• If you can give up writing for a week, you probably should.

My advice to aspiring writers: ignore all advice.

One final note: When I was in my 50’s, I decided to take a jewelry-making class. No one said to me, you’re kidding yourself, if you haven’t already made jewelry, you won’t do it in the future. Or real jewelers solder ever day. Or don’t let them know about your jewelry habit at work. They just welcomed me with open arms. We writers could learn a lot from those jewelers.

Have you ever received bad writing advice? What was it, and how long did it take for you to realize it was well worth ignoring? Conversely, what’s the best advice you’d pass on to an aspiring novelist, based on your unique experience?

‘It’s Populism’

For several years, I was one of the local stars (God help the locals) of PBS pledge drives at a network affiliate in the southerly states of America. That was where I first encountered Doctor Who. More to the point, I encountered its fans.

On the Saturday night of my emcee duties, our phone banks were manned by the desperately devoted teens who watched the show with its awful MOOG-wheedling theme song (we played it a lot to trigger donations) and that infernal business about the flying police box you had to call a TARDIS or be laughed at for showing your Who-ignorant butt.

One of my duties as local star was to explain to our viewers that TARDIS stood for “Time and Relative Dimension in Space”–and to assure them that important concepts about the space-time continuum might be quite close to us as we yammered on about all this. The Beeb had been pumping this stuff into Her Majesty’s living rooms since 1963, you know, 30 years before the Maastricht Treaty. It’s a wonder Europe let them in, let alone out.

The Whovians taught me a lot about entertainment cults, although “cult” is too harsh a word for these kids. They were unfailingly sweet, thrilled, painfully awkward misfits. Most of them could drive a phone and take the pledges coming in, but that was about it. I’d catch glimpses on the monitor of myself in the studio, resplendent (shut up) in my tuxedo, interviewing ardent young citizens dressed in lots of cookware from their mothers’ kitchens.

In this era, stage fright still existed. It took nerve for our strange youths to face the lights and my microphone to tell us how much Who meant to them.

Many of these kids, you could tell, were cripplingly unpopular at school. Or simply invisible. And Who gave them a place in the universe. A place on a live PBS broadcast. We talked about their love for K9, the show’s endlessly annoying mechanical dog. More donations poured in from more misfits watching at home with cheese graters attached to their belts.

These were magnificent, brave young Time Lords and Companions, driven home after the show by the concerned parents of socially challenged children.

‘One Long Self-Indulgent Pantomime’

Earlier this month, the London-based game and television writer and producer Dave Morris was on his Mirabilis: The Year of Wonders blog site, quoting a recent monologue from the Doctor about “I do what I do because it’s right. Because it’s decent. And above all, it’s kind. It’s just that. Just kind.”

Morris rather courageously nailed the sanctimony into which the show has fallen, sound and fury signifying everything better left unspoken. “That, right there,” Morris writes, “is why I can’t sit through an episode of Doctor Who anymore. Because it’s become one long self-indulgent pantomime, all speeches to the audience about how special the character’s feelings are.”

And he wrote this on July 2, before the announcement this week of the first female Doctor Who stormed the tabloids. Actor Jodie Whittaker is to be paid no less than the latest male Doctor, Peter Capaldi, thankfully, a critical point in the UK, as in the US of A.

But will she be handed the same fulsome dialogue Capaldi was given?

Morris’ bigger point–mercifully going farther than the planet Gallifrey–is that “The sensibilities of YA fiction have taken over a lot of stories today. In effect, the characters are adolescents, with everything that happens in the story being about them personally…We’re going to hear a lot more speeches about how hard it is to be a hero, a lot more tear-jerking farewells as the music swells. Moments in which the show can run out in front of the fans and tell them its manifesto.”

There’s nothing wrong with good YA, actually. As long as it pushes past the lockers.

I read Morris’ column just as an otherwise well-produced series I’d discovered on Netflix had gotten to its first school-locker scene. So I was primed by more inexcusable suburban sentimental attachment to the damned lockers at high school. Do we really ever need to see another school locker scene? The changing of classes, the preening of the cute kids, the loneliness of the hated kids, the imperious stare of the teachers, and yes, the declamatory statements before the slam of the locker door: “Because I loved you!” or “Because I hated you!”

“It’s populism,” Morris writes. “Bad enough that it’s wrecking politics, now it’s taken root in storytelling, too. Every season of Doctor Who is like a barrage of self-congratulatory Trump tweets.”

And that’s where we’ve seen this trend before, seen this show before, read this book before, isn’t it? Our civic life is trapped in the TARDIS.

Today we’re six months into another self-indulgent pantomime, referred to by a euphemism, no matter how you see it: “the administration.” And that show’s dialogue is full of self-aggrandizing, declarations of making something great again and what’s “very unfair to the president” (never mind the country) and family, family, family, lockers slamming in the halls of the West Wing.

I get what Morris is saying. How much of what you’re reading today ends up at the lockers? And is that what you’re writing? “The fans just lap this stuff up, of course,” Morris writes. So do certain voters. “The more a show refers to itself, the more they love it.”

And you need to sell your books, of course, I get that. You need fans to lap them up. So I’m worried about you. As I was worried about the young Whovians. As I’m worried about the country. Can I lend you my cheese grater?

Are you writing school locker scenes? May I offer you a small sum of cash to resist? Have “the sensibilities of YA fiction taken over” your stories? Are you conscious of the populism sweeping our fiction today just as it’s steamrolling our political nonfiction? Does this add a challenge to your work?

UPDATE; The results are in! You should be able to see the results of the individual polls below. Jennifer Shelby’s mermaid takes the prize with a result of 67% yes votes. Interestingly, three out of the six crossed the 50% Yes barrier in comparison with the Flog a Pro series where, on average, only 22% of bestsellers received Yes votes. Thanks to everyone for taking part, it was a great deal of fun.

WU received 119 entries to the Flog a WU contest. The challenge was to write an opening for a novel that compelled readers to turn the page.

Therese and I have scoured that boatload of fine and fun writing and offer to you six finalists for your consideration and vote. We agreed on three entries, each of us then added one other top pick, and one was most liked by WU readers. Each entry is followed by a poll. Please vote on each one. The polls have comments enabled.

The hurdle is the same as when we flog a pro: Does the narrative compel you to turn the page? We know 200 words aren’t a lot, but an actual first page isn’t much more than that.

Reminder of the stakes: The winner will receive a new Freewrite–a distraction-free writing tool/word-processing program.

The makers of Freewrite have also invited all Writer Unboxed community members to sign up for their free newsletter, which is filled with writing tips. To sign up, click HERE.

The finalists are below, in order of appearance in the contest comments. Please vote on each entry.

Polls have comments enabled: The polls offer an opportunity to comment within the poll, and we’re sure the writers would appreciate any accolades or constructive criticism you’d like to offer. The comments are moderated.

Email voting option: some are not seeing the polls, so they can email their votes for each entry to Ray, who will record them for the final tally. Sorry the polls are being hinky for some. Drat!

The polls will close after 24  hours. Polling opened at 7:00 a.m. EDT today, will close at 7:00 a.m. EDT Friday the 21st.

Thanks to all for taking part. This has been fun. Now on with Judgment Day!

Shawn DePasquale

I woke up with a sock stuffed so far into my mouth it tickled my tonsils. The tiny studio apartment tilted at a strange angle as I swam back to consciousness and a low, guttural groan escaped from somewhere deep inside me. I was face down on a filthy mattress that smelled like a fish market. The front of my shirt was stiff like cardboard and stuck to my chest hairs thanks to the cascade of blood that had poured from my nose earlier. I tried to move, but discovered I was hogtied with duct tape.

My last memory: The guy with the thick sausage fingers mumbling right before he shoved the sock into my mouth. “I’m going to take a big shit to make room,” he said with a voice so deep it could vibrate glass.

”Then I’m coming back to eat you alive, bit by bit,” he continued. “Sit tight.”

How long was I out? How much time did I have? My eyes went wide as I scanned the room for a way out, or a weapon, or just something to get this duct tape off my wrists and ankles. Then the toilet flushed.

 Jennifer Shelby

Little Kira sucked at her thumb, unable to look away from a few grains of sand clinging to the mermaid’s eye. Confusion pooled within her six-year-old mind, flowing back and forth between delight that mermaids were real and horror that this one was dead.

The tide completed its voyage out and was coming ‘round again when the search party found her there, her small form hidden amid the debris of the storm surge. Squawking gulls took to wing as they approached. The smell struck them hard, a stench of rotting fish and decayed seaweed. Their jaws fell agape at the mermaid, hands flying to their mouths.

Someone clasped their hands over Kira’s eyes as a sand crab scuttled from the mermaid’s open mouth. Kira pushed the hands away, thinking that it wasn’t fair the summer sun had bloated the mermaid so.

A woman wrapped her in a blanket, murmuring to her companion. “What becomes of a little girl who sees something like this?”

Kira wondered what they meant.

She suddenly wanted to touch the mermaid, just once, before she had to leave. Without hesitating, she reached for the mermaid’s tail. A smear of silver scales came off onto her hand.

Diana Wagman

“They found your father.”

Ellie looked at the clock. It was 8:18 in the morning, but her mother had to be drunk. Dear old Dad had died eight months earlier. There had been a service. Ellie had rolled up her jeans and spilled the plastic bag of his ashes into the ocean off Santa Monica, careful to shake down wind. Her brother, Roger, had flown in from New York and said a few words. Nice words, even if they didn’t exactly describe the dad Ellie knew. And her mother had been there, playing the part of the still attractive ex-wife. She’d definitely been drunk that morning. Ellie had offered her the bag of gray dust and bone chips and she had immediately regurgitated Bloody Marys into the blue recycling barrel by the boardwalk.

He had died of a heart attack in a Santa Barbara diner. Ellie had driven from L.A. to the Academy Funeral Home—cut-rate cremation—to retrieve his ashes. She’d put the box on the passenger seat beside her, then pulled over and put Dad in the trunk.

“Impossible,” she said to her mother. “I have to get to work.”

“Work is more important than your father’s resurrection?”

Corinna  German

Amena can tell you the difference between air bombardments and ground-level explosives as they detonate. “It’s the smell”, she tells her mother, but no one else remembers smelling anything. It’s the sound – the pounding, crumbling sound that shatters eardrums – that’s what they remember. Knowing the difference doesn’t matter, either way, death and raw wounds follow.

Every day Amena complains to her mother that her stomach hurts. It feels as if an assortment of explosions are tearing her up inside. Yesterday she almost died when a bomb hit their Syrian neighborhood. Two blocks west there are mounds of sand-colored, indistinguishable rubble. Her father hasn’t been seen for two months and he is feared dead. War has manifested itself on Amena’s face with crow’s feet and dark bags under dull eyes. Wrinkles have no place on a nine year old’s face. Her lips are cracked and laughter hasn’t escaped them in many months.

The only peace is a dream, each night the same, but longer each time. Amena loads her belongings on a tortoise. He waits, chewing a plant, while she secures each suitcase and box to his back, although the horizon burns black, orange, and acrid. Not even a sigh.

Nancy Riley

A hand grabbed the back of Bryce’s wool tunic and yanked – hard. Unbalanced, the teen yelped, dropping his knife and the piece of wood he was whittling. He wrenched away and snatched his shepherd’s crook to defend himself, until he saw his attacker.

“How many times,” sputtered his father, “must I tell you, our livestock . . . is . . . our life?” He punctuated each word with a backhanded slap. “The flock is gone because of you!” His disapproval saturated the air.

Bryce counted the sheep milling about their highland pasture. “They’re all here, Da. What did I do?”

“It’s what you didn’t do!” he snapped. “You left the chicken coop open. The flock is dead, you fool!” He stooped to retrieve his son’s carving and scowled at the tiny, lifelike lamb in his palm. “Daydreaming again.”

“Baa,” bleated the lamb Bryce was using as a model for his whittling.

“I’ll teach you,” the older man snarled and flung the piece to the ground, crushing it under his heel.

The lamb screeched and toppled over. Dumbstruck, the pair stared at the stricken animal.

“Da, no!” Bryce screamed as his father pivoted and lunged for him.

Riley

Margo had been sitting on her crumpled bed sheet for what felt like hours, when she finally realized it wasn’t all bullshit. She was amazed to find that her limbs were going numb, and her skin buzzed like television static. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, and she became increasingly aware of her body heat, the only source of heat in the room except…

“Hello,” a deep voice rumbled like the complaint of a starving belly.

Margo opened her eyes to find a creature that must have been eight feet tall, a beast the color and vibrancy of the flames dying at its feet.

Relief and fear jumped through her chest. “I need your help,” she responded, and was pleased to discover that her voice reflected the calm resolve that still sat inside her. “I need to die.”

The creature blinked at her and let out a sigh that sent motes from the dusty floors billowing up into the air. “No can do,” it thundered, “I’m trying to quit.”

Good luck to all finalists!

Have a general comment you’d like to make? The floor is yours.

An experience most of us are familiar with: You’ve just bought something new, whether it be a car, a backpack, a sports jersey with a particular player’s number, or even a new brand of reading glasses, and though you found it independently and thought it was fairly unique at the time, now you’re seeing it everywhere.

Has everyone else decided to buy this thing at the same time as you? Hive mind? Have you prompted a rash of popularity? No, of course not. It’s simply that now that you’ve taken particular notice of this item, your mind is primed for it. Had you bought a different car make or a different jersey number, that’s the item you’d be noticing all over the place. The item hasn’t become more prevalent; you’ve simply become more predisposed to notice it.

In a study called “Disgust, creatureliness and the accessibility of death-related thoughts,” by Cathy R. Cox, Jamie L. Goldenberg, Tom Pyszczynski, and David Weise, experimenters found that people primed with disgusting pictures were more likely to draw upon death-related thoughts than participants primed by neutral pictures. For example, those first shown images of a bloody finger and a dirty toilet were more likely to finish the words SK_ _ _ and COFF_ _ as SKULL and COFFIN than those shown images of a book and a chair, who were more likely to finish them as SKILL and COFFEE. In other words, disgusting images prompt thoughts of death, which causes people to more readily fill in the blanks with death-related ideas.

Intriguing connection between death and disgust aside (horror writers, meet me in the comments!) (for the interested, the nonfiction book That’s Disgusting by Rachel Herz is a nice starting place), this outcome seems to enforce the instinctual knowledge most people have: that our thoughts can be guided or prompted by specific images, words, and associations. I think of these things as “thought triggers.” How, then, can writers use this quirk of the human brain to our advantage, and can it ever become a detriment to our work?

Quite simply, choosing our words strategically can set the reader in the right frame of mind for where we want to go (or even the intentionally wrong one, in the case of a red herring or plot twist). If I read the descriptor “blood red,” I’m primed for a different set of events than if I read “cherry red.” Smart choices save space. I don’t necessarily need to be told that the new guy gives the protagonist an uneasy feeling. If I want to plant the seed that a character might be a bad guy, his eyes aren’t “sky blue”; they’re “icy blue.” Cold, not pretty. If I want someone to be a possible ally, maybe her brown eyes are “warm” rather than “muddy.” It might sound simple when stated this way, but it’s ultimately the most important tool a writer has: words.

Every word we choose conveys something, so we must choose them carefully and with intention. Great authors master many different things – emotional arcs, beauty, pacing, depth, vividness – but all of it is done utilizing well-chosen words. This is why, when an author is a master, we can study the text over and over, looking closely. Because when we slow down and zoom in, we learn more each time. It’s why I was able to pull apart Wuthering Heights and reasonably support my theory that Emily Brontë intentionally made Cathy and Heathcliff vampiric. Because when someone as good as the Brontës uses the word “vampire” in her novel, it’s not an accident; it’s a thought trigger.

Just as highly skilled authors can prompt hints, tones, emotions, impressions, and associations with well-chosen words, careless writers can throw us off by doing so accidentally. Readers are very intuitive, even if we don’t mean to be. Our brains are pattern-seeking, drawing subconscious connections like a conspiracy theorist mapping out plots with red thread on a basement wall. Sometimes we’ll see things even if they’re not there. When that happens too often as readers, we tend to become annoyed. The prose may seem random, sloppy, and disjointed, even if we can’t put our finger on why. We might have an unfulfilled sense of foreboding simply because a house was described as looming, for example. And while an unfulfilled sense of foreboding might be a benefit in some genres, in others it might be an accident and distraction.

This is by no means a new concept. Wikipedia defines “Chekhov’s gun” as: “a dramatic principle that every memorable element in a fictional story must be necessary and irreplaceable, and any that are not should be removed.” It comes from Anton Chekhov, and his advice: “Remove everything that has no relevance to the story. If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it’s not going to be fired, it shouldn’t be hanging there.”

I would take this even further and say remove every distinctly flavored word in fiction that has no goal. While some words are common enough to be close to neutral, others stand out like little red pins in the reader’s mind-map. We mark them, thinking we’ll come back to this later. If we don’t, we’ve stored the wrong information (wasted a pin, if you will). So not only should we not describe the rifle unless it serves a purpose (to be fired later, yes, absolutely, but also perhaps deepening a character history, setting a distinct tone, etc.), we should choose words to describe it that serve a distinct purpose. Is it gleaming? Crooked? Precarious? Rusted? The gun matters, but so do the words used to tell it. Even the distinctions between gun, firearm, rifle, and weapon changes meaning, feeds us data.

The surprising power of thought triggers is both good and bad news for writers. On one hand, that’s a tall order, isn’t it? That every single word we use must matter. And I’ll soften that a tad, to be realistic, by adding that not all words carry equal weight in the mind, and that the longer the work the less weight each word inherently holds. In a poem even the articles matter a great deal. In a novel, the heavier hitters should be the focus of intention. Still, artistry on the level of individual words may feel like a burden when we’re already juggling so many skills.

On the other hand, the good news is that we, as the writer, are the sole proprietors of this power. With a single word choice we have the ability to set a reader’s mind in the mood we want, to foreshadow a powerful event, to convey hidden meaning, to surprise, unsettle, or delight. And at the end of the day, isn’t that kind of awesome? Even if we have to work for it, this is an ability very close to magic – but it’s magic we can learn and practice. It’s the magic that makes up our craft, and that’s worth paying attention to no matter how intricate the effort.

When was the last time you stopped to think about the associations individual words in your writing might trigger? Have you experienced this as a reader, either as great skill or great nuisance? 

Consider this opening paragraph, from an essay included in  G. K. Chesterton’s 1928 collection, Generally Speaking:

Among those remarkable “Sayings of the Day” that are quoted in the daily Press, I remember a sentence that is quite significant.  Sandwiched in between two other epigrams, between Sir Humphrey Pumpernickle’s paradox, “The British Empire must look to Britons for its defence” and the equally arresting bon mot of the Dean of Ditchbury, “True religion includes the desire for truth” — interposed, I say, in the same setting between some such jewels as these, I find a remark that really seems to me to be a text for a philosopher.  I have forgotten who said it; but he was somebody of a social importance equal to that of the great men I have named.  And what he said was this . . .

Earlier this year we talked about how to generate suspense by giving your readers a sense of what’s to come while preserving some ambiguity about it, then holding back on the revelation as long as you plausibly can.  This is exactly what Chesterton does here.  The mock quotes from other notables let readers know that what’s coming is going to be equally ridiculous, and that Chesterton is going to have suitable fun with it.  But Chesterton holds off the quote itself as long as he can, just to whet readers’ appetites for the big reveal.

Any good essay – or any good non-fiction writing – presents ideas clearly and with a logical flow.  But the best essays, the ones that are a pleasure to read and stick with you afterwards, also use techniques you usually think of as belonging to fiction.  They essentially treat ideas as characters and tell a story about them.

Just about any long-form piece of nonfiction in The New Yorker makes use of several fictional techniques.  Take Eliza Griswold’s recent piece on the future of the coal industry.   Note how Griswold starts by setting the scene for her ideas with a description the countryside in Greene County, Pennsylvania, and ties the ideas to an activist named Veronica Coptis.  Then, for the rest of the piece, ideas like the economic impact of closing the mines or the relationship between mines and environmental regulations are interspersed with trips back to the setting and Coptis’ life.  This not only humanizes the ideas and gives them meaning.  It lets Griswold release information to her readers at a controlled pace that would do a spy thriller proud.

Roy Blount once wrote an essay  on the contrast between dog and cat ownership.  For most of it, he sketches out all the complaints dog lovers have against cats – they’re emotionally indifferent, they’re self-involved, they’re impenetrable.  And then, in a surprise that would have been at home in the denouement of any mystery, he concludes that you should really own a cat for all the reasons he’s just listed against them. Cats are like poems – short, perhaps hard to understand, but comforting without being emotionally demanding.  “Dogs are like Dickens.”

Then there is this lighthearted essay by a master of the craft, one that’s still current despite being more than 300 years old:  Joseph Addison’s 1712 essay on “party lying” – what we today would call propaganda or fake news.  First, Addison introduces the good guy – the importance of telling the truth — by referring back to Plato, who considered truth one of the founding principles of the universe, along with beauty and goodness.  Bear in mind this would have been even more impressive in the eighteenth century than it is today.

Then, as in all good fiction, he humanizes his bad guy, propaganda.  Party lying is immensely popular, a mainstay of the press, and in coffee houses it’s “as fashionable an entertainment as a lively catch or a merry story.”  And of course it’s completely harmless, since no one believes the lies any more, anyway.  They’re just a way of showing what your politics are.  “When we hear a party-story from a stranger, we consider whether he is a Whig or a Tory that relates it, and immediately conclude that they are words of course in which the honest gentleman designs to recommend his zeal without any concern for his veracity.”

Once the adversaries are on stage, the fight begins.  Addison gives three subtly satirical reasons why otherwise honest people might feel comfortable lying to support their party.  The reasons are couched in the arch elegance (and sometimes daunting sentence length) of eighteenth-century prose, but essentially they boil down to these.  It’s not wrong when everybody does it.  (“Though the weight of a falsehood would be too heavy for one to bear, it grows light in their imaginations when it is shared among many.”)  Okay, it may be technically wrong, but it’s not shameful when everybody does it.  (“The scandal of a lie is in a manner lost and annihilated, when diffused among several thousands.”)  And finally, it doesn’t matter if it’s wrong or shameful if it’s done for a good cause (“If a man might promote the supposed good of his country by the blackest calumnies and falsehoods, our nation abounds more in patriots than any other of the christian world.”).

I won’t get into the details Addison’s response to these three points (spoiler alert – truth wins), but note that he presents the points in order of increasing strength.  The argument that something isn’t immoral when a lot of people do it was self-evidently wrong in Addison’s day and it’s still pretty sketchy today.  But the argument that there’s less shame when everyone does it is actually true.  And the argument that it’s worth telling a falsehood in order to save the country – a feeling apparently as old as politics itself – is one that a lot of reasonable and honest people might make.  By having his main idea face tougher and tougher challenges, Addison essentially gives readers a sense that they are moving forward.  He’s taken his arguments and turned them into a story.

So why should fiction writers care about how to write effective non-fiction?  Most of us haven’t had to write formal essays since freshman-level composition.  Well, even if you’re not, say, a regular contributor to Writer Unboxed, you never know when you might be called on to present a bunch of ideas clearly and memorably, whether it’s in a letter to the editor or a lengthy post on Facebook.  And understanding how essayists structure ideas can make you more aware of your own thinking and how it hangs together.  I’d like to believe that would come in handy for anyone.

Oh, and the statement that Chesterton put us in suspense over at the beginning?  “The Charleston may really be of great practical use in teaching a man to be a good golfer.”

So what non-fiction works have stayed with you — not just memoir or autobiography, but works that explore ideas?    Were those writers using fictional techniques without your realizing it?  (I’ve even encountered masterful how-too books that made use of surprise.)

Therese here to introduce a fun summer contest, with a quick turnaround time. The window for receiving entries is a mere 24 hours, so let’s get right to it.

The Why

We haven’t had an Epic WU Contest in a while, so when the opportunity presented itself to give away a truly worthy prize – a Freewrite, valued at $499 – we thought it was time to put ourselves back into contest-mode.

The What

This is what you’re playing for: a new Freewrite will be shipped to wherever you live, whether it’s in the U.S. or anywhere else in the wide world. (The winner chooses between the American Keyboard, ANSI, or the International Keyboard, ISO.)

The Freewrite is similar to the AlphaSmart of old — a distraction-free device that looks like a keyboard with the functionality of a word-processing program — but modernized.

As you can see in the above photo, the Freewrite offers a mini-screen directly above the keyboard. That screen allows you to view ~two paragraphs of text at once using the standard font size (adjustable). It comes with the following features:

• E Ink™ screen with front light
• Full-size mechanical keyboard with Cherry MX switches (that purportedly feel like playing a piano)
• Internal capacity for over one million pages
• Automatic Wi-Fi back-up as you write
• Document cloud sync through Wi-Fi (Syncs automatically with Dropbox, Google Drive & Evernote)
• International language and keyboard layout support
• Rugged construction with aluminum body and stowable handle

You can learn more about the Freewrite at the GetFreewrite site, and by reading this review on TheAtlantic.com.

The How and When (Now!)

I’ve recruited longtime WU contributor Ray Rhamey to help judge this contest, and together we’ve come up with a spin on Ray’s popular Flog-a-Pro column.

• With a window of just 24 hours (with the stopwatch officially started this morning, 7 a.m., EST Monday) writers will type a brief entry in comments—no more than 200 words–reflecting the beginning of a ‘must-turn first page’ of a would-be novel.
• This 200-word comment/entry should be fresh writing — not from your work-in-progress — though if you really want to submit 200 words of your wip, we sure can’t stop you. We’d prefer you submit something new, though, that allows you to experiment with openings, and to ensure that everyone is playing with a similar amount of time.
• Only one entry per person.
• After the 24-hour window closes–your entry must be in before tomorrow/Tuesday at 7 a.m., EST–Ray and I will choose the top five entries based on our opinions of strong writing but also considering ‘likes’ from the community.
• Top five entries will be profiled Flog-a-Pro style here this Thursday, July 20th, each entry with its own poll.
• Community members can then vote on each of the five final entries: Would you turn the page? 
• Thursday’s polls will time out on Friday morning (7 a.m. EST), after which the winner will be determined by identifying the entry with the highest percentage of “Yes” votes.
• The winner will be announced on Saturday morning, unless there’s a tie. In case of a tie, Ray and I will concoct a write-off. So here’s your job: Don’t let there be a tie. :-)

A checklist: Here are some of the items from Ray’s “first page” checklist that he urges writers to consider for their first page; they are not required, but can contribute to a strong narrative.

• It begins to engage the reader with the character
• Something is wrong/goes wrong or challenges the character
• The character desires something.
• The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.
• There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
• It happens in the NOW of the story.
• The one thing it must do: raise a story question.

Questions? Ask in comments, and if I’ve forgotten something substantive I’ll add it here.

Otherwise, write on, WU’ers! The contest has officially begun.

Please welcome Tamar Sloan as our guest today. Tamar really struggled writing this bio because she hasn’t decided whether she’s primarily a psychologist who loves writing, or a writer with a lifelong fascination for psychology. Somehow she got lucky enough to do both. Tamar is the author of the PsychWriter blog—a fun, informative hub of information on character development, the science of story and how to engage readers. She is also a passionate writer of young adult stories of finding love and life beyond your comfort zone: A Moment for Tara and A Prophesy Awakened.

I have two passions in this world—capturing life in words, and making a difference to others. Becoming a psychologist and a writer has allowed me to do both.

Find out more about Tamar’s books here. Connect with her on Facebook and on Twitter.

 The Top Two Reasons a Reader Will Leave a Bad Review

Personally, I don’t leave a review under four stars. I don’t want to inflict the pain of rejection and self-doubt on others when art is so subjective. And although constructive feedback is invaluable in growing as a writer, I don’t believe it has to be done publicly. On the other hand, I also understand that low-scoring reviews are valuable for other readers. That’s the whole point of a review—so others can learn from those who have been here before. We do it with cars and vacuum cleaners and hairdressers. So I respect those who leave honest reviews, whether they be five stars or the heart-ripping single stars.

But a lone star staring at you from your screen, harsh words marching beside them, can be crushing. I think it’s important that writers appreciate why someone would take the time to record this, publicly, and irreversibly.

1. You forgot who you were writing for.

As a psychologist, I see this in my clients as they sit in the chair and can’t figure out why their children are running away, why they can’t get that promotion or why their marriage is falling apart. In a nutshell, our egos get in the way. For writers, ego becomes the barrier to a product that ticks ALL the boxes. We believe that our prose is enough, that the three act structure doesn’t apply to this masterpiece. We design our own cover. We want to bedazzle the reader with our knowledge of the working parts of an AK-47. We forgo editing in the rush to get our baby onto virtual shelves.

But that’s not what writing a book is about. Writing a book is about the reader. Not you. Not your creative genius. The reader. Readers are looking for their escapism fix, an emotional rollercoaster, a character they can root for. They are the ones we’re asking to give up their precious, hard won resources up for. Generally, both their time and their money (and even if your book is “permafree,” eventually you’re looking for them to buy one of your books). If we’re asking them to trade their time, time taken away from other pleasures, their family or their sleep, then it’s our responsibility to give them the best experience we can. That means a well-crafted, impressively designed, professionally edited masterpiece.

Skip any of these steps and you risk letting your readers down because you fail to keep your part of the bargain up.

2. The reader has a wound.

I deliberately used “writer speak” when labelling this, even though our readers are the reality part of the whole writing adventure. I could use psych speak, and call it their maladaptive schema, their core belief, their cognitive distortion, but my fellow writers intuitively know what I’m talking about when I say wound. It’s the scars we all carry, the pieces of our past that colour our future. Wounds profoundly affect our emotions, thoughts and behaviours. They cause us to do things that are selfish, thoughtless and sometimes damaging.

The act of ignoring the negative impact our words will have on another, or worse still, deliberately seeking to hurt others, is the product of a wound. It’s wrong and it’s not okay—these people are called trolls for a reason–but lashing out serves a function for these people.

What I’m saying is this particular one star scathing review isn’t about you. It’s not a reflection of your writing or the plot/characters/world building that these people seek to tear down. In my world it’s the product of the motto “hurt people hurt people.” It’s about empowering someone who’s been disempowered. It’s about those who feel unseen being seen.

It’s. Not. About. Your. Writing.

How do you know which one star review is which? That one is a little more difficult to answer. I think those who can smooth the raw edges of the hurt and then step outside of their egos are best able to differentiate.

Does the reader have a point? Deep down, were you worried this was a weakness in your writing? Have they reiterated a sentiment someone else has expressed?

Then it’s possible this reader is in the number one category.

For that scenario, take a deep breath, acknowledge the parts of your craft that are still growing and being refined, then come up with a plan to address that. Maybe a course, some time lost in how-to books, a critique partner. Your writing will be stronger for it, and so will your resilience.

Do the words strike a mismatched chord? Does the reader dislike this genre? Do they even sound like they read the whole book? Have they left other one star reviews?

Ultimately consider what this person is gaining by writing these (scathing) words—superiority? Notoriety? Power?

If any of these ring true then you’ve got a walking wound that is lashing out so they can share their pain. Rail at the unfairness of it all (within the privacy of your walls) then pick up your pen or fire up your computer and keep the passion flowing. This review isn’t about your writing.

Have you ever received a one star review? Have you left one? What did you take away from the experience?

Warning: Hacks for Hacks tips may have harmful side effects on your writing career, and should not be used by minors, adults, writers, poets, scribes, scriveners, journalists, or anybody.

Wow, you’ve been asked to read a piece of your writing! In PUBLIC! This is a great opportunity to connect with new readers and your fellow authors, to say nothing of stroking your fragile ego and emotional neediness. Here’s how you can wow your audience and win new readers and maybe even get laid.

Before the Reading

• Eat a healthy and delicious breakfast that morning. Choose wisely, as this is what you’ll be throwing up later due to your crippling stage fright.
• Set the stage. Arrive at the venue early and get a lay of the land. Check if there will be a microphone or lectern or what-have-you. Look for opportunities for cool visuals, such as a blown-up picture of your book cover, or a big poster of your face like in Citizen Kane. Queue up some entrance music. Walking up to the mic through misty clouds from your smoke machine to the tune of “Rock You Like a Hurricane” will let your audience know that a serious author is taking the stage.
• Choose the right piece to read. You’ll want something people can follow without you having to explain a bunch of backstory beforehand. The beginning of your book is a good choice. An exception to this rule is if you’re reading the first chapter of a sequel–to make sure people know what’s going on, be sure to read the climax of your previous book first.

Take the Stage

• Own the room. This is your time. Remind people to turn off the ringers on their phones. Block the exits–nobody gets out of here until you say so.
• Remember to breathe. Big, deep breaths will keep you calm. Think of your lungs like a set of bagpipes–just a big ol’ sack of air that you need to keep inflated in order to make a droning, atonal cacophony.
• Slow down. Adrenaline can make you rush through a reading like a TV voiceover listing the side effects of a new weight-loss drug. Count to one-Mississippi at the end of each sentence. Count to two-Mississippi at the end of each paragraph. Three-Mississippi is for scene changes. Four-Mississippi is an experimental count that authors have not yet perfected. This is a lot of Mississippis to keep track of, so no one will judge you if you say them out loud.
• Remember to project. Speak with your diaphragm. Maintain good posture. Attribute your own flaws and insecurities to members of the audience. Can you believe you were intimidated by these anxious, conceited nimrods?
• Eye contact. The eyes are the windows to the soul. Basically, by making eye contact with your audience, you’re peeking into their house like a creep, so avoid doing so at all costs.

• Name drop the city/bookstore/establishment you’re reading in.

  

  This will cause an instant pop from the crowd, according to arena-rock bands and pro wrestlers. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you Writer Unboxed?

• Pause for thunderous applause from the aforementioned name drop.
• Leave pauses for all audience reactions. Laughter is the most common. Gasps are also great. Be ready to give the audience cues by arching your eyebrows or having one of those APPLAUSE signs that old-time TV shows used. Consider a laugh track, like on a sitcom. Don’t tell me it’s out of place; The Flintstones had a laugh track, and it was a damn cartoon.
• Enjoy yourself. Remember, the audience is there to have FUN. Encourage them to do The Wave. Bring a beach ball for them to bat around. During a scene break, lead the audience in a chorus of “Sweet Caroline,” bum bum BAAAAH!

Exit

• Give the signal. This is to let your friend in the audience know if they should call you with an “emergency” to get you out of there after things start to go south.
• Leave them wanting more. Stop reading in the middle of the last paragraph. Don’t even finish your sentence. It’s better to deci

What tips do you have for giving a literary reading? Share your ideas in the comments!