…about the value of specific praise
In my day job, whenever I write a motion or a brief, I’m totally ready to have it ripped apart. First up, my colleagues–the damn thing comes back covered in “track changes” and comments. Once it’s gone through that crucible, it goes to opposing counsel and, oh boy, do they EVER tear it apart in their own brief. And once that’s done, the Judge takes over: they skewer your every weakness on oral argument, and then (usually) issue decisive judgment on the merits of your argument in their written order.
On the plus side, I’m used to it. You start prepping for this kind of negative feedback as soon as you step into law school. The Socratic Method does work–by having someone directly questioning you about your position, you learn how best to defend your argument. But when you get to practice, shit gets real. Are lawyers assholes? Yes. Intentionally? Sometimes. The reality is that our system is adversarial–it forces us into opposing corners in the hopes that “truth” or “the right answer” emerges when the two sides collide. It’s an erudite trial-by-combat.
So why am I talking about this? Because somewhere along the line, I decided that I wanted to be a writer. A fantasy genre fiction writer. Writing the kinds of escapist adventure stories I loved to dive into because the real world (as evidenced by my day job) is full of depressing, angry, harsh realities.
It’s a different skill set. And, in order to get better at this skill set, I took classes, practiced, and, most importantly, got myself a cadre of amazing critique and writing partners. And you’d think that being a lawyer used to giving and receiving criticism, I’d have it down.
Nah.
Oh, don’t get me wrong, I do think that my contributions to my groups have added value to the group and to the work product of my peers. Their contributions are patently visible in the quality jump in my books and without them, I’m not sure I’d be agented today. I was pretty sure that I was giving as good as I was getting.
Until I read this blog post advocating for the power of specific praise when giving critique. Written by Kaitlin Schmidt. One of my Content Hospital co-founders and an incredibly valuable critique partner. Who, at the time of this blog post, I’d been in a critique group with for a year. One. Whole. Year. Whose critique I had VALUED for one whole year.
It rocked me. And the more I thought about it, the more it rocked me. Why? I mean, I’d been a teacher before–we’ve all been conditioned to make corrections in a “praise-correct-praise” cycle. And, yeah, lawyer=asshole, so I’ve also been conditioned to look for the weaknesses in someone’s work and dig... But that wasn’t it, or not only it.
After sitting with it, I realized two things made me uncomfortable. First, I didn’t have an eye for finding the good. That muscle had atrophied while I developed my “weakness-finder” eye. Second, I’m the product of the Eastern European school of thought: Nothing’s ever going to be perfect, so just tell me what I’m doing wrong so I can fix it. The good isn’t really important to acknowledge.
I know there’s therapy for that. I’m there.
So, for the last two months, I’ve been actively trying to apply the Kaitlin method to my creative writing critique groups. (The lawyers are a lost cause…) And here’s what I noticed.
I’m getting better at seeing good writing.
I know that sounds dumb, but the truth is if you ask writers what makes good writing, you’ll get a million different answers that when condensed generally comes down to “vibes.” By way of an analogy that lawyers would recognize, in 1964, the Supreme Court was asked to rule on an obscenity case. Justice Stewart famously explained that he could not define "hard-core" pornography with a set of rules or a test, but “he knew it when he saw it.” Jacobellis v. Ohio, 378 U.S. 184, (1964).
You know that you like something when you read it. But why? Is it perfect grammar? Punctuation? How it makes you feel? Voice? Prose? When you force yourself to focus on those portions of writing that give you the “yum,” you start to see how each of those elements come together to give you that lovely bit of dopamine. It’s not an overnight process. Sometimes, especially early on, I could only tell the author that I got the “yum” but not why. But with practice, or the more I looked at it, I could really point out something that specifically contributed to that “yum.” I’ve praised sentence structure, voice, imagery, evocative language, smooth foreshadowing, you name it. Sometimes it’s one sentence, sometimes it’s the whole damn section. But the longer I work on this, the more I know how to look for it.
And it’s not limited to my critique group work. It’s adding a layer to my critical reading skills for published works. Since “Reading is Fundamental” (thanks RuPaul), being able to pinpoint “yummy” writing that speaks to me means that I can better articulate what I appreciate reading. Which then means that I can practice that skill and grow as a writer.
Recipients of specific praise write better.
If this sounds like EXACTLY Kaitlin’s point in her blog post, it’s because it is. There. I said it. She’s right. Pointing out the stuff that’s working (and why it’s working) tells an author what they need to keep doing. Kaitlin gives a concrete example in her post, so I’ll follow suit. One of my writing partners feels she struggles with capturing and distinguishing her characters’ voices. She’s said she can’t tell when narration is in character or feels contrived. She’s been saying that for months. How stupid do you think I felt when I realized I’d never once pointed out where she’d done it perfectly? In the last few months–since implementing Kaitlin’s methods–I’ve noticed both her first draft and her subsequent edits have gotten so much stronger because she’s nailing that character voice more often.
But the other benefit I’ve seen is that recipients of specific praise write MORE. Or at least don’t quit. And if you think this is a question of “snowflake writers getting their sensitive feelings hurt,” it’s not. Or at least not entirely.
Don’t get me wrong, praise doesn’t hurt. But I’m desensitized to negative feedback courtesy of lawyering: I get a twinge of “aww” when I get criticism, and then I focus on fixing the issue. But what I never put together until I sat with Kaitlin’s post was that I’ve internalized that negative voice. I struggle to put creative words to paper. I demand perfection of myself even though I KNOW that I can’t attain it, and I certainly can’t attain it on a first draft. I love editing. My words definitely word when I’m editing. But I hate that first draft because I struggle so much to commit words to that damn blank page. I am self-editing–or worse, self-censoring–because I focus only on the “ick.” I can’t get over it and just write.
What if we take that to the extreme? What if we get to a point where we writers-block ourselves? What if we get so discouraged we stop writing? What if my own brand of asshole-direct-passionate-tactless-focus-on-only-the-bad critique led someone to doubt themselves? To stop trying? What if someone has internalized me–the lawyer=asshole? I don’t mind making opposing counsel want to quit their jobs, but I never want to be a part of the reason someone quits a writing group or bows out of creative writing. I hate what I’ve done to myself–why would I want someone else to suffer like me?
So, I wondered if it would change if there was equal air-time given to the positives. I still struggle to get words on page (don’t ask me about bison). But, if I focus on my strength for writing dialogue/banter, I write more. It’s like I need that skeleton, because then I can go back and pad it out with action/dialogue tags, setting, movement, and better prose. And I do that FASTER, because I’m more comfortable with editing than the initial drafting. It’s like I’ve hacked my system: if I circumvent my inner asshole by focusing on something I’ve been told I do well, I don’t stop writing.
And what about my writing groups? Well, I know that at least one of my partners has felt beat down by critique before. In one case, it got to the point that they took a hiatus from writing and weren’t sure they would come back. I can’t draw a direct correlation between the implementation of specific positive praise and their return/renewed participation, but I’m pretty sure that they haven’t walked out of a group meeting feeling beaten down since. It’s made the whole experience of receiving critique so much better.
Knowing what I know now, it’s hard not to feel guilty that I wasn’t doing this to begin with. Yeah, maybe I gave praise, but it was generic and probably felt disingenuous when I spent the rest of my time pointing out all the things that didn’t work for me. And I’m not shy about expressing my opinions, so it probably felt like a full on cross-examination. It’s hard knowing that my failure to give equal time to the positives in writing has sabotaged me and may have sabotaged others.
All I can say is that I’m grateful for Kaitlin’s insight and the discussions we’ve had about her methods. Kaitlin’s critiques are always amazing–whether constructive or praise, she nails them every time. No wonder she does it professionally.
I don’t think I’ll get to her level, but I owe it to my writing partners and to myself to keep trying. One piece of specific praise at a time.
In my day job, whenever I write a motion or a brief, I’m totally ready to have it ripped apart. First up, my colleagues–the damn thing comes back covered in “track changes” and comments. Once it’s gone through that crucible, it goes to opposing counsel and, oh boy, do they EVER tear it apart in their own brief. And once that’s done, the Judge takes over: they skewer your every weakness on oral argument, and then (usually) issue decisive judgment on the merits of your argument in their written order.
On the plus side, I’m used to it. You start prepping for this kind of negative feedback as soon as you step into law school. The Socratic Method does work–by having someone directly questioning you about your position, you learn how best to defend your argument. But when you get to practice, shit gets real. Are lawyers assholes? Yes. Intentionally? Sometimes. The reality is that our system is adversarial–it forces us into opposing corners in the hopes that “truth” or “the right answer” emerges when the two sides collide. It’s an erudite trial-by-combat.
So why am I talking about this? Because somewhere along the line, I decided that I wanted to be a writer. A fantasy genre fiction writer. Writing the kinds of escapist adventure stories I loved to dive into because the real world (as evidenced by my day job) is full of depressing, angry, harsh realities.
It’s a different skill set. And, in order to get better at this skill set, I took classes, practiced, and, most importantly, got myself a cadre of amazing critique and writing partners. And you’d think that being a lawyer used to giving and receiving criticism, I’d have it down.
Nah.
Oh, don’t get me wrong, I do think that my contributions to my groups have added value to the group and to the work product of my peers. Their contributions are patently visible in the quality jump in my books and without them, I’m not sure I’d be agented today. I was pretty sure that I was giving as good as I was getting.
Until I read this blog post advocating for the power of specific praise when giving critique. Written by Kaitlin Schmidt. One of my Content Hospital co-founders and an incredibly valuable critique partner. Who, at the time of this blog post, I’d been in a critique group with for a year. One. Whole. Year. Whose critique I had VALUED for one whole year.
It rocked me. And the more I thought about it, the more it rocked me. Why? I mean, I’d been a teacher before–we’ve all been conditioned to make corrections in a “praise-correct-praise” cycle. And, yeah, lawyer=asshole, so I’ve also been conditioned to look for the weaknesses in someone’s work and dig... But that wasn’t it, or not only it.
After sitting with it, I realized two things made me uncomfortable. First, I didn’t have an eye for finding the good. That muscle had atrophied while I developed my “weakness-finder” eye. Second, I’m the product of the Eastern European school of thought: Nothing’s ever going to be perfect, so just tell me what I’m doing wrong so I can fix it. The good isn’t really important to acknowledge.
I know there’s therapy for that. I’m there.
So, for the last two months, I’ve been actively trying to apply the Kaitlin method to my creative writing critique groups. (The lawyers are a lost cause…) And here’s what I noticed.
I’m getting better at seeing good writing.
I know that sounds dumb, but the truth is if you ask writers what makes good writing, you’ll get a million different answers that when condensed generally comes down to “vibes.” By way of an analogy that lawyers would recognize, in 1964, the Supreme Court was asked to rule on an obscenity case. Justice Stewart famously explained that he could not define "hard-core" pornography with a set of rules or a test, but “he knew it when he saw it.” Jacobellis v. Ohio, 378 U.S. 184, (1964).
You know that you like something when you read it. But why? Is it perfect grammar? Punctuation? How it makes you feel? Voice? Prose? When you force yourself to focus on those portions of writing that give you the “yum,” you start to see how each of those elements come together to give you that lovely bit of dopamine. It’s not an overnight process. Sometimes, especially early on, I could only tell the author that I got the “yum” but not why. But with practice, or the more I looked at it, I could really point out something that specifically contributed to that “yum.” I’ve praised sentence structure, voice, imagery, evocative language, smooth foreshadowing, you name it. Sometimes it’s one sentence, sometimes it’s the whole damn section. But the longer I work on this, the more I know how to look for it.
And it’s not limited to my critique group work. It’s adding a layer to my critical reading skills for published works. Since “Reading is Fundamental” (thanks RuPaul), being able to pinpoint “yummy” writing that speaks to me means that I can better articulate what I appreciate reading. Which then means that I can practice that skill and grow as a writer.
Recipients of specific praise write better.
If this sounds like EXACTLY Kaitlin’s point in her blog post, it’s because it is. There. I said it. She’s right. Pointing out the stuff that’s working (and why it’s working) tells an author what they need to keep doing. Kaitlin gives a concrete example in her post, so I’ll follow suit. One of my writing partners feels she struggles with capturing and distinguishing her characters’ voices. She’s said she can’t tell when narration is in character or feels contrived. She’s been saying that for months. How stupid do you think I felt when I realized I’d never once pointed out where she’d done it perfectly? In the last few months–since implementing Kaitlin’s methods–I’ve noticed both her first draft and her subsequent edits have gotten so much stronger because she’s nailing that character voice more often.
But the other benefit I’ve seen is that recipients of specific praise write MORE. Or at least don’t quit. And if you think this is a question of “snowflake writers getting their sensitive feelings hurt,” it’s not. Or at least not entirely.
Don’t get me wrong, praise doesn’t hurt. But I’m desensitized to negative feedback courtesy of lawyering: I get a twinge of “aww” when I get criticism, and then I focus on fixing the issue. But what I never put together until I sat with Kaitlin’s post was that I’ve internalized that negative voice. I struggle to put creative words to paper. I demand perfection of myself even though I KNOW that I can’t attain it, and I certainly can’t attain it on a first draft. I love editing. My words definitely word when I’m editing. But I hate that first draft because I struggle so much to commit words to that damn blank page. I am self-editing–or worse, self-censoring–because I focus only on the “ick.” I can’t get over it and just write.
What if we take that to the extreme? What if we get to a point where we writers-block ourselves? What if we get so discouraged we stop writing? What if my own brand of asshole-direct-passionate-tactless-focus-on-only-the-bad critique led someone to doubt themselves? To stop trying? What if someone has internalized me–the lawyer=asshole? I don’t mind making opposing counsel want to quit their jobs, but I never want to be a part of the reason someone quits a writing group or bows out of creative writing. I hate what I’ve done to myself–why would I want someone else to suffer like me?
So, I wondered if it would change if there was equal air-time given to the positives. I still struggle to get words on page (don’t ask me about bison). But, if I focus on my strength for writing dialogue/banter, I write more. It’s like I need that skeleton, because then I can go back and pad it out with action/dialogue tags, setting, movement, and better prose. And I do that FASTER, because I’m more comfortable with editing than the initial drafting. It’s like I’ve hacked my system: if I circumvent my inner asshole by focusing on something I’ve been told I do well, I don’t stop writing.
And what about my writing groups? Well, I know that at least one of my partners has felt beat down by critique before. In one case, it got to the point that they took a hiatus from writing and weren’t sure they would come back. I can’t draw a direct correlation between the implementation of specific positive praise and their return/renewed participation, but I’m pretty sure that they haven’t walked out of a group meeting feeling beaten down since. It’s made the whole experience of receiving critique so much better.
Knowing what I know now, it’s hard not to feel guilty that I wasn’t doing this to begin with. Yeah, maybe I gave praise, but it was generic and probably felt disingenuous when I spent the rest of my time pointing out all the things that didn’t work for me. And I’m not shy about expressing my opinions, so it probably felt like a full on cross-examination. It’s hard knowing that my failure to give equal time to the positives in writing has sabotaged me and may have sabotaged others.
All I can say is that I’m grateful for Kaitlin’s insight and the discussions we’ve had about her methods. Kaitlin’s critiques are always amazing–whether constructive or praise, she nails them every time. No wonder she does it professionally.
I don’t think I’ll get to her level, but I owe it to my writing partners and to myself to keep trying. One piece of specific praise at a time.
Just Give It To Me Straight
When exchanging feedback with other writers, have you ever heard things like:
Don’t coddle me
I don’t need you to be nice
Skip the fluff, I’ve got thick skin
Just give it to me straight
I’ve heard many variations on these statements, and it signals a significant misunderstanding of the purpose of praise between writers; namely, that praise is nothing more than fluff, an accommodation for sensitive writers who need the blow of critiques to be softened by flattery. It even implies that when the writers saying these things receive praise, they automatically believe it to be dishonest, which reveals three sad possibilities about how they’re thinking about praise: they may be highly self-critical of their own writing, the praise they give to others may be dishonest, and/or they may have become embittered by receiving token praise in the past.
On the other hand, maybe you’re in a critique group that values positive feedback, but it’s not usually substantial. The positive portion of the feedback might be something along the lines of “I loved the overall story” while the critique portion might be detailed multi-sentence explanations attached to specific passages. I myself have given feedback like this, and I was well-intentioned. But when praise is tacked on as only an introduction to detailed critique, it can feel like the fluff those cynical writers are talking about.
While I argue in favor of praise between writers, I don’t mean just any kind of praise—I mean specific praise, honest praise, and praise without agenda. Dishonest, vague, and/or controlling praise can be ineffective and, in some cases, even detrimental. This post will only cover specific praise, but stay tuned for Part 2 to learn about the other two aspects.
Specific Praise Is a Mirror
An important goal of critique is to hold up a mirror to the writer so they can evaluate the needs of their work in an informed way before revising. And in my opinion, critique that includes positive feedback is a more accurate mirror than solely negative critique.
My perspective on specific praise comes directly from my time as a high school English teacher. In my master’s program, I read research showing how important specific praise is for students. For example, Chalk and Bizo conclude this in a 2004 study of fourth graders titled Specific Praise Improves On-Task Behavior and Numeracy Enjoyment:
When praise is specific it carries with it more information than a purely positive remark, and thus affords pupils more control of their learning. We argue that specific praise is more effective at promoting the behaviour it reinforces because it makes the contingency between behaviour and praise more explicit.
In other words, specific praise is effective at reinforcing behaviors because it makes it clear what behavior the praise is actually connected to—AKA, it’s a more accurate mirror, so the recipient is better informed as to what they did well.
When I applied this strategy with teenage students, I was blown away by how it helped them grow. Once I told a student, “I heard you cite your classmate’s point when you made your argument. It really helped me connect the dots between your ideas.” Not only did they light up, but they started citing their classmates more frequently during other lessons, without being asked to do so, and reinforced their own good speaking and listening habits.
When I’ve applied the same strategy with adult writers, I’ve not only been told that my feedback is motivating and useful, but I’ve seen writing strengthen between drafts. I don’t think we grow out of this human need for positive reflection just because we grow up.
Specific Praise Between Writers
In a writing context, specific positive feedback tells us what to keep, and what to keep doing. When someone praises my writing with specificity, it tells me that something is working, and I should keep it and build on it. For me, sometimes no news means bad news; if I get radio silence on a large section of writing, I might assume it’s not doing what I wanted it to and start changing and deleting. Hearing detailed description of why something works, on the other hand, allows me to:
Set aside that part of my book as effective and stop wondering if it’s landing
Use the information about how that part of my book is landing to inform the writing that comes next
Understand why my writing is working so I can replicate it in the future
What I mean by that last bullet point is that specific praise can reinforce good writing habits beyond the text at hand. When I’m told that something in my writing is working, I am more likely to do that type of writing again elsewhere in the manuscript—and in my writing life in general. I told a client once that a section of banter between their MC and love interest was funny and filled with chemistry. They were shocked and confessed they never expected they’d be able to write banter. And guess what? The next story I read from them had even more banter, and it was even better. Holding up a mirror to what was working wasn’t about stroking the author’s ego; rather, it helped them make more informed writing choices.
How to Give Specific Praise
The reason specific praise is harder than critique is because we’re geared to see the negatives first. The irony is that the easier and faster a section of writing is to read, the harder and longer the writer probably worked on it!
So, if you’re critiquing and go silent in your notes for a while, that might be a sign the writer is doing something well. That means that in order to give specific praise, a key step is going back. Here’s a full breakdown of my strategy:
Negatives. Take notes on the negatives like normal. Those are still important!
Go Back & Identify Feelings. Now that you’ve gotten the negatives out of your system, go back to the sections you breezed through. Ask yourself what you felt while you read (excitement, fear, surprise, arousal, wanting to yell at a character for the choices they’re making…).
Name the Source of the Feeling. When you identify a feeling, pause. See if you can name what the writer did to evoke that feeling. Put your findings in your notes to the best of your ability.
Reverse the Order in Delivery. Consider reversing the order of your feedback when you actually deliver it, digitally* or verbally. The writer never has to know the order you wrote it in, and the fact is, some of us (me) ARE sensitive, and praise DOES soften the blow of critique when it comes first. Is that so terrible? If it’s honest and stated separately from the critique, it can be both practical and kind.
*If you’re leaving comments in google docs, the timestamps don’t actually detract from the praise. ;)
One of my writing partners suggested a clever alternate strategy, so if the above doesn’t resonate with you, consider trying this instead:
Go Back & Search for Contrast. Ask what your critiques are standing in contrast to. Sometimes the negatives pop out so much because they come right after writing that’s working; for example, I’m more likely to notice a section with talking heads if the section right before it is filled with rich imagery and action. So try naming the good stuff the writer was doing before they stopped doing it.
Examples of Specific Praise
Naming why writing works can be tricky if you haven’t had a lot of formal training. Over time you can apply more vocabulary (“prose,” “dialogue,” “pacing,” “characterization,” etc.), but even if those words don’t feel available to you in the moment, an honest attempt to describe why something worked for you is better than limiting your feedback out of fear of not sounding like a Real Writer. I’ve gotten some truly excellent feedback from untrained beta readers who simply have a healthy trust of their feelings and are creative in how they explain them.
That being said, if you’re not sure where to start, take a look at some examples of descriptive positive feedback I’ve given writing partners or clients:
This made me chuckle. Good characterization through the whistling and jokey dialogue
Nice development―there’s now a small mystery as to what so-and-so is actually doing here, which pulls the story forward as the reader wants to find the answer
The way you write this story (the minimalist conversations broken up by periods of silence) FEELS quiet. It’s overall so well done. The omniscient perspective holds us at a distance from both characters as well, which contributes to that quietness
Nice characterization here—hint of hypervigilance
You weave in backstory so efficiently and seamlessly here!
You immediately give sensory details when we’re taken to this new setting. It oriented me so naturally I barely realized it at first!
That tone of foreboding again! Yessss
This choice of sensory detail not only immerses me in the character’s experience, but it tells me so-and-so is really focused on flaws, so it’s developing their characterization, too
It doesn’t always take much! If you have the energy, a longer analysis of what’s working can be so useful to the writer. But if it’s the final hour before your critique group starts and you’re busting through the last submission (what? I’ve never done that, shhhh) then consider the following options:
A Love this-style comment (or even an emoji) on a particular line or paragraph still narrows down what’s working more than a general “good job” at the end of the document
A slightly expanded comment (for example, Love the character’s miffed tone here) gives the writer more targeted information to help them figure out what made that section work
Even small changes like that can create a more accurate and useful mirror for the author. Instead of feeling like you have to become an expert at specific praise right away, add just a touch more specificity here and there the next time you exchange critiques with someone. The feedback you’ll get ON your feedback might blow you away and create a delicious cycle of productive praise.
Just Give It To Them Straight
I can’t tell you how much I have never regretted taking the time to give specific praise. I believe “just giving it to a writer straight” should include what’s working—that’s almost certainly a more straight picture of the writer’s piece than highlighting only the negatives and ignoring the positives.
Plus, think of the long game. Your efforts could be the first step toward cultivating a culture of specific praise between you and your writing partners. I have built long-lasting writing relationships because of how much trust this kind of communication builds. Consider putting this kind of energy out there, then see what comes back to you.
You might even find yourself applying this strategy in other contexts. Think about how much it would mean to a romantic partner or friend to hear not just that you like them, but specifically something you saw them do that you like about them. In his excellent book Not Light, But Fire, educator Matthew R. Kay discusses the use of detailed compliments to build trust between students, and at one point he writes something that applies far beyond the classroom:
The need to feel appreciated is human, as is the desire to be celebrated for one’s contributions. I tell students after introducing the activity, “That person you are thinking about, right now. Yes, that person. They are sitting there hoping that someone says something nice about them right now. Ignore their averted eyes, and know that any cool-kid smirks are fraudulent. They want to hear what you have to say.”
Like I said earlier, I don’t think we grow out of the human need for positive reflection just because we grow up. So let’s give it to each other straight and say some descriptive positives.
Next Up: Honest Praise Without Agenda
Next time, I’ll discuss the benefits of praise between writers being honest and without agenda. Stay tuned for Part 2!
Concerning new year’s resolutions
New Year’s is my favorite holiday. I love goals and lists and spreadsheets and numbers, and I love seeing what I can do if I keep practicing. Every year, I set 3–5 resolutions, and usually at least one of them is related to writing.
This year, that one went well.
The best resolutions are typed furiously into one’s phone notes while avoiding sleep.
This looks like an outcome-based goal—and not even a particularly measurable one—but there’s a process goal embedded within it. I knew this goal would require writing more than one story. I also knew that, to find out whether my stories were anything like “excellent,” I would have to subject them to the scrutiny of people who judge such things.
2024, by the numbers:
New stories completed: 24
Submissions to contests and magazines: 112
Rejections (so far): 59
In pursuit of my resolution, I wrote, and I learned, and I put myself out there, and I received a great deal of polite rejection notes. Like many short story writers, I track and celebrate rejections, but every single one of them does sting.
But . . . I also won two short story contests with substantial prizes: NYC Midnight and Writing Battle. I’m proud of these successes. I love fiction, and I’ve been writing fiction all my life, and I’ve never received public acknowledgement for it before.
So why now?
It was in no way obvious to me why I had this result. Why this year, after a couple decades of writing? Why those two particular stories, when so many others got tossed directly in the round file?
My favorite story that I wrote this year still sits unpublished on my hard drive, having been sent off to twelve contests or magazines and counting, with its greatest accomplishment being an oh-so-slightly personalized rejection note from Apex Magazine.
I will be living off those nine extra words after “Unfortunately” for the foreseeable future.
The people who judge contests and run magazines like some of my words (which is wonderful), but they don’t like most of them. Not even the ones I think are best. Worst of all, I don’t know why, which means I don’t know why I succeeded at my resolution.
More facts and figures:
Total words written, across all projects: 285,065
Average words per day: 781
I think that’s a lot of words? Some of my writer friends tell me that is a lot of words. Still, it’s fewer than I wrote while focusing on novels in 2023 (748k) or in 2022 (records fuzzy, but similar to ’23).
So. The numbers say that the people who judge contests and run magazines like a very tiny minority of my words. The “why” of my successful resolution is still uncertain, but the “how” is starting to look a little clearer.
For me, it’s a numbers game.
I need to write a whole lot of words to eke out a few good ones.
This isn’t true for everyone. I’m privileged to know a few exceptional, award-winning authors who call themselves “under-writers,” who draft lean and then painstakingly fill out their stories in editing.
Could never be me.
Personally, I achieve concision only after backspacing through enormous swathes of hard work. I have never known how to just do it slowly and correctly the first time. Maybe you do! Maybe you’re an under-writer, and the reflection I’m doing here will not benefit you at all. Please take note of the law of equal and opposite advice, and listen to or ignore me accordingly.
What’s next?
I haven’t made a specific writing-related resolution for 2025 yet. I’m waiting to see if I get into a few different programs:
Still, I feel confident that regardless of whether these particular paths work out for me, my high-level plan is clear. When a strategy works, you should seriously consider simply doing it more.
In 2025, I intend to write more words and show them to more people.
What will you do this year?
I went to 3 conferences in 2 months. Here’s 5 things that I learned.
Why 5? Because 3 + 2 = 5. Logic. Duh.
I’ll go ahead and answer your questions up front. Yes, I am still tired.
No, I’m not crazy. At least, the voices in my head say I’m not, but you can’t really trust those guys.
I went to Killer Nashville in Franklin, Tennessee; the PNWA Conference in Seattle, Washington; and the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers Conference in Aurora, Colorado.
Get ready to be tip slapped.
1. Bring Snacks
Most of these conferences are in hotels that are in the middle of nowhere. You won’t leave those hotels unless you drove to said hotel or rented a car. And honestly, even if you have a car, you’ll be so busy with classes and workshops and networking (yeah, networking is part of it), that you probably won’t have a lot of time to go get food.
Say goodbye to the sun, my friend! There’s a good chance you won’t see it all weekend.
Since you won’t be leaving, and hotel restaurants are about as reliable as a McDonald’s ice cream machine, I highly recommend you bring snacks. In Tennessee, we went to Target. For PNWA, I went to Costco and went ham on the snack aisle. In Aurora, we got a half a dozen bagels from the Einstein Bagels in the Denver airport.
Life savers all. Seriously.
Truth fact: Your brain burns calories when you think hard. Bring snacks. Eat snacks. Be a snack? I dunno. I might have lost the thread.
2. Downtime is your friend
This might sound bonkers coo-coo crazy pants, but oh well. If you’re the kind of person who likes to look at the schedule ahead of time and plan out your days, first: hello, fellow type-A brain. I see you. I feel you. Second: pencil in at least fifteen minutes of downtime for yourself.
But, Emily. You told me I’d be networking.
Yup. But only extroverts who have ingested large amounts of cocaine can network all day without their very essence draining out of their eyeballs by the end of the night.
So, plan a little chunk of time to give yourself a break. Take a nap. Listen to a podcast. Read a book. Watch shit TV. Take a shit, for all I care. Whatever your little heart desires. No matter what it is, give yourself a little bit of time to just be yourself.
Without it, you will be nothing but a husk by the end of the conference.
And as you drive off into the sunset, you’ll realize you left something behind.
Your soul. It’s still at the hotel. A ghost now, wandering the halls of the Embassy Suites with dead eyes and a slack jaw, shoving translucent business cards at terrified patrons for all of eternity.
And as those patrons lie awake at night, they shake with fear. They know what’s coming. They’ve heard it before. They’re terrified to hear it again, yet they can’t seem to stop listening for it. In the petrified silence, your soul-ghost whispers, “Who are you pitching this weekend?”
Nobody wants that.
Trust me.
Downtime.
Take it.
3. Have a pitch. Even if you’re not pitching.
If you don’t have an agent, there’s a good chance you’re taking part in the shit storm that is pitching—or just interacting with—an agent or thirty.
For those that don’t know, pitching is the abominable love child of speed dating and interviewing. It is arguably the most self-masochistic thing writers can do to themselves. (You know, apart from actually writing. Har. Har.) Pitching is honestly a totally separate blog. Maybe even a podcast. Inez! Put it on the list!
Anyhoo, even if you’re not pitching, you will absolutely, without a doubt, be asked these three questions in rapid succession:
What genre do you write in?
Are you currently working on something?
Tell me what it’s about.
And if you don’t have at least a line or two describing what your book is about, you’re going to look like a fish gulping for air on a hot pier.
Why a hot pier, Emily?
Because I’m painting a freaking word picture. (And this is what happens when I eat crunchy peanut butter and chocolate chips for breakfast and lunch.)
4. Go to shit.
You’re there to connect with people. The only way to do that is to go where the people are. So, my little word goblin, put on your human flesh mask and go to the open bar, the author signings, the shitty hotel dinner. Talk to the people. Make the friends. I got a full manuscript request from one of my dream agents over dinner in Colorado.
Go. To. Shit.
5. Pay attention to the contests
Not every conference will have a contest, but if they do, pay attention. This is a good idea for a couple reasons.
If you enter the contest and win, you’ll probably get money. And being paid for your work is, you know, nice.
Even if you don’t enter the contest, go to the award ceremony. By attending the ceremonies, I learned: in Colorado, they’re looking for a more literary style of writing. Killer Nashville is basically looking for spy novels (as far as I could tell). And PNWA is looking for fucked up minds like mine. (Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I won that one. Toot. Toot.)
Conference season is buck wild. It’s exhausting. And, honestly, after a while, they all kind of feel the same. But, I met so. many. cool. people. I learned a metric shit ton both about myself and writing.
There’s a definite blueprint for how these things go. Once you get the hang of it, use it to your advantage.
Keep an eye out for next year’s conferences and start making those plans. Just keep these tips in mind and you’ll be fine. Maybe. Probably.
Extra Pro Tip: DRINK WATER. It’s good for you. Hell, you’re basically a water demon as it is. Hydrate, you little devil you.
. . . about writing advice (the free kind)
…about writing advice.
Writing advice is everywhere and it seems like everyone has an opinion. For example, there are hard-and-fast capital “R” RULES for every type of writing. Except that some of them can be broken—not that anyone can quite agree on which ones. Or the perennial debate: Tropes—good or bad?
There’s a deluge of advice on story structure, world-building, story archetypes. And a lot of it is expensive. Paid seminars, writing conferences, MFAs, pocket MFAs, online courses, workshops—it can really add up. I recently saw a Writers Digest University online course on blogging for $249. My wallet whimpered. Is the bang worth the buck? How do you sort through the noise? What’s the “best” advice that won’t break the bank?
My answer might sound like a cop out. Sorry, not sorry. Because, honestly, the best writing advice is whatever advice makes you a better writer.
Ok. But I don’t have the unlimited dollars to spend on try-fail cycles. To that I say: YouTube. Blessings upon the creators who have spent so much time putting up amazing, useful, exciting stuff on a platform you can access for free.
And that means . . .
“BE A VORACIOUS CONSUMER”
When so much advice is available for free, come to that buffet hungry. You never know what will work for you—for your method or your story. Be insatiable in your curiosity. If you’re new to writing, try things out; if they don’t work, drop them and try something new. If you’re not new to writing, try things that resonate with what already works for you. You never know what’ll take you to the next level. There’s definitely “crappy” advice out there—but sometimes, the act of trying something “crappy” makes you a better writer in the long term.
CRAFT YOUTUBE GAMECHANGERS
“AuthorTube” and “BookTube” and adjacent sectors of YouTube are jam packed with phenomenal free advice and analysis. Of these offerings, I have come back to these three resources many . . . many . . . many times:
Brandon Sanderson’s Creative Writing Lectures
Overly Sarcastic Productions: Trope Talks
Abbie Emmons: How to Write a Novel with the 3-Act Story Structure
Brandon Sanderson needs no introduction. An absolute master at his craft, his insights into all aspects of building the fantasy novel were priceless. And totally free. He’s put his 13-week BYU Creative Writing course lectures online. And they’re brilliant.
Everything produced by Overly Sarcastic Productions is highly entertaining. But when it comes to writing, their Trope Talks are . . . chef’s kiss. Although they focus primarily on movie content, their analysis of story and the structure of over 90 tropes is so, so, so good.
Finally, Abbie Emmons’ series on the 3-Act Structure is a wonderful, concise, back-to-basics primer. Her conversational style is easy to follow. Even if I already “know” the material, her presentation has frequently helped me unstick myself from a particularly sticky story situation. It’s a good playlist to have lurking in the background (particularly if you’re a pantser . . . sorry, “discovery writer” like me).
My other favorite channels? Reedsy, Storygrid, The Fantasy Writer’s Toolkit, and Story Garden Publishing have consistently produced materials that I’ve used to troubleshoot my work. There are certainly others, and I’m always on the hunt for new stuff. If you have a favorite, drop it in the comments or share the playlist.
If you’re more of a book learner, there are some amazing resources—see our Library section for some excellent suggestions—that you can also pick up from your local Library or through Kindle Unlimited (if you’re subscribed). And if you’ve got memberships to Autocrit, Plottr, and/or ProWritingAid, they frequently have free online courses, workshops, and summits (more on those later).
But if you’re like me and you like to squeeze in some learning between a full-time day job, part-time writing schedule, and adulting responsibilities, watching a few free writing videos with coffee in the morning or just before you fall asleep can really get the creative wheels turning. And who knows, you just might stumble on the solution to a thorny problem or an approach that gives you fresh motivation or a second wind.
HAPPY WRITING!