What is a story? One easy answer is that it is a narrative composed of a beginning, middle, and ending.

Today, we’re talking about how to write satisfying endings, but allow me a quick rabbit trail: A while back, someone asked me to write a post about why the Second Act was even a thing. Admittedly, my first response was a sort of spluttery, “Uhhh… because it is.” I managed to be somewhat more articulate in the actual post, in which I detailed why the middle of the story provides an absolutely necessary psychological core. It does more than just bridge the beginning and the end; it is where the drama of the story’s argument is explored.

The beginning asks a question; the middle explores it; the ending answers it.

Together, we can see how all three components are necessary. If we leave one off, something integral is missing. There’s a psychological hole.

Although we can’t necessarily single out any of the three as more important than the others, I feel it’s obvious that the idea of skipping the ending is particularly problematic.

And yet… if you think about it, there is a huge modern push toward “endless” stories—aka, series, in which story arcs are sometimes never given a satisfying ending.

When story is viewed less as merely an entertainment vehicle and more as a symbolic conversation with the deeper parts of our humanity, this modern impulse toward endless stories suggests we’ve strayed from one of story’s most important psychological functions. Endings complete the transformation that gives the story its meaning.

Here’s the whole problem in a nutshell: no endings, no transformation. And without transformation, we arguably also endanger fiction’s great power for catharsis and initiation.

For us to write stories of true power, one of the most important skills is understanding the role of a satisfying ending.

• What is the ending of a story actually accomplishing on a psychological level?
• Why does the ending so often make or break the entire story?
• Why do anticlimactic or random endings feel so frustrating?
• Why do cohesive endings often give us such a powerful experience of satisfaction or even catharsis?
• What does it mean for society if we are addicted to stories that never end?
• How can we create stories of cohesion and resonance that end in profoundly satisfying ways?

Let’s explore.

The Meaning of a Story Is Found in Its Ending

The ending is in the beginning.

I’ve talked about this principle for many years. Basically, it means that however the story ends, the first seeds will be planted in the beginning. At its simplest, this is foreshadowing. At its deepest, it is chiastic or “ring” structure, in which the two halves of the story mirror each other to create profound layers of symbolic resonance.

Most important is the truth that a story’s ending tells us what it’s about. It’s the capstone on all the context we’ve been gathering throughout the previous acts. Until that final moment, no matter how much has happened and how definitively, we don’t know exactly what the story is trying to say. The ending shows us the final thematic motif. It’s the last puzzle piece slotting into place.

Often, by the time we get to it, this final piece is expected; it’s a natural progression of the pieces immediately preceding it. Think about how Frodo’s inability to willingly destroy the Ring in Return of the King feels both surprising and inevitable, perfectly completing the story’s exploration of the corrupting nature of power and the necessity of grace.

The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003), New Line Cinema.

Other times, the final piece changes everything by offering a surprising or jarring note that completely changes the final impression of the story, as in Sixth Sense, in which the final revelation of the protagonist’s being a ghost forces us to reinterpret every scene that came before.

The ending of The Sixth Sense doesn’t just surprise audiences, it reveals the story’s true meaning by recontextualizing every scene that came before. (The Sixth Sense (1999), Buena Vista Pictures.)

How different could the meaning of certain stories be if the ending were changed?

• What if Rick had left Casablanca with Ilsa?
• What if Frodo had willingly cast the Ring into Mount Doom?
• What if George Bailey had managed to leave Bedford Falls?

Writing Your Story’s Theme (Amazon affiliate link)

The ending of a story does more than simply end the conflict between the protagonist and the antagonistic force. It is about much more than whether or not the protagonist gains the plot goal. The ending is, most importantly, where a story’s theme is finally commented upon.

Without a proper ending, we may be left with plenty of context, but not necessarily a final sense of closure and meaning. Endings give stories their shape—and shape is what allows a story to move from a recitation of events to an archetypal experience.

Endings Complete the Cycle of Transformation

Story is the archetype of transformation. It is ourobourus—the ancient symbol of the snake eating its tail. It is the life cycle, over and over and over again. It is life, death, rebirth.

Chiastic (or ring) story structure visualizes story as a cyclical pattern of transformation rather than a linear progression. (Graphic by Joanna Marie. From the book Next Level Plot Structure by K.M. Weiland.)

Even in its many different trappings of genre and trope, the fundamental arc of story is about transformation, because it is fundamentally about character arc.

Alchemizing Plot, Character, and Theme Masterclass

Story follows a character through a series of external events (plot) that require an internal reckoning (character arc), from which new meaning emerges (theme).

There are so many ways we see this play out:

• Sometimes the transformation is more internal (as in character-forward or milieuistic stories).
• Sometimes, we see an almost equal balance between the internal transformation and its symbolic impact on the external events (as is most common in plot-forward or Hero-based stories).
• Sometimes the transformation is entirely external, as in stories with Flat Arc protagonists or those that emphasize a detached focus on setting.
• Sometimes the transformation is only hinted at or questioned.
• Occasionally, it is subverted in a sort of ironic attempt to explore meaninglessness.

Regardless the shape, it is inevitably there. It is a circle and a cycle. No matter from what fractal perspective we examine it, the archetype of story reveals itself at work. The turn of the planets and the seasons is the same cycle that is ultimately revealed in the turning of the human life cycle—in the revelation and growth of expanding perspectives and even in the all but invisible and often unconscious shiftings that move us through every moment of every day.

But here’s the thing about transformation: it’s the end of the tale.

Although the word “transformation,” in itself, hints at the whole galaxy of a story, the noun is ultimately about the completed moment of transformation—wherever it ends. Without a structurally and archetypally sound ending, the shape of story remains incomplete—and the psychological resonance for audiences will be lost.

Why We Need to Witness the Entire Arc

The psychological truth of this completed transformation is, I think, one of the prime ways stories grant us their great gifts of catharsis and initiation. When we get to, not just witness, but experience the completed circle of a story’s transformation, it feels to me that something within our psyche also finds resolution. Ideally, we too get to experience a transformation; an awakening or at least a quickening within ourselves—either in our conscious perspective or, most potently, up from the depths of our deepest selves in a flash of symbolic recognition—a sense both of recognizing and of being recognized.

Why is this important?

I think there are several reasons, not least that story is a representative of and catalyst for growth. And growth is a kind of death. It is the dying of an old way of being, so a new way may be born—and on and on the cycle turns.

As such, it is inherently life force energy—and life force energy can never be denied. Without the cathartic and initiating power of stories that give us this experience of death and rebirth, I think it likely that this energy must be faced in perhaps more costly ways.

The Fourth Turning Is Here by Neil Howe (affiliate link)

Earlier this year, I read The Fourth Turning Is Here by generational theorist and historian Neil Howe (who coined the term Millennial). His premise suggests modern society follows a cycle of four archetypes, each of which can be seen as the protagonist of a particular season in generational history. Most pertinently, his theory suggests we are entering another “Fourth Turning,” or the ending of the cycle. This fourth and final part of the cycle has historically been heralded by significant outer-world crises (which demand sacrifices from a “Hero” generation). Past iterations of this Fourth Turning have included such colossal human tragedies as the American Civil War and World War II.

Pondering this cyclical theory has given me a sense of perspective and context for the seemingly increasingly troubled times in which I have come of age. It helps me see them as part of a cycle that will turn—that, indeed, will renew itself.

However, it also gives me tremendous pause. If this theory reflects truth, then how can humanity bear the burden of increasingly costly climactic wars? Howe would posit that these moments of crisis have, so far in our history, been unavoidable due to the social evolutions engendered by previous turnings in the cycle. But they have also continually increased in scope and damage—not just to the generations directly involved but perhaps equally in the very fact that the cycle continues to repeat.

I believe the sense of ending provided to us by stories interact with this in two ways. When the archetypal shape of story is properly executed, it gives us a safe way to practice necessary endings. Done with enough power and psychic resonance, it is perhaps enough to prompt inner crises (and resolutions) on a scale that can mitigate the explosion of shadow energy into costly outer crises.

Transformation is inherently about ego death. This is true whether we are witnessing the explicit ego death in a character arc evolving from a Lie the Character Believes into a more expanded thematic Truth. It is also true when the primary ego death is, in fact, the audience’s.

In societies, the equivalent of ego death is the death of outdated structures, social identities, and cultural narratives that no longer match reality. Indeed, these moments usually trigger individual ego deaths en masse—which is often what prompts destructive outer crises.

The catharsis engendered by a story’s ending arises from its ability to influence the audience’s relationship to their own ego death. Sometimes it has the power to change the individual, but it also has the power simply to contextualize the general experience of change. When viewed through the archetypal lens of story, change is something to respect, but not something to fear or resist. It is inevitable, and it is good. It is the movement of life. It is only in our resistance to the change—to the transformation—to the ending—that we interrupt the cycle and encounter the fearsome backlash of repressed life force energy.

The Modern Push Toward Endless Stories

With all of that said, I find it interesting so much modern storytelling is pushed toward “endless” series. Particularly, we see this with franchises, television, and long-running series. Some of them do eventually “get an ending” when they are canceled or run out of steam—and sometimes those endings end up being perfect. But, often, there is more of a sense of endless (and often mindless) churning toward… nothing.

In pondering how the human psyche interacts with story, I think the effects of this are worth consideration—and in the spirit of “there is no such thing as just a story,” I can’t dismiss this tendency as not mattering because the stories in question are “just entertainment.”

I do believe every story we interact with has a psychological effect. Perhaps sometimes that effect is just nullity where there could have been something. Other times, I think it is a numbing or even distorting of the underlying archetypes. Certainly, we know that as writers we learn so much about story osmotically. Some of this arises from the deep relationship to story that is our birthright. But a lot of it also comes from the media we consume. When so many stories subliminally tell us there are no endings—and therefore no ego deaths, no transformations—I can’t help but wonder if that is more problematic than we sometimes think.

Now, to be clear, there’s a huge difference between a looooong story and a story that refuses to end. Series that do indeed end, even after a long and winding journey, still give us all the power (sometimes even amplified) of the archetypal experience. There is also middle ground here for series in which each installment is a complete story arc unto itself. Even when the arc isn’t very deep, at least it psychologically completes with each installment.

For example, I often think of the beloved show Supernatural, which created a strong and cohesive story and character arc over the course of five seasons, after which the initial showrunner Eric Kripke left. The show’s tremendous and enduring popularity allowed it to air for an additional ten seasons (which I admittedly quit watching after, I think, the seventh season). Although fans clearly enjoyed spending another decade with the Winchester brothers, many still consider Season 5 to be the story’s true ending. For me, I couldn’t keep watching because every episode after that felt like a dilution—and sometimes even a reversal—of the satisfying ending that was delivered to the original story arc.

Supernatural (2005-2020), The CW.

We saw this again with another beloved franchise—the Marvel Cinematic Universe. In this case, I remember approaching the final installment in the initial storyline—Avengers: Endgame—with trepidation, fearing that the ongoing nature of the series wouldn’t allow for a solid ending to the existing story arc. I was delighted that my decade-long enjoyment of the series was paid off with solid and thematically cohesive endings for most of the main characters.

The Avengers: Endgame (2019), Marvel Studios.

The series has continued from there in increasingly chaotic fashion, with little sense of overarching character arc or theme. Notably, one of the primary characters who did not receive a solid ending in Endgame—Thor—returned for a particularly egregious and character-undermining turn in Taika Waititi’s embarrassing Love & Thunder.

None of this means every story should be short or that series ultimately dilute the archetypal experience of transformative storytelling. It simply suggests that the satisfaction of a story’s true power is anchored in a thematically pertinent ending to the story’s core transformative experience. Without that completion, audiences may continue enjoying the characters and the world, but they are no longer participating in the same archetypal experience.

5 Tips to Write a Truly Satisfying Ending

The best story endings don’t happen by accident. They arise naturally from everything the story has been building toward from its opening pages. Here are five ways to ensure your ending delivers on that promise.

1. Connect Your Ending to Your Beginning

If the ending is in the beginning, then equally the beginning is in the ending. If you know your ending before you begin, this may help you craft the kind of beginning that sets it up. But even if you have to go back and rewrite the beginning after writing the final scene, make sure it is in resonance with the ending.

Next Level Plot Structure (Amazon affiliate link)

One way to do this is to apply chiastic or ring structure to your story. This approach recognizes certain symbolic symmetries between the two halves of the story and particularly between the specific beats in each half. I’ve written about this at length in my book Next Level Plot Structure, but for the purpose of this discussion about beginnings and endings, you might want to particularly think about how your story’s Inciting Event raises a question or creates a conflict that will be resolved in the Climactic Moment. The link between these two structural beats is arguably the most important axis for creating a story whose narrative action feels cohesive and resonant.

2. Let Your Story’s Ending Reveal Its Meaning

Try as authors might, we can’t always make our stories mean what we want them to. A story’s meaning does not emerge solely from the author’s intent or even from explicit statements in dialogue and narrative about “what this was about” or “what characters believe.”

Meaning emerges, inevitably, from the consequences characters face for their actions throughout the story. Whether characters are rewarded or punished for their choices—and, most importantly, how this affects their inner state—is the ultimate revelation of meaning. Sometimes this may be explicitly revealed or stated. But even when it is, it is the undeniable sense with which audiences are left that ultimately comments upon the meaning.

Ask yourself:

• What in your story is going to die?
• What is going to be reborn?
• How are these two things dramatized throughout the narrative (i.e., shown, not told)?

3. Complete the Character’s Transformation Instead of Simply Resolving the Plot

As noted, the fundamental transformation in a story can incarnate in many ways. It need not always be the protagonist’s transformation or even any of the characters (as in heavily symbolic stories). But there should be some sense that something has changed, whether grandly or subtly.

If nothing has changed, then the plot literally has not moved (and was also probably pretty boring). Even if you’re quite sure things have changed, double-check that the change rendered in the Climactic Moment aligns with the plot’s and character arc’s structural throughline throughout. Endings will feel anticlimactic or even random when they emphasize transformations that were not at the center of the plot.

4. Use the Story’s Structural Ending to Complete the Arc

Although a transformative ending will depend on the strength and alignment of every structural beat, those in the final act deserve particular attention.

From the book Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

Structurally, the final act begins with the Third Plot Point (around the 75% mark). This is, critically, a beat of Death/Rebirth. It is the Low Moment. The Dark Night of the Soul.

From a plot perspective, this is often where characters must face up to significant consequences. From a character arc perspective, this is ego death. In a Positive Change Arc, this is where the character must grapple with the last remnants of the Lie and fully reject it and its associated ego identity in order to fully embrace and grow into the wider perspective of the story’s thematic Truth.

From there, the character’s choices will prove what fruit they will bear in the Climactic Moment. Here, the conflict ends definitively. Either the protagonist wins the plot goal or loses. Either way, something dies, and something is reborn.

The Resolution is then a final scene—a final commentary on what has gone before. It leaves audiences with a final bit of context for what it all meant. Although it may allow for loose ends to be tied off in the plot, it is ultimately a thematic statement—a subtle and perhaps largely unspoken contextualization of all the emotions the story experience has stirred up.

5. Know When an Arc Is Thematically Complete—and Have the Courage to End It

Finally, once you have some idea how your story will end, what will be transformed, and what it may all mean, it is worthwhile to consider how to construct the best story vehicle for that experience. Perhaps you will realize the strongest archetypal experience is a standalone story. Perhaps you will create a series that uses its length to deepen the exploration of theme and character development.

Whatever the case, a satisfying ending is the final proving ground for all the powerful imagery, symbolism, and archetypal resonance your story will have brought forth for your audience. Creating a satisfying and even powerful experience for your audience “ends” here.

Want More?

Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

When I first started studying character arc, I had no idea how far-reaching that exploration would turn out to be. I thought I was learning just another aspect of story structure. Instead, it ended up changing the way I understood almost everything about storytelling. Once I could see the underlying shape of transformation, I began to understand why some stories feel so deeply meaningful—and why endings have to be much more than simply the place where the plot stops.

In my book Creating Character Arcs, I share the principles that completely changed the way I approach story—in the hope they will help you create stories whose transformations (and endings) feel cohesive, resonant, and true.

Available in paperback, e-book, and audio.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What do you think makes story endings truly satisfying, and how do you approach writing an ending that completes your story’s transformation? Tell me in the comments!

Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

___

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The post The Psychology of Story Endings (+5 Tips to Write a Truly Satisfying Ending) appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

After more than a decade of releasing this show on Mondays, I’m moving it to Wednesdays, and this is the first episode of the new time slot. 

On the one hand, this might sound like nothing at all, but it’s also a big deal, for you and for me, and in this episode, I explain why I’m making the change, and past guests give some tips on sustainable creativity for the long term.

Joanna Penn is an award-winning New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of thrillers, dark fantasy, short stories and travel memoir under J.F. Penn and also writes non-fiction for authors and hosts The Creative Penn Podcast.

• Why the podcast is moving to Wednesdays
• (1) Take time out to question what you’re doing
• (2) Learn to pivot if you want to keep going long term
  (3) Set a sustainable pace, and don’t build reader expectations you can’t deliver on
• (4) Don’t try to do it all, and try to identify the fear that might be driving your choices
• (5) Question what still serves you, especially as things continue to change
  (6) Consider different approaches to creativity. It doesn’t have to be every day, or every week
  (7) Creative humans evolve. Build a body of work for the long term.

You can find the backlist episodes at TheCreativePenn.com/podcast, just click into the episode to find the transcript.

Why The Podcast Is Moving To Wednesdays, And 7 Tips for Sustainable Creativity

Here’s my big news! After more than a decade of releasing this show on Mondays, I’m moving it to Wednesdays, and this is the first episode of the new time slot. 

On the one hand, this might sound like nothing at all, but it’s also a big deal, for you and for me! 

I know many of you have a routine of listening to the show during a certain thing on a Monday, so I’m sorry to have to disrupt that, and I hope I don’t lose you along the way — although I guess you could just save the episode for Monday! 

For me, it’s a much bigger deal, because a Monday show has meant I have often recorded the intro and edited and scheduled the episode over the weekend.

The main reason is that I need to record in the mornings when I have energy and when the house is less noisy, since Jonathan is often on the phone since he works from home as well. So I would prepare the episode on Fridays, and I type out this intro before reading it, and source the news and my thoughts and all that — and then I’d record it Saturday morning, or Sunday morning if Saturday was busy — and so recently, I have felt like something has to change. 

Moving the show to a Wednesday means that I can prep on Monday and Tuesday, which is perfect. 

Its so funny because I agonised over this, in the same way I agonised over changing the theme tune a few years back. Some of you may remember that — and it also turned out to not be a big deal at all. We build things up in our minds and then sometimes the problem can be solved in a different way. 

So instead of going to ad hoc episodes, or once every two weeks, I hope that moving to Wednesday makes the show more sustainable again, because let’s face it, there’s a lot going on, and if I did a show every 2 weeks, I might have to make them longer to get through everything! 

So, same show, just on Wednesdays from now on.

And this change underscores what today’s episode is about: sustainable creativity over the long term. 

How do you keep writing, and publishing, and podcasting — and creating for years — and I am now at two decades — without burning out, and without becoming a slave to the algorithm, or the market, or even your own audience’s expectations? 

The goal is not to just survive this year’s release schedule, or to keep feeding the machine until you crumble under the speed of it all. 

The goal is to still be creating, and still be enjoying it, next month, next year, in five years, in 10 years, in 20, in 30. Who knows how many years we all have left — but for sure, we are NOT machines, we are not AI — and we cannot churn it out – and what is the point of that anyway? 

So in today’s show, I’ll share some thoughts and tips from me and also other authors from the show on this topic, and you can find the full episodes in the backlist, and links as ever in the show notes on TheCreativePenn.com/podcast 

(1) Take time out to question what you’re doing

In early 2024, The Tim Ferriss Show, one of the biggest podcasts in the world, hit its ten-year anniversary with over a billion downloads and over 750 episodes, and Tim decided to take a sabbatical. 

He paused the show for four months and seriously questioned whether to continue. Not because it was failing, it was hugely profitable and he enjoyed talking to people, but because the landscape had changed. 

Podcasting had gone from a wide-open space in 2014 to a saturated market, and his question wasn’t “can I keep competing?” It was “is this still the game I want to play?” 

Just a little note here, I started The Creative Penn Podcast in 2009 when there were even fewer shows so I know a lot about a changing podcast market! 

After four months, Tim came back from what he called a sabbatical with a blog post on My New Rules for Podcasting — To Keep Things Interesting.

He starts with the sheer number of podcasts, saying,

“Having a good show is no longer good enough. Having a great show is no longer good enough. If you want to survive in the mindshare of listeners, you need differentiation.”

I think this is true for us as authors as well as podcasters, or YouTubers, or social media, or anything. But the good news is that your differentiation can be you. 

Regular listeners will know that I have questioned ending the show over the years, worried that I was no longer useful, or that my voice no longer mattered when there are so many podcasts on similar topics. But after your wonderful feedback, and the fact that the show still gets a lot of downloads every week, and the growth in my Patreon Community, I don’t worry about that anymore. It’s unlikely that any of us will have a podcast as big as Tim Ferriss’s or sell as many books as The Four Hour Work Week, but that’s OK, because we are not Tim. 

I am Jo Penn and you’re here because you find my take on the publishing industry is still useful in some way. When it’s not anymore, you will go elsewhere, and I find myself at peace with that. 

Back to Tim’s article — he asks some questions of himself, including:

If I get to do this for another decade, or had to do this for another decade, what new rules might I create to keep it interesting?

Of course, we all have different ideas of what this means for us. And I have already implemented one of these rules, which is that I interview people on topics I find interesting. I frequently get pitched by more famous authors and bigger names, but most of the time I turn them down, and choose to talk to people who are not famous but are more interested in serving you, my audience, because that is the point of this show. 

I also have people on that I enjoy talking to, because checking in with my friends while you listen in, can be useful too, since my friends are often authors who’ve been in the industry a while now. I have to make the interviews time that I find interesting or useful or fulfilling as well. 

But the point is to stop and take time to consider what might need to change, even if you are really successful. You cannot be a slave to the algorithm, to the media, to your audience, for the long term. You have to put some circuit breakers in sometimes. 

It’s the old adage about the small business. You have to work ON in the business, not just IN the business, which means you need to step away. 

This does sometimes mean that you have to get away physically. I had this realisation while we were in Bruges in Belgium talking to Jonathan about what changes I could make because I just felt a lack of freedom — and freedom is my highest value, so I really need to honour that. 

So, the first question for you is: If you feel like you need a change, if your routines are becoming too much, or your workload is too much, or you are eating into time you need for rest and recovery or family or whatever you need, can you schedule time out to have a think about what you need and how things can change? 

You don’t need to burn it all down. You might find the answer is just moving the show from a Monday to a Wednesday! 

(2) Learn to pivot if you want to keep going long term

I love talking to authors who have been doing this career for a long time, and in December 2025 in episode 839, I talked to Jennifer Probst, the New York Times bestselling romance author of more than sixty books, about why some authors build decades-long careers while others vanish after one breakout. 

Jennifer has been through the indie gold rush, the fallout, traditional deals, Kickstarter, all of it, and I asked her how she thinks about how everything keeps changing, and we start with marketing but it goes much further than that. 

***

Jo: In terms of how we do marketing, TikTok is still a thing, and we can see maybe generative AI search coming on the horizon and agentic buying. A decade ago it might have been different, more Facebook ads or whatever. Then before that it might have been something else. So there’s always things changing along the way.

Jennifer: Yes, there definitely is. It is a very oversaturated market. They talk about, I don’t know, 2010 to 2016 maybe, as the gold rush, because that was where you could make a lot of money as an indie. Then we saw the total fallout of so many different things.

I feel like I’ve gone through so many ups and downs in the industry. I do love it because the longer you’re around, the more you learn how to pivot. If you want this career, you learn how to write differently or do whatever you need to do to keep going, in different aspects, with the changes.

To me, that makes the industry exciting. Again, perspective is a big thing. But I have had to take a year to kind of rebuild when I was out of contract with a lot of things. I’ve had to say, “Okay, what do you see on the horizon now? Where is the new foundation? Where do you wanna restart?”

Sometimes it takes a year or two of, “Maybe I won’t be making big income and I cut back,” but then you’re back in it, because it takes a while to write a few new books, or write under a pen name, or however you want to pivot your way back into the industry.

Or, like you were saying, diversifying. I did a lot of non-fiction stuff because that’s a big calling for me, so I put that into the primary for a while.

I think it’s important for authors to maybe not just have one thing. When that one thing goes away, you’re scrambling. It’s good to have a couple of different things like, “Well, okay, this genre is dead or this thing is dead or this isn’t making money. Let me go to this for a little while until I see new things on the horizon.”

*** 

I love that from Jennifer, because there are always new things on the horizon, and we try new things and we pivot, and we bring in other streams of income as some drop off, and we go again and we keep creating. Authors with longevity are authors who pivot over their careers. They may lament the end of one era, but they don’t stop, they find a new way forward. 

(3) Set a sustainable pace, and don’t build reader expectations you can’t deliver on

Kevin J. Anderson is one of the most productive writers alive, with hundreds of books, most of which he writes with dictation while out hiking, and he has been on this show many times. 

In January 2025, in episode 791, we talked about building a long-term author business, and how authors need to be careful about setting reader expectations around pace of releases. 

Kevin: Now, again, we get back to the longevity of a career. It is exhausting to write lots of books a year, and most people can’t keep doing that for 20 years or 30 years.

That’s one of the reasons, especially indie authors, where readers expect you to write several books a year. Some indie authors I know are writing a book a month. I couldn’t do that for any long period. Well, I couldn’t do that probably for a single year.

You start building expectations, and when you fail to meet those expectations, they will leave you very quickly. That’s why you should have Plan Bs.

If you really, really can’t stand writing your steampunk vampire romance series after book number 29, well, make sure that you have some other series you’re starting and building up.

Well, Hugh Howey’s got several series that are going. Michael Anderle has all kinds of series, and Craig Martelle has all kinds of series. You don’t just put all your eggs in one basket. You need to have Plan B and Plan C, to circle around to what I started with.

*** 

Whatever cadence you choose, for your books, your email newsletters, or or your podcast, or your social media, choose a pace you can still be keeping up in a decade, because this is a long term career, and longevity in the market is one of the most important things. It’s better to pace yourself than burn out. 

(4) Don’t try to do it all, and try to identify the fear that might be driving your choices

I couldn’t do an episode on sustainability without Becca Syme! 

Becca is an author coach who has worked with thousands of writers, she is the creator of the Better-Faster Academy and the Quit books, and the QuitCast podcast — and In January 2023, in episode 668, at the end of our conversation about intuitive writing and marketing, I asked her what authors who sustain long careers have in common.

***

Joanna: So in terms of sustainability, let’s talk about that. You coach writers every day, you see writers on every spectrum of every personality type, and people who write differently and release differently and publish differently. So what do you see as your recommendations or, I guess, commonalities for authors who want this sustainable career as a writer for the long term in order not to burn out? What are you seeing in terms of the best way to be sustainable in a creative career?

Becca: Conquering the fear that we have that we’re not going to get what we want out of the career, like 100%. Because the fear is the thing that’s driving us to burn ourselves out.

The fear that if I don’t do it this way, I’m not going to make money. If I don’t do it this way, I’m not going to have a long career. I’m going to miss out on something if I don’t do absolutely everything.

And then I think the most important knowledge that we can have is that everyone in this industry who’s a nonfiction person, including me, is giving you a perspective on how author life can be done.

Every single one of us, not the perspective on how it should be done in order to have success. And if we could just change our expectations of how we look at the people who are helping us who are being good, helpful people who are very sure that their way is the correct way and who should be, again, because like all experts, they’ve had success doing what they are doing.

But the downside is from someone whose job is to sit with authors for 45 minutes at a time, all day, every day, I see the outcome of the people who have tried to “do it all,” in quotes, with capital letters, and who are burned out because they were doing everything out of a fear place.

And I think one of the best things that can happen in our — and what burnout often does is it forces us to reckon with the fact that we were doing all of this because we were afraid. My book isn’t going to sell, I’m not going to be able to do this, I have this dream that I’m holding on to and what happens if it doesn’t manifest itself.

Then we make a lot of our decisions about how much to take on based on fear, and we don’t know it.

Because we don’t realize that our brains are wired for survival, and so anytime fear kicks in, your brain is like, well, we have to do that because if you’re afraid of it, then that must mean that we need it in order to survive. And we don’t.

We will survive if our books don’t sell. 

We have to calm that fear and answer the question. Like, what will happen if in five years, I have not sold more than $1,000 on every book that I am writing? Like if each of the individual books that I write have not made more than $1,000. And I have to reckon with what might happen if that happens, because if I don’t, that fear is going to drive me to burnout over and over and over and over again.

That is why we’re making so many of our decisions, including: do I pay for this class or conference? Do I pay for this book? Do I spend money on this advertising? Do I hire this expert consultant?

So many of us are making those choices out of fear and we don’t realize it. And that’s why when we do our public live coaching, and whenever I’m at a conference, I’m always listening for, “but what are you afraid is not going to happen? Or what are you afraid is going to happen?”

Because if we don’t deconstruct that part of yourself and calm your survival mechanism down, you’re going to continue over and over again to make those decisions out of fear.

Then you’re going to not listen to your intuition because you think it’s risky to listen to it. And so I really think, and some of this might include therapy for some of us, I’m just going to acknowledge some of us have trauma around not getting what we want or around not actualizing our desires, and we can’t just talk ourselves into letting the fear go.

But some of us do just need to consistently confront the fear and make a plan for what happens and then act in spite of that fear because we are not making good decisions when we are in survival mode.

*** 

Becca is very wise, and also pretty hardcore! So if you feel like you are trying to do it all, and you are on the edge of burning out, can you identify the fear beneath it?

(5) Question what still serves you, especially as things continue to change

Sometimes we keep doing things the same way, even when things have changed. 

What is lost if we give things up? What is gained? And what kind of game do you want to play?

In episode 845, Claire Taylor, humour and mystery author, owner of FFS Media, certified Enneagram coach, talks about how social media has changed and why she gave it up. 

***

Joanna: One thing I know will have perked up people’s ears is: “I left social media.” Tell us a bit more about that.

Claire: This was a move that I could feel coming for a while. I didn’t like what social media did to my attention. Even when I wasn’t on it, there was almost a hangover from having been on it.

My attention didn’t feel as sharp and focused as it used to be, back before social media became what it is now.

So I started asking myself some questions: What is lost if I leave? What is gained if I leave? And what is social media actually doing for me today?

Because sometimes we hold on to what it used to do for us, and we keep trying to squeeze more and more of that out of it. But it has changed so much.

There are almost no places with sufficient organic reach anymore. It’s all pay-to-play, and the cost of pay-to-play keeps going up.

I looked at the numbers for my business. My Kickstarter was a great place to analyse that because they track so many traffic sources so clearly. I could see exactly how much I was getting from social media when I advertised and promoted my projects there.

Then I asked: can I let that go in order to get my attention back and make my life feel more settled? And I decided: yes, I can. That’s worth more to me.

Joanna: There are some things money can’t buy. Sometimes it really isn’t about the money. I like your question: what is lost and what is gained? You also said it’s all pay-to-play and there’s no organic reach. I do think there is some organic reach for some people who don’t pay, but those people are very good at playing the game of whatever the platform wants. So, TikTok for example—you might not have to pay money yet, but you do have to play their game. You have to pay with your time instead of money. I agree with you. I don’t think there’s anywhere you can literally just post something and know it will reliably reach the people who follow you.

Claire: Right. Exactly. TikTok currently, if you really play the game, will sometimes “pick” you, right? But that “pick me” energy is not really my jam.

And we can see the trend—this “organic” thing doesn’t last. It’s organic for now. You can play the game for now, but TikTok would be crazy not to change things so they make more money. So eventually everything becomes pay-to-play.

TikTok is fun, but for me it’s addictive. I took it off my phone years ago because I would do the infinite scroll. There’s so much candy there.

Then I’d wake up the next morning and notice my mood just wasn’t where I wanted it to be. My energy was low. I really saw a correlation between how much I scrolled and how flat I felt afterwards.

So I realised: I’m not the person to pay-to-play or to play the game here. I’m not even convinced that the pay-to-play on certain social media networks is being tracked in a reliable, accountable way anymore. Who is holding them accountable for those numbers?

You can sort of see correlation in your sales, but still, I just became more and more sceptical. In the end, it just wasn’t for me.

My life is so much better on a daily basis without it. That’s definitely a decision I have not regretted for a second.

****

To be clear, we’re not saying you should give up social media, but it’s about questioning how things make you feel, and what you can sustain and how you want to spend your time. 

I did question once again whether to give up this show entirely, but it is an important part of my creative body of work, and quite frankly, I reach more people with the podcast than I do with my books, and I still love talking to people, and I learn, and it underpins my business. 

I don’t do much social media though. I learn about AI things on X and I do post photos and things on Instagram but I don’t do much else. You have to decide what is right for you, but also, what is right for you might change over time. If we have a long term career, or a long term anything, things will change, and we will need to move on sometimes, or at least question whether it is still working in the way it used to. 

(6) Consider different approaches to creativity. It doesn’t have to be every day, or every week. 

In April 2026, in episode 858, I talked to Sara Rosett, USA Today bestselling mystery author and co-host of the Wish I’d Known Then podcast, about low-key marketing, and a more seasonal approach, or phased approach to podcasting as well as writing. 

***

Jo: Although I must say I had forgotten about your Mystery Books podcast and going to seasonal. I also had my second podcast, Books and Travel, which is now on a kind of hiatus, but going to a seasonal approach is actually really interesting. Do you find that listeners come back to that podcast?

Sara: Yes, and it surprises me because I’ve always thought you have to be weekly with a podcast to gain any traction at all, which I think is the best way to do it. You can build an audience quickly then, but I just knew I couldn’t sustain that.

So when I set out, I started with maybe seven to ten episodes and I did them each year — each year has had a season — and I do five to ten episodes. Readers find it, and I have highlighted specific books. I think maybe they’re searching for a podcast about the Thursday Murder Club or something like that.

They find it that way, and I get downloads, just steady downloads throughout the year, and I don’t do much. I do some Pinterest pins for that, and that’s about all I do. This is one of those things — it’s the kind of low-key marketing that’s low threshold, but it does work.

I think if your readers are looking for stuff to listen to about the topic you write about, it could be a good way to do some low-cost, long-tail marketing. I love it. I keep doing it because I love it.

Jo: That just seems more sustainable to me. I didn’t like doing everything every day or every single week.

Sara: Me either. I like switching it up, and I do enjoy the different phases of writing. I like the research and then I like doing the — well, I don’t like the drafting that much, but once I get a draft done, I like the editing. And then when it comes time to promote it or do a special edition or whatever, I enjoy that part. Finding whatever I’m going to use for the interior photos and stuff — just things like that. I enjoy each phase and I like switching it out.

Jo: I think that’s really good. Some people think this writer’s life is you write new words every single day and you manage your ads every single day. That seems to be what some people do, but that’s certainly not us, is it?

Sara: No. And that’s great if you want to do that. I just don’t want to. And I think we’ve come to the point now where each person can do this as they want. Hopefully people don’t feel the pressure to meet these self-imposed deadlines or parameters that don’t exist. There’s no rules for writing or publishing. You can do whatever you want.

***

I am definitely a seasonal creator, I don’t write every day. I never have. I binge write when a book emerges, or binge create. As I record this I am working on the treatment and trailer for what is now called Cathedral Zero, a positive futurist sci-fi feature film that I am entering in the FutureVision X Prize in the next week or so, and then I will move to the next project. I also love Kickstarter launches for this reason. They feel much more sustainable because it’s such a focused marketing push.

My Books and Travel Podcast is still on hiatus, but I may still resurrect that at some point. I still feel the pull of it. And of course, this show remains weekly, but the Wednesday shift will hopefully help keep it this way. I can’t see me going seasonal with this, but never say never! 

The main thing is to consider seasonality, or consider phased approaches to your work, rather than trying to do exactly the same thing week in week out. 

(7) Creative humans evolve. Build a body of work for the long term.

Roz Morris first came on this podcast in 2011, and in March 2026, in episode 853 we talked about her memoir, discovery writing, and slow, sustainable book marketing. Roz is an award-nominated literary author and former bestselling ghostwriter, an editor and I always appreciate her perspective as she has been doing this far longer than I have.

**** 

JOANNA: Do you still actively choose indie for a particular reason?

ROZ: I do. I really like building my own body of work, and I’m now experienced enough to know what I do well, what I need advice with, and help with. I mean, we don’t do all this completely by ourselves, do we? We bring in experts who will give us the right feedback if we’re doing a new genre or a genre that’s new to us.

I choose indie because I like the control. Because I began in traditional publishing—I was making books for other people—I just learned all the trades and how to do everything to a professional standard. I love being able to apply that to my own work.

I also love the way I can decide what I’m going to write next. If I was traditionally published, I would have to do something that fitted with whatever the publisher would want of me, and that isn’t necessarily where my muse is taking me or what I’ve become interested in.

I think creative humans evolve throughout their lives. They become interested in different things, different themes, different ways of expressing themselves. I began by thinking I would just write novels, and now I’ve found myself writing memoirs as well.

That shift would have been difficult if someone else was having to make me fit into their marketing plans or what their imprint was known for. But because I’ve built my own audience, I can just bring them with me and say, “You might like this. It’s still me. I’m just doing something different.”

**** 

Inspiring words from Roz there —

“It’s still me, I’m just doing something different.”

And indeed, I am a very different Jo from the new author who started this podcast back in March 2009. I have evolved and this show has evolved and this is not the end, it is a new phase. It’s funny because it’s just a shift of two days, but it also breaks a habit, for you listening and for me creating. It changes a time slot, and that itself can be a way to change energy, to change direction, to shift what matters and how we do things. 

So that’s what I want to leave you with today. A question around how shifting something, even something small, might make a big difference to your creative body of work, the quality of time you have for yourself or your family, and I’d love to know what you think about today’s episode and what we covered, as well as your thoughts on the Wednesday shift. 

Please leave a comment on the show notes, or the YouTube channel, or email me. I will see you next Wednesday, so happy writing and I’ll see you next time!

The post Why The Podcast Is Moving To Wednesdays, And 7 Tips for Sustainable Creativity first appeared on The Creative Penn.

Multiple POVs—should you use them or should you not?

That’s a question with huge implications for your story. It will influence everything from structure to pacing to character arcs. Most importantly, it will have a huge influence on your readers’ experience of the story—for better or worse.

More genre books than not use multiple POVs to present multiple protagonists—or sometimes just to give readers a glimpse at what’s happening behind the protagonist’s back. There can be many drawbacks to multiple POVs, not least that readers may significantly enjoy certain POVs more than others, which can in turn contribute to a poorly-paced plot in which comparatively little happens.

Although I am personally a huge fan of single-POV stories, today I want to talk about something I love about multiple POVs, and that’s what I call the Vicarious Love Factor. Sounds complicated (and maybe a little kinky), doesn’t it? But it’s not!

What Is the “Vicarious Love Factor” Offered by Multiple POVs?

The Vicarious Love Factor is the phenomenon in which readers’ feelings about one character are shaped by other characters’ perspectives.

One of the inherent limitations of a single-POV story is that readers experience the protagonist almost exclusively from the inside out. They know what the character thinks, but they don’t often get to see that character the way everyone else does.

After all, most characters aren’t especially objective about themselves.

For example, a protagonist may genuinely believe he or she is ordinary, incompetent, or even unlikable. Another character, however, may recognize courage beneath that same person’s self-doubt, kindness beneath the reserve, or integrity beneath the flaws. That outside perspective can reveal dimensions that the protagonist’s solo POV can’t convey as easily.

Thanks to a glimpse through the objective eyes of another character, readers are able to better understand the protagonist. When a protagonist is loved by another character (whether or not that love is deserved), readers are also given a major subconscious incentive to love that character too.

And, of course, the reverse is also true. If another character distrusts, fears, envies, or even hates the protagonist, those emotions become part of the lens through which readers interpret the story.

This isn’t just because multiple POVs give readers more information about a character. They create emotional investment by inviting readers to participate in the relationships between characters. When readers witness one character’s love, loyalty, admiration, or heartbreak for another, they share in those emotions.

For example, if one character grieves, readers are more likely to grieve. If one character desperately wants another to succeed, readers often find themselves wanting the same thing. In many ways, the emotional connections between characters become the emotional connections between readers and the characters as well.

How Multiple POVs Deepen Reader Empathy

Readers naturally understand characters through relationships.

Think about the people in your own life. Rarely do you form an opinion of someone in complete isolation. You also notice how others respond to them:

• Are they respected?
• Are they dismissed?
• Do people trust them with their secrets?
• Do people turn to them when life falls apart?

One of the most useful things about multiple POVs is that they allow readers to experience a protagonist from both the inside and the outside.

Internally, readers witness the protagonist’s doubts, fears, rationalizations, and private struggles.

Externally, they see aspects the protagonist may not have the self-awareness to recognize (e.g., courage, kindness, leadership).

Or, vice versa, readers may witness the character’s unwitting hypocrisy. Either way, readers may come away with a richer understanding than either viewpoint could have offered alone.

Writing Your Story’s Theme (Amazon affiliate link)

More importantly, every relationship says something about both characters. When one POV character admires another, readers also learn something about the admirer. The emotional currents flowing between characters deepen characterization on both sides, often reinforcing the story’s theme without ever calling attention to it.

Should You Add Another POV?

This effect can, of course, be achieved without multiple POVs, and sometimes the pitfalls of multiple POVs won’t balance out their advantages.

Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

Before deciding to include a new POV, always consider its overall effect on the story’s cohesion and resonance, not least in the plot structure. Every POV should earn its place by deepening conflict, revealing new dimensions of character, advancing the plot, or illuminating the theme in ways no other perspective can.

If the POV’s only purpose is to provide commentary on the protagonist or to reveal plot events that otherwise would happen offstage, the effect can often feel empty. But when another viewpoint genuinely deepens or advances the story, that character’s perspective of other characters will influence your readers’ feelings about all of them.

Note: This article has been revised and expanded from an earlier version.

Want More?

Outlining Your Novel (Amazon affiliate link)

If you’re deciding whether your story really needs multiple POVs, that choice is often easiest to make before you begin drafting. In Outlining Your Novel (and its companion workbook), I help writers think through big-picture questions like POV, character relationships, and story structure while it’s still easy to experiment. A little planning up front can save countless revisions later!

Available in paperback, e-book, and audio.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Do you feel that multiple POVs help readers connect more deeply with your characters? Tell me in the comments!

The post Why Multiple POVs Can Make Readers Love Your Characters More appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

What’s the difference between a bundle, a box set, an anthology, and a collection? How can being part of an anthology be creatively interesting and useful for marketing? With Jamie Ferguson

In the intro, Amazon Kindle increases the 70% royalty share; audiobook marketing tips (Voices by InAudio); The Builder’s Creed [Seth Godin]; Future Vision XPrize; Researching the dark side of travel [Anna Sayburn Lane]; Photos from Bruges @jfpennauthor; Bones of the Deep: A Thriller – J.F. Penn.

Today’s show is sponsored by Bookfunnel, the essential tool for your author business. Whether it’s delivering your reader magnet, sending out advanced copies of your book, handing out ebooks at a conference, or fulfilling your digital sales to readers, BookFunnel does it all. Check it out at bookfunnel.com/thecreativepenn

This show is also supported by my Patrons. Join my Community at Patreon.com/thecreativepenn 

Jamie Ferguson is a fiction and short story author, editor, and publisher, with over 20 anthologies and multiple ebook bundles through her own press. Her latest book for authors is Bundle Up! A Practical Guide to Anthologies and Box Sets That Sell.

You can listen above or on your favorite podcast app or read the notes and links below. Here are the highlights and the full transcript is below. 

Show Notes

• The difference between bundles, box sets, anthologies, and collections
• Why a multi-author project means lots of people promoting the same book, not just you
• How to find and pitch for anthology opportunities, and what editors look for in a contributor
• Contracts, rights, and royalty splits explained for short fiction
• Why Kickstarter and special print editions are changing the anthology game
• Inkwren, the publishing management tool Jamie built for backlists and anthologies

You can find Jamie at JamieFerguson.com.

Transcript of the interview ith Jamie Ferguson

Jo: Jamie Ferguson is a fiction and short story author, editor, and publisher, with over 20 anthologies and multiple ebook bundles through her own press. Her latest book for authors is Bundle Up! A Practical Guide to Anthologies and Box Sets That Sell.

Just for context too, one of my short stories, “The Dark Queen”, is in the Amazing Monster Tales: Into the Briny Deep anthology. So I’m excited to talk about this today. Welcome to the show, Jamie.

Jamie: Thanks for having me, Jo.

Jo: Lots to talk about. But first up—

Tell us a bit more about you and how you got into writing and self-publishing.

Jamie: Well, I wanted to be a writer since I was at least six, maybe before then. So it was just something I always wanted to do, but I always did it on the side.

I had a year, many years ago, where I was really busy with work, and I just felt like I didn’t write anything the entire year, and I thought, “I’m going to give it up.”

Then the next year—that was 2011—I started seeing more about self-publishing, and that really invigorated me and made me feel like, “No, why am I giving up something I’ve wanted to do since before I went to school?”

So I got back into a novel I had worked on years before. I went to a writing workshop with Dean Wesley Smith up in Oregon, back in the day, and then I had my energy back. I’ve been writing ever since. Still on the side, unfortunately, but someday.

Jo: Hopefully!

Tell us a bit more about what kind of genres you write.

Because balancing your own books with also doing these anthologies and things is quite difficult.

Jamie: Yes, it definitely is. I’d say I primarily write contemporary fantasy, but I’ll write anything in any genre if I’m really excited about it. I also have a soft spot for Westerns. They take a little more time because I like to research all the facts, but those are really fun to write.

Creating anthologies on your own is actually quite a bit of work. One of the things I also do is work with two other authors, DeAnna Knippling and Tami Veldura, and create more anthologies with them.

That’s really fun because then we can each take a different piece. There’s also always somebody to talk to, as opposed to doing it on your own.

Jo: Let’s start with the terminology, because I definitely struggled with this, and I think people still do. We’ve got bundles, we’ve got box sets, we’ve got anthologies, we’ve got collections—and are these in ebook, audiobook, or print?

Can you start by explaining what all of these words actually mean?

Jamie: Yes. In my book I actually use the term “multi-author collection” or “multi-author project”, because there are so many different permutations and it does get confusing.

From my perspective, I think of a bundle as a collection. It could be a collection of ebooks. Technically it could be a collection of print books, although people generally use “box set” for that—but then a box set can also be a box set that’s all ebooks.

An anthology, I usually use for something that’s a collection of short stories where there’s an editor who’s actually edited all the stories. I have had stories in anthologies where somebody didn’t edit them, and they would technically be called a curator.

So it is definitely confusing. I have not done anything with audio collections, but that certainly is another area that I actually think is pretty interesting.

Jo: I also think that a single author… so I’ve done a short story collection, but an anthology is multiple authors. Is that right?

Jamie: Yes.

Jo: I think when I came into the indie space, there were a lot more multi-author… we all called them box sets back in the day, when it was just ebooks, right? And now we can actually do boxed sets with boxes through things like BookVault. So it feels like the term “box set” has also gone out of fashion.

So if people listening are thinking of doing any of this, you do have to figure out what is the thing you might be signing up for. So let’s talk about the multi-author projects, as that’s where you specialise.

What are the benefits for an author to be involved in a multi-author anthology project?

Jamie: The biggest benefit is that you are one of multiple people promoting the same project, whether it’s print or ebook or whatever. If I put out a short story collection on my own, I’m the one promoting it, and maybe I can get a couple of other people to write about it, but it’s really just me.

If I’m part of an anthology with 15 other authors, that’s 15 other people who are promoting the same project. That’s more newsletters, more Facebook posts, maybe something on their Patreons, whatever it is.

You get more synergy, and you get more touch points with potential readers. Then hopefully that translates into sales as well. So that’s definitely the biggest part of it—the promotion.

Then I also personally really enjoy these types of collections because it’s just fun to work with other people. There’s a nice energy when everybody’s like, “Oh, I put this in my newsletter, and I put this here, and I put this here,” and you feel like you’re part of something bigger than just your own piece.

Jo: What about the creative benefits?

Especially with short stories, often people will write them for a collection or for an anthology project.

Jamie: Yes. I’ve definitely written some stories that I never would have thought I’d write, because somebody I knew asked if I would be interested in being in their collection—whether it’s an ebook bundle or a print anthology. So at least for me, that’s been really fun.

One of the ones that stands out is that I was asked to be in a dinosaur collection once, and I was like, “I don’t write dinosaur stories.” And then I did. I set a dinosaur story in London, and it was really fun to write, and I never would have come up with that in a million years.

Jo: Let’s say we’ve got 12 authors. They’ve all written short stories, and now it’s in this anthology. But what is the market for these kinds of things?

Have you found that there is a readership for short story anthologies that carries over to the author’s longer work?

Jamie: There is. I like to think of it as: if I have a story in a collection or an anthology—whether it’s one I’m editing or somebody else is editing—that’s one more place for people to find me. A lot of times anthologies will take reprints as well, like your story. “The Dark Queen”—that was a reprint.

We asked if you’d be interested in participating in the Amazing Monster Tales series. And I actually really like printing stories again that have already been published, because there are a lot of stories out there that can be hard to find. Or if it’s an older book.

I have one author I’ve known for, like, 30 years. I reprinted one of her stories that was originally published in, I think, 1999, and the anthology it was in was out of print. You couldn’t find it, and it was a fantastic story.

So it’s fun to be able to give new life to those stories and give them more opportunities, and also just have more ways for people to find you.

Jo: Yes, I definitely think it’s a long game. I don’t think appearing in a short story anthology in one particular month is going to mean that your whole back collection just sells, right?

Jamie: No, definitely not. It’s more about avenues to be found. I know there have been some anthologies that have made quite a bit of money, but in general you’re probably not going to make as much money, but you will have those extra places for people to find you.

Jo: I always feel like yes, there is maybe a small amount of money, but it is more about almost a marketing thing in itself.

So let’s say an author is listening and they’re like, “Do you know, this sounds like a great idea.”

How can they pitch for things like this? How do they find out about opportunities, or get noticed to be asked?

And what are the expectations for them?

Jamie: The biggest thing is networking. There used to be a couple of opportunities where you could make people aware that you had stories that you were interested in potentially having picked up for something. I’m not aware of anything like that now.

When I create a collection, I have a mailing list that I send out, and it includes authors I’ve published before. It includes a couple of extra people who somehow found my mailing list. And I’ll publish, like, “Here’s what I’m doing.”

There are also authors I’ve met at writing workshops. I’ve been able to read some of their work, I’ll approach them and say, “Hey, I really liked such and such a story. Would you be interested in writing for this?”

Then there are a couple of other websites, like Duotrope, and places that advertise markets and calls for submissions.

Jo: Yes, I’ve found them also on small presses that do these kinds of projects. They often put up one call for submission a month or something, and you can write for their particular thing. In general, the short story markets are the places to keep an eye on.

Jamie: Yes, definitely.

Jo: If an author wants to pitch to have their story as part of an anthology, do you want to know things like platform, or is it just the story itself?

Jamie: I personally look at the author’s platform. I do make exceptions—there are actually two authors I’ve worked with a couple of times who don’t have websites. They are people I know personally and they are very, very good writers, so I’ll make an exception for things like that.

But otherwise, if somebody submitted a story to me and I didn’t know that person, I would check out their website, I would check out their social media, I would see what else they had done.

Part of what you’re doing when you’re creating a collection is thinking not just about how you, as the person organising this, will promote the collection, but how the authors who are participating will help promote it as well.

If it’s somebody who has a lot of fans, even if they’re not very active on social media, that can help a lot too. There are a lot of different factors, though.

Jo: So then talk us through the project timeline.

How long do things take, and what sort of involvement do the authors have along the way?

Because it’s a lot to juggle.

Jamie: Yes, it is a lot to juggle. I can give you an example with the Monster Tales series. We’ll come up with an idea, and we also like to try to get the artwork done early on in the process. We don’t need it that soon, but it’s really great to have that taken care of.

We’ll contact authors. I think for this one we used my mailing list, but we’ve also contacted a number of people individually that we know who write the style of stories we like.

Then, as the submissions come in, we usually wait until we have a nice chunk of them to start going through, and then we’ll pick some right away. Sometimes it’ll be like, “Oh my gosh, of course we want this story,” and we’ll wait to fill out the other slots.

Then we’ll negotiate sometimes. Sometimes it’s like, “I want this story.” “Well, I want this other story.” And we have to figure out how the word count works.

Once we finalise the stories, then usually what happens with that anthology is that DeAnna—who is a very, very good editor—will make the first editing pass, and then I’ll make the second. And now Tami’s involved, so Tami will make the third, and then we’ll iterate.

Once all three of us have gone through the first time, then we’ll send the story back to the author for edits. So the most the author has to do for most of the process is just wait for us to edit their story, and then work on their edits and get them back.

Then, once we get closer to launch, we’ll give them information about what we’re going to do. For example, we’re going to launch the next issue with a Kickstarter. So our authors know that we have a Kickstarter coming, and we’ll give them more information as we get closer to the actual launch date.

Jo: So how long might an author expect before their work is out there?

Jamie: It really varies. I’ve had some collections published very quickly—let’s say a couple of months. Some have taken longer just because somebody ends up having some life issue and things get delayed. So I’d say ideally it would be more like three to nine months.

Jo: Yes, I think… depending on the—

Jamie: —collection and the complexity.

Jo: Yes, exactly.

Jo: And you did mention word count there.

Just give us a range of what word count you like to get.

Jamie: So these days I’m shooting for between 75,000 and 80,000 for the total word count for a collection. That includes the stories, but it also includes the opening, the introduction.

For one we’re working on now, we’re going to have some interstitials, where we have little bits of things we’re going to write in between each story. So that’s the overall size of the collection.

I’ll keep track of the word count as the stories come in, and then as we edit the stories, sometimes they grow, sometimes they shrink. Sometimes that’s a big enough difference where we’re like, “Okay, we need one more story to fill it in.” But that’s the target.

Jo: And how much for each individual story?

Jamie: That varies. I’ve done a bunch of different things. These days, what I’m advertising is between 3,000 and 8,000 words. I also always tell people: if you’re outside this range on either side, just check with me, and if it’s something that’s really an excellent fit for the book, I’ll make an exception.

The one that’s coming out, I think we have a 1,500- or 2,000-word story that was just amazingly perfect for what we wanted. There was another story, actually I think it was the issue that you were in, that was at least 12,000 words, but it also was a perfect fit for the theme. So I will make exceptions, but within reason.

I wouldn’t put a novella inside an anthology, because then you’d have a 22,000-word story next to a 3,000-word story, and I personally feel like that’s really jarring for the reader. You don’t want to go from something super short to something super long. It just doesn’t feel like it flows well to me.

Jo: No, absolutely.

Jo: We’ll come back to the making of it because you mentioned some really interesting things there.

But just on the contractual side—a lot of indie authors don’t necessarily do any publishing contracts for their work, unless it’s signing the terms and conditions when uploading on Amazon or Kobo. So tell us a bit about the contract side.

What rights are we talking about here? Any red lines in contracts around this kind of thing?

Jamie: For contracts, I would recommend people read Kristine Kathryn Rusch’s posts on this. She is way more informed about this than I ever will be, so when I have questions, I’ll look at her posts. I’ve asked her a couple of questions.

What we’re doing for the Amazing Monster Tales… this is the first time that I’ve actually had authors sign contracts. Prior to this, I’ve used PubShare, which handles royalty splits and all of that, and that was really great.

We want to do direct sales and Kickstarters and have lots of other options. So we did put together a contract this time. I’d have to pull it up, but I think we asked for first worldwide rights in English—I’m getting the terminology wrong here—but that was basically it.

Jo: Or, I guess, reprint rights if the story’s already been licensed.

Jamie: Correct. We have two contract templates, one for original stories and one for reprints. We made sure to make that distinction, because it is definitely a distinction.

In the book by Kristine Kathryn Rusch—it’s called Closing the Deal… on Your Terms—I highly recommend that for anybody interested in learning more about contracts.

Jo: Yes, that’s great. And just for people listening: when you said you didn’t have contracts before, you just used PubShare. So in that way, the author still retained the rights and you just split the royalties—it was more of a co-writing thing.

Jamie: Correct. When you publish stories through PubShare, the author signs an agreement with PubShare, and then I, as the editor or organiser, would also sign a separate agreement. So each of us has an agreement with PubShare. We don’t have agreements with each other, if that makes sense.

Jo: Yes, so it’s very different to move into Kickstarter.

So tell us about what you’re now moving into.

Jamie: Well, Kickstarters are a new world for me personally. I have many friends who have had Kickstarters. I’ve supported Kickstarters. I watch them. But it’s something where I’m very happy to have two partners who have done Kickstarters before.

I’m not sure how many Tami’s done—I think Tami’s done the most at this point. So this is all new to me. But it’s very exciting.

At this point we have a backlist, so part of the plan, for the Monster series, is to offer issues one through four as part of the rewards when we launch issue number five. That’s really exciting, because I never had a backlist like that before.

Jo: Yes, and in fact the money is in the backlist, as ever, and those add-ons or bundles as part of Kickstarter are great.

So are you going to do special print editions, or is it digital only?

Jamie: We are talking about special print editions. You mentioned BookVault earlier—we’ve been looking at BookVault.

Our other anthology series that hasn’t come out yet will also launch with a Kickstarter. It’s dragon-themed, and Tami actually did the cover work, which is beautiful. BookVault just gives you so many options that we never had before, so I’m very excited about that.

Jo: Yes, I think it’s a really good idea. I did gorgeous hardbacks for my solo author collection, so I think it’s a great idea.

So from the publisher side, let’s come back to that. You’ve mentioned you have to write things like an introduction and interstitials, and you’re trying to balance the stories.

What are some of the other things that people might think about if they want to organise their own anthologies?

Jamie: Oh gosh, where to start? There’s the basic setting up of the anthology, so you have to define the table of contents.

You might get a bunch of stories that are really awesome, and you might have to tell somebody who has a wonderful story—and maybe even who’s a good friend of yours—that you’re going to pass on it because their story doesn’t fit with all the other stories.

Every time I have to do that, I feel kind of bad. But being on this side, it’s really interesting to see how you can tell which stories fit together and which don’t.

There’s also the editing process, which can be a lot of work. Part of what I like about working with Tami and DeAnna is that DeAnna really loves editing. I feel like I’m a good editor, and I can do it, but for me it’s more of a job.

For DeAnna, she loves it, so she does the bulk of the editing, which is great. When I do it on my own, I feel like it’s a task I have to do.

There’s lots of cat-herding. Sometimes people take a while to get their edits back. Sometimes they have life events, and you have to delay things because you’re waiting on them.

There are all the little tiny pieces of organising things—like, if you’re reprinting stories, you need to make sure you get the copyright attribution correct. A lot of times I’ll have to go and look up where something was originally published.

An author might say, “Oh, it was published in this year,” and I’m like, “Okay, actually it was published in this other year, by this other publication first.” So I’m trying to be organised there.

henT one of the things that very infrequently—I think it’s only happened to me twice—every once in a while, you’re in the middle of editing a story and you have to pass on it, even though you’ve already accepted it, because the editorial vision and the author vision for the story are not the same, and you can’t reconcile that.

Jo: I think that’s really interesting, because so much of what you’re talking about there—you mentioned vision—it’s almost taste. You’re saying which stories fit.

It’s not just a case of, I don’t know, a pirate anthology and then picking 10 stories about pirates, right? You seem to be thinking about this in a more artistic way. So can you talk a bit more about that?

How do you decide on a theme, and then how do you know that a story doesn’t fit?

Jamie: In the beginning, I was not this selective. In the beginning I’d say, for example, “Hey, I’m putting out a collection about fairies. Give me a fairy story,” and that was it. As I’ve edited the stories, it’s become easier to see how things fit.

So, for example, if I have 10 stories in an anthology and I have an 11th story, and they have different tones—let’s say the 11th story is really funny and all the other stories are very serious—then that would be a fit thing.

That’s not necessarily taste; it’s just that you don’t want one funny story if everything else is really dark and scary or serious.

As far as picking a theme, the theme could be very broad. With this dragon anthology we’re working on, we decided we wanted it to be called A Hoard of Books. So the theme was: has to have dragons, has to have books, and that’s pretty much it. And then we were like, “Let’s just see what we get.”

We were very surprised at what we got. We thought we’d have more serious stories, and it turned out most of them were very light-hearted and really fun. And we’re like, “You know what? That actually changes the way we’re looking at the whole series,” because we did not expect that.

With the monster series, we’ll pick a theme. So, for example, the next issue is Monsters in Love, and for those it’s more like, let’s just see what happens.

Sometimes I’ll have a more specific theme. The next anthology I’m publishing on my own is called Fairy Bargains, and I wanted people to obviously have fairies, but I wanted there to be something related to the mythology and lore of having a bargain with a fairy—and there’s a lot of stuff about that.

So for some things like that, when I put out a call, I’ll provide information. I might say, “Here’s a link to a Wikipedia article. Here’s some mythology that might be helpful for you,” just because I want things to stick a little bit more to the theme itself.

Whereas with Monsters in Love, there’s a very wide range of stories, and that was very fun to work through.

Jo: Oh, yes. There’s a lot of monster, on the spicy side as well. But were you doing a clean Monsters in Love, as opposed to in lust?

Jamie: Yes, this is a clean one. That’s pretty funny. But boy, when you give authors the room for these types of things, you get all kinds of stories, and it is super fun to work with those collections.

Jo: As you’re talking, I definitely want to do more short stories. It’s really interesting, because you can actually generally get paid more for a first print—first print rights on a short story—but I often want to just publish it myself.

Then I was really happy to be in yours, because it was a reprint anyway. So I was like, well, there’s absolutely nothing to lose if it goes in as a reprint. So these things can be really interesting.

Talking of the finance from your side of things: you have a small press and you’re doing this publishing yourself, but you’re paying all these authors and doing a lot of work.

So how does it work as the publisher, in terms of these anthologies, financially?

Jamie: With the ones we’ve published so far, because we’ve gone through PubShare, it’s been a royalty split. As the editors, we would take a percentage, and then we pay for the artwork, and of course all of our time.

I think what we were doing there was saying 70% of the royalties would be split equally between all of the authors and the stories. So, for example, if I had a story as well, I would get part of the author split—the same percentage as everybody else in the collection—in addition to the editor split.

For what we’re doing now, we’ve changed this a little bit, and I believe we said 60% goes to the authors, and then we’re going to keep a share of the proceeds for the business because we want to be able to pay for the artwork out of the business account.

We want to pay for advertising, whatever we need to do—like setting up our store, or if we wanted to invest in anything, we want to be able to do that as the business, as opposed to it just being us doing this on our own. We’re just trying to treat it a little bit differently.

Jo: And I know it’s so much work—a crazy amount of work.

How many anthologies and books do you have to do in a year to make it worthwhile financially?

Jamie: Oh, I don’t know. I would say, unless you get an opportunity—like, for example, to have an anthology in a story bundle or something like that—you may not break even. But if you’re going to do this, do it more for the marketing, do it more because you enjoy it.

Now, going forward, I think that will change, because we are looking at Kickstarters, we are looking at direct sales. We’re very motivated to try to make this more of a business thing than a fun side project. So, ask me in a year.

Jo: Yes, hopefully more. I do think Kickstarter is great for short stories. I actually buy quite a few collections on Kickstarter. I think they’re actually really hard to discover through, say, Amazon—it’s a place that is quite hard to identify short stories.

Whereas I’ve found I’ve bought collections on Kickstarter because there’s so much more of a sales page—there’s so much more rich media that tells me how I’m going to feel about the stuff.

I’ve bought short story anthologies and collections from people I don’t know. So I think it’s a really good thing to do. There is an audience there.

Jamie: Yes, definitely. And it does feel like the anthologies on Amazon don’t sell as well—you don’t make as much as you used to. I’ve been doing this for, well, gosh, 10 years now, and I feel like the sales numbers on Amazon in the past year were noticeably lower than they would have been six or eight years ago.

So I am very excited about Kickstarter. Plus, Kickstarter just feels really fun. You’re not just throwing your book up; you also have all the extra stuff with the page, you have the rewards, and it just feels really exciting.

Jo: No, I agree. I really love it. I didn’t do it for a long time, and now I just love it.

Jo: So, staying with the publisher side of things—

Any practical formatting and production tips?

Because in these types of projects, all kinds of people just send you different stuff.

Jamie: I have a style guide. So whether it’s me or it’s the group project, once all the edits are complete, I’ll do a formatting pass, and I’ll make sure I use curly quotes and the same em dash format and everything, just so everything in the book is formatted the same way.

Every once in a while there’s an author who has something particular that they want, and I can work around that, and that’s fine.

I also work with a lot of Canadian authors, and I’ll let them keep their Canadian spellings. I don’t think everybody does that, but I feel like that’s their voice in a way, so I don’t correct those. I might check some things there.

I think the formatting is important—it makes things look better if everything has the same style. Then I use Vellum, which makes things really easy. I love Vellum.

Because I publish so many authors at this point, I have a Vellum file where I store their biographies and their links, so when I publish a new anthology I’ll just go grab, say, Jo’s “about the author” page from that collection and put it into the new file.

Then I also track when the last time was that I checked with the author about their biography. If it’s been more than a year, I’ll check in with them and say, “Hey, do you have an updated biography you want me to use? Here are your links—do you have any different links now?”

So that makes it a lot easier from the formatting standpoint.

Jo: And you mentioned Vellum—having done box sets on Vellum, you can just drag a whole book in there if you want to do a three-book box set, or three short stories, whatever. It’s much easier to just drag things in, and it makes it easier to format.

So I would say to people: you don’t need to worry too much about that. There are lots of things that can help you.

But even with doing the print stuff for the Kickstarter—people have opinions, don’t they? So in terms of authors’ opinions and managing—you mentioned herding cats—how do you manage all of that side of things?

Jamie: I haven’t actually had a lot of trouble with that. The authors I’ve worked with seem to feel like they gave me their story, and then once the edits are out of the way… I haven’t had anybody have any issues with the covers. Usually they love the covers, especially for the Monster series. So, no problems there.

Jo: Oh, that’s good. Well, I would say a tip would be to make sure you’re communicating, if you’re somebody who’s organising.

So talk a bit about communication.

Jamie: Communication is very important. What I try to do is send regular updates, especially if I’m in the middle of edits or working on something and I’m not ready to launch. I’ll send an update email out to the authors and just say, “Here’s what’s going on, here’s what the plan is.”

Or if the plan has to change, if the launch date has to change for some reason, I’ll let the authors know about that.

Actually, with the upcoming Monsters in Love issue, we were originally not going to do a Kickstarter. That was a late decision, so I contacted all the authors and said, “We’ve changed our plans. We’re going to launch this with a Kickstarter. Please confirm that you’re okay with this.”

One author was not comfortable with the Kickstarter idea, so he pulled his story, and then we found a replacement story for that. But I just feel like the communication piece is really essential. It’s really important for the authors to know what’s going on.

Jo: Yes, absolutely. So, we’ve talked about how marketing is a good thing, in terms of there being lots of people marketing.

How are you effectively marketing these kinds of books, as the premise is quite different to a single author project?

Jamie: Right. There’s the usual—write a release post, write posts on social. I do additional things, so I’ll publish what I call a story spotlight for each story in the anthology. That’s just where I talk a little bit about the story, I provide an excerpt, and then I provide the author’s bio and links to find them.

Those are really great, because they’re very quick to put together. The hardest part is getting a short excerpt that shows enough about the story to be engaging. But that really isn’t that much time, either. Then those are also nicely evergreen.

I’ve actually searched for authors before, when I’m trying to research them for an interview, and I’ve found my own spotlight posts and my own interview posts with authors come up at the top of the list, which is kind of funny.

I also do interviews with as many of the authors in a collection as are willing to participate. Sometimes people just don’t have the time—I don’t make this required—but I usually get 80 to 90% of the authors participating.

So, for example, this year I’m in a couple of bundles on StoryBundle, and I’m doing interviews for people there.

It’s also really fun, and you’re not paying for advertising—you’re just creating something that the authors are excited about and they want to share. So it promotes the collection, but it also promotes the author, which I find really nice.

It’s a nice networking thing too, and I’m happy if someone wants to interview me. It’s like free publicity for each person, in addition to the collection.

Jo: I love that you’ve used the word “fun” quite a lot, which I find amazing. You’re obviously a super collaborative person. I’ve co-written a number of books—

I’ve been part of some collections, and I really think that there are two personalities.

One is like me, where we really love the creation stuff and the publishing stuff, but we’re hyper-controlling. And then someone like you—you’re very collaborative, and you’re doing such a great job.

To people listening, I would say: if you’re more like me, don’t organise an anthology. What you want is Jamie, or somebody who actually finds it fun to organise a big group of authors.

Jamie: Yes. It is definitely interesting working with other partners in this, because when I publish an anthology on my own, I make all the decisions. I pick the artwork, I pick the theme, I do everything, I decide the table of contents. But when you’re working with other people, you do need to negotiate.

So we’ve had a couple of times where it’s like, “I want this story.” “Well, I want this other story, I don’t like the story that you want.” And so we have to barter, in a way.

Aside from that, it is nice, because you get to split up the tasks. I could focus on things like the organising—I do the Vellum files, I do the final cover and everything. For the Kickstarters, actually, Tami’s got more expertise, so Tami’s going to be working on the Kickstarters for our collections together.

If I had to do all this on my own, it’s a ton of work. It’s a ton of work. So it is nice to split it up.

Jo: And of course, one of the things is managing so many moving parts—and you’ve actually built a tool to manage all this.

So tell us a bit about that tool, and how it might be useful for people with big backlists as well as anthologies.

Jamie: I built what I think of as a publishing management application. The original idea is that, for years and years, I wanted a software tool that would do catalogue management, because I was managing my own catalogue, and I was also managing—at this point I’ve published at least 20 anthologies, so that’s a lot of authors.

Then last summer, I had an author who I’d published a number of times, who was going to, I think, WorldCon, and she asked if I could give her covers for five anthologies she’d been in, so that she could make some promotional material.

I was like, “Oh, sure, I can do that.” And then I was like, “Well, wait a second—is this in Notion?”—because I started trying to use Notion last year—”or is it in a spreadsheet?”

It turned out her information was in, like, three different places, and I had to work to pull it together. And then I was like, “You know what? That’s it. I’m just going to finally write this application.”

So Inkwren manages your stories. As an author, I can manage my stories—I can track which are published, which are drafts, which are just ideas. I can track my publications.

From the publisher standpoint, it’s really helpful, because I can track each anthology I’ve published and what I’m working on. I can track the edits, I can track the contracts.

I can upload contract templates—so we talked earlier about the original and reprint contract templates that I use. I upload those, and they have placeholders in them.

When I generate the actual contract, the author’s name will replace the placeholder—I’ll have the text “author name” in the contract template, and it’ll get replaced by, like, “Joanna Penn” or whatever. So that saves a lot of time.

Then I also added in task tracking, because I started to feel like, well, now all my stuff is in one place, but my tasks are somewhere else. So now I can associate tasks with a publication.

For example, for the book I’m working on right now, I know which tasks I need to do for the cover, and which for the interior, and everything. I have a template of tasks.

Then I can also track tasks related to promotions. For example, the story bundle I’m promoting right now, I have a task for each interview I’m doing with the authors, and I have a calendar view. I can see when I’m going to publish them and know that they’re all spread out. It saves me so much time, and it’s so much easier.

Jo: I do think building tools when you actually need the tool yourself is very useful. Just say the name again, and spell it out for people.

Jamie: It’s Inkwren. My own personal publishing company is Blackbird Publishing, and I wanted something related to birds and writing. So I came up with Inkwren, which is I-N-K-W-R-E-N, and it’s just inkwren.com.

Jo: And it is available for other people to potentially buy and use?

Jamie: Yes, it is.

Jo: Well, I think that’s super useful, because it’s very hard when people are starting out and they think, “Oh, I’ve only got one book—why would I need any kind of tool to manage it?” But over the years, your backlist grows, especially with short stories.

So I love that you’ve built this, and there’s probably more that you can add over time as you expand the business yourself. So much potential. So we are at the end.

Where can people find you and your books and everything you do online?

Jamie: My author website is JamieFerguson.com. And then, obviously, I mentioned Inkwren earlier. My publishing company is BlackbirdPublishing.com. And then the projects I’m doing with Tami and DeAnna—we have a couple of websites, but the easiest way to find us is our press, which is BorogrovePress.com.

Jo: Fantastic. Well, thanks so much for your time, Jamie. That was great.

Jamie: Thanks, Joanna.

The post Bundles, Box Sets and Anthologies With Jamie Ferguson first appeared on The Creative Penn.

A hill I will die on: we need heroic stories.

That may seem super obvious. After all, the word “hero” has become all but synonymous with “protagonist.”

They are not, however, the same thing. A protagonist is the structural driver of the plot (just as the antagonist is the structural obstacle to that driving momentum). There is no moral or even postural indication implied by the word “protagonist.” There is no inherent structural demand that a story must feature someone of moral courage or virtue. Indeed, antiheroic stories are very much in vogue.

We’re all about the “morally gray” these days. And to the degree, that means “morally complex,” I’m there too. There is so much variety in story, as there should be in its reflection of life. We need the stories that explore and expurgate the shadows. We need the tragedies that cathartize our suffering and confusion.

But in our sophistication, it feels like sometimes we denigrate the truly heroic.

Genre stories like action-adventure and romance—with their all but guaranteed Happily Ever After—are often dismissed as lower forms of art than their more ambiguous or critical brethren. But my view is that the hidden symbolic structure of the story arc is inherently heroic—it is inherently about the clarifying transformation of shedding what is false, walking through trials, and emerging reborn like the phoenix. As we discussed earlier this year, the arc of story works when it walks us through the darkness of the night and back to the dawn.

When that cycle is allowed to complete itself, story offers us a remarkable gift. It shows us what is made possible with hope and courage. And however much we may need the pungent clarity of disillusionment (something that is also inherent to the arc of story), we deeply need stories that ignite the archetype of heroism within our own deep imaginations.

So to that end, today I want to tell you a personal story—about a scary night in my own life and the impact of a heroic story.

How I Just Fell in Love With Asian Dramas

Let’s start with the announcement that I have officially discovered Asian dramas, and I get what all the hype has been about (and, yes, I know many of you are saying, “Girl, finally!”).

I tentatively started the first installment of the 40-episode Pursuit of Jade (which is apparently taking the world by storm right now), and I was immediately swept away. The show is literally everything I love and have been struggling to find anywhere else lately.

Pursuit of Jade is the Chinese historical drama that inspired this reflection on why heroic stories stay with us—and why they matter. (Pursuit of Jade (2026), Tencent Video.)

Set in a slightly fantasy medieval China, it is the story of a young commoner, Fan Changyu, who continues the family business of butchering pigs (an ignominious trade for a young woman) in order to care for her young sister after the recent murder of her parents. She stumbles over a desperately wounded man who is dying in the snow. Out of the depths of her own sincerity and goodness, she risks taking him home and nursing him back to health.

Pursuit of Jade (2026), Tencent Video.

Unbeknownst to her, he is Xie Zheng, a powerful general and nobleman. Keeping his identity secret, he eventually agrees to repay her goodness to him by “marrying into” her family, in name only, in order to get around legalities that would otherwise allow her home to be inherited by her worthless uncle.

Pursuit of Jade (2026), Tencent Video.

Of course, as the story progresses, they fall in love, they get separated, war descends, Changyu goes on an epic quest to become a hero in her own right, she eventually reunites with Zheng and learns his true identity in gorgeously dramatic fashion, and then they must both rebuild their relationship, all while discovering the interwined conspiracy against their murdered parents and saving the empire.

Pursuit of Jade (2026), Tencent Video.

It offers gorgeous visuals, a sweeping soundtrack, humor, charm, an achingly slow-burn romance, and sweeping wartime epicness. I liked literally every character, laughed, cried, swooned, and geeked out multiple times. I binged it all in three days (and then immediately started over).

It’s not a perfect show; it has some structural and pacing issues in the second half. But it sucked me in and gave me a story high like I haven’t had in probably a full decade.

It also gave me a reminder of why stories like this are so much more than just entertainment.

The Night a Wildfire Reminded Me Why Heroic Stories Matter

The night I finished the show, I went to bed like normal, happy and buzzing from the pleasure of the story.

Then at 12:30AM, my phone rang. It was my dad, telling me, “You’ve got fires around you.”

For reference, I live at the edge of a high-risk wildfire area in the hills of one of Nebraska’s relatively few timbered areas. Although fire is always a risk here, this year we’re in the midst of an extreme drought, after a winter with little to no snow both here and in the Colorado mountains. For perspective, some estimates as of mid-June suggest we would need 14 inches of rain in a month to break the drought. If the predicted super El Niño doesn’t positively change weather patterns through this winter, we could reach historic comparisons to the Dust Bowl.

Fire is very much on Nebraska’s mind right now, having already experienced the Morrill Fire—the worst fire in state history in March—and the South Fork Fire—another horrible fire in the Ft. Robinson National Park area that was finally contained in June. Almost a million acres have burned here so far this year.

So when my dad tells me there’s fire nearby, especially on a windy night—I go.

Thankfully, the story gets anticlimactic from here. Although the fire was in the hills just two miles from my house with flames higher than the nearby structures—and on a Red Flag Day, with the wind blowing directly toward my canyon neighborhood—the wind unexpectedly died down for about an hour at dusk, giving neighbors and firefighters just enough time to put it out. It had been out before I even went to bed. My dad only knew about it because he happened to be up at his house some ten miles away, smelled smoke, and checked the local news on the Internet (my fire app never registered the fire or sent me an alarm). By the time I was leaving my house ten minutes later, he had called my neighbor and verified the fire was contained. I left anyway and went over to my parents’ house for the night.

I’ve always had a fear of fire, and living where I do, especially this year with this drought, has pushed and stretched me in many ways. But as I took that call from my dad that night and calmly executed my “go plan” (in what I hope is its only iteration), what kept running through my head was… Pursuit of Jade.

Pursuit of Jade (2026), Tencent Video.

How Stories Shape Courage Before We Need It

At this point, after about 40 hours of the show, my brain was well steeped. I could hear the music. I could see the characters as they faced their hardships and stood up to them with courage and steadfastness. I could feel the legacy of their epicness running in my blood as I faced what, as far as I knew in that moment, could be a huge threshold in my own life.

And… I was so thankful. Even in the midst of it, before I knew everything was going to be okay, I was so grateful that this story was what I was carrying with me into the uncertainty and pressure of that moment. The images, the emotions, and the archetypes it gave me that night were a portal to my own courage and steadfastness. In the days afterward, as I processed the adrenaline and what was now a very real experience living in my nervous system (versus just a vague fear), I felt the power of what this story—and other unabashedly heroic stories like it–give to us.

They give us a vision of the hardships we may have to walk through—and they imprint upon us the promise that we can walk through.

I’ve been talking a lot lately about mythic storytelling and trying my best to explain exactly what I mean by that.

For me, my experience that night perfectly sums up the ultimately ineffable experience of “mythic fiction”—of stories that bypass the rational mind and mainline into the imaginal unconscious—that portal to the prelinguistic, perhaps even pre-conscious, archetypal experience underlying all of life.

Man and His Symbols by Carl G. Jung

The power of these stories is not in their mastery of technique or form—or even of symbolism itself. As Jung would tell us,

[A] symbol always stands for something more than its obvious and immediate meaning. Symbols … are natural and spontaneous products. No genius has ever sat down with a pen or a brush in his hand and said: “Now I am going to invent a symbol.” No one can take a more or less rational thought, reached as a logical conclusion or by deliberate intent, and then given it “symbolic” form. No matter what fantastic trappings one may put upon an idea of this kind, it will still remain … linked to the conscious thought behind it, not a symbol that hints at something not yet known.

The power is in the direct ability to communicate with a deeper part of ourselves.

It was not my rational understanding or even my deep appreciation for Pursuit of Jade that gave me courage and resolve that night. It was a sense of archetypal recognition of the capacity for heroism within myself that resonated with the symbolic imagery. Like a tuning fork calling forth the same resonance in other instruments, the story had strummed a chord in me.

I suppose the bottom line is this: stories evoke and activate archetypes.

They are an inevitably subliminal technology.

Even though a heroic throughline underlies the shape and structure of story itself, individual stories may evoke evil as well as goodness. They may evoke cowardice and cynicism and nihilism; or they may evoke heroism and courageous hope and the sincerity of goodheartedness.

I believe these things are part of story’s greatest gift to us–because we all need these things. We need them in the weariness of the everyday grind, and we need them on those rare and scary nights when the alarm goes off, and danger seems to be at our door.

6 Ways to Write Heroic Stories That Inspire Readers

We’re all writing different stories (both in our lives and on the page). Some of those stories are blatantly archetypal: “adventures in which good triumphs over evil, and they all end in a kiss.” Some of them are heroism even in the face of hopelessness. Some of them end triumphantly; some of them end with only the glimmer of defiance as a howl against tragedy. Some of them are answers; some are questions. Some are redemption, and some are resolve.

All stories have the capacity, if their authors choose to exercise it, to tap that symbolic resonance within readers and raise them into their own archetypal experiences of heroism, courage, steadfastness, and grace. Here are six perspectives I think are helpful in getting there.

1. Channel Heroism Before You Write Heroic Characters

Ultimately, the ability to create stories of this resonance depends first and foremost on our capacity as authors to face and tap these forces within the flow of our inspiration. Often, we find our relationship with some of these archetypes in the actual writing—the daydreaming, dreamzoning, outlining, plotting, drafting, even the editing sometimes.

This isn’t a relationship we can always cultivate consciously. The true primal force of these archetypes is something we contact from the backs of our minds and the sides of our vision. It comes to us not so much because we intend it, but when we are an empty vessel, waiting to be filled.

2. Write Heroic Archetypes, Not Just Heroic Actions

Creating heroic characters is not a simple matter of writing people who do “heroic” things. Although the “form” of heroism can create good stories that impact readers, there is a different caliber of storytelling that happens when the character is a Hero (or whatever other archetype) versus just someone doing heroic stuff.

Certainly, one of the reasons Pursuit of Jade touched off something raw and real in my response was that even though it offered many of the same heroic elements as other similar stories, it felt like it embodied those elements in a way that otherwise too often feels like a checklist. Pursuit of Jade is full of tropes, but (at least for me) most of them felt like they were presented with a sincerity and honesty that returned them to the deeper territory of archetype.

3. Remember Heroic Characters Come in Many Archetypal Forms

Writing Archetypal Character Arcs (affiliate link)

Amidst all this talk of heroic archetypes, let me be clear that I’m not saying all moving stories must feature Hero archetypes. The Hero is but one archetype among many.

The Archetypal Life Cycle system that I share in my book Writing Archetypal Character Arcs focuses on six central transformation archetypes—Maiden, Hero, Queen, King, Crone, Mage. Every one of their arcs requires tremendous courage and heroism, as do steadfast archetypes such as the Child, Lover, Parent, Ruler, Elder, and Mentor.

And, of course, there are many archetypes besides that touch off deep and powerful experiences with audiences. Even dreadful archetypes such as the Tyrant or the Tempter—when truly tapped as part of the story arc—can ignite valuable responses within those who witness them.

4. Focus on the Feeling Readers Carry Away

Heroic stories need not always be happy. They need not offer answers. The truth of a story isn’t in the words. It isn’t even in what the characters believe at the end. It is in the feeling readers are left with at the end of their own experience.

Long ago and far away, Aristotle taught that “tragedy” (aka, drama) purged the audience through a powerful experience of catharsis. Even today, stories remain a powerful source of spontaneous initiation.

Although we watch and read many stories that do little more than entertain us for a while and perhaps add more clutter our already busy minds, there are other stories that change everything—that descend upon us, in ways large and small, and engage with us like a flashbomb tossed into our own symbolic depths.

To some degree, this experience is subjective. My own resonance with Pursuit of Jade may not be what most viewers take away. But there are stories that seem to sweep through us culturally and leave us all with a universal agreement that this was powerful. Lord of the Rings, of course, always tops that list for me. But I also think of stories like Children of Men. When I think about this tragic and in some ways deeply unpleasant story, what I always remember is the ending—Clive Owen, dying, hunched over the oars, a newborn miraculously crying in its mother’s arms as he watches the sun rise over the ocean. The ending is about the feeling I am left to take away.

The closing moments of Children of Men remind us that even in a broken world, sacrifice can still point toward a future worth believing in. (Children of Men (2006), Universal Pictures.)

5. Take Readers Through Death to Reach New Life

Story is a life, death, rebirth cycle. Stories must confront death if they are truly to offer life. Truly heroic stories, at whatever scale, are ultimately about facing down something within us that must die.

Heroism rises from the darkness of our despair in the face of death. If there is no death, no darkness, then there is no heroism. One is the shadow of the other. And while not every heroic story needs to plumb the depths, I think it is a true statement that the darker the pit, the greater the heroism—the starker the archetype.

6. Let Goodness Be Genuinely Good

Sometimes—not always, but sometimes—complexity is overrated.

This isn’t to say dimensionality is overrated. We want to see characters we can believe in as real people, not just goody-goody caricatures. But sometimes we just want to see a good person making the right choices in the face of hard consequences.

In many ways, archetypes are very simple things. They may arise from complexity; they may demonstrate dimensionality. But they simply are what they are.

And sometimes, it’s just nice to root for someone whose archetype is also that of goodheartedness and sincerity and devotion. There’s power in seeing that goodness tested and strained by the harshest realities—and watching it still win out in the end.

***

I watched Pursuit of Jade because I wasn’t feeling well and sat down looking for something to help me pass the time for a few days. What I found was a delightful experience that entertained me, touched me, delighted me. That would have been gift enough.

But thanks to the synchronicity of my having binged it right before something memorably frightening (if thankfully anticlimactic), it has become more than that to me. It moved from entertainment to experience.

Like other stories before it, it met me where I was and reminded me that story was, is, and has always been my language. It is our language. It is the language with which we speak to and (sometimes) encourage one another. But it is also the language that lets us speak beyond ourselves.

Through the stories we tell and receive, we speak to each other beyond our simplistic and often limited capacity to engage and interface with the strangeness of existence. When we tell stories, one archetypal imagination speaks to another—and sometimes that is a transformative gift beyond anything either teller or listener can predict.

Want More?

At their deepest level, heroic stories invite us into an inner way of being that chooses courage, integrity, and growth even when the path is difficult. This is what I explore in the Ego-Driven Character Arcs vs. Soul-Driven Character Arcs masterclass I taught earlier this year.

In it, we look at two fundamentally different models of transformation: stories in which change is forced upon a character through crisis, and stories in which characters consciously choose growth because they’re already in relationship with a deeper Truth.

We also explore how these two arc types diverge structurally, how they integrate with the Lie/Truth model, and how they can deepen both your story’s theme and its mythic resonance. This class offers a practical framework for writing the kind of heroic journeys that can impact people in same way I talk about being impacted in this post.

Available on-demand here.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Why do you think we need heroic stories, and what are some of your favorite heroic stories or characters that have stayed with you long after you finished them? Tell me in the comments!

Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

___

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The post Why We Need Heroic Stories: The Courage We Borrow From Fiction appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

What happens to your creativity when you’re in pain or sick, and can you ever get it back? How can you find and sharpen your author voice? J. Daniel Sawyer talks about voice mastery, writing with chronic pain, and building an eclectic author business.

In the intro, leaning into your Strengths and deciding what you want to achieve by the end of the year; and Bones of the Deep by J.F. Penn.

Today’s show is sponsored by ProWritingAid, writing and editing software that goes way beyond just grammar and typo checking. With its detailed reports on how to improve your writing and integration with writing software, ProWritingAid will help you improve your book before you send it to an editor, agent or publisher. Check it out for free or get 15% off the premium edition at www.ProWritingAid.com/joanna

This show is also supported by my Patrons. Join my Community at Patreon.com/thecreativepenn 

J. Daniel Sawyer is the author of over 30 books across science fiction, fantasy, crime, short stories, and nonfiction, as well as being a podcaster and filmmaker. His latest book for authors is The Pitch-Perfect Author: Voice Mastery for Writers.

You can listen above or on your favorite podcast app or read the notes and links below. Here are the highlights and the full transcript is below. 

Show Notes

• Writing fiction through chronic pain and re-emerging into health after surgery
• How your physical health shapes (and darkens) your fiction
• Rebooting an author business around a weekly Substack column
• What author voice really is, and why it’s fundamentally about sound
• The building blocks of voice: functional vocabulary, dialect, and musicality
• The “crossing the line twice” trick for hearing your own voice objectively

You can find Dan at JDsawyer.net or on Substack.

Transcript of the interview with J. Daniel Sawyer

Jo: J. Daniel Sawyer is the author of over 30 books across science fiction, fantasy, crime, short stories, and nonfiction, as well as being a podcaster and filmmaker. His latest book for authors is The Pitch-Perfect Author: Voice Mastery for Writers. So welcome back to the show, Dan.

Dan: Hello, Joanna. It’s good to be back.

Jo: Goodness me, you have been on the podcast a few times, but actually, the last time was April 2017, which is crazy. It’s nine years ago. When I saw your book, I was like, “I can’t believe we haven’t talked for that long.” For anyone who doesn’t know you, tell us a bit more about—

What does your creative and author business look like these days?

Dan: Oh, well, these days it’s in a state of recovery because it basically ground to a halt while I was dying a few years ago. It turned out I had an organ disease from the time I was a kid that I didn’t know about, and it just progressively got worse and worse, putting me in more and more pain.

I hit a point around about 2020 or so where I was in so much pain that I couldn’t write fiction.

I continued to write nonfiction, but when you’re carrying around a lot of physical pain, there comes a point where so much of your brain’s activity goes into coping with it that you actually lose the ability to model other people’s emotional states—or at least well enough to write fiction.

So I was very frustrated, and I was despairing that I was ever going to be a novelist again. Then suddenly, what I was sick with went acute. I went to the emergency room, and they’re like, “Oh, if you don’t have surgery in the next 24 hours, you’re going to die.”

So I went and got surgery, and there was one bed in the whole state. There was a three-hour drive to get to the one that was available in the time window. I get there. They wheel me into the OR. I wake up afterwards, and I realise that I’m not in pain, and that I had never felt that before in my adult life.

Jo: Wow.

Dan: Just the walls of my whole reality came caving in. Two weeks later, I was back up and working, and since then I’ve been slowly reacquiring my ability to write fiction.

So now I’ve got four novels going again, like I used to have going all the time, as well as doing a weekly column and all sorts of other stuff.

Jo: I think a lot of people will be interested in this. A lot of writers have chronic pain issues or chronic health issues, and yours sounds like it was a sort of down, down, down, down—and then more of a sudden up.

Maybe just talk a bit more, because I feel like a lot of the time people are too hard on themselves about, “Oh my goodness, if I can’t write fiction, is it the end of everything?”

So how did you adapt to that, with the mental health aspect of dealing with that change in circumstance?

Dan: Well, it was happening so gradually, and it happened at the same time that a whole bunch of other weirdly stressful things happened, like COVID and a couple of family emergencies that derailed my whole life for a couple of years. I assumed it was just really bad stress that would pass with time.

So I had the despairing feeling, because when you write fiction, it tends to occupy a central place in your self-concept. I’d also been through very tough times before, so I was like, “Well, got through that then, maybe I’ll get through this now.”

I just made sure to keep writing something, because at least you keep the discipline of the words flowing. There was still thought going on, so I would have ideas for novels and write them down. There were good days and bad days.

Occasionally I would sit down and be like, “I feel like fiction today,” and I would write a couple thousand words, and then it would be 10 months before I could do that again.

When you work with your mind, it is really easy to develop or sink into the delusion that your mind is not your body.

Now, if you’re paralysed or you’re missing limbs, you can still write—but your mind and your body are a single system, and eventually, if something terrible is wrong with your body, it’s going to affect your cognition, your emotive abilities, and all the things that we depend on for creativity.

That doesn’t necessarily mean that if you’re sick or injured, or you’ve got chronic health problems from birth, that you can’t write. It just means that it really is one of the factors that goes into shaping your experience of the world, that goes into shaping the way you process things and they come out on paper.

When there’s a massive change in your health, it’s going to show up in your fiction somehow. If your health goes way down, especially if you get into a lot of pain or you have a terminal illness, your fiction’s going to get darker.

One of the reasons—I discovered this after I got my surgery—one of the reasons is that the sense of impending doom is actually a medical symptom of organ death.

Jo: Well, don’t say that to a dark writer like me. I have a sense of impending doom the entire time.

Dan: Well, there’s a cognitive sense of impending doom that you get if you’re modelling systems and you see how things can go wrong.

But the sense that you feel the claws of demons grasping at your heart all the time—that can be a medical symptom. So pay attention to that. I didn’t know that until afterwards, or I’d have gotten looked at a lot sooner.

Jo: That is really interesting. You mentioned there you are reacquiring the ability to write fiction, or that’s what you’ve been focusing on. You also talked about having to reboot the business.

So what are some of the concrete things you’re doing to rebuild?

Dan: Well, the first thing I did is I allowed myself to get talked into doing a weekly Substack column a couple of years ago, and that’s worked out really well.

Pay is pretty decent. I’ve been posting most everything for free except for some previews of upcoming books, but I’m now learning the art of paywalling, so that also helps.

Getting paid for the weekly column is quite nice, and a side effect is that it does drive people occasionally to the fiction, even though I’m writing nonfiction.

It more frequently drives people to the nonfiction books, but it gives me a good place to announce new releases, to promote book bundles, Kickstarters, and all that sort of thing.

It’s a very good place for that because the people who are subscribing there—especially the people who are subscribing and supporting—are interested enough in what I’m saying that they want my email every week. So it’s a good filtering mechanism for building the email list as well.

Jo: You used to do a lot of audio. That’s how we connected way back, like 17 years ago, I think, when we first connected.

So are you still doing a lot of audio?

Dan: I am not at the moment. It’s not because of a decision to drop the audio. It’s because I am now building my house, and I don’t have a place that’s quiet enough to record dependably.

I’m living in a little RV at the moment while I build the house. In the deep winter, everything is quiet enough in the forest to record some things, and so I do audiobooks for clients, and I work on audiobooks of my own that are coming out.

It’s not quiet enough to podcast, and it’s not quiet enough to be recording any other time than when the whole world is asleep. Hopefully by next year I will have the recording studio building built, and then I’ll be back at it. Because boy, I miss it.

Jo: I know. So you mentioned there bundles and Kickstarters and things, and we reconnected because I bought a StoryBundle, and your new book, The Pitch-Perfect Author, was in the StoryBundle, which was part of why I bought it anyway. So let’s get into the book and what’s useful. Let’s start with—

What is author voice anyway, and why is it important?

Dan: Author voice. Everything about the way that you write is part of your author voice. The themes that you gravitate to, the way that you turn a phrase, the way that you tell a joke, the way that you handle dramatic tension.

When all of that combines, it creates in the reader’s mind an emotional fingerprint, a gestalt that says, “This is a Joanna Penn book. This is a Dan Sawyer book,” or whoever.

When you bring the focus down further, author voice is fundamentally an auditory phenomenon. You can see this if you look at the careers of writers who had major worldview shifts during their career, or who shifted genres.

If you read an Isaac Asimov mystery, and you read Asimov’s Guide to the Bible, and you read Isaac Asimov’s The Robots of Dawn, they’re all Asimov. You can hear him talking to you through all of those different venues.

So author voice is not a genre thing. It’s not dependent on content. It has to do fundamentally with how your brain processes language and how it comes out of your mouth.

That, in turn, is based on patterns that were laid down when you were pre-verbal as an infant. You learned language by mapping the music of the conversations around you, and then gradually learning that the sing-song you were hearing corresponded to ideas. That’s how the brain bootstraps itself into language.

So when you start writing, just like when you start speaking, you wind up imitating a lot—unconsciously—the people you’ve read and heard, because that’s how you develop your voice.

There comes a point at which all the various influences on you, and who you are, and how they pass through you, crystallises into something definite.

By the time you’re a moderately competent writer, and you’re finishing novels and short stories well, your author voice is pretty well established. But that doesn’t mean it’s sharp, because most people don’t actually concentrate on learning to hear their author voice, so they can’t tell when it’s off.

This is why new writers who revise a lot tend to revise their voice right out. When they write, they’re using language as feels right to them, but when they read, they’re reading it like an English teacher, or through the lens of someone who has very definite ideas about how grammar should work in all circumstances.

So they tend to smooth the quirkiness out of their voice, and what you get is something flat. It doesn’t feel alive. It may convey information, it may tell a good story, but it doesn’t feel like you’re entering something that’s living.

Jo: I think this is so difficult, especially for people who are new to writing. Because I remember very much spending the first few years going along to writers’ conferences, and there were always sessions on “you must find your writer’s voice.”

You must find your author’s voice, and we publish books because of the voice, and all this. It was very, very confusing to me. As you say, it has to emerge somehow, and yet that emergence seems to be very hard to accept.

So what are some of the ways we can perhaps think about voice?

You mentioned there some patterns. You talk about music. So what are some of those angles? In the book, you have different chapters on all of these things, but maybe just talk more about some of the elements.

Dan: The first and most obvious is functional vocabulary. This is not the number of words that you know. These are the words that you can reach for in the moment. You can expand your functional vocabulary by deliberately using more words—burnish your inner thesaurus.

The greater your functional vocabulary is, the more your personality is going to come out through your voice. When you’ve got more options to do something that’s just the way that you want to do it, the closer it’s going to be to the way you want to do it.

So there’s functional vocabulary. There’s your native dialect and accent. You, being British, have a different set of preferred terms for everything than I, being a West Coast American, do.

One of the great differences that’s always visible between an English writer and an American writer is that you guys have a different way of speaking.

When you speak of a difference between one thing and another, you talk about how this car is different to that car. And Americans say this car is different from that car. It always marks out a British writer versus an American writer.

There are 100 little things like that. They happen not just between major countries, but within regions in every country. You could tell on paper the difference between someone from Yorkshire and someone from London, just as I can tell on paper the difference between someone from the West Coast and someone from Mississippi.

Even if they’re highly educated, the idiom, the preferred turns of phrase, the preferred imagery—all of that is going to be a little bit different, and it conveys that regionality.

There’s also the musicality of the language. This is the actual rhythm of the words with which you speak. When you learn to analyse poetry or to write poetry, you learn something called scansion.

How a poem scans is—what are the beats of the lines, how are the beats of the lines related to each other, and how does the rhyme move in and out of that?

A Shakespearean sonnet, or a sonnet from the Elizabethan era, has a specific metre, a specific number of lines, and a specific rhyme scheme, and the metre is iambic pentameter.

An iamb is “bum-bum,” if I remember right. It’s the rhythm of the heartbeat. It’s “bum-bum, bum-bum, bum-bum.” And you can hear it in the name of the metre, the iamb. The iambic pentameter is where the stressed syllable is the second syllable and the unstressed syllable is the first syllable.

All of Shakespeare is written in blank verse, which is unrhymed iambic pentameter. The pentameter is five feet per line, so one iamb is “bum-bum”—that’s one foot—and five of those makes one line of Shakespeare.

We all have inherent rhythms like that in the way we naturally speak, but we can also tweak those rhythms on purpose to achieve dramatic effect.

The iamb has the sound of the heartbeat. It’s a very reassuring speech rhythm.

The trochaic is a much more rapid one—it mirrors the rhythm of a rapidly beating heart. So you see this a lot in Edgar Allan Poe, especially in his frenetic poems like “The Bells,” how they jingle, jingle, jangle on a hoary moonless night. There’s a rushing sound to that metre.

You’re going to find that you will automatically do a little bit of this, just the way that you’ll automatically have picked up the convention of breaking sentences up into shorter lengths during really exciting or suspense-filled parts of your book.

Once you know what it is, you can start to use it on purpose. Quite a lot of developing your voice is learning to recognise these latent, existing qualities in the way you communicate, and sharpening them up and making them conscious tools that you can pull in whenever you want.

Jo: On the one hand, there are a lot of technical words there that are really interesting, and maybe poets know a lot more of those words than most other writers. The book is really interesting in that way—kind of learning about these different things.

I guess I want to reassure people as well that, as you said, some of this can be unconscious. So often when I’m self-editing and I’m reading a sentence to myself, there’s something that doesn’t feel right about it. So I will rewrite that sentence so that it feels right.

Sometimes we do something that might be grammatically less correct, but it sounds better than it did before.

So many of these things we almost know instinctively, just from reading so much.

Dan: Oh, yes. From reading so much and talking so much, and again, from the way you acquire language. That gives you a template in your head of what sounds right.

Language is inherently musical. So if you’ve ever listened to a song—especially one that wasn’t recorded by a professional, but someone singing in a church choir, or your kid practising for a recital, or you practising for a recital—you know that feeling that happens when someone hits a wrong note.

There’s that little wince down in the core of your being, and then the song carries on and you forget about it, unless there are too many of them, in which case you just sort of cower and ooze out of the room.

That feeling of “Ooh, someone just hit a wrong note”—that’s exactly the feeling you get when you’re reading through to edit your work and something is off in the technical layer of your voice.

You should pay attention to that and rewrite so that it feels good, or feels great, which is even better.

You’ve got the opposite of the wince, which is that sense of rapture and joy if you’re listening to a professional musician and they go on an amazing guitar solo, or a flautist does an incredible trill that just sends shivers up your spine.

That sense of excitement and joy—that’s what happens when you’re reading and the author does something with the language that makes the whole piece fly. So you want to be paying attention for those too, because those you’ll commit without intending to.

When you’re reading back and you find those, you want to make note of them, because that’s you seeing where you are at your strongest with your voice.

By learning both where you’re making mistakes and where you’re being brilliant—just like with anything else—you can start to advance towards being brilliant more often and making fewer mistakes.

Jo: Then there’s a difficulty around where the line is, especially when you’re an early-stage writer. Many people work with editors, and you mentioned the problem of revising your voice away, and that may also happen if you’re working with an editor.

Like you said, as a Brit, I work with an American editor, Kristen, and she’s excellent. She’s very, very good at letting my voice be my voice, and then fixing things that make it better. But a lot of people don’t feel that way about their editors.

So how can people understand where those lines are between being well-edited and becoming a better writer, and then needing to hold the line on their voice?

Dan: It really helps if you understand where you are weak. Why are you hiring the editor in the first place?

I’m a big believer in the utility of having other eyes on the manuscript, but it’s really important to know what you’re looking for from them. You and I have both been to the Oregon Coast writing seminars, back when that was a thing.

Jo: Mm.

Dan: One of the things they would talk about with editors is when you’ve got a story editor or a beta reader who says, “Hey, something here didn’t work in the story for me,” you usually don’t want to look at that point. You want to trace back from that point to figure out where you set the wrong expectation.

Any editorial feedback is going to have a gap between what they notice and what really needs to be fixed.

As a writer, learning to interpret the feedback properly so that you actually elevate the material, instead of interpreting the feedback like you’re trying to do customer service for an employer, where you just want to make the customer happy, is a really important skill to develop.

That’s regardless of whether the feedback has to do with voice or plot or characterisation or whatever. Some editors are really good at back-tracing and actually spotting the real problem.

Editors make their money, or get hired, or get picked by you to volunteer, because they’re good at being an audience—not because they’re good at being a writer. So learning to interpret the editorial feedback is a really important step in that maturation journey.

Jo: Yes.

I think “maturation journey” is a good way to put it.

Personally, I think it was around book five when I really felt, “Okay, now I see what my voice actually is.” Like, it had to be five novels, and then I was like, “Okay, now I know.”

I just didn’t get it before then, and then finally—I don’t know—a penny dropped or something. Maybe I grew into it, grew more confident, that kind of thing.

Dan: Yes, and that’s actually about right. If you look at writers with a big catalogue, five books in is usually where they start really sounding like them. So that’s a pretty normal maturation curve.

There is a way to speed it up, which is to read your books aloud—or even better, make audiobooks and then listen to them a thousand times. Listen to them until you are sick of them, and then listen to them until you start to like them again.

Jo: That’s a lot.

Dan: It’s a lot, but there’s a really specific neurological mechanism at work. You’re familiar with the comedy term “crossing the line twice,” right?

Jo: Not really.

Dan: Okay. Have you seen the Monty Python Spam sketch?

Jo: Yes.

Dan: Okay. So for those of you who have not seen this—in the Monty Python Spam sketch, there’s a couple, they’re in a diner, and everything on the menu has spam in it.

They say the word “spam” so much that you just want to shoot your television. But they keep it up, and then suddenly, at some point—it’s a different point for everybody watching—they keep it going on long enough that everybody gets there.

At some point, the word “spam” itself becomes hilarious, and you can’t stop laughing, and you don’t know why, because it shouldn’t work, but goddammit it really does.

It’s so funny that we named junk email “spam” after this sketch, because it’s a whole bunch of stuff that you don’t want, but it keeps showing up anyway. That’s crossing the line twice.

What’s going on is that your brain is getting accustomed to a sound. It has extracted all of the meaning it can, and so it’s doing what it does with all sensory input. When it thinks it’s got it mapped out, it’s trying to filter it.

Unless you are going to sit and concentrate on it, you can’t feel the texture of the fabric of your clothing on the back of your legs, because your brain—despite the fact that it’s getting that input all the time—is filtering that out, because it needs you to have your resources free for thinking.

When you experience something over and over and over, no matter what it is or how complex it is, the brain habituates like that. But if that signal refuses to be filtered, and the input keeps coming, and it keeps getting more intense, or it stays persistent and it’s too complex to filter easily, your brain starts to think, “Oh, maybe I shouldn’t be filtering this out.”

“Maybe there’s meaning here that’s important for my survival that I hadn’t extracted.” And so suddenly it starts searching for meaning to associate with that sensation—and that’s the point at which the joke becomes funny again, or you start to experience your voice as if it’s somebody else’s.

When you begin to experience your author voice as if it’s somebody else’s, you can hear it as a distinct, objective style, rather than just as an echo of the voices that are in your head.

That’s why music students practise over and over and over, even on a piece they know cold. They’re doing the same trick that I’m advocating with listening to your audiobooks until you’re not sick of them anymore.

Jo: I mean, I think that’s terrifying, because I just don’t want to listen to my books over and over again. I think it’s very interesting that you think it could shortcut that voice process.

Staying on audio—since we last spoke, I have done a lot of my own audiobook narration, mainly for nonfiction, but also my short stories. I haven’t done my full-length fiction.

What I discovered in doing this is that what read fine to me when I was self-editing my own work on the page—and obviously I’m hearing it in my head—when I perform the audiobook, I actually have to edit things again.

So what are some of your tips for how we can bridge that gap?

Because that’s kind of strange.

Dan: So what’s happening is that there’s a much wider latitude of things that work on the page than what works with voice. The reason is that with voice, all of those rhythmic elements I was talking about before are really pronounced, as well as all the sensual elements.

Basically every word and sound has a mouth shape. The mouth shape affects the emotional valence of the sound.

Stuff that’s unpleasant tends to have a really close-in feel—I’m trying to scrunch my face up—where you would grit your teeth and scrunch up your face if something is unpleasant. And if something is really pleasant, it tends to have a rounded feel, and our language reflects it.

In fact, all languages reflect this, because language is a physical thing that’s based on the sensuality of the body.

So, like, in all cultures “mama” is the word for mother that babies first say, regardless of what it is. It has a round feel, because babies associate their mother with roundness. A lot of language is built up that way, from baseline sensual cues.

When you’re working just in text, that aspect is not nearly as obvious to you. When you’re reading, it’s not as obvious to you. It’s still at play, but when you go to do something verbally, and you go to read a text, all of those sensual cues come in at the same time.

Then the rhythm comes in hard, and you suddenly realise that—hey, that conveys the thought, but it doesn’t feel right. So you wind up retooling a bit. There’s also occasionally tongue twisters, which you have to work your way around. So that’s why that happens.

Jo: Then I guess another thing—I hear quite often, people say, “Oh, I don’t like my voice.” And they mean, “I don’t like speaking out loud. I don’t want to be on video. I don’t want to be on audio.” I wonder—

Does that sort of resistance potentially affect their writing voice? Are there ways people can get over that feeling?

Dan: Yes, for sure. There are a few things that go into that. One is basic self-loathing. A lot of people carry it around. Most people learn to make a decent life even though they kind of secretly suspect that they’re not worth anything, or they secretly find themselves revolting.

That kind of thing you can’t really fix with exercises. That’s something you fix with —

Jo: Therapy.

Dan: Psychological work, or spiritual work, or that kind of thing.

Jo: Yes.

Dan: But the not liking the sound of your own voice—that’s easy to fix. Here’s why it happens. When you’re listening to your voice as you speak, the bones in your head are amplifying the bass signals and attenuating the treble.

It’s kind of like if you were to shout in another room and your spouse hears you, but they can’t make out the consonants. That’s because all the consonants are being filtered out by the wall in between, but the bass is being resonated through. The same thing happens in your head.

So when you get on a microphone—especially if it’s an accurate microphone—you’re suddenly hearing what everybody else hears when you speak, and it sounds thin and tinny and unpleasant compared to what you’re used to hearing.

The really easy way to get around this is to get a microphone that is tuned for singers. The condenser mic that I have isn’t made anymore, so I can’t really recommend a good condenser mic.

If you’re on a dynamic mic, the Shure SM58 is the one to use. I podcasted with that for years before I could afford an upgrade. It is tuned for singers to sound as good as possible without any other help from the sound engineer, which means that the baseline sound for that microphone is what you’re hearing in your head.

If you use the right equipment, you get around that problem really quickly, to the extent that you can technically. Then after that, it’s just a matter of crossing the line twice.

You listen to yourself enough that you stop hearing, “Oh my God, I’m talking,” and you start hearing, “Oh, that voice is making this sound.” And once you hear, “Oh, it’s that voice making this sound,” you don’t have that problem anymore, ever again.

Jo: Oh, good. Well, hopefully that’s fixed it for people. And of course, there are lots of brilliant things in the book, The Pitch-Perfect Author.

Before we finish up, I did want to return to your Substack. I was having a look at it, and it includes some really interesting things. Like, you’re doing this metalwork, which is really cool.

It felt coherent to me, because I know you, and you’re a polymath, and you’re interested in so many things. So your Substack kind of stood out to me as quite eclectic, compared to, say, other writers who are going on Substack to try and sell specific books.

So is this a deliberate marketing choice, or is it just be an interesting person and you will attract people who are interested more generally?

Dan: Well, I suppose it kind of winds up being the latter, but basically it’s that I get bored easily. If I’m going to be writing every week, I need to stay interested in it.

One of the books I wrote when I was really sick—that’s not out on the market yet, but it is serialised on Substack—is a guide to self-education. It’ll be coming out later this year on the general market. It’s called Reclaiming Your Mind: An Autodidact’s Bible.

I talk in there quite a bit about the illusion of discrete areas of knowledge. There is a level of learning at which the silos of information start to collapse together. Woodworking and writing have a lot to do with each other.

A lot of the terminology we use in writing is pulled from the trades—especially woodworking, and metalworking, and gunsmithing.

As you begin to spot these connections between different areas of knowledge, it becomes really easy to slide between them for your hobbies, for your writing, for just your personal gratification.

As I’ve gotten older—and also as I’ve gotten access to a little space that’s not contained within a teeny little apartment—I have just gone with it.

As I’ve discovered, “Hey, this thing is tangentially connected to this other thing over here,” I’m like, “Oh, well, I’m going to go over to this other thing and see what’s over there.” It’s tremendously creatively fertile.

Since a lot of the things that our language connects us to have to do with trades and crafts and nature, it gets you out in the open air, which is really good for any writer—because sitting at a desk all day is worse than smoking three packs of cigarettes a day for 40 years.

Jo: I love that.

Dan: My curiosity is the chief feature of my Substack, and it kind of works for me as a writer, because it’s also one of the chief features of my fiction.

Jo: Me too, and I was actually quite inspired by your Substack. Because I think this happens when you’ve been in the writing industry long enough.

Substack has become the sort of trendy place to be now.

People are going into specific niches, very much like blogging did, and then podcasting had to be on a specific niche, and all this.

Of course, we know logically that, marketing a book—you know, if you had just a Substack on voice mastery, then for sure that would be a better marketing vehicle. But, as you say, how boring.

Dan: Well, it depends a lot on what you’re trying to cultivate as an author. If you’re a single-genre author with a very narrow niche, and you’re really happy writing that kind of stuff, then a narrow column supporting it is not a bad idea.

Especially when you serialise old novels, once you’ve got 20 or 30 under your belt. That’s not a bad idea, because you’re trying to attract people who want one thing and want it regularly.

If I were to get a reader who wants one thing and wants it regularly, and finds it, say, in my Clarke Lantham mysteries, and then they hop over to my science fiction—oh boy, are they going to be pissed.

If they’re not there for my voice, and they’re just there for the way I write a mystery plot, then not only are they not going to get what they’re looking for—but they’re going to start to doubt whether they can trust that they’re going to get what they’re looking for in my next mystery.

Whereas if they’re coming to me through something where the multiplicity of what I’m doing is on display—whether that’s this Substack, or whether that’s what I used to do on The Every Day Novelist when I was podcasting that, or whether it’s what I did with all the after-shows on my fiction podcast when I was doing that—then they kind of know what they’re in for.

The people who stick with me are more likely to be people who are in it for the experience of my voice. And for my bibliography, that’s what I’ve got to offer, because I’m all over the place in terms of genre and subject matter.

Jo: Yes, which is why I find you interesting.

Dan: Oh, why thank you.

Jo: So where can people find you and your books online?

Dan: Well, you can find pretty much everything at JDsawyer.net.

I’ve got the weekly column at jdanielsawyer.substack.com. At jdsawyer.net there’s a page with all of my podcasts on it, and there’s also a store with all of my books on it. Of course, everything is also available on Amazon and just about everywhere that the distributors take you.

Jo: Brilliant. Well, thanks so much for your time, Dan. That was great.

Dan: Thank you, Joanna. It was great to talk to you again.

The post Author Voice Mastery, And Rebooting an Author Business With J. Daniel Sawyer first appeared on The Creative Penn.

Note From KMW: Over the years, I’ve learned there is a difference between cultivating discipline as a writer and forcing it. Like many writers (especially those of us who came of age during the early years of the indie boom), I spent much of my career believing success required constant hustle. Push harder. Write faster. Do more.

That approach works for a while. But eventually, many of us discover the cost. As we’ve talked about before, burnout has become an increasingly common conversation among writers, and it’s one I’ve spoken about from personal experience. I’ve become increasingly interested in what makes a sustainable writing routine—not just one that helps us finish books, but one that supports a creative life over the long haul.

What life keeps teaching me is that creativity has its own rhythms. The older I get, the more I find myself paying attention to natural cycles rather than trying to override them. There are seasons for effort and seasons for rest, seasons for producing and seasons for replenishing. Honoring those rhythms allows discipline to work in partnership with something deeper.

When Brian Hicks approached me with the idea for today’s post, we had a conversation about why finding the motivation to write is really about understanding how to create a writing life that is sustainable over the long haul.

In today’s post, Brian explores this idea through the metaphor of the seasons and a farmer’s relationship to the land. He offers a framework for thinking about drafting, revision, publishing, and rest as distinct parts of a larger creative cycle.

Whether you’re struggling to finish projects, feeling exhausted by the pressure to constantly produce, or looking for a more sustainable writing routine, he offers plenty of food for thought.

***

I’ve found that most authors—particularly Indies—mistakenly believe there are two types of writers: the hard-driving, rapid-release, all-gas, no-brakes writer versus the slow-grinding, perpetually drafting, angst-ridden, soon-to-be former writer.

The implication is that Type 1 will always be successful and Type 2 can never be.

I humbly submit that neither type is built for success. Type 1 burns out while Type 2 never heats up—but the eventual result for both is the same.

There’s a third, saner, author type, one that doesn’t require you to write at such a manic pace or beat yourself up when you don’t.

Both types are missing a reliable, consistent writing rhythm. I’d like to share my writing routine with you today in the hopes it will restore your sanity (and confidence) the same way it did mine.

I call it Writing the Seasons.

The Four Seasons of Writing: A Sustainable Writing Routine for Authors

We often write inconsistently because we’re managing multiple calendars: day job, kids’ activities, church responsibilities, book club, and on and on it goes. We tend to write with a snatch-and-patch process that has us grabbing a few minutes late at night and early in the morning, between calls at work, and while sitting in the bleachers at ball practice.

We’re trying to write in the margins of our already bloated schedules, and we look up a decade later, wondering why we can’t finish… or maybe it’s just me.

It’s not just me.

When we write without a consistent, reliable rhythm, we shouldn’t be surprised when the results are inconsistent and unreliable. When, however, we create a consistent, reliable rhythm, our results will be… wait for it… consistent and reliable.

And you know what’s the most consistent and reliable thing I know? The laws of nature.

We all know there are four seasons. We know this because, weather jokes aside, every year we experience all four of them—and in a very specific order.

How often does summer follow spring? Every time. For how many years? Every one, for all of recorded history. We don’t get to order two springs, a fall, and one good snow at Christmas, which is good, because we need all four seasons to make this thing work.

So, the seasons teach us the value of order. Although it may not necessarily mirror the natural calendar, our seasonal writing calendar follows that same rhythm to keep us focused and productive without burning us out.

Here’s how it works.

Spring: Drafting Your Novel

Nothing happens until seeds go in the ground, but they must go in the ground in spring. Spring doesn’t last forever though. It’s measured in mere weeks.

This is why farmers don’t vacation in the spring. They can’t just “plant later.” If they miss their window, they can tell you exactly what October will look like, and it isn’t pretty.

There’s an urgency to the spring.

And so it is for you and me. Nothing happens until words go on the page, and if we don’t create a spring for ourselves, we’ll keep finding excuses—and another year will pass without a novel.

Spring is your busy season. In spring, you lock in. No distractions. You delay that volunteer opportunity. You let the screen door squeak.

You ignore everything nonessential, and perhaps most importantly, you inform your family and friends that spring has sprung, and they won’t be hearing from you until “summer.”

Outlining Your Novel (Amazon affiliate link)

You’re outlining, crafting backstories, setting your writing schedule for each week, and, at the end of the season, you will have a completed first draft.

This begs the question: How long is spring?

The natural seasons are essentially 3 months each. But should your writing seasons be 3 months each? Not necessarily.

You may be a fast first drafter with no day job and an empty nest. Your first draft may take one month, max.

Conversely, you may be working two jobs, have four kids under age 8, and volunteer at the local food bank twice a week. You probably need a much longer spring. Regardless, the secret to making this work is putting an end date on the calendar.

Summer is coming. You must plan accordingly.

Summer: Revising and Strengthening Your Manuscript

Summer on a farm is equally serious but for different reasons. In summer, the seeds have been planted, and now the real work begins. You have to weed the garden, water it, and fight off all kinds of pestilence.

Sounds like the middle of your novel, right? This is where many of us get in trouble. The drought comes, and beetles show up—and we start to think, “I’ll just plant a new field over there and start fresh. Maybe I’ll come back to this one later…”

But on this farm, we don’t have that luxury. We planted soybeans in the spring. We’re getting soybeans in the fall.

I can hear my pantsers, “Are you saying I’m locked into this thing? Because ew, rules.”

Of course not. Your novel, your call. But at some point, we must commit to the story we started and see it through.

Summer will be hot and dry. It will test us. We’ll get beta reader feedback we don’t like. We’ll have to kill that darling that is possibly the finest prose ever put to paper.

But we have to trust that when we tend the crop we planted in spring, the miracle of the sun and the seed and the soil will produce something of which we can be proud.

How long is summer?

This is tough because the revision season isn’t as exciting as the drafting season, is it? It’s a slog, and often you’ll come to sort of hate your manuscript, calling it all manner of unflattering names. You’ll be tempted to take an extended break, which will turn your story into a perpetual WIP instead of a finished novel.

Again, that’s a personal decision, based on your process, but you must set an end date for summer before you start, and keep it sacred, no matter what.

Autumn, Publishing, Querying, and Sharing Your Work

Autumn is the culmination of all your hard work. It’s your reward for staying committed in the summer. It’s the time you query agents or publish your novel. I am well aware those things don’t always feel like rewards, but hear me out.

First, you’ve done it! Take a moment to celebrate. Frame the cover and hang it on your wall. Go out to a nice dinner. Do something to mark the moment.

Then acknowledge this fundamental law of life:

The reward for hard work is more work.

But just like a farmer wouldn’t plant and then not harvest the crop, we didn’t write all those words just to stick them in a drawer. We asked for this moment. It’s time to take the crop to market.

How long is autumn?

Autumn doesn’t have the hard end dates that spring and summer do, because we query and market until we see results. That’s a different topic for a different day, but please know the autumn continues even as next spring rolls around and you plant a new crop.

Winter: Resting, Learning and Preparing for the Next Book

Winter is when we rest. We take time to reflect on the crop. We catch up on podcasts, courses, and books on craft. We learn more about advertising and attracting readers.

Again, we’re still running campaigns or continuing to query, and we’re probably thinking about the next novel, though we’re not actively writing it. We’re taking some time to rest that part of our brain so we can go into next spring with renewed enthusiasm.

How long is winter?

And yes. Winter has an end date. Spring is indeed coming again, and the next crop will need to be planted.

How to Create a Seasonal Writing Routine Personalized for Your Life

The key to making this work is creating your seasonal calendar on a cycle that works with your real-life schedule. Start with your spring. The remaining seasons simply flow from that.

When setting your writing spring, you want to start at a time when your other calendars are slower. Consider the following:

• Do I have a busy season at work? (The classic example is the accountant during tax season.)
• Does my family calendar heat up/slow down at certain times of the year?
• Am I a fast drafter or a slow drafter?
• If I start my writing spring now, will it be over when my family/work calendars heat back up?

The goal is to start your spring at a time that naturally works with your current calendar. If your kids’ activities slow down in winter, for example, your writing spring might be January to March.

My wife is a teacher, so I would never set my writing spring during the actual summer months. When the school year ends, the energy in our house shifts, and everything slows down. It makes no sense to attempt a period of hyper-focused productivity during a time when I’m already off my game.

Once you’ve determined your spring, it’s time to consider how long each season should last. We touched on this earlier, but this is a very personal decision. I know some people who can run two full sets of seasons a year. I can’t pull that off. I need more time to draft and revise, so my spring and summer tend to be a solid 3 months each, like the natural seasons. You likely know what works for you. Don’t fight it; just create a calendar that puts deadlines on it.

Why a Sustainable Writing Routine Helps Authors Finish More Books

The 7 Laws of Motivation by Brian Cagneey

My hope for you is that before today ends, you’ll create your next seasonal writing calendar—literally. Your phone has a million different ways to set up recurring appointments. Pick one. Schedule your spring activities, then your summer, and so on.

Get specific. At the very least, schedule the start and end dates for each season. Put them on your calendar, with alarms and the whole nine yards.

Farmers are consistent and reliable producers because they have a consistent, reliable, sustainable process.

Let’s decide today to become more like farmers. When we do, we’ll stop quitting and start finishing.

P.S. Brian has a special FREE GIFT for Wordplayers! He’s recorded the audio version of this post, with extra content that takes a deeper dive into Writing the Seasons. Hope you enjoy! Claim your free audio here.

Want More?

Outlining Your Novel Workbook

One of the biggest reasons writers struggle to maintain a sustainable writing routine is that they begin drafting without a clear roadmap. When we’re uncertain about where a story is going, it’s much easier to lose momentum, get stuck in revision loops, or abandon projects altogether.

For help during the “spring” stage of your writing routine, the Outlining Your Novel Workbook offers a practical, hands-on way to develop your their stories before drafting, so you can move into the writing process with greater clarity, confidence, and purpose. Whether you’re a meticulous planner or a discovery writer looking for a stronger sense of direction, the workbook offers guided exercises designed to help you build a story that can carry you all the way from first idea to finished manuscript.

Available in paperback, e-book, and as a desktop app.

Wordplayers, tell us your opinions! What strategies have helped you create a burnout-free writing routine and stay consistent with your writing goals? Tell us in the comments!

The post The Four Seasons of Writing: How Authors Can Build a Burnout-Free Writing Routine appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

How do you write about the most painful experiences of your life without being overwhelmed by them? How can timed writing and a braided story help you untangle your hardest stories? With Nicole Walker.

In the intro, Self-Publishing Pop Up Books [Self-Publishing with ALLi]; New in KU [BookBub]; The solar sail theory of indie publishing [ProductiveIndieFictionWriter]; Bones of the Deep; Selfie Awards Shortlist 2026.

This episode is sponsored by Publisher Rocket, which will help you get your book in front of more Amazon readers so you can spend less time marketing and more time writing. I use Publisher Rocket for researching book titles, categories, and keywords — for new books and for updating my backlist. Check it out at www.PublisherRocket.com

This show is also supported by my Patrons. Join my Community at Patreon.com/thecreativepenn 

Nicole Walker is a nonfiction author, essayist, poet, and editor, as well as a creative writing teacher. Her latest book is Writing the Hard Stuff: Turning Difficult Subjects into Meaningful Prose.

You can listen above or on your favorite podcast app or read the notes and links below. Here are the highlights and the full transcript is below. 

Show Notes

• Why writing helps us understand “the puzzles of the universe” — and when to trust that intuition
• The braided essay: alternating between trauma and an everyday obsession to unlock the hard stuff
• How two-minute timed writing lets you go deep and then safely step back
• Rooting pain in the body, using the senses, scene, and dialogue instead of words like “trauma”
• Truth in memoir, big T versus little t, and the emerging genre of speculative nonfiction
• What actually sells books: pairing up on book tour and getting readers back out into the world

You can find Nicole and NikWalk.com.

Transcript of the interview with Nicole Walker

Jo: Nicole Walker is a nonfiction author, essayist, poet, and editor, as well as a creative writing teacher. Her latest book is Writing the Hard Stuff: Turning Difficult Subjects into Meaningful Prose. So welcome to the show, Nicole.

Nicole: Hi, Joanna. It’s so nice to be here.

Jo: I’ve lots to talk about, but first up—

Tell us a bit more about you and your journey into writing and publishing.

Nicole: I was always a writer. As all writers say, I’ve been writing since I was five. I kept little journals and things like that, and I was on the high school literary magazine.

I was an English major in college, but that was always tempered with some serious commitment to the sciences, to English literature, to German, to Spanish.

I had a wide variety of interests, but there was always something that tugged at me about writing that made me feel like, this is where I feel most at home. This is the way I like to understand the puzzles of the universe. This is how I make sense of the world—through writing.

So even though I got my BA in English at Reed College in Portland, Oregon, I stuck around Portland for a few years because I loved it. I worked for various non-profits, and that was great.

At some point I said, “I really want to take this seriously.” So I went ahead and applied to graduate school, and ended up in the University of Utah’s PhD programme, where I stayed for eight very lovely years.

I always recommend to my own students: never graduate. Stay in graduate school forever, because it’s such a beautiful place where people support your writing. You have professors who support it, but more importantly, you have your cohort.

To this day, I have so many great friends. You make a lot of friends if you stick around for eight years.

That sort of community-building is, I think, the other part of why I became a writer. Writing by myself is obviously a lonely business, and there’s a lot of internal struggle that happens with that.

I have found a literary community, both at the University of Utah and then growing from there, serving as president of the NonfictioNOW Conference, teaching my own graduate students, serving as the series editor for Crux, the imprint at the University of Georgia Press.

I feel like my world has expanded because of my writing. So that’s been a true gift.

Jo: Oh, I love that.

I love that you said you understand the puzzles of the universe through writing, and that this tugged at you. Could talk about that a bit more?

Because a lot of listeners, I think, sometimes mistrust that feeling. They think, “Oh, maybe I shouldn’t necessarily lean into that intuition.” It feels like you leaned very strongly into an intuition that this was the way.

Nicole: Yes, and this book in particular, Writing the Hard Stuff, takes that to heart. I think about writing the hard stuff as writing all kinds of tricky things—things that are really hard to communicate.

The book begins revolving around personal trauma. Things that happened in my childhood, as well as difficult subjects that happen to us when we’re growing up.

It also includes things like environmental issues and political issues: things that are really hard to talk about, that are philosophically difficult to express, that can be controversial, and that you can put people off by talking about.

One of the goals of the book—one of my own philosophies—is that by looking deeply into the knotted ball of string that is a kind of trauma or a kind of difficulty, and beginning to pull those strings out, that’s where you start to not only make meaning out of what happened to you, or what this particular problem is, but those strings themselves become connections.

I talk about Donna Haraway’s book Staying with the Trouble. It’s primarily about how we can overcome our political differences regarding climate change, and one of her examples is to change the way we think about narrative.

In Western thought, we often think there’s a beginning, a middle, and an end, and she brings up the Navajo game that we all know as cat’s cradle.

So if you think of that ball of knots—your trauma, your difficult subject—you start pulling out the strings, and then you start playing with it. With cat’s cradle, you make one design with your hands, and then a friend pulls it around and turns it into another design.

To me, that’s how reading and writing work. We share, and we build on each other’s ideas, but we’re always connected by those strings.

So if you have this difficult subject and you’re shying away from it, you’re losing, I think, some of the opportunity to make connections and to make sense of what that nest of string sitting in your stomach actually is.

Jo: I love that metaphor. I think it’s brilliant. I’ve never heard it described that way, and I think it’s fantastic. What’s interesting is that some people don’t have a mind’s eye—I know several listeners who don’t.

So while in my mind I’m picturing the ball of string and then the cat’s cradle, some people won’t be able to do that, which is also fascinating in terms of how people’s brains work.

In terms of how you’d recommend people think about it: this ball of string that we want to turn into a design like a cat’s cradle is a total mess. So where do we even start?

How do we know where to start pulling on the threads?

Because it might just feel like it’s out of control.

Nicole: Oh, I deeply appreciate both the idea that some people don’t have that mind’s eye, or just think differently. We all have different ways of imagining what we call our trauma, this nest of problems, this ball of string.

Of course a metaphor does oversimplify in some ways. I say, “Well, you just take one of the ends of the string and start pulling.” But practically, what does that really mean to do? There are a couple of things I suggest in the book and offer at workshops. One is an exercise I call writing the braided essay.

I ask the writer to sit down and think about a scene that was difficult in their life—something that had a lot of tension, that they’re really still struggling with, that they don’t love thinking about. I’m going to ask them to go there for just a couple of minutes.

Then there’s the other side of the braided essay: I ask them to think about something completely different, completely off-topic.

Perhaps a walk they took in the aspen grove, or what they were making for dinner last night, or perhaps they’re deeply invested in the networks of the blood in the human body—anything they’re fascinated and obsessed with.

I say, “Okay, I want you to write about your difficult subject for two minutes, but then I’m going to give you a break, and you’re going to pop over and talk about how you spent all day weeding your garden, and yet there are still weeds.”

Then I’m going to ask people to go back and talk about their difficult subject, and then go back and talk about their obsession with weeds. They write about each of these things for two minutes.

What happens—which I think is a pretty compelling experiment, from my point of view and from theirs—is that they write back and forth, and they’re able to take a break from the hard thing. They’re also tempted to go back to it once they’ve had that break in their research.

The other thing that happens—and, you know, every book in nonfiction has to have a colon, so of course it’s called Writing the Hard Stuff: Turning Difficult Subjects into Meaningful Prose—is that by going back and forth, you’ll see the connections these writers make.

They make connections with word choice, with verbs, with colours and different kinds of imagery. They start to make meaning between those two ideas. What happens to the writer then—and to me, when I’m doing it—is that I now have something that is constructed.

So it’s not just this knot in my stomach. It’s not just my interest in research. Now I’ve put these things together, and then I get to play. We get to the cat’s cradle part of the metaphor, where I really start thinking about craft issues.

Why did I happen to bring these two ideas together? What might they have in common? What does it mean that I’m telling the story of my parents’ divorce and my personal trauma, and in the research part I’m talking about weeds? Well, maybe I felt in the weeds.

You come up with some sort of overarching understanding of why you chose that research story, and it lets you go deeper into that personal trauma, now with some of the techniques of craft, which I think help shield you from some of the trauma and pain of that original hard story.

Jo: Again, I really love that idea.

Do you also think the timed writing actually helps people go deep and then withdraw a bit, which psychologically may help them write about these difficult subjects?

People are like, “I need to sit down for two hours and write about this deeply traumatic thing,” which of course feels like it’s going to be too hard. So perhaps that two-minute process actually releases people from that.

Nicole: Oh, absolutely. What a great way to think about it. It is prohibitive to sit down and think, “Okay, I’m going to go into the worst thing that ever happened to me and sit with it for two hours.”

Going back and forth, you create energy and tension. But also, nobody wants to sit with something by themselves for two hours. If you think of research as your companion—”I’m coming in there with you, buddy”—you have something to rely on, this other side of the story, and it gives you that space.

The timed writing, the two minutes, two minutes, two minutes, also reminds you that you don’t have to write for two hours straight any day. I have a goal where I write 500 words a day, which is mostly true, unless I’m really in the weeds.

We’ll use two metaphors today: we’ll use string, and now we’ll be using weeds. But when I’m really in the weeds teaching, or going around the country talking about books, I really do write 500 words a day. I often try not to write too much more, because sometimes it loses freshness, and it can be overwhelming.

So I really appreciate you saying that having that timed writing is important, but also that having that balance of deep emotional investigation with this more cerebral, informational crutch can really help you get into the subject and go deeper.

Jo: Yes, and perhaps it anchors the writing in something concrete. Because with memoir particularly—having also written one—it can be too easy to lean on big words like “pain” or “trauma,” but that’s actually meaningless in a book.

So why is it so important to be specific and concrete in our writing in order to convey these bigger topics?

Nicole: I think we know our own trauma. We know how it feels in our bodies, and we’ve been living with it for a long time. So it’s pretty hard to communicate it to others. Why does it matter to other people?

Of course it matters to you, but how are you going to convey the breadth of that trouble with words that aren’t rooted in the physical world?

The nice thing about rooting things in the physical world is that every one of us has a body. We have different bodies, but we share that in common. So it’s the old trope of using your senses first. What did it feel like?

If you can’t think of what part of your body it particularly hurts in, you have the availability of metaphor to describe how that might have felt. You have the opportunity to create scene.

This is particularly difficult for memoir writers, I think, because we imagine it’s the fiction folks who have to use dialogue, who have to have a setting, who have to put their bodies in a place.

Thatt’s one of my mantras when I teach: we need to be able to see where you are. We need to see what is physically happening, how the interactions work.

Dialogue, I think, is one of the best ways to literally get your body on the page—and to get your other characters, or subjects, on the page—because to speak, you have to have a body.

Once you start having dialogue, you can picture the way the speaker’s face moves, the way they cross their legs. You can even picture the colour of the paint behind them, or the kind of chair they’re sitting in. So dialogue is one of the first ways you can say, “All right, I must have a scene here.”

I can’t go on just telling people, “It was so traumatic. I suffered so much. It was terrible. I felt so much pain.” You can say that sometimes, that’s totally fair, but you have to pair it with that physical, concrete imagery, so other people can begin to understand what it felt like for you in your body, so they can feel it in their body.

Jo: Interesting that you bring up dialogue because one of the issues with memoir is—I’ve had people compare it to truth with a small “t” and truth with a big “T.” So you’re telling some kind of big truth about your life.

If you’re writing dialogue about something that actually happened to you, in memory, it’s very unlikely that it actually happened in that way, so it’s not necessarily small-“t” true. So on a practical note, what are your thoughts and tips on truth.

How do we tell our own story even if others don’t see it that way?

Nicole: This is a subject I’m deeply invested in right now. When I first started teaching creative nonfiction, it was at the height of the John D’Agata and David Shields questions. What is truth? Big T, little t? What am I obligated to do as a creative nonfiction writer?

I had a great friend, Angie Truong, who came to teach one of my classes, and she said, “Nonfiction is a pretty big spectrum. You have journalism on one end, and then you have the lyric essay on the other end.”

You imagine the lyric essay is full of metaphors and things like that, so you can approach truth. You’re saying, “This is what it felt like. This is what it seemed like.”

Check out my newest favourite thing. It’s called speculative nonfiction, and I use a little bit of this in my book How to Plant a Billion Trees, which Writing the Hard Stuff is somewhat based on.

I wrote them in tandem, which was a very strange and interesting and fun thing to do. But in How to Plant a Billion Trees I use this thing called speculative nonfiction, which goes even further along the spectrum, past the lyric essay, to this opportunity to use language like “perhaps,” “maybe,” “I imagined.”

So I have sections in my book where I can’t remember the dialogue exactly, but I know that the dialogue in some sense matters—that what might have been said will do much more to convey what was happening than my exposition over the matter.

By using those turns of phrase, you’re alerting your reader: “Dear reader, this definitely is not exactly what happened, but this is how I recall it.”

Then you’re being not only honest to the story and honest to your reader, but you’re also conveying the feeling and the mood of the event—that other kind of truth that memoir is really trying to get at. It was like this for me, which is why I think this way now.

It’s a fledgling genre. I just read a book by Laraine Herring called A Constellation of Ghosts: A Speculative Memoir with Ravens. It’s brilliant. It’s an amazing book that pairs her actual colonoscopy and discovery of colon cancer with the story of her dad, who has passed already and comes back as a raven and helps her through it.

So you’re pulling on some of the tools of fiction, which creative nonfiction already has been doing. But it does so in this bright and, I feel, incredibly ethical way.

You’re alerting your reader, “My dad is not really a raven.” But you’re also saying, “Oh my gosh, I sensed he was with me. I sensed every time a raven approached that I had somebody’s hand on my shoulder.”

That, to me, has been a lot of fun—a much more imaginative way of creating some of those scenes than doing something like, “Well, I don’t remember the dialogue.” Or, even worse—and we know people have been unethical in their approach—recreating the dialogue as if they’d had a tape recorder with them when they were 17 years old.

Jo: Mm.

Nicole: So I offer that as an option to your listeners, as something to experiment with. Allow yourself to have that imaginative opportunity to show the reader what it might have been like.

Jo: I love that. It’s interesting, you talk there about the spectrum of nonfiction, which is ridiculously big, as is fiction. Obviously these are very big. But I wonder if we do get hemmed in by genre.

I love the idea of a speculative memoir. I’m going to have to go read that book because I can’t even imagine what that really means. I feel hemmed in by my expectations of a memoir.

But then, from a business and marketing perspective—because we’re all trying to sell our books—

Do we risk not meeting the expectations of a reader of a genre that way?

Nicole: Right. One of the good and bad things about my literary career is that I’ve spanned a lot of genres. My PhD is actually in poetry. Nobody expects the full truth from poetry.

One of my poetry professors once said she wrote this really sad poem about her father’s death, and the audience was moved, and then her real father stood up and said, “Good job, daughter.” And someone in the audience was just shocked: “You just read a poem about your dead dad, and here he is!”

We have absolute expectations of genre, and expectations of truth, in everything we read. If you label it fiction, you’re kind of off the hook—even though, of course, fiction uses so many elements of nonfiction: so much research, so much information, so much personal memory to create those fantastic landscapes.

So when I think about how one sells one’s memoir, I do think you also have to acknowledge what you expect your audience to be. With Laraine Herring’s A Constellation of Ghosts, by putting “colon, a speculative memoir,” you’re alerting your reader to that possibility.

And because it’s a pretty far-out way of thinking right now, it probably does curtail some of the sales.

On the other hand, think of memoirs that are written for celebrities, and how many of them are ghostwritten—or written with other people, where the ghostwriter’s not even part of the thing—but it comes across as the most legit of all memoirs, because it’s a celebrity and we know them.

We associate their lives with their story, and their story must therefore be true. So I think, with all levels of creative nonfiction, it’s incumbent upon the writer to suggest right off the bat what kind of nonfiction they’re reading.

Are they reading journalism? Are they reading lyric essays? Are they reading speculative nonfiction?

I think a lot, too—as an editor for a literary series for nonfiction books—about what I look for in memoir. It’s something that takes the personal story and connects it into the larger conversation.

Even if the larger conversation is directly about what the main subject is about, to me it’s still about the crux of the matter. Why does your story make an impact on the world in this bigger way? How do you let the world inform your story? How does your past and your trauma, or your difficulties, connect to a larger world?

Jo: Mm.

Nicole: To me, that’s something some memoirs are capable of doing. Some memoirs are truly invested only in that personal story, which I think is totally legitimate too, because I love learning how people think. I love understanding. This is just how my brain works.

But in terms of sales? I don’t know. Again, as the series editor and as the seller of my own books, I think you can’t determine it in advance.

So you should probably write what you want to write, what feels right to you, using as many craft techniques as you can hone. But the market, to me, feels very non-negotiable. You never know exactly how things are going to turn out.

So I deeply believe: write the best, most well-crafted book you can, and I do think your readers will find you.

Jo: We’ll come back to marketing in a minute, but just returning to your own writing practice. I’ve got your book page up in front of me, and you’ve written all kinds of things: your essays, your memoirs, some fiction, and some poetry, as you mentioned.

So I wondered: when you’re researching something, or you’ve got a feeling about wanting to write, how do you choose the type of book you turn it into—or a poem, or an essay? Or do you pitch it as some kind of external work, or turn it into a workshop?

How do you turn an idea into what it will eventually be?

Nicole: I love that question because it’s somewhat of a mystery to me, but I think I’m getting close to understanding. It really is in those first few words, that first sentence, that I think, “Okay, I know which direction this is going.”

For example, the other day I woke up in the morning and thought, “All right, I’m writing this poem about how man took over for God, and that’s how the planet ended up being such a mess.”

So I started writing it, and it was pretty lyrical at the beginning. But then I started making full sentences, and explaining things a little bit more, and I thought, “Okay, this is not a poem. It’s going to be an essay.”

When I start writing fiction, I pull on something a little further, a little more distant from my experience, and then I pull it back into something more character-driven. For example, in a novel I’m writing, I begin with this whole story about McDonald’s and ravens, and then I pull it back into the character.

If I were to diagram the sentences between a poem, the nonfiction, and the fiction, I think I’d see fundamental differences between the three.

Jo: Do you work on multiple projects at the same time, or once you commit to something, is that what you finish?

Personally, I have lots of little things happening, and then a moment comes and I commit to a book, and I won’t stop until I’ve finished that book—the rest will have to wait. It’s that decision moment. How does it work for you?

Nicole: My process is pretty similar to yours. I have a number of ongoing projects, percolating here and there. Some days I’ll think, “All right, today feels like a fiction day.” But for the most part, you’re absolutely right.

There’s a bunch of little things I’m writing, or things I’m dabbling in, but once there’s a critical mass—which I’d say is around 20,000 words or something—I’m all in, and I’ve got to focus on this project.

Even though I think I can do whatever multitasking, really it’s important to try to maintain some sort of through-line in whatever project I’m working on. If I do that with too many projects, I lose that through-line.

I also worry sometimes that the projects start to sound too similar. So say I’m writing a nonfiction collection and a novel—if I go back and forth every other day, those sentence differences I’m talking about might start to collapse, and they become too similar. Then what the heck would I be writing? I don’t even know.

Jo: It’s interesting because you span academic publishing and, I guess, trade publishing—whatever you want to call it—where more non-academics read books. I’m just finishing up a master’s myself at the moment, and writing academic stuff is completely different to writing my other books.

So when you’re deciding on these books, are you aiming for a specific publication market—as in, you want an academic publisher, or you want a trade publisher?

How do you think about publishing in the process?

Nicole: As much as I once really wanted to find some ground as a scholarly and academic writer—and I really do love to write reviews of other people’s books, and Writing the Hard Stuff is a textbook that relies tremendously on so many other people’s books.

That is really important to me because that goes back to how one both creates and thanks one’s community for creating the literary world we live in—I feel like there’s a smaller audience for that sort of academic writing. But it’s something we should do.

As generous as you are here, for example, reaching out to other people about other people’s books is probably the kindest thing you can do. So I hope to continue to take time to do that and make it part of my repertoire.

It’s not as fun, I’d say, as the imaginative elements of writing creative nonfiction, or fiction, or poetry. That’s when I really love to groove and get into that mode of, “Oh, the words are coming. Oh, I never thought about it that way.”

With academic writing, I feel I sometimes write in a slightly more stilted voice. My friend Ander Monson, who teaches at the University of Arizona, has done a really great job of writing—whether it’s his personal essays or his critical essays—where he maintains the same voice.

He doesn’t move into that super-formal academic speak. He’ll literally say things like, “You know,” or, “That’s a banger of a sentence,” in the middle of an academic essay, and I really admire him for that.

I feel like maybe if academic writing were more receptive to people writing in their unique voices, then maybe more people would read it.

Jo: Yes. One of the pieces of feedback on one of my earlier essays in my master’s year was around my sentence structure—that it would be far more appropriate in a novel than in an academic essay. I was saying to my husband, “I can’t believe this, but I’m just going to have to change my style.” It’s very interesting.

We’re almost out of time, and I also wanted to ask you: you have a recent blog post on how to try to get your forthcoming book attention in 4,231 simple steps, which made me laugh.

We all find book marketing a challenge, so what have you found works best for you?

I should tell the listeners—there are not 4,000 steps in your blog post. Although I think people would want them.

Nicole: Exactly. I stopped at 72, but I can go on. That was sort of the pre-publishing process. There have been so many great things that have happened, but a lot of them have been driven by me.

I have a publicist, but he works on a lot of other books, and I have a marketing person at Bloomsbury. They have to juggle a lot. The only person who is really, really, really committed to your book is you.

So I’ve written companion essays. I haven’t had any luck publishing them, which hasn’t been true in the past, so I wonder what’s going on there. I’ll write something for the Huffington Post or Newsweek that’s tangentially related to my book.

I also might just write too much in essay voice instead of popular-magazine voice. As we were just talking about, academic voice versus novelistic voice. So that might be part of the problem too. Reaching out to people who might invite me onto podcasts has been really rewarding, and very, very kind.

I think the best thing I did was to put myself on book tour and to pair myself with someone in that community.

I’ve gone on book tour before by myself, and there have been occasions where there were two to three people in the audience, which can be really disheartening.

The problem wasn’t so much the bookstore’s fault or my book’s fault—it’s just that if you go to a bookstore in a town where nobody knows you, they’re not going to put a lot of effort into making the date happen, unless you’re super famous.

So what I did was find somebody in a community—a friend of mine—who would go with me and be part of the conversation. Even if their book was a couple of years old, we’d still go and have a conversation about each of our books.

This has worked tremendously well. People will come to see their friend, and then they’ll be introduced to you, and they’ll ask you questions and buy your book. You create new connections and new friends thanks to that friend and that place. So that’s my number one recommendation for how to get the word out in the world.

I also did all the social media stuff. It doesn’t work as well as it used to. It’s kind of a strange time. But because of my suggestion about going to bookstores with people you know… I think we’re coming out of our COVID time, where we got so used to doing everything on our computers and just staying in our electronic universe.

People are hungry to get out. So one thing I want to do, and haven’t done yet, is throw a big party.

Go to weird places where you don’t even do readings—you just offer people snacks and a glass of wine and say, “Hey, here’s a book if you want to buy it.” To have these more informal gatherings that bring people together because I do think there’s a hankering for people to get out into the world again.

Jo: And just on that—you’ve got these two books coming at the same time: How to Plant a Billion Trees, which is the memoir, and Writing the Hard Stuff, the how-to book for writers.

When you do these events, are you choosing one or the other depending on the audience? Or are you selling both at the same time?

Because they’re obviously very different.

Nicole: Yes, I’m definitely selling both at the same time. Although I probably push How to Plant a Billion Trees first, because most of the people I’m pairing with are also writers of nonfiction or memoir.

The other thing is, I can talk about How to Plant a Billion Trees, and if people have a really deep question about, “Well, how did you write this section?” I can say, “Well, if you refer to this book, Writing the Hard Stuff, you’ll see.” So it’s an easier segue.

I think people aren’t used to going to book events for craft books. But in the interview world—where people are reviewing books or interviewing me—Writing the Hard Stuff has definitely been the primary book I’ve been approached to speak about because people really do want techniques.

So it depends on the context as to which book gets the spotlight, but it’s been really fun to be able to talk about both in tandem.

I don’t know if they’re competing against each other or supporting each other. That’s my hope, that people think, “Oh, I read this one book, I might as well read the other one.” But that’s asking a lot of people, to buy two books, so I try not to overstate that hope.

Jo: They are very different, and I love the idea of doing that. Absolutely.

So where can people find you and your books online?

Nicole: You can find me at my Substack, which is substack.nikwalk.com—N-I-K-W-A-L-K. Or my website, which is the same: nikwalk.com. I might just start going as Nik Walk in the world, so people can find me more easily.

I also really love to support Bloomsbury. They have really good deals, especially on the audiobook for How to Plant a Billion Trees, and they also have good deals if you buy both books, you get free shipping.

So Bloomsbury is probably the number one place to get the books, but of course they’re also available on Bookshop.org and Amazon.com, and on Amazon in the UK as well.

Jo: Brilliant. Well, thanks so much for your time, Nicole. That was great.

Nicole: Oh, it was so fun to talk with you, Joanna. Thank you again so much for this opportunity.

The post Writing The Hard Stuff: Turning Difficult Subjects Into Meaningful Prose With Nicole Walker first appeared on The Creative Penn.

Truly resonant stories give us the feeling that nothing about them is accidental. The plot, character arc, theme, symbolism, and even the setting all belong to the same deeper pattern. Everything connects.

This is what I’ll be exploring in my Story School class Alchemizing Plot, Character, and Theme, which originally premiered during last year’s WorldShift Speculative Fiction Writers’ Summit and which I’m now making available independently through my Story School.

Lately on the blog and podcast, we’ve been talking quite a bit about mythic storytelling and the deeper psychological dimensions of fiction. So you might be wondering… what are the practical steps to creating stories with that kind of depth and staying power? This underlying foundational structure is one of the key answers.

In the class, we’ll explore how plot, character, and theme function not as isolated craft categories, but as interconnected expressions of the same deeper narrative movement—and how understanding that relationship can help writers create stories that feel more cohesive, emotionally resonant, and alive.

Register here → Alchemizing Plot, Character, and Theme

The Foundation Beneath Powerful Fiction

Mythic resonance emerges when a story’s parts are unified—when the external journey, the inner transformation, and the thematic meaning are all moving in the same direction. This “sacred triangle” of plot, character, and theme sits underneath almost every aspect of powerful storytelling.

Over time, I’ve come to believe one of the biggest differences between stories that feel emotionally unified and stories that fall flat is the relationship of plot, character arc, and theme.

In weaker stories, these elements too often function independently from one another. The plot moves in one direction while the character arc tries to move in another. Or the theme exists mostly as an intellectual idea the writer is trying to communicate, rather than something arising naturally from the protagonist’s transformation.

However, in stories that feel deeply alive, all of these layers are reinforcing one another constantly. The external conflict pressures the protagonist into change, and the character’s transformation reveals the story’s thematic meaning. The structure itself echoes the deeper movement underneath everything else.

When all of those pieces begin working together, audiences feel it. They may not consciously identify why the story feels powerful, but they experience the cohesion instinctively.

The Stories We Carry With Us

Can you think of a story you know will stay with you for the rest of your life?

I’m talking about a story that reached you at exactly the right moment and somehow became part of your inner landscape—a story that changed the way you saw yourself or the world. If you’re a writer, I imagine that at least part of the reason you write is because you hope to create that experience for someone else.

For me (as for so many others), one of those stories was The Lord of the Rings. During an extraordinarily difficult season of my life, when much of what I thought I understood about myself and my world seemed to be collapsing under me, I was struggling with a level of despair I had never experienced before. Around that same time, my local theater happened to be showing the extended editions of The Lord of the Rings.

So I went.

Sitting there in that dark theater, watching that story unfold, I experienced one of the deepest moments of catharsis I’ve ever had. As I’ve pondered that experience over the years since, what I always come back to is that the reason this story touched me so deeply was not simply because it was emotional or epic or beautifully written. What touched me—transformed me, even—was the fact that every part of the story was participating in the same deeper truth. Because the external conflict, character arcs, symbolism, and thematic movement were all unified in service to the same emotional and psychological journey, the story was not only willing to descend fully into its darkness, but it also knew how to lead us back out again.

That story will stay with me until the day I die. And, honestly, it changed the way I thought about storytelling. After that point, I realized more clearly than ever that the plots and themes that most deeply affect us never take place in isolation. Their power is grounded in every layer of the narrative, reinforcing the same deeper movement.

Why Stories Feel Fragmented

One of the things I’ve noticed over the years is that when writers talk about “powerful stories,” we are often talking about very different things. Sometimes we mean emotionally intense stories. Sometimes we mean stories with beautiful prose or compelling characters or profound themes.

But when I think about the stories that have most deeply affected me personally—stories like Lord of the Rings—what I notice is the incredible cohesion and resonance. Everything in these stories is working together. Nothing feels random.

The relationship of plot, character, and theme is perhaps the key foundation for writing fiction that is indeed meaningful, true, and alive. This isn’t because these are the only elements that matter, obviously, but they are arguably the most improtant elements—and when they are aligned, so many other aspects of storytelling suddenly become clearer.

• Theme stops feeling forced.
• Symbolism arises more organically.
• Character arcs feel emotional weighty.
• Scenes flow organically.

Stories stop feeling like collections of separate parts and start feeling like a cohesive and resonant whole.

This is why I wanted to bring back the class I originally taught last year as part of the WorldShift Speculative Fiction Writers’ Summit. For anyone who wasn’t previously able to attend the class, I am now making it available independently through my Story School.

What We’ll Explore in the Class

In the class, we’ll explore how plot, character, and theme function not as isolated craft categories, but as interconnected expressions of the same deeper narrative movement—and how this is the foundation to creating stories that feel archetypal, mythic, and psychologically powerful.

We’ll talk about:

• Why some stories feel fragmented even when they’re structurally sound
• How theme naturally emerges from character arc
• How external plot movement mirrors inner transformation
• How greater cohesion creates greater emotional resonance
• And how to weave all of these elements into a seamless whole

Although the class ventures a bit into archetypal and philosophical territory, it’s an extremely practical discussion about craft. This is very much about learning how to strengthen the connective tissue within your own stories so that every major narrative element reinforces the others.

How to Join the Class

If you missed it during its original WorldShift Summit run last year, you can join me June 24, 2026, at 1PM EDT for the live chat and Q&A.

Here’s how it works:

• The class is pre-recorded and will premiere on June 24 at 1PM EDT.
• I’ll be in the live chat during the showing if you’d like to attend and participate in the discussion. There will be up to 20 minutes at the end for freeform Q&A in the chat—something I’ve fixed since the last class (which bumped everyone off the call immediately after the presentation—whoops!).
• If you can’t attend live, the replay will be available in your account afterward.

You can read more and register here:

Register Here

I feel like this topic is deeply connected to the conversations we’ve been having recently—not only here on the blog, but also through the Story School classes I hosted earlier this spring. I was so excited by your response to those classes and by the depth of thoughtfulness everyone brought into the discussions! It reminded me again how many writers are searching not merely for formulas, but for ways of understanding story that feel meaningful, psychologically true, and creatively alive.

I’ll also be teaching another Story School series this fall (can’t wait!), but before then, I wanted to make this class available again because I think the topic itself is perhaps the key foundation for writing fiction that is indeed meaningful, true, and alive.

And for those interested, this class also pairs naturally with my previous classes, “Ego-Driven Character Arcs vs. Soul-Driven Character Arcs” and “The Villain as Aspect of the Hero’s Psyche.” The two classes are available together as a bundle at a 15% discount.

See you at the class!

The post New Writing Class: Alchemizing Plot, Character, & Theme for Powerful Fiction appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

What if the real secret to a lasting writing career isn’t talent or luck, but learning to thrive in the mess? Why are in-person events worthwhile even if the maths doesn’t add up? How do you protect your creativity when the machines never sleep and the community is at one another’s throats? With Mark Leslie Lefebvre

In the intro, Has AI Already Killed Non-Fiction [Tim Ferriss]; 9 ways that AI would disrupt authors and the publishing industry over the next decade; Pivoting towards The Transformation Economy; and Who do you serve?

This podcast is sponsored by Kobo Writing Life, which helps authors self-publish and reach readers in global markets through the Kobo eco-system. You can also subscribe to the Kobo Writing Life podcast for interviews with successful indie authors.

This show is also supported by my Patrons. Join my Community at Patreon.com/thecreativepenn 

Mark Leslie Lefebvre is the author of horror and paranormal fiction, as well as non-fiction travel and books for authors. He’s also an editor, professional speaker, and the Director of Business Development at Draft2Digital. His latest book is Stark Realities: Stacked Up Lessons Every Writer Needs to Know About the Business of Writing and Publishing.

You can listen above or on your favorite podcast app or read the notes and links below. Here are the highlights and the full transcript is below. 

Show Notes

• Why print and in-person events are making a comeback for indie authors
• The case for (and against) licensing your voice clone through ElevenLabs
• Why we keep selling books in person when the numbers rarely add up
• Measuring success by creative satisfaction rather than money
• Being honest about author earnings and the fear of being truly seen
• Managing stress, divisiveness, and the noise around AI

You can find Mark at MarkLeslie.ca.

Transcript of the interview with Mark Leslie Lefebvre

Jo: Mark Leslie Lefebvre is the author of horror and paranormal fiction, as well as non-fiction travel and books for authors. He’s also an editor, professional speaker, and the Director of Business Development at Draft2Digital.

His latest book is Stark Realities: Stacked Up Lessons Every Writer Needs to Know About the Business of Writing and Publishing. Welcome back to the show, Mark.

Mark: Oh, hey, Jo. It’s always an awesome time chatting with you.

Jo: You’ve been on the show lots of times over the years, but the last time was in September 2024, when we talked about selling books in person. So give us a bit of an update.

What does your writing and publishing business look like at the moment? How do you manage it alongside the day job and everything else you do?

Mark: Oh my God. Well, sleep is—no rest for the wicked, maybe. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

It’s so funny, it was just this last weekend in Waterloo. I was at Waterloo Book Fest, and somebody came up to my table—another author from one of the other tables—and said, “I heard you on the The Creative Penn Podcast. And then when you mentioned something about Waterloo, I said, ‘He can’t be from Waterloo.’ And then when you mentioned the skeleton, I said, ‘I know where he lives.’”

Jo: That’s scary.

Mark: So I love the fact that there are so many of your listeners all over the world, and that’s usually how people know me. No matter what else I’ve done, it’s like, “Oh, you’ve been on Joanna Penn’s podcast.” I’ll say, “Yes, I have.”

You know what’s really funny? The last time I was on the podcast, we were talking about A Book in Hand, which I was supposed to release that year.

Jo: Yes.

Mark: I just added another 5,000 words to it this morning.

Jo: Wait, it’s still not published?

Mark: No, and it’s so funny. I actually have the first 60,000 words of it with an editor right now, and I told her I’d get her the rest of it, which I thought would be another 20,000 words, by the end of June. But I think it’s going to hit 100,000.

Here’s the weird thing that happened with this. This is trying to accumulate my life of book selling, as well as doubling down on doing in-person events in the last several years.

I thought I was going to have the book done in 2024. I ran into some issues where I didn’t back it up properly. It was an old version, and I accidentally overwrote the only version I had.

Jo: So, for everyone listening, Mark—how many decades have you been an author and a publisher?

How come you’re still missing deadlines and still not backing up your work properly?

Mark: Yes, this is a lesson: no matter how long you’ve been doing something, you can still make boneheaded errors. So if you, dear listener, have made mistakes, just know that this old guy who’s been doing this since the mid-’80s still makes mistakes like that. Don’t beat yourself up. I probably did something worse.

Anyway, that book I thought was going to be maybe 40, 45,000 words, it’s going to be bigger than Wide for the Win—close to 100,000 words.

Here’s a really important lesson I learned in that, Jo. I thought the book would be something. It became something else. Through my own experiences of doing more in-person events, book signings, and library event.

Also in talking to awesome folks like Johnny B. Truant, Katie Cross, Todd Fahnestock, and so many other authors I know, and seeing what Ben Wolf is up to, and a whole bunch of different people who are doing in-person events.

In creating case studies for how they interact specifically with a bookstore or library, or how they do in-person selling—I really think the book wasn’t ready then. It’s like the recipe wasn’t ready. I still needed to play with some things.

I do sincerely have faith, since I got it into the editorial process, that this will be the year the book actually gets released.

Jo: As you said, there are some really good lessons there around sometimes the book not being quite ready. I’d bought an early version from the StoryBundle, which is how I got this book as well, actually.

Mark: Yes.

Jo: That’s another tip for people—storybundle.com. You can go and find some great bundles there.

I was also thinking, as you were talking, that maybe one of the reasons this book about in-person events has got so big is because that’s a real trend in the community. It feels like indies, we’ve moved…

Back in the day, I said, “I’m not doing print. No way.” This was the early days of digital, because print was really hard back then. So I was like, “Oh, and we’ve got all the advantages doing digital, so I’m just going to focus on that.”

It feels like the pendulum has swung, perhaps even more with the ease of mass production of digital with AI.

The focus on print and in person is getting stronger and stronger. Do you think that’s happening?

Mark: Oh, yes, 100%. I did print in 2004. It was really hard back then, so that’s gotten easier. I think there are a few reasons.

One of the reasons is, yes, digital made it so much easier for indie authors to get out there and break into the community. But the reality is that print books still outsell e-books in general—overall—despite the fact that indie authors can make six and seven figures a year from selling e-books alone on a single platform.

So print has never really gone away. It was just never something indie authors attended to. They were in a different business than traditional publishers were in.

And second, obviously I’ve got these gorgeous books that you’ve created on Kickstarter, because I like the beautiful books. I’ve never stopped buying print books. I actually buy more print books. I read more because of audiobooks and e-books, but I buy more print books, especially when I can get a nice signed copy.

Then the other reason comes back, again, to your advice—something I’ve been following for the longest time, and you’ve long been saying.

I do repeat this, and I try my best to offer attribution to you every time I use it: to double down on your humanity, particularly in this age of digital generation and the ability for even non-writers to leverage tools to create content.

I think it’s so much more important for me, as a creative who will never be able to catch up with the machines, to exploit my humanity.

I mean, we both have digital voices of ourselves, right? There’s a digital Mark Leslie Lefebvre voice that people can use, and I’m making money off it because people are able to license it through ElevenLabs.

But when I’m there in person, so far the holograms aren’t good enough to fool people. I think I’m not just selling a book to somebody; I want to create an experience where, “Oh, I’m talking to the author, and we’re signing a book together, and we’re taking a selfie together.”

For me, there’s that tactile experience that’s really enriching. And it may not be something that lines my pockets as easily, because the investment is more significant.

For every $10 I make, it costs me six or seven dollars, as opposed to an e-book, where the cost is amortised in the most beautiful way over millions of copies.

Jo: There are a few things there. First of all, let’s talk about that ElevenLabs voice licensing, because, as you say, I also have a voice clone. Bones of the Deep, the latest book, that’s my voice clone.

I haven’t gone with the licensing, partly because you don’t have control over what someone can do with it. So, for example, someone could create Nazi content, or content that I might not agree with, in my voice.

So how have you got over that? Because part of me really does want to license my voice, and the other part doesn’t.

Mark: This is a great question, Jo, and I’m glad you asked it. It’s the same reason I don’t worry about people stealing my books—adding DRM onto my e-books and things like that.

I may as well make some money off it, because let’s be honest: you and I, our voices are out there. Thousands of hours of our voices, right? In your podcast, my podcast, in various interviews we’ve done over the years.

The technology exists for someone to make a copy of my voice themselves anyway. The tools exist. They can do it easily, so why not do it myself and at least make money? I’m actually getting money deposited into my account. Not a lot—maybe $30, $18, something like that every week.

Again, I’ve taken a lot of my non-fiction books that I haven’t had the time to record myself, as I like to do, and I can at least load those to ElevenLabs and make my voice the default voice.

But wouldn’t it be great to be able to listen to my book in your voice? It would sound so much better. Because you can do that. When you listen to a book on that platform, you can choose my voice if you’d rather hear it in my voice, or you can choose Burt Reynolds’ voice, or some other folks who’ve licensed theirs.

Again, for me, the whole concept of wide publishing has always been important. It’s another small revenue stream that’s adding to my numerous revenue streams.

So I guess that’s how I’ve justified just licensing the voice. If someone’s going to do something with my voice that I can’t control, they can do it regardless of whether or not I put it out there myself.

Jo: I agree with you. That could happen, and neither of us is famous enough that it’s likely to happen anyway. I do quite like the idea of people using our voices, say, for other books for authors, because that would make sense—that’s where we fit in the niche. I will rethink that, because I think it’s interesting.

I wanted to come back to print books. You said sometimes there are easier ways to line your pockets, and I think that’s funny. So, getting into the book, this leapt out at me quite near the beginning:

Why do we keep doing this when the maths almost never adds up?

Mark: Oh, I have a perfect example of that from an event I did a couple of weekends ago in Burlington, Ontario. I think it was a $60 table fee. It was a new event. I believe I made $90 or $95 in sales.

So even after the costs of printing and all that stuff, I really didn’t make money. I made my table back, which is always a good thing.

There were a few encounters I had with people who were really excited to find my Canadian Werewolf series of books, and just so thrilled to get started. Among the four of them, they bought one copy, but they were going to pass it amongst each other.

You know what? Okay, they bought a single copy, and I was like, “Well, the e-book is permanently free online. You don’t even have to buy a copy”—which is anti-selling. I just want them to read the book and enjoy it.

But if they read it and pass it along and start talking about it, they could become readers for a long time. It’s an eight-book series, with the ninth book coming out later this year.

There was another encounter I had that day. A woman and her teenage daughter came in, and they were looking at my traditionally published books that I buy at a reduced price from a local bookstore and resell.

They were looking at these true ghost story books I had, and they were pointing: “Do you have that one?” “Yes, I have this one, I have that one.” And the mother’s like, “Well, she collects all your books, and she wants to make sure she has them.”

We had this conversation, and she was so excited to meet me in person and to get a signed copy of the book. That experience was such a vanity moment for me as an author. We’re lonely. I’m a big loser. Nobody’s buying my books. We’re always down on ourselves.

So that investment of time and energy, in order to get that little pat on the back or that feeling of, “Wow, I really connected with someone who likes my stuff”—those moments are really precious. They’re difficult to explain if you only look at the world in a financial way.

I guess I’m fortunate enough that I do have enough income from numerous streams, including the consulting I do part-time, that it’s okay if not every bookish endeavour leads to more money in my pocket at the end of the day.

I can still have these authentic connections with people, which I think is one of the reasons I’m a storyteller. Yes, it’s the stories I have to tell, but it’s also putting the story into somebody else’s hands and eyes and heart and mind.

Jo: You’re very giving like that. You have that sense about you, whereas I’m just a curmudgeon in the corner.

Mark: That is not true.

Jo: It is, generally. I don’t do events like you do for readers.

Mark: But that’s because it takes a lot out of you.

Jo: Yes, but that doesn’t matter. Why do I write? I write for me.

Mark: Ah, very good.

Jo: At the end of the day—just being entirely selfish about this—when people say, “Oh, if you won the lottery, what would you do?” I’m like, “Well, I’d do pretty much what I’m doing now.”

Mark: Yes, I’d just do the same. Of course, I’d write more books.

Jo: I’d write more books. So this is where I’m trying to get to for people as well: measuring success in a different way. You were talking about measuring success by how that girl loved your books, and how you feel when someone says they love your books.

With Bones of the Deep, this thriller I’ve just done, I feel like I had the benefit of that book before anyone even read it.

As soon as it was finished, I made a nice proof copy from BookVault, and I held it in my hand and said, “I made this. I’m proud of the story, I wrote the story, and it’s outside my head now.” I feel like I’m creatively satisfied in that moment.

Then, of course, the Kickstarter was great, and I love that the books are going out around the world, but—

I think the happiest I felt was that moment of finishing—that creative satisfaction of holding the book in my hand. You know what I mean?

Mark: 100%, Jo. I cannot agree with you enough. I love so many aspects of writing. Yes, the connection with people is amazing. But I often say this when I’m doing my one-on-one consulting with authors: focus on the projects that mean the most to you, those passion projects.

The process of writing, and the painful rewriting and editing and all the things you go through—when you finish that book, like you said, you hold it in your hands and it is a thing of beauty. It’s a huge achievement. You’ve won.

Whether or not you sell a single copy, you’ve won by doing it. Everything else is gravy: the sales, the money in your pocket or not, the reviews, positive or not, the people who say, “Oh my God, Bones of the Deep, thank you for writing this book. I’m so glad you introduced this into the world and into my life.”

Anything beyond the creation itself, which is a pure joy—I love it so much. It’s just why I get up at 5:30 every morning and write for hours before the rest of my day begins. I try to get stuff done before the rest of the world wakes up.

I want to get the writing done first, when I have the most energy to give myself to the page. Then the rest of the day is kind of gravy for me too.

Jo: You talk there about giving yourself to the page, but in Stark Realities—

You talk about the fear of truly being seen. What do you mean by that, and how do you manage that feeling?

Mark: For anyone who has written anything—fiction, non-fiction, memoir in particular, since it’s a bit more closely tied to reality—it’s exposing yourself to the world.

I’ll never forget an interview I did with Canadian science fiction author Julie E. Czerneda, who, before being a fiction writer, was writing biology textbooks, but her real passion was science fiction and fiction.

When her first novel came out, she said, “It’s like standing naked on the front lawn.” When you release a book, even a novel, people look at it and they’re going to judge you and rate you.

I remember early on, Jo—we knew each other through Twitter, I think, where we initially met, and then interacted with and finally met in person at London Book Fair. I think you and I have a very similar reaction.

When people know us as positive and upbeat and out there helping authors in the community, and then they read our fiction, they go, “Well, Jo, you burned a nun alive on page one.” Or, “Mark, what kind of… they’re drinking from the skulls of dead people? What the heck is going on with you two?”

We are exposing parts of ourselves in our fiction and non-fiction. That’s a fear I embrace, but also never get over, if that makes any sense. I write scary stories because I’m a big chicken. So maybe the entire process is just cheap therapy for me. Or not cheap, because it’s an expensive pastime, isn’t it?

Jo: It certainly can be, but I agree. I struggle with fear of judgment still. I think it’s also because we do this in public, which comes back to the financial side of things. We do a lot of this in public, and then people judge us on our author businesses too.

You could look at Bones of the Deep, which was just on Kickstarter, and compare my Kickstarter to another author’s Kickstarter for a fiction book, and judge one or the other person based on numbers.

I feel like this is because you and I have done so much in public—for me, almost 20 years, and for you, like 40 years or whatever. Maybe 30 years. You look that old.

Mark: Listen there, dearie. Get off my lawn.

Jo: Yes, get off my lawn—with those skeletons you have on your lawn.

Mark: Yes. They’re no longer in my closet.

Jo: They’re not in your closet.

I wonder if that also plays a part of it—the pros and cons of doing this business in public.

Mark: Yes, that is a part of it. One thing I try to be very clear about, because there’s so much FOMO and so much out there about people thinking that everyone else is making a million dollars from their books and “I’m the only loser who’s not”—I try to be clear that I have never made more than a mid-five figures as an author from my author earnings, ever. I haven’t yet hit six figures.

One of the reasons I try to be transparent in sharing that is I don’t want people to think that everyone else is a six- and seven-figure success story, and they’re the only one who’s only made $100 last year on their books.

The reality is, 90 to 99% of the people who are writing and publishing are not going to earn a significant amount of money.

I realise I’m also very, very lucky that I’ve earned this much, and it’s taken a long time.

I just shared this in a Substack post I posted yesterday: it was 10 years of rejections before I got $5 for my first short story that was published in ’92. It wasn’t until 2001 that I finally made pro rate, six cents US a word, for a short story that, ironically, Julie Czerneda bought from me back in the day.

For me, I’ve been lucky that it’s always been a long, slow slog. It’s been a marathon, and I’ve never instantly sprinted across any dramatic finish line. I’ve had some really phenomenal moments—doing a book signing in a Costco, walking into Walmart and seeing my books there.

Even last night at the Burlington Public Library, going, “Wow, they have eight of my books here—four of my self-published books and four of my traditionally published books, in two different sections.” I was like, “That’s kind of cool.”

So I’ve had these amazing moments as a writer, but I’ve never had the blockbuster—the Brandon Sanderson, or even the Dungeon Crawler Carl, Matt Dinniman, kind of moments.

I still think I’ve had a very fortunate and lucky journey. Even if I wasn’t making the money I’m making, I’d still be writing, and I’m sure you would be too.

Jo: Oh, yes, for sure.

I actually think the thing most of us would probably let go is the marketing.

If we won the lottery, we’d carry on with all the creative stuff, the writing, the community stuff, and we’d just literally do no marketing at all.

Mark: Well, yes, of course. Or potentially say, “Oh, here, ad agency, here’s some money. You just run it, whatever. Let me know if it works or not. I don’t care.”

Jo: That’s a much better idea.

Mark: At least I’ve got the extra disposable income, so I may as well, because I’m helping the world when my books are out there. I know my books will help people.

I really honestly think that as storytellers—whether it’s fiction or non-fiction, we’re still storytellers—what we do in writing and podcasting and all the things we do, the re-sharing on social media, is really helping connect people.

I think that is one of the most profound things we can do as writers. And I mean that the writing, in and of itself, is a reward.

Jo: Like you said, we met on Twitter when Twitter was what it was back in the day. I do very, very little social media now. But you just mentioned your Substack, and you also have your podcast, Stark Reflections. So how are you balancing what you put on each?

I only do this podcast now. I don’t even blog. I write books, obviously, and then I do the podcast.

So what are you doing differently on Substack to the podcast, and what part do they play in income and marketing?

Mark: Great question. I realise most people have never heard of me, or read or listened to the things I put out into the world. And I’ve been a longtime fan of “reduce, reuse, recycle my IP.”

My podcast is not as long-running as yours, but I’m in my ninth year, and I’ve not missed a single Friday in the full eight years, or eight and a half by now, that I’ve been doing this.

Every week I reflect on what I learned from an interview, or I’ll reflect on something you’ve posted and say, “This episode is not an interview, but Jo said this last week, and I’m going to talk about it.”

The podcast itself takes a lot of work. I still do all of it myself, and I know I probably shouldn’t, but I like doing it, so it’s one of those tasks I enjoy. I also have reflections that aren’t going to come out vocally but might come out in writing.

Sometimes in the morning I’m not in the mood to write the novel or the non-fiction book I’m writing, but I’m writing some tangent. I just let the creative monster go.

I find that re-sharing… I might have reflected on something for a couple of minutes at the end of an interview, but I really want to expand upon it, so I write the Substack article. I try to reuse some of that content.

Someone’s going to enjoy seeing it on a short video clip I share on YouTube, or whatever the platform is. Someone else is going to listen to it on a podcast, wherever they listen to podcasts, and someone else is going to want to read it.

It could be the same information, just shared in a slightly different way, to potentially get it out to other people. So for me, it’s part of that wide publishing mentality. I’m trying not to completely duplicate the work, although I am duplicating some of it.

I’ll give you an example. Hey, Canadian listeners—if you have not registered for Public Lending Right in Canada, please put something in your calendar for February 2027, because the deadline’s over. It was May 1st of 2026. Put it in your calendar for next year.

I even had somebody at this writers’ event I was at this last weekend say, “You mentioned something in a presentation you did for the Canadian Authors Association about Public Lending Right, and thank you, because now I get thousands of dollars a year from this.” So just look up Public Lending Right.

I’ve been saying stuff about Public Lending Right for at least 10 years now. Every time I get my beautiful multi-four-figure cheque from them in February every year, I post on social media and remind authors to check it out. I know it exists in the UK, and it exists in 36 countries in the world—just not the US.

Jo: Not the US.

Mark: They don’t have a programme like this, probably because the big publishers—and probably one of the authors’ associations—think that libraries are cannibalising book sales, which is not true. It’s been proven time and time again, and that lobbying has prevented it from happening.

Whereas here in Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts and the Writers’ Union of Canada worked hard to make this happen.

Anyway, I talk about something like Public Lending Right and I feel like I must have said this so much that people are sick of it, but every single time I mention it, someone goes, “Oh my God, thanks for saying that. I never heard it.”

That’s a good reminder, especially for folks like you and me. We know the basics. We know what an ISBN is. We know KDP Select means you can’t put the e-book on any other retailer, or even sell it on your own website.

We know all these things, but it’s hard for us to remember that there are folks coming to this for the very first time who’ve never heard it, even though we feel like, “Oh my God, I’ve said this till I’m blue in the face.”

I think I got that from retail. When I worked in retail, I recognised that somebody’s going to come in and ask for “that blue book that Reese Witherspoon was talking about,” or Oprah was talking about, or whatever. And you do your darn best to help them figure it out rather than mock them.

I try to take the same approach when people ask me those questions, because I’m trying to remember what it was like when I honestly did not know the answer, and having someone take the time to help me. I’ve been very, very lucky that I’ve had a lot of people take the time to help me.

I’ll never forget—God rest her soul—Nancy Kilpatrick, a horror writer here from Canada who passed away a few years ago. She gave me a blurb for my very first book in 2004 because she’d acquired one of my short stories for an anthology she’d edited.

I was trying to call my short story collection an anthology, and she very kindly took me aside and said, “It’s not an anthology if it’s a single author. An anthology is a…”

Jo: I didn’t know that until, like, last year. I got that wrong as well. There are lots of words like that.

I want to circle back, because you didn’t really answer earlier about the time management. You just mentioned YouTube, on top of Substack and all the things you do.

You also have a day job at Draft2Digital—it’s part-time, right? You also do part-time at the university, teaching publishing, right?

You do all kinds of things. How do you manage your time with all of that?

Mark: Well, I mismanage my time more than I manage it, Jo. That’s the God’s honest truth. Fortunately, most of the things I have that aren’t scheduled—like, scheduled to do this lecture at this time, or scheduled to have this meeting at this particular time with Draft2Digital—most of my work is very flexible.

I do not work a regular 9:00 to 5:00, Monday to Friday. Well, I never did. I always worked way more. But I have a very flexible schedule. Every single day is a work day, and every single day is a play day for me. So I’m very, very lucky.

I do schedule in the very important things, particularly where somebody else is reliant upon me—meetings and connections and stuff like that. Then I make the time first thing in the morning to get the writing done. Everything else is not as important, and it’s part of… I guess it’s part of playing.

You know, like the social media sharing. I don’t look at social media as marketing. I just look at it as another way to connect with people, with other creatives, and with readers potentially, all six people who read my stuff.

I probably could do a better job of managing my time. I’ve tried several times over the years to adapt processes to make it better, but I consistently default back to what I do, and so far I guess I’ve been getting away with it.

So I was like, “Do I want to waste more time trying to come up with a process, or do I just want to roll with it?” Because so far I haven’t killed myself doing it, and I’ve been enjoying the journey. So, if it ain’t broke…

Jo: I think that’s the point, if it doesn’t feel like it’s broken. Having known you for a long time now, and we work together—obviously we co-wrote The Relaxed Author—you do work very, very differently to me. You definitely are a little bit more chaotic. I’m chaotic in some ways too.

Mark: Oh, you’re very generous. “A little bit chaotic.” Thanks. That was generous, Jo.

Jo: You’re chaotic in your work practices and scheduling and all that, which I couldn’t cope with very well. Even though I feel like a part of my brain is very chaotic—the creative side, I guess, can be quite chaotic—I think I’m actually quite controlling and very scheduled in my work practices.

As you say, for someone else on the outside, it might feel to me like you have too many balls in the air. But if you don’t feel that, then that’s the way of working that works for you. So this is another important thing, isn’t it?

You can’t adapt to what other people say your life should look like. It’s what feels good to you.

Mark: Oh, for sure. One thing I know about my procrastination tendency is that panic and fear motivate me. So, a deadline—”I have to get this into a publisher by this date, I have to get this manuscript to an editor by that date”—I’m motivated by fear. And I’m afraid of everything, so I guess I’m always motivated.

Jo: But I also know that when you hear the word “deadline”—and I know a lot of people who do this—the deadline means you get it in on the deadline, or the day before the deadline. To me, a deadline means I have it ready a month earlier.

Mark: I love that. I’ve done that a few times and shocked myself. I actually had a pre-order up—with the audiobook, the print, and the e-book—a month in advance, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was like, “Well, what am I going to do now in the next month?”

Jo: Work on the next thing.

Mark: But I’m so used to working on it up to the last second that I was kind of like, “What do I do?” That actually caught me by surprise, and I honestly felt weird. I was like, “I’ve never felt this before.”

I’m really lucky. I know you have a very supportive and amazing partner, and so do I. My partner, scarily enough, is maybe a bigger procrastinator than me, so she never gives me a hard time.

She supports me, and I do the same thing with her own work. I’m up all night with her at the last minute so we can get something turned in. So, fortunately, we really understand one another, and we don’t give each other a hard time. We just go, “Well, got away with it again. I guess I’m not going to change my ways.”

Jo: We made it. And again, that’s the point. You and I could stand up in front of people, both hold up the last book we wrote, and say, “We made this,” and our processes are completely different. Our brains are completely different.

We come from different countries. There are lots of things that are different, and yet we both made a book.

So hopefully that encourages people. You don’t have to do anything that we’re telling you, or anyone else tells you. But if you want to be an author, at some point you have to produce a book.

Mark: Exactly. As Brian in the classic Monty Python film gets them to say: “Yes, we are all different.” Embrace that difference. I think that’s such a powerful reminder that there is no one process for getting anything done.

Jo: Given that we co-wrote The Relaxed Author back in 2021—and we did that because we had another show, and we were talking, and we said, “Oh, everyone’s stressed and the anxiety levels are really high, and we think there’s a better path”—we co-wrote that book, which I think is still a very good book. Definitely people should get it.

Interestingly, I think the stress and anxiety might actually be higher now than it was.

So what do you think the main stresses are in the community now?

You also see a lot with Draft2Digital, I guess, as well.

Mark: Oh, for sure. Honestly, Jo, I’m so glad we wrote that book, because I actually pick it up every once in a while to remind myself of the things we tried to help others with. Again, it’s therapy for me as well, so I’m so glad we did it.

I think we’re 10, if not 100, times more stressed. The world events and things going on, the divisiveness—not just in the world in general, in politics and everything else, but the divisiveness in the author community.

The witch-hunting that happens, people trying to tear down other authors either because they’re successful, or because, “Oh my God, you dared use a new technology.” All of these things are happening, and everyone’s at one another’s throats.

I need to pick that book up and reread it. I’m a lot more stressed than I was. I’m just getting over shingles, which is…

Jo: Oh. Which is actually related to stress as well, isn’t it?

Mark: It is, yes. I was in LA for Writers of the Future—I’m a judge for that science fiction and fantasy conference.

I went right from LA, like a week in LA, which was a phenomenal experience getting to mentor the winners. And I mean, come on, it’s a free trip to Hollywood, hanging out with Kevin Anderson, having beers and stuff like that.

Then I came back to the Toronto Indie Author Conference, run by Tao Wong, here in Toronto. I went right from the airport—didn’t even go home—straight to the hotel, because I kicked into another conference.

We did a display on how to set up an in-person booth, so I ended up having to hand-bomb boxes, blocks down the street from where I was parked.

My chest was really sore when I got home on the Monday, and I thought it was because I hadn’t used these muscles, because I’m not in the best shape. Then I took my shirt off and went, “Oh, there’s a rash there.”

Liz goes, “You have shingles.” Because the pain in my chest, which I thought was the muscle, was actually underneath. I’m one of those lucky people that it’s taken the full five weeks, and I’m still in pain even afterwards.

So, again, public notice: if you’re an older person like me, and there’s a vaccine available for shingles, you may want to consider it.

Jo: Yep, get it.

Mark: Oh my God, it hurts. But, yes, the stress, I think, is higher—even though I didn’t know I was feeling it. It was happy stress, right?

I was stressed out because I’m there in Hollywood, helping people and doing some good things, and then I’m doing the same thing, interacting with some amazing authors at the Toronto Indie Author Conference. I didn’t feel anxious stress. I was happy stress. Is that a thing?

Jo: I think possibly… your physical body masks stress, physical stress, because you enjoy all of that stuff. Whereas someone like me, I’ll feel it quicker and withdraw.

Although I say that, back probably a decade ago, Jonathan would say to me, “You’re going too fast, and you’re going to hit the wall. And when you hit the wall, it’s not going to be fun.” And I did hit the wall.

Then, probably in 2021—I mean, that was when I just started going into menopause, and obviously we had the pandemic, and I wrote Pilgrimage, and I was doing all those walks, which I think really helped me. I learned a lot about maybe stopping that before it happened.

Becca Syme obviously talks a lot about this too. But I find it interesting with you, because I think you’re so positively happy with these events you do that it might mask your physical symptoms in a different way. That’s really hard to watch out for.

I’ll give a tip to you and everyone else listening: schedule the calendar, and look at your calendar and go, “I can’t go back-to-back-to-back. I have to put in some rest days.”

Mark: Well, thank you. You know, Jo, you and Becca Syme are two of my best unpaid therapists. I appreciate that.

Jo: You just don’t listen, Mark.

Mark: Or sometimes I do.

Jo: Just coming back to the community, and the divisiveness there is primarily over AI at the moment, I think that’s one of the biggest things. And the arbitrary lines as to what you’re allowed to use it for and what you’re not allowed to use it for, which is just kind of crazy.

Obviously, you know I’ve opted out of that whole discussion now.

How do you think we can move through this [divisiveness over AI], move on?

We remember when it was trad versus indie, and then it was wide versus KU. So this will pass—it’s just hard, when you’re in it, to know when it might pass.

Mark: Yes. I think the more generic advice—for whatever may come, whatever has come—is: why are you doing this? Why are you a writer? Heads down, focus on what gives you pleasure, and do that, because everything else is noise. All the marketing tactics and strategies, and all the people yelling at one another.

Write your books. Do the things that motivate you. Do the things that give you that intrinsic reward.

It’s hard to ignore. I get it, it is hard to ignore. I have difficulty ignoring the haters and the yelling and the screaming that happens, but I do my best.

Like this morning, when I was in the throes of my manuscript and I looked up and went, “Oh my God, I’ve got to shower. I’m going to be talking to Jo soon, I should comb my hair”—which I have none of. Because I was so in my book that everything else melted away.

That, for me as a storyteller, as a writer, is one of the most beautiful places to be.

Jo: I think you’re absolutely right. I have a little thing that pops up in my calendar sometimes which says, “If you’re feeling all of these things, just go create something.” The moment you refocus on creation—whatever that means to you—things change. It changes the energy. That, or go for a walk. That’s my other tip.

Mark: Outside. And I have to say, Jo, Pilgrimage is still one of the most profound and powerful books you’ve written, and you’ve written a lot of amazing ones.

Jo: Oh, you’re very sweet.

Mark: That one really resonates, not just for me, but with Liz. Because one of the things we often do when we get stressed is go for a walk, ideally in nature. The vitamin N. I think there’s something really profound in that, and it really helps me a lot.

And again, sometimes going for a walk listening to your podcast, or an audiobook, or sometimes just attending to the environment.

A tip I picked up years ago from Brooklyn author Denis Hamill was: go for a walk with your character. Listen to what they see. What do they comment on? How do they approach this environment that you’ve seen a million times? How do they see it? What do they notice that you don’t notice?

That’s such an incredible experience of creativity—when you’re not writing, but writing. That really helps me a lot.

Jo: Oh, nice one. Okay, so your latest book is Stark Realities, but you have so many more.

Where can people find you and your books and your podcast online?

Mark: Jo, you can find everything you want to know about me—and stuff you don’t want to know about me—over at MarkLeslie.ca. It links to all the other places from there.

Jo: Brilliant. Thanks again for your time, Mark. That was great.

Mark: Thanks so much, Jo. Bye-bye.

The post Creative Satisfaction, In Person Print Book Sales, And Author Mindset With Mark Leslie Lefebvre first appeared on The Creative Penn.

What is mythic fiction, and how can we write it?

Earlier this month, I shared a post about how to write mythic fiction, in which I discussed the difference between adapting inherited myths (i.e., just retelling the old symbolic stories over and over in “new” ways) versus creating our own myths. My suggestion was that truly mythic fiction is not merely a process of imitating epic structures (such as the Hero’s Journey) and populating them with a list of character archetypes (i.e., Hero, Dragon, King, Mentor).

Rather, mythic fiction is a generative creative process that arises from our deepest and most intimate journeys into the unknown wilds of imagination and intuition—from the same energetic authenticity and integrity that birthed the old myths, fairy tales, and folk tales, which continue to matter so much to our culture. Mythic fiction is something authors must discover for themselves through the integrity of their own creative processes.

But how can we actually access that same deep imaginative creativity? How do we write mythic fiction?

What Is Mythic Fiction?

Mythic fiction is not myth itself, but it shares resonance with the old myths in that both contain truths that transcend factualness. Both communicate in the language of imagination—the imaginal language; the language of image; the language of symbol, archetype, and shape.

Not least because the medium of story is itself mythic and archetypal, I believe this mythic energy is the true magic of story—no matter what genre you’re writing in. Although we may most easily think of “mythic fiction” as fantasy and magical realism, all genre stories (such as romance and mystery) are inherently archetypal and symbolic.

What Mythic Fiction Is Not

Mythic fiction captures a quality that bypasses the audience’s conscious mind to speak on a deeper level. Although archetypal symbols and story structure are certainly part of this, this mythic quality is not a formula. It is something we experience as truth through our own unique imaginal wanderings. It cannot be taught—although it can, in a sense, be learned.

Mythic fiction can sometimes have a dreamy or otherworldly quality about it; but it can also be extremely modern and plot-based. It is not defined by voice, tone, or aesthetic. A story can be “mythcore” without being mythic. Putting a dragon or a sorcerer in your story does not make it mythic. Although speculative fiction often lends itself to myth, every speculative story is not mythic.

Although some mythic stories may be very right-brained or obviously mythic in their motifs (such as James Joyce’s Ulysses), this is not a requirement. The requirement is that the author is not telling the story so much as the story is telling itself.

This does not mean authors don’t make important technical choices in order to communicate the story to their audiences. The profound skill of writing is that of somehow wrangling the wild genius of storytelling into a format accessible enough to engage the consciousness of the left brain. This is no mean feat.

What Mythic Fiction Is

Mythic stories speak truths even their authors may not have known they knew. They are stories with the depth and capacity to guide—not through “morals” or agenda-driven plots, but through the inspiration of the deep visual imagination.

To the degree any story is resonant, it is mythic.

Although many stories contain mythic qualities and elements, examples might include everything from Beloved to Once Upon in the West to The Road. Of course, we would include Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter, but we can also add in everything from It’s a Wonderful Life to The Godfather to Secondhand Lions to Pride & Prejudice. Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus. Studio Ghibli. Early Pixar. Children of Men. True Grit. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Groundhog Day. Wicked. 

If it moves you—if it transcends something within you—then it has touched that mythic quality that lives in all of us.

The Lost Art of Mythmaking

All of storytelling is, to some degree, an attempt at mythmaking. Although some stories are more obviously successful at reaching their mythic capacity, all stories arise from that dreamplace of what if?—from the corner of the imagination’s eye where we catch sight of parallel realities and strangers who sometimes seem more known to us than ourselves.

In a world that is both increasingly left-brained and an art form that is increasingly subject to conflation with the pressures of content creation, it is worth looking back to our ancestors—to the shamans around their campfires and the medieval bards singing their tales—and both remembering and rediscovering how we may best maintain the clarity of our connection to the archetypal imagination that is our birthright.

We don’t need the old stories retold one more time. We need stories that have a living, generative connection to deep mythic, lived, dreamed creativity. To that end, here are seven practices you can use to move your stories out of the formulas of “write what sells” and into the territory of mythmaking.

1. Practice Dreamzoning and Enter the Flow State

The mythic quality in fiction arises from the deep imagination. It is pure creativity. It is our imaginations telling us stories.

This is the flow state, from which we can encourage natural and unfiltered right-brained creativity. Writers are accustomed to accessing this deep well in many different ways—not least the tried and true daydreaming. Freewriting is another—which is one reason so many writers prefer discovery writing (or “pantsing”), in which the writing itself becomes a tool for entering the flow state.

My personal favorite tool for accessing and entering this flow state is what I call “dreamzoning.” Dreamzoning is the practice of purposeful daydreaming. I’ll put on some music and, when possible, light a fire or find some other visual to help me zone out and float away.

Outlining Your Novel (Amazon affiliate link)

As an outliner and a plotter, I like putting myself in a space where creativity can happen by itself, without my needing to write it down yet. For me, this feels like it creates less work, since I tend to write cleaner copy that doesn’t require the same amount of revision as if I were freewriting my inspiration (I do more of my freewriting in the outlining phase when I don’t have to worry about my prose making sense to others).

I’ve written more about the specific practice of dreamzoning here, and I’ve also created a series of Archetypal Character Guided Meditations for a more structured approach.

But really, it doesn’t matter how you access the state of creative flow, just that you find space in which to interact with the symbols and the characters that come to you, so you can watch them and feel the resonance of what they’re doing.

There’s a difference between “just imagining” (i.e., more or less consciously thinking about characters doing something interesting) versus accessing symbolism that feels personal, with meaning and depth behind it. For me, that moment always comes with a distinct physical response, a surge in my solar plexus and a tightening in my chest. It’s like everything inside me suddenly comes to attention.

2. Clear the “Shoulds” That Block Archetypal Storytelling

For most humans, and certainly most storytellers, this archetypal dreamspace is a natural habitat for us to hang out in. Sometimes learning how best to access it is mostly about learning what may block it.

Not all the voices a writer hears are actually the voices of creativity and the muse. Some of the loudest voices can be those shouting “shoulds” at us.

Get rid of the shoulds. Clear out the voices that are not, in fact, the voices of the story spirits. Clear the clutter of the voices telling you, “this is what you have to do to write a book that sells” or “somebody else has already done this idea” or “you’re not good enough.”

Giving too much credence to the inner critic is usually the heaviest block to the purity of whatever’s trying to come through. This doesn’t mean that whatever is trying to come through isn’t messy, but it does mean you’ll never find the gold in the stream if you listen too closely to the voice telling you “should” stay out of the mud.

3. Ask Questions Instead of Arriving With Answers

Writing is such a specialized skill set these days. Everyone tells us how a story is supposed to look and how we’re supposed to write one—which, inevitably, can tend to shape not just our finished products but our dreams themselves. Instead of entering the mythic dreamspace with eyes and hearts wide open, we can arrive with a preset container into which everything is supposed to neatly fit.

When I was a child, the dreamspace was my natural habitat. I didn’t arrive there with the agenda of acknowledging and harvesting only what was useful for my job as a writer. It wasn’t even that I arrived there and waited patiently to be shown something. Instead, I knew myself to be an active participant and denizen of this dreamspace. I arrived to play in that space because I was the story.

However, it’s also worth acknowledging that, however personally vivid and precious my childhood ramblings in the dreamspace may have been, they weren’t necessarily stories that would have communicated their power to anyone but me.

The great challenge and skill of being a mythic writer is the ability to slip into the right-brain as a dreamer with imagination wide open and then come back out with pieces so beautiful and clear they can be shaped into a communication others can recognize and take with them back into their own dreamspaces.

4. Study the Deeper Shape Beneath Story Structure

Although I’m trying not to, I’ve inevitably been talking about mythic fiction as if it is something different from just regular old fiction. Really, what I mean by “mythic” fiction is “bloody good” fiction.” The surest path to writing deeply mythic fiction is to understand the underlying shape and structure of story itself—its natural movement, arc, and intent.

Insofar as you can write a story that really, really works, you’re almost undoubtedly writing a story that taps the frequency of mythic resonance.

Take a peek beneath all the trappings that we associate with mythicness. Look at those old stories or at any story that particularly moves you. Take note of the shape and structure that form these stories, upon which all the characters dance their epic dance.

We so conflate the idea of story with the act of writing—with language and words—but in fact, story preexists language and words. We only use the words as a metaphor in our attempt to explain what’s underneath.

No matter how good we are with words, our words are always a step behind the primal awesomeness of story itself.

5. Study the Stories That Create Mythic Resonance

Studying the stories that create mythic resonance can be an access point to your own connection to that resonance. This isn’t so much about studying actual myths or folk tales or learning symbolism or archetypal systems. It’s about studying yourself. 

It’s about studying anything that resonates with you—stories from any time. You’re looking for whatever creates a frisson of recognition. You’re looking beyond just a simple reaction of “that was entertaining” or “that was fun” or your logical, intellectual mind’s interpretation of something.

You’re looking for stories that create a visceral pull. When that happens, study it. Study where and how you’re feeling it in your body. Study what’s evoking it. These experiences hold a portal of inspiration. If you can find the doorway within someone else’s story, it can lead you down the rabbit hole to what is yours in the experience so that you can, if you choose, bring it forth and continue the cycle.

Studying stories, symbols, and archetypes can also be helpful in understanding and orienting what comes through in your own creative wanderings—so that when something wild and unexpected shows up, you have a sense of what it is and where it belongs within the larger context of story, dream, and myth.

Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card (affiliate link)

I always think of the famous line from Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card, in which Ender brilliantly wins a zero-gravity training exercise by taking control of his team and orienting them and their goalpost (the “gate”) within the spacelessness of their environment. He instructs them:

The gate is down.

Exactly because our most vivid story dreams often feel like they are coming through us rather than from us, it can be helpful to have some preexisting archetypal catalogue by which to orient. In other words, to help us know “the gate is down.”

Nowhere is this more true than when venturing into mythic shadows…

6. Be Fearless Enough to Enter the Shadows by Recognizing Mythic Fiction as Transformational and Initiatory

Shadow Archetypes Course

True myth-making is equally capable of venturing into the shadows as it is of rising with the sun. What makes it so powerful and so healing is its ability to access all the many states of being human.

Our forays into mythic territory will only be as bold and as true as our own courage in facing whatever truths we are shown. Creativity and catharsis go hand in hand.

There’s a sequence in the movie King Arthur: Legend of the Sword that I’ve always felt beautifully illustrates shadow work. In it, Arthur is unable to master the intensity of repressed childhood memories that flood back whenever he grasps the fated sword Excalibur. He is sent to the Darklands to try to master himself, and when he returns, the mage asks him:

Mage: Did you look away? You want to know why you still can’t use [the sword].

Arthur: Why don’t you tell me?

Mage: I think you know the answer. You will face it when it’s worth it to you. Don’t get me wrong, I look away. We all look away. But that is the difference between a man and a king.

Arthur confronting the memories bound up in Excalibur—an allegory of mythic shadow work. (King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017), Warner Bros.)

Deep connection with one’s own mythic interiors can be a fearsome thing. If we embrace it fully, it can take us anywhere—but sometimes to get to the really good stuff, we have to be willing to let it take us through Darklands first.

All humans have the capacity to access this level of storytelling (although the skill of the telling is its own rite of passage). However, I think those who are truly in service to it and are able to make it their life’s work by accessing it consistently are those who are willing to follow wherever it takes them.

Archetype is initiation. It changes us. It burns us down and raises us back up.

7. Approach Archetypal Storytelling With Humility and Responsibility

There needs to be a certain level of humility in doing this work, especially since we don’t always recognize the profound power it carries. Although we usually enter these realms as a playground—a place to relax and have fun and perhaps to heal—the imaginal realm is the gateway to one of the most powerful interfaces of the human experience. The work of the storyteller is magical work. As part of that process, there needs to be humility and respect for the archetypes themselves.

If nothing else, I don’t think we can ever truly understand what we’re writing or exactly how it will affect others. It’s always possible to write something that has the opposite of our intended effect. To the degree we’re too egoic or try too hard to control what we’re trying to do, we can not only make it less powerful and symbolic, but also potentially more harmful.

Mythic fiction matters because it taps an aliveness that (ironically) transcends realism. At its strongest, it is shared from the author’s symbolic brain to the audience’s in a way that feels less like communication and more like revelation. The magic in these stories does more than just entertain audiences or convey an idea; it touches us on a subconscious level that may stay with us forever, even if we can never explain just why or how.

The only way to write stories of such dimensionality is to learn how to “imagine better”—to learn how to find the mythic and symbolic pathways within ourselves and how best to channel them into stories that feel strong and true on every level—from our rawest inspiration all the way down to the finest points of technique.

Want More?

One of the reasons I care so deeply about mythic fiction is because I don’t believe powerful stories emerge just from isolated craft techniques. Truly resonant stories feel unified at every level. In these stories, plot, character arc, theme, symbolism, setting, and emotional movement all belong to the same deeper pattern because everything connects.

This is why I created my class Alchemizing Plot, Character, and Theme, which I originally taught last year as part of the WorldShift Speculative Fiction Writers’ Summit and am now making available independently through my Story School.

Although the class ventures into archetypal and philosophical territory, it is an extremely practical discussion about craft. We explore how plot, character, and theme function not as isolated craft categories, but as interconnected expressions of the same deeper narrative movement. We talk about why some stories feel fragmented even when they are structurally sound, how theme naturally emerges from character arc, how external plot movement mirrors inner transformation, and how greater cohesion creates greater emotional resonance.

In many ways, the class is about the deeper architecture underneath mythic storytelling—the connective tissue that allows stories to feel meaningful, psychologically true, and creatively alive. If today’s post resonated with you and you want a more concrete framework for how to actually construct stories that honor these mythic principles, this class was designed to help writers do exactly that.

The class is pre-recorded and will premiere June 24, 2026, at 1PM EDT. I’ll be live in the chat during the showing, with time afterward for freeform Q&A and discussion. And if you can’t attend live, the replay will remain available in your account afterward.

You can read more and register here!

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What practices have helped you learn how to write mythic fiction or access deeper mythic storytelling in your own work? Tell me in the comments!

Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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The post How to Write Mythic Fiction: 7 Practices to Reconnect With the Lost Art of Mythmaking appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

How can horror writing help readers — and writers — work through psychological trauma? Why does cross-genre fiction take longer to find an audience, but pay off in the long run? Is running a direct sales store actually worth the inventory, postage, and learning curve? And how can SubStack work for fiction authors? With psychotherapist and award-winning author P.D. Alleva.

In the intro, thoughts on why in-person conferences are still worth it, even when they are a challenge for sensitive introverts! and tips for making the best of conferences [Self-Publishing Show].

Today’s show is sponsored by Draft2Digital, self-publishing with support, where you can get free formatting, free distribution to multiple stores, and a host of other benefits. Just go to www.draft2digital.com to get started.

This show is also supported by my Patrons. Join my Community at Patreon.com/thecreativepenn 

P.D. Alleva is the award-winning author of horror, sci-fi, thrillers, and fantasy books. He’s also a psychotherapist.

You can listen above or on your favorite podcast app or read the notes and links below. Here are the highlights and the full transcript is below. 

Show Notes

• Why horror puts the human condition on display better than any other genre
• Emotional trauma as the silent psychological killer most people overlook
• The pros and challenges of cross-genre writing and finding your audience
• Practical lessons from running a direct store, including integration and signed-copy fulfilment
• How a 3 a.m. writing routine keeps the writing separate from the marketing and admin
• Serialising fiction on Substack, multiple newsletters, and avoiding paid subscriber promotions
• Why Facebook groups, TikTok Lives, and the three-to-one rule are working right now

You can find P.D. at PDAlleva.com or on Substack.

Transcript of the interview with P.D. Alleva

Jo: P.D. Alleva is the award-winning author of horror, sci-fi, thrillers, and fantasy books. He’s also a psychotherapist. So welcome, Paul.

PD: Thank you very much. Thank you for having me. This is a great opportunity. I love doing interviews, and I love talking to great people.

Jo: Oh, good. Well, first up—

Tell us a bit more about you and how you got into writing and being an indie author.

PD: So I’ve been writing since I was a kid, at least second grade and more than likely even before that. I’ve always had that creative itch.

Getting into indie author publishing, I published my first book in 2011. At the time I was also operating my own business, which took up about 24 hours of my time every single day.

Then I kind of got through that and sold that in 2016, and I’m like, you know what? The time has come. I’d always written books, poetry, short stories, but never really did anything with them because I just didn’t have the time. So in 2017, that’s when I really came out and said, all right, the time is now.

Indie publishing was doing great. The one good thing I do love about Amazon is they allowed us to come out there and start showing our craft to people. So in 2017, I just started—let’s do this. Let’s write full time. Let’s put books out there. Let’s be creative. Let’s really get those juices flowing.

Plus, I was getting a little bit old, and I was like, now is definitely the time to do this. Since then I’ve been publishing consistently, and most of my books are horror books, but I dabble.

I have a sci-fi series, and I’m starting to get into psychological thrillers too. I’ve got a new psychological thriller that’ll be published in early 2027 called Girl on a Mission. For the most part, I’m definitely into the horror genre—books, short stories, all that good fun stuff.

Jo: Right, so a couple of follow-ups. You said you’re a bit old. Can you give us what decade you’re in at least?

PD: Well, I’m 51, so born in 1971.

Jo: Oh, there you go. Same age as me.

PD: All right, good. See that? So we’re going head-to-head there.

Jo: I don’t think that’s old at all. Also, you mentioned you sold your business in 2016.

So what was your business before?

Because I think business experience is so important.

PD: Agreed 100%. So I’m a psychotherapist, and I had owned a treatment centre for mental health and addiction. That was started in 2011, and in 2016 is when it sold. Since then, my wife and I started a private practice. So I still, even to this day—well, about a year and a half ago is when I stopped.

I specialise in trauma, PTSD, and addiction. Trauma mostly. Most of my caseload has always been trauma, PTSD, sexual abuse, psychological abuse, war-type trauma. I was doing that mostly individually since 2016 in private practice, and I’ll still go into treatment centres and see patients there too, specifically for trauma.

About a year and a half ago is when I started wanting to do writing 100% full time. I thought about becoming a professor, maybe going to college, but then I wasn’t sure if I wanted to get into that full time, as far as a caseload and school and everything like that.

So I decided to just do group therapy, group facilitation, and I’ve been doing that consistently since then. It may be 15 hours a week. I do love to give back, and to me, it’s more what I teach.

I specialise in neuro-linguistic programming, bilateral stimulation or EMDR, hypnotherapy, science of mind concepts, psychopharmacology, biological bases of behaviour—which is pretty much how your brain works—ancient wisdom, quantum physics.

I do this in a drug addiction treatment centre mostly, also mental health. And of course, just living an addictive lifestyle is traumatic, too, in and of itself. So pretty much I’m teaching them. Behaviour modification is a big part of what I’m teaching during that time.

You’ll see that, too, if you read my books. There’s two things you can figure out from my books. You can figure out how to murder people and get away with it, and two, you can figure out how to overcome trauma as well.

The whole “murder people and get away with it” comes from my upbringing. I have a very sorted past, let’s put it that way. My upbringing was very different than what most people grow up in.

Jo: Oh, can you give us any more than that? Now everyone’s like, “Oh.”

PD: “What’s going on with this guy, right?” So I grew up, let’s say, quote unquote, “in an Italian New York family.”

Jo: Okay. All right.

PD: That might give people ideas, right?

Jo: That’s going to give people a lot of ideas.

PD: If you’ve ever seen the movie Goodfellas, I kind of grew up in that atmosphere, and with even some of those people too. My family had connections to those people in that movie, which I find very funny. If you watch that movie with me, you get a very different perspective on what’s going on in the movie.

Jo: Wow. So you’re an interesting guy with an interesting background, with a very interesting backstory job as well.

Some people are like, “Well, of course he’s writing horror because horror is just awful and full of slasher gore and all that.” I often have to say to people who don’t read horror, “Look, it’s not like that.” Maybe some of it is, sure. But most of it isn’t.

Could you talk about how reading and writing horror can also be psychologically healthy? How do these worlds intertwine for you?

PD: Well, sure. It 100% can be healthy. Especially over the last few years, there’s a trend going on out there right now where people are taking their trauma and putting it into a creative process through poems, short stories, and even novels.

They’re taking their trauma and giving it a face, like a monster, where people are overcoming that monster within the creative process.

I always say that horror is the genre that puts on display, better than any other genre out there, the human condition. Why is that?

When people are in a terrifying situation, you really see who they are. You get to the heart of the matter of who that person is by putting them in these horrific but undefinable situations where it’s like, what are they going to come out as?

That real true personality needs to come out, and that courage comes out. That’s huge in horror, and I think horror gets such a bad name.

Now, I know there’s the extreme horror and the splatterpunk, and that has its kind of role too in what I’m saying, but that’s where horror is getting its bad reputation out there with the over-the-top type of gore.

For the most part, that’s a small part of the horror genre. It’s a subgenre for a reason. It has its readership, and that’s fine. Nothing wrong with it. I read it all the time. I find a lot of joy in it, a lot of excitement.

However, for the most part, any horror novel that is not completely with the gore and stuff like splatterpunk can be seen as a psychological thriller, and a lot of psychological thrillers can be seen as a horror novel.

Look at books like The Silence of the Lambs, Red Dragon. That’s horrific as well, but if you read the novel, it’s in there. It just gets that bad rap right now, and it’s not all gore.

Most horror novels that I read today are psychological horror. It’s tame on the gore, and the psychological aspect is there. I always see that psychological aspect—it’s like psychological trauma.

Most people, even in my industry, when people are out there and you mention trauma, PTSD, they’re thinking about sexual abuse, physical abuse, or war-type trauma.

The silent psychological one—I once wrote an article called “Emotional Trauma: The Silent Psychological Killer.” The one that’s out there is the psychological trauma, the emotional trauma that is widespread.

Most people go through that, and it could even be from parent to child, and most people don’t understand that that’s a traumatic experience. It’s like a distortion of reality that you’re experiencing that then creates a belief system in your brain, and you’re constantly acting out that belief system.

That’s where the psychological component of horror really comes out. People breaking through that psychological belief system that was created through a traumatic experience by reaching courage and coming out through a horrific situation.

Jo: Yes, it really annoys me, because with romance, of course people understand that romance is a huge genre. Something like a small town sweet romance is a world away from the bully romantasy, dark, or mafia. Mafia romance is a really big thing with very dark themes.

I’m like, well, how can you understand that romance is a huge genre with all these different subgenres, and not think that horror or thriller or fantasy or sci-fi all have so many different subgenres within them?

I personally read a lot of supernatural horror, but rarely the slasher gore kind of stuff. So I’m really glad you said that, and hopefully more people will open up a bit more.

I did also want to ask you about what you write. You write all these different things. You write standalone—I mean, often horror is standalone—but you also have some series. How do you balance it?

What are the benefits of cross-genre writing, but also the challenges of it?

PD: Okay. So obviously I love cross-genre writing. To me, I use fantasy to explain the supernatural elements. I blend mostly a tad of fantasy to help explain the supernatural components in my supernatural novels.

When I write sci-fi, specifically sci-fi, that has the fantasy element in it too, but there’s also a tad of horror in there as well.

It’s just who I am. When I grew up, I had a lot of different influences. I had Star Wars on one side, and then I’m watching B-rated ’80s slasher films on the other side. Those two mixes just kind of followed me throughout my life, and that’s why I like putting them into my novels.

As I tell my patients, don’t limit yourself. Never limit yourself. If you’re just limiting yourself to one genre, you’re missing out on so much more that’s out there. So I love the blend of mixing genres. It just gets my goat each and every time.

It is a challenge though. I remember when I first started getting into indie publishing, I was never big into Facebook and social media up until I started becoming an indie author.

Before that, with my type of upbringing, you don’t advertise yourself. You don’t advertise where you’re going. That’s a big no-no. So I always had this aversion to social media.

I’ll tell you a funny story. It was the late 2000s, probably 2006. I was a full-time single father at that time, and I was living in Florida. My family—brothers and sisters-in-law—were living in New York, and my sister-in-law said, “Get a Facebook account so we can see pictures of the kids.”

I said, “Oh.” I didn’t want to do it, but I said, “Okay,” so I did it. And I’m thinking, looking at this Facebook thing, “How do I put pictures on here?” So I figured out how to put pictures in folders.

Then I phone called her, and I’m like, “Okay, so they’re on there.” And they’re like, “Well, where are they?” I’m like, “I put them in these folders. You can go and look at them.” She’s like, “No, you’ve got to post them.”

That to me was like, “I’m not posting pictures of my kids.” That was a big no-no. It didn’t click.

When I got on there finally in 2016, 2017, I’m like, “Okay, so I need to figure out social media. As an indie author, I need to be on there, so I need to get through this aversion and get on there.”

I started noticing how people are so particular with their genres. If they’re reading a romance, it had to be very specific with that exact type of romance, and if you deviated from it, they’re not going to like it. So that was the challenge.

I was like, “All right, number one, I’m not going to dilute myself” and say, “All right, take things out of my writing or out of my novel just so I could cater to a certain type of audience.” I’m like, “I’m not going to do that.”

I know with me, myself, as a reader, I’ll read everything. I don’t limit myself to a specific genre. I’ll read psychological thrillers. I’ll read romance. I’ve been doing that all my life.

So I’m like, if there’s a person like me out there—and look at this, I just met like four other people who also read cross genres—then I know that there’s at least another 30,000 people, and I know that at least then there’s 300,000, then there’s three million people out there.

So just write the books that you’re writing and find your audience. Now, that takes longer. So you’ve got to chip away. Chip away. You’re going to find readers here and there, and then that reader kind of tells a few people about you, and then you’ve got a few more readers.

Then you keep going, and you go on these Facebook groups, and you do a whole bunch of different things, and then you gather a few more readers. Then they’re telling some friends, and then you’ve got more. The process takes a lot longer, yes, 100% agreed, but I would say be true to yourself and you can never go wrong.

Jo: Yes, I agree. I write cross-genre as well, and I’ve browsed your collection. Golem was the one I was like, “Ooh, yes, I like that one.” I haven’t read it yet, it’s on my list.

I think when you’re cross-genre, my people come to my store as well, and it’s like, “Okay, I’m interested in lots of things, but this is the one by this author that I’m interested in.” Whereas with other authors who only write one type of thing, then I might not like any of their stuff.

So I think there are definitely pros and cons and different ways into our world.

I also wanted to ask you about the differences in business. Obviously you ran this treatment centre and there were physical humans on all sides, and now you’ve got a business as an author.

So what have you learned in business from what you used to do and what you do now?

PD: Okay. You’re right. The treatment centre industry is very different from what I’m doing now, but it’s still people.

Treat those people right, have integrity. If you say you’re going to do something, follow through with it. My word is my bond type of thing. That definitely has fed into the writing and publishing industry that I’m in now in a huge way. Just connecting with people is, to me, the biggest part of it.

I mean, treatment centres, you’ve got to connect with people. When I would market the treatment centre, where would I go? I would go to hospitals, residential facilities, detoxes, and talk to them about my programme and why they should be referring clients there.

It’s the same thing here. Why should you be reading my books? You get there through interviews like what I’m doing here with you. Other podcasts. You get there by doing Facebook Lives, TikTok.

I haven’t started TikTok Lives yet, but I actually love that platform. I’m falling in love with it. IG Lives, anything like that where you’re talking to people and you’re making a connection with those people.

Through that, I’ve gathered so many different types of readers who are like, “Yes, I’ll give this book a shot.” And then they read it and they’re like, “Hey, this is really good, and I’m going to read another book.”

With my books, I have very different books. Golem is my psychological horror novel. It’s my slow-burn psychological horror novel, heavily inspired by Frankenstein and the Pygmalion myth. It’s my first true horror book that I published.

Then there’s Jigglyspot and the Zero Intellect, which is inspired by B-rated ’80s horror movies and the old grindhouse movies of the ’70s, and it’s mind manipulation. It’s just wild and bizarre. And then The Sleepy Hollow Incident is my Gothic tale—it’s like a dark romance mixed in with Gothic horror.

So I always try to put something for everyone that’s out there. To me, when I’m writing, it’s got to be about depth, psychological depth. I always refer to my books to be like peeling layers off a Texas-sized onion. The more you read, the more in-depth you get into not only the characters, but the story.

It’s just something that comes out of me. It’s part of me. That’s the way I always have to do it. I always have to put that depth in there. To me, that’s good storytelling.

When I grew up, I read a lot of classic literature. Yes, Edgar Allan Poe, but also Dante’s Inferno, Milton’s Paradise Lost, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, the Brontë sisters. Keep going. Ray Bradbury, Ayn Rand, Daphne du Maurier, Shirley Jackson. Those to me are my books that I absolutely love.

So there’s a sweet science in today’s fast-paced, social media type of world in marrying the depth of the old classic literature and the entertainment value that is required today for being an author. There’s that sweet science behind it, and I love just hitting that nail on the head every time.

Jo: So did you ever pitch traditional publishing, or have you thought about going that way?

Because I also find that a lot of horror actually sits very close to literary. Like, I read a lot more literary horror than I do in some of the other genres.

PD: Correct. So in the beginning, yes. Not in a long time. I maybe went to a couple of indie publishers, but as far as traditional, the Big Five publishers, I have an aversion to them for a big reason. I know people who have worked in that industry that have told me some pretty bad horror stories about those places.

So I haven’t sent anything to that type of place in a very, very long time. Maybe close to 20 years.

Indie publishers, the small presses, yes, here and there, but even then, I’m always moving at a fast pace. So if I’ve got a book and I’m sending it out as a query letter, by the time that query letter is even read, I’m almost done publishing.

I love that aspect of it. The control of my story, where I know where this character’s going. And listen, I’ve got my beta readers, I’ve got my ARC readers. They’re there to tell me, “Hey, maybe you should change this or change that.” Whether I take that advice or not, of course my editor too, is really up to me.

I always put out the book that I know is the one I want to read. And to me, I haven’t gone wrong in doing so. I know with traditional publishing, you sometimes get too many thoughts in the pot there. Let’s put it that way.

Jo: Okay, so coming back to being indie then. You mentioned Amazon earlier, but you have a store where you sell direct. Many authors are doing this now, but it can be a challenge.

So what have you found are the pros and cons of your direct store? What’s working? Any lessons there?

PD: Okay. So I use a place called Big Cartel. They’re the platform where the books are on. They’re hosting my website, PDAlleva.com.

The big challenge was actually just starting it. It was so overwhelming. How do I put this on there? At the time, I’ve got all these books, so how do I present them?

I’m even going to be doing another revamp with it too, because I want better pictures—taking pictures of the books, stuff like that, instead of just having the covers on there. I also have a lot of shirts that I’m selling.

So I think the biggest challenge is just getting on there and starting it. Then of course, you’ve got to learn a whole new platform, and the mechanics, and how people are going to be downloading, and how that’s done on an e-book versus a print version of the book.

So it’s a huge learning curve that you’ve really got to put your focus on and give it time.

What most people like in indie publishing is signed copies. It’s a huge part of indie publishing, selling those signed copies. People love a signed copy, and that’s primarily what my website is for. You can order signed copies from me.

I also use a place called IngramSpark, and they’re more like a distributor. They’re used by everyone. They’ve been around for a very long time. Traditional publishing uses them too, and they’re just distributing your novel.

I’d say about a year ago, maybe two years ago, they started where you can sell your books on discount through them as well. So I have that on my website too, where you’re just clicking on the book and you’re pretty much going directly to their site and you’re buying paperbacks and hardbacks at a discount. That’s going well too.

For the most part, people are definitely coming to my site because they want the signed copies. A good thing with indie publishing is limited editions, first print copies, special editions. That type of stuff really just takes off. People love to see that, especially in the indie community.

You can sell them too. I go to a few different book conventions during the year, and the limited editions are there. Like I said, people love the signed copies. They love being a part of that and getting that signed copy. They treasure it, just like I treasure my books too.

I’m not referring to my books that I’ve written, but books that I have as well. I love my e-reader, don’t get me wrong, but I still prefer the physical copy—the paperback, and even more so than the paperback, the hardback. So people love those signed copies, and that’s why I created the website, to sell on there for them.

Jo: Yes, I mean, we’re getting to a point now though where I think some people are questioning the pros and cons of it. For example, you doing the signed copies—I don’t do that from my Shopify store because I don’t want to hold stock and I don’t want to deal with postage.

So I only do it when I do a Kickstarter. I’ve just finished one recently, Bones of the Deep, and I’m going up to the printer, and I’m going to sign a couple of hundred copies and then they do the postage.

That’s the only way I’m willing to do it because of the pain of getting books to your house, signing them, getting them in the post.

So how do you manage that practically?

PD: Okay, so the inventory’s there. I don’t go and sign everything right away. I just keep the inventory. Once somebody buys the book, then I’ll pull out the book, log it and all that good fun stuff, sign it, and then ship it out immediately.

Here in my country, we get discounts at the United States Post Office because they’re books. So they pass that shipping cost over to the reader too, so it’s a little bit cheaper for shipping.

I’ll just take books once or twice a week over to the United States Postal Service and ship those books out. I don’t sign them until I actually get that order.

Jo: How many do you have in your house? It’s the holding stock of all the backlist that is the problem.

PD: Ooh, gotcha. All right. That’s why I have a two-car garage. But here’s the thing, I won’t order 500 at a time. I’ll order 20 at a time.

Jo: Okay. Right.

PD: When I see that inventory’s getting low, I’ll order another 20 at a time.

Jo: And you get those from IngramSpark?

PD: Correct. When the new one comes out, maybe at that time I’m just selling those, bringing those to conventions that I go to. Or maybe doing a sale on those books at that time to get rid of the inventory so it’s not sitting around anymore.

Jo: I think that’s so important. Then like you mentioned, you do T-shirts or shirts. That is also really hard because of sizing.

So is that all print on demand?

PD: Yes. So I don’t really hold the stock on the shirts. When I get an order, whatever the size is at that time, I go directly to the place and order it. I use a place called Sublimation Station that’s here in Orlando. They do great all-over print T-shirts. They’re fantastic. I just did one for The Sleepy Hollow Incident.

So The Sleepy Hollow Incident is one long story, and it’s broken up into four books. Each book has its own. The covers are fantastic. I use a lady named Cherie Foxley. She’s a phenomenal cover designer.

So the shirts are, like, book one is on the front of one shirt with book two on the back, and then the second shirt is book three on the cover and book four on the back.

However, I can customise those. I just did a giveaway in my Facebook group and I let people know I could customise them, and she wanted book one and book four, so I just got that and sent it out to her.

Now, if people go ahead and order that on the website, I can just order it right away from them, boom, and that place will get it shipped right then and there.

Jo: Right, so they do the shipping. These are all sort of practical things that people need to answer because I feel like sometimes it’s like, “Oh, yes, having a direct store is great,” but there’s actually quite a lot of work that goes into it, isn’t there?

PD: There is. There’s a lot of work. You’re pretty much opening almost like your own brick-and-mortar store at that point. You just don’t have walk-in traffic coming in—your traffic is all coming online. So there is a lot to it, but it’s worth it.

If you’re a self-published author or even a small indie press, it’s good to have. Because like I said, people love the signed copies.

Jo: When you say it’s worth it, is it worth it financially or just because you like to serve the customers in that way?

PD: Both.

Jo: Right. So it is financially worth it for you?

PD: Yes.

Jo: I was talking to a friend of mine and saying, are you valuing your time in terms of things like taking the books to the post office and stuff like that?

Do you find it eats into your writing at all, or do you just manage it all separately?

PD: No, I manage it separately. So I’m an early morning riser. I get up at 3:00 in the morning, and that’s when I write my books or do editing or brainstorming.

I’m about to write a new novella now called The Adam and Eve Story, which is actually based on a little-known CIA shelved book from the 1990s called The Adam and Eve Story as well. So I’ve been brainstorming that, and I was doing that this morning.

I get up at 3:00 a.m. and I do my writing, and by the time the kids are up and by the time the wife is up, it’s like 8:00 a.m. is rolling around and I’m pretty much done at that point.

Then I have my days. Tuesday I’m completely working from home and I do my thing in the morning, and then the rest of the day is marketing, fulfilling orders, stuff like that.

On the days when I’m going to do group facilitation, I’ll of course still get up at 3:00 o’clock in the morning, and then I’ll plan out the day. I’ve got an hour between this group and I can go ahead and do that, and I’m already there so it’s not a problem. The post office is right around the corner.

You kind of figure out all the logistics for yourself. There are some days, like on Monday, I don’t facilitate groups until the afternoon, so I’ve got the whole morning to work on marketing and do other things, and fulfilment. Then of course Saturday’s a big day for that too.

Jo: Oh, that’s good. I feel like people always need to know how to balance their time, but it sounds like you manage, because at 3:00 a.m., as you say, there’s not much else to do other than write.

You mentioned marketing, and you have a Substack, pdsalternativefiction.substack.com.

Talk about that and serialising fiction and how Substack works.

Because I feel like a load of people are jumping in but might not necessarily know how it works, especially for fiction.

PD: Correct. It is becoming quite popular out there. I think the one before that was Patreon, and Patreon is pretty big for that too, kind of the same thing.

I wanted to start something and just get the work out there. I was very interested when Amazon came out a few years ago with what was called Vella.

They kind of started that. I was like, “This is kind of cool.” Couple chapters at a time. I’m writing the books anyway, so why don’t we kick this off and see how it goes—a type of experiment.

I had a lot of fun doing it. I started on October 4th, 2024. I’ve done four novels so far. One is still going, which is Volume 3 of my Dark Veil serie— that’s a sci-fi series.

I wrote three other novels. The Hypnotist, which is a thriller, heavy on the sci-fi and a tad of horror in there too. And then I wrote Girl on a Mission, which is my psychological thriller, and then Cat Fight, which is a horror novel—all within that time.

I think I finished all three of those novels in January, and then the first week of February they were all pretty much done. Now what I’m doing is, I went paid recently on the Substack. It’s like everything else that’s out there—chip away, chip away.

I fell into that hole where they say, “Hey, we can promote you and get people to sign up for your newsletter.” And I’ll be honest with you, don’t do it. It’s not worth it.

You spend money, and what happens is they’re what I refer to as dead leads. They don’t click. You wind up shuffling them off after three to six months, because they’re just not clicking. Everybody gets a star rating, so you know—are they clicking, are they staying on, are they not?

So I got rid of pretty much all of those people, and I’ll never do that again. It’s got to be done organically. That’s why when you read my books, especially the new books, towards the end it’ll say, “Sign up for my newsletter.”

I do more with that newsletter too. If you’re on the free tier, every month I do a monthly newsletter, which is just me talking about updates, things going on in the publishing industry, things going on with me.

My daughter puts together a weekly Horror and Sci-Fi Chronicles newsletter, which gives what’s going on in new releases in the industry—sci-fi, horror, books, movies, television. She does deep dives into industry tropes, historical tidbits, and a weekly quiz.

I also do a monthly Terrors and Tales newsletter. I started this last year, and it was a quarterly newsletter. It’s other authors who are new, upcoming, never been published before, looking to get published.

It’s a chance for them to be on the newsletter where they have a flash fiction story or poem or even a short story that I publish for them. It’s called the Terrors and Tales newsletter.

What happened is I would put out calls for submissions. And a place called Duotrope—I don’t even know who these people are, but all of a sudden I got an email from them stating, “Hey, we found that you’re looking for submissions, and we posted your link. We hope you don’t mind.”

I’m like, “No, of course I don’t mind.”

I got so many submissions from that one link. I’m like, “Okay.” Do I really want to deny people? I’m not like that. I want to help promote other authors. I know what it’s like when you’re new and upcoming, no matter what age you are, to say, “Hey, here’s a platform for you to see your stuff in print.”

Obviously, I read through them just to make sure they’re up to a certain standard, but for the most part, if you submit, you’re getting in there.

With Duotrope, I’m like, I have enough here to put out one a month. So in May 2026, the first one goes out, and then I’ll have one each month until December, and then who knows? In 2027 I might go back to quarterly. I might get enough submissions to just keep it going once a month.

So that’s the Terrors and Tales newsletter, and it usually comes out towards the end of the month—the last two weeks. I have nothing to do with it in terms of content. None of my stories are on there. None of my poems are on there. None of my flash fiction.

It’s all other authors, just for them to see their name in print, see their work in print, share it with their friends, and put something on their resume, and to encourage people to keep reading and keep the craft going.

Jo: When you say in print, you don’t mean in physical print?

PD: Oh, I mean in the newsletter. I’m sorry.

Jo: I think that’s important, or you’re going to get a lot more submissions, and you will need to do publishing contracts and all that kind of thing.

I think that’s the difficult thing with a Substack newsletter approach—it’s difficult to know where to categorise it. Is it marketing? Is it publishing? It’s all of these things, I suppose. A bit like this podcast, it’s all kinds of things.

In terms of Substack actually making money on its own or leading to book sales that make money, do you think it does serve that purpose?

PD: I think I’ve gotten more book sales through it, and also ARC readers who are enjoying the books and giving reviews.

As far as the paid tiers, that’s kind of a little bit slow, and that’s where I’m saying chip away at it. Keep it up there. Keep it going. Over time, you’re going to build that type of audience where it’s going to be like, “Hey, this is financially feasible for me to continue to do this.” That’s the response that I’m getting out there.

Jo: Yes. Before, you mentioned you were doing Facebook Lives and you’re looking at TikTok, but—

Is anything else working for you in book marketing?

If people have a few books and they’re like, “What is working for book marketing right now?”—what do you recommend?

PD: Okay. For me, the thing that has made the most sense is making sure the reader knows the book is out there through some sort of social media. I’ve had really good success on TikTok since the beginning of this year especially.

I started it about a year ago, year and a half ago, but then my father got sick and passed away, and it was a new venture and I put it off to the side. I really got the flavour going at the beginning of this year. February, March of this year.

It seems to be going really well, and I’ve noticed an uptick in sales from just getting the videos out there and getting it in front of people’s eyes.

There’s an event I’m going to in August called ShiverCon, which is a pretty big event. After that event, I’m going to look to see what type of inventory I have left over from the event, and I’m going to start doing TikTok Lives. I’m very comfortable being on camera. So I’m like, “Yeah, that seems like a good way to go.”

I know there’s a few other horror authors who are doing it and having good success with TikTok Lives as well. A guy named Jason Davis is doing really well with TikTok Lives, and a few other authors too.

I’m like, “Yes, I could definitely do that.” I want to get up to a certain number of people, and I want these events. I’m going to one in July, and then ShiverCon in August. Once those are done, I’m going to have more time to do the TikTok Lives.

As far as Facebook is concerned, what I’ve had really great success with on Facebook is being in the groups and meeting other authors. That’s not always about my book per se, but whatever books I’m reading, I’m posting my reviews about those books in those groups and meeting readers.

Then obviously, they always say the three-to-one rule. Post about three different books and then post about your own book, whether you’re doing a sale or a new release or a re-release or whatever.

I’ve found success through that just by interacting with readers. When they post a book, I’ll comment, “Hey, I’ve read that book,” or, “Hey, that book looks really cool. I like the review.” Commenting on it so you start these relationships with people who are out there in these Facebook groups.

I’ve recently started my own Facebook reader group. I kind of go with the same thing. Last night, we did a live reading for another author. I like other authors to be on there. I always like to think, what does the reader need? What do I want to see as a reader?

I would love to hear live readings from authors. So I kind of learn about them, learn about the book, and get a live reading. To me, that’s a good way to go. So I started that recently, and it seems to be going well.

I’ve got a new folk horror coming out soon, and I put out a call for ARC readers and got a fantastic response from that.

That kind of drives the sales anyway, because when you get those reviews, then people see it gives credibility to the book, and then other people see it, and then they’re buying it too. So that comes from the groups.

There’s so many wheels to spin in this industry as an indie author when you’re doing this, especially when you’re doing 99% of it on your own. You’ve got to get out there. No one’s going to know your book exists if you don’t get out there and tell somebody about it.

Jo: Brilliant. Well, tell us—

Where can people find you and your books online?

PD: All right. Perfect. So obviously I’m on Amazon like everyone. Most of my books are worldwide, so you’ll find them in Barnes & Noble as well. And of course, if you want the signed copies or discount print books, I always lead people straight to my website, PDAlleva.com.

Then, of course, if you go to my Substack, you’ll get all the updates, and you’ll get all the links to purchase or find out where they are on Amazon and Barnes & Noble and things like that too.

Jo: Brilliant. Well, thanks so much for your time, Paul. That was great.

PD: Thank you very much for having me. It was great chatting with you.

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