Zen Master, Barroom Bouncer… Workshop Leader

There aren't many topics as divisive in the writing world as writers groups. Self-publishing, maybe. Submission fees. Maybe the Oxford comma. But really, many writers feel very strongly about writing groups, and I'm one of them. I hate them.

Well, except for the one I lead each week.

Which is to say of course there are good - and great - writers groups out there, but they're thin on the ground. Since most writers are not highly remunerated (at least not for their writing), many groups are "all-peer, no-pay." That means there's no leader getting paid, and no one shells out a dime unless it's their turn to pick up doughnuts and coffee. 

In theory, that's great. In practice, not so much. Leaderless workshops can be meandering and without direction, becoming gripe sessions about the vagaries of the profession rather than focused on craft. But directed workshops can be pretty lame, too.  Not every writer can teach, not every writer can edit, and certainly not every writer can embody the combination of average joe, zen master, and barroom bouncer necessary to successfully lead a group discussion. I work with adult poets and writers in a variety of contexts, and it's distressing to me how often my clients - many of whom are rather accomplished professionals, currently publishing - tell me the horrid edits they've made to their work were based upon the input of writing group peers. I've had writers cry telling me how everyone in a group piled on to repeat a single picayune criticism. And more often, I've had writers complain that everyone in their writing group loves their work, yet editors seem not to. That should be a red flag to a thinking person, but we writers are long on imagination and have a terrific ability to kid ourselves, present company included.

Writing is a solitary endeavor (sorry, TV-writing brethren; it is, for most of us). The best thing most people - even fellow writers - can offer the nascent scribe is encouragement, and perhaps a bit of camaraderie over a cup of coffee or a wee flacon of wine. So why join a group?

Writers join groups for a handful of reasons: to get feedback from others in their field, to talk craft, to have a social experience in a very solitary occupation, to connect with someone who might - please, dear God - provide an introduction to an agent, and so on. And also, I'm sorry to say, to engage in a writing-adjacent activity that allows one to feel as though he or she is officially A Writer, Writing, without actually having to put in a lot of fingers-to-keyboard time. 

As Epictetus advised us, if you want to be a writer, write. If you haven't averaged four hours a day at the keyboard all week (two, if you have a full-time day job), could be you've got no business showing up for coffee and pastries at the Saturday workshop. Your time is limited - everyone's is – and you ought to spend that afternoon at your desk, doing what writers do. You know. Writing.

But time management is the least of my quibbles with the typical group. If it were just a matter of frittering away the day without getting words on paper, we all can (and do) find plenty of ways to do that: nine-to-five jobs, significant others, children who need their dinner, dogs that need walking, gas tanks that need filling, bills, emails, e-vites, ad infinitum. Right? So the biggest problem with writing groups isn't that they glom up time that would be better spent writing. The real problem is that many - dare I say most - groups are not only not constructive, they are actively destructive. Yeah, I said it. Here's why.

Most fiction writers groups - knowingly or not - follow some variation of the MFA workshop format. Everyone emails around a few pages that the others are supposed to have read before the meeting. Then each writer reads his or her own work aloud as the others nod, or gasp, or whistle admiringly under their breath. Then they go around in a circle and each person shares his or her ideas about the piece – what's great, what needs work, and so on. (Poetry workshops are conducted similarly.) 

The writer whose work is being discussed doesn't respond to any of the comments, not even with a lifted eyebrow or a strategic harumph. They just listen. Some writers groups do allow a bit of leeway - for example, the writer may humbly and succinctly advise the group at the end of the discussion that it really was a "bridle shower" and not a misspelled "bridal shower," or that they confused Jim Higgins the parole officer with Tim Wiggins the police officer and thus completely misunderstood the story's denouement. Other groups hold so strictly to the rules that they forbid what is annoyingly referred to as "crosstalk," which is something normal people refer to as "conversation." That is, if Maria says she thinks Bob's use of metaphors is over-done and heavy-handed, Louanne cannot jump in and say that she admires Bob's abstractions and thinks the piece could use even more of them. 

A lot of idiosyncrasies of the typical MFA workshop model made sense originally. Having the writer read aloud is a CYA move for those who didn't pre-read the story, and it also tells the listener how particular bits of dialogue and oddly punctuated passages are supposed to be heard. Consider, for example, this tidbit:

John picked up the gun and moved it to the shelf. "This is dangerous," he said, smiling.

Now, at some point, either before or after this passage, the author is going to have to tell us what's happening here. Many questions could be answered if she inserted the word "angrily" or "kindly" or "sarcastically" or "firmly" after the "he said." Many more, if we knew how John is smiling: Sinisterly? Dismissively? With amusement, or perhaps with disapprobation? When the author reads aloud, the listener gets clues that may not be in the text about what the author intends, and in theory, can then provide suggestions: "I wasn't sure John was actually threatening his landlady until I heard the scary way you read that line," and so on. In theory, this tells the writer that something is missing from the words that are on the page, because after all, the author will not be there to whisper the text into most readers' ears. 

In actual practice, what tends to happen is that what is read by the eye and heard by the ear get conflated, so the writer ends up not being told that the line needs clarification. Instead, she gets positive reinforcement for what's wrong with the bit: "I got chills when you read the part where John picks up the gun. Terrifying!" Are the words actually terrifying? Not at all. But the author's intonation told us they should be. We think we read what we actually only heard. We praise the writer for what she meant, not for what she wrote.

Another problem with leaderless workshops is that honest, constructive criticism – and especially back-and-forth discussion – is often perceived as the dread "crosstalk," especially by those with MFAs. Yet another issue is that writers don't always use good judgment about which points to dwell on and which to let go. I have been in writing groups where every single participant (of eight or ten) mentioned the same misspelling or punctuation error. And I've been in groups where every single participant offered insipid comments like, "I love your writing. This is so good." 

Compliments like that have absolutely no value. They mean nothing. Okay, they do mean something. They mean "I like you and I don't want to hurt your feelings." But compliments that have actual constructive value are specific. For example, "I like the way you made us think Erin was the thief, until she threw open the door and we saw Carmen standing there with the gold dust,"  or "I never heard the word enormity used that way, so I looked it up and saw that you are right. Very interesting, thanks!"

Of course the same is true of criticisms - they are of value only when they are specific. In writers groups, criticisms are often couched as questions or as personal failings of the reader: "I wonder why the flautist was at the ballpark at 11:10, but was also at the police station across town at 11:08. I'm probably missing something!" 

That's okay – it's great to point out a plot hole or solecism, and helpful for the writer – but the fact is that writers should listen to criticism only from those who clearly like their work. Hang on, there, before you argue that you're tough enough to take it. This is not because writers are fragile hothouse flowers who should cancel people who don't appreciate their stuff. Not at all. It's because years of teaching creative writing have shown me that when someone doesn't like a piece, and the writer is in the room, the critic will struggle to find a reason to give, a suggestion for improvement, that may actually have nothing at all to do with whatever is wrong with the piece (if anything). The reader dislikes the piece at a gut level, but feels pressured to verbalize a reason, something that can be "fixed." Too often, they just pull stuff out of thin air. "It takes too long to get to the murder," or "I wanted the dog to live at the end, instead of drowning," or "something about that rainy cafe scene just seems off," are criticisms that people may come up with when they don't like a story and don't know why. And the writer gets back to work trying to please a critic who is probably not ever going to be pleased by that particular piece. My suggestion is, if you don't like the story, don't offer any feedback. If you do like it for the most part, but see something wrong, hallelujah! By all means let the writer know. 

Think of it as the old "prom dress rule" your parents probably taught you. If your best friend asks if she looks good in her prom dress, and she just doesn't, whether you answer truthfully depends on whether it's four hours till prom, or four months. Offer criticism only when it's sincere, justified, and is something that can be fixed. If you just despise stories that include friendly clowns and madcap capers, when Lamont reads his, smile cryptically and keep your mouth shut. If, however, you really like clowns, capers, and Lamont's writing style, but notice the clown sits down to lunch right after dinner on page eight, or that his dialogue bits are so long they qualify as dramatic monologues, by all means, speak up.

The biggest problem with all-peer writing groups is that everyone is equal. I know, I know, we are all equal and everyone's opinion is of of identical value, blah blah blah. Except, no. Not here. A workshop needs a leader, a person who knows more than the others about many or most of the topics that will arise in discussion, and who is able to direct the flow when necessary. If you have ever sat through a ten-minute monologue in which the "critiquer" mumbled, hemmed and hawed, repeated himself, apologized, belabored inconsequential points, and repeated what other participants had already covered in detail, you know what I mean. As a workshop leader, I sometimes have to cut people off – and I'm not afraid to do so – when they talk too long ("I know I'm running way over, but I just want to add…") or make inappropriate comments ("I love the sex scene – is that move something you yourself enjoy?") or expect everyone to wait around while they figure out something to say, rather than succinctly delivering thoughtful, pre-written notes. But the most common and egregious of all errors is that a critiquer will turn the conversation to himself: "I like your story, Glenda! It reminds me of my own story, Murder Under the  Christmas Wreath, published in 1991, in which I blah blah blah bladdedty blah…"  I will give a critiquer one gentle reminder - "Hey, Lenny, sorry to interrupt, but let's focus on Glenda's work here." And if he slides back into it, he gets ruthlessly cut off. Sorry, again, Len.

One element of the typical MFA-style workshop that can be tough to accept is the idea that writers shouldn't respond to comments about their work during or after the critiques. This means that they can only listen, allowing them – forcing them! – to hear how their work strikes the reader without their mind racing ahead, trying to gather evidence to use on the defensive cross ("I did explain that Miss Pettiwad is a bookkeeper – you just didn't get to that part yet!"). I find this stipulation tough to follow and tough to enforce, but worth the trouble, both in fiction and in poetry workshops. We're writers – we've got a lot to say. Sometimes it's really helpful to be forced to just listen.

Other rules seem simply intended to pander to the ultra-sensitive sensibility that sometimes dominates conversations about art. Trigger warnings are a nice idea, but have been taken to ridiculous extremes. I think it's acceptable – even commendable – for a workshop author to note at the beginning of a written piece, and before reading it aloud, that it contains lengthy passages of graphic violence, or a great deal of foul or offensive language, or some other truly objectionable element. That allows those who do not want to read or hear to bow out.

But to announce ahead of time that piece briefly references something appalling undermines the elements of the work that should be revealed with reading. There is a very real difference between one sentence reading, "Carolyn slid the knife neatly between Mr. Andrews's ribs, careful to keep blood from staining her pinafore," and a two-page depiction of the full, grisly details of the violent crime. The latter might justify a trigger warning, I think, but not the former. (But the latter would probably also have a gross-out factor far outweighing any literary merit.)

I've been in workshops where writers included trigger warnings for guns, knives, a bottle of pills on the counter, overeating, childbirth, a construction worker wolf-whistling, drunks talking in a bar, dog poop on the sidewalk, raw beef, and…allergies. Yes. Allergies. Like, hay fever. This is where the wise workshop leader steps in and inquires gently, "Are you out of your freaking mind?"

So, back to crosstalk and constructive criticism. If it would thoroughly crush Michaela's spirit to be told that Amani disagrees with her, Michaela may need therapy more than she needs to participate in a writing group. This is not to say that courtesy and respect for others should not be paramount in every group; of course they should. You may find Rick to be a blithering idiot, and his work best used to line the recycling bin, but there's no law that you have to say so. So don't. You can always (yes, I will die on that hill – always) find something good to say about someone's work. But the fact is, you won't normally need to. No one will mind if you just hush up and let the others talk. Most people have lots to say and really like to hear themselves say it.

So what about the good workshops out there? What sets them apart? 

The very first thing a workshop leader should do is establish ground rules. I'd suggest the basics: a sincere compliment should precede every criticism (including those couched as questions or personal failures). That might go like this: "Audrey, your story made me laugh out loud, first at the part where Doug fell off the bridge, and then again when his wife asked why he was all wet. There is something I noticed, though. When Audrey and Doug speak, they never use contractions, so the dialogue seems a bit stiff and unnatural." Note that it is not necessary to then cite every instance of stiff dialogue. The writer can consider your note later, in private, and decide whether it has value to him or her.

But hang on. What if you have a really, really great criticism but just cannot think of a single compliment to precede it? Scroll up. If you didn't like the story enough to single out something great about it, don't offer any comment at all. Really. Just zip it. Not kidding.

A second rule might be no seconding and thirding the comments of others rather than to say, "I agree with Dylan about the tone." (Do not then proceed to repeat everything Dylan said.) Be aware that each person in a workshop will not get equal time to speak about every story. That would not make sense, because by the time you get to the eighth or ninth person, almost everything has already been said. Therefore, the workshop leader should choose a different writer to start the comments each go-round.

Third, the workshop leader should let everyone know that commenting on a comment or disagreeing with a comment are perfectly acceptable – if the remarks are made with courtesy and respect. "Sorry, Bob, I don't agree with you about the dog breeds in Jane's story. Lots of people have pit bulls that are friendly," or "Tammy, it's possible that your character should say uninterested, not disinterested." However, rude or hurtful remarks will result in immediate shut down (or mic-muting, if on zoom). The leader should be willing and able to say firmly, "Doris, I'm cutting you off right there, sorry. Let's discuss it later."

One of the best workshops I've attended was a one-off led by a fairly well-known writer who announced at the start, "I'm very direct. If I offend you, sorry – if you just slip out during the break, I'll understand." He was direct, and some people did take umbrage and leave, but for those of us who stayed, wow – great learning experience in how to give and receive constructive criticism. Unfortunately, too many groups are led by writers who are too damned nice to stop the train by interrupting a speaker or turning off a mic. (I've been accused of a lot, but being too nice is apparently not one of my flaws.)

This is why I often advise clients, students, and colleagues against joining all-peer, no-pay groups. If you're considering a directed, pay-to-play group, ask to sit in on a session before you commit. I've just had too many writers receive bad advice, or get piled on by the crowd about something inconsequential, or get pumped up about something that really wasn't great, in these groups. But I'd love to be mistaken. If you belong to a fantastic writing group that has helped you become a better writer, please share details in the comments. And of course horror stories will be devoured with relish!

---

Anna Scotti's most recent release, It's Not Even Past, went out of print with the recent closure of Down&Out Books.  It will be available from a new publisher soon – but if you can't wait, contact the author via her website. She has a few copies available.

Anna's latest story for Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, "Season of Giving", appears in the January/February issue of the magazine.

“Writing is thinking.”

             My wife made this observation many years ago, and it has not only lingered in my mind, but grown in significance as I’ve experienced the effects. 

Here’s the premise:  When you’re just thinking something, it’s an undifferentiated ball of feelings, memories, randomly firing synapses, unstructured language, side tangents and fleeting images.  A swirl of disorganized, unmediated mush.  When you have to express all that via the written word, you have to “think it through”.  In other words, your mind imposes order and continuity to the original jumble, recording feelings and vague impressions in a way they can be conveyed to another person, essentially “completing the thought.”  Writing it down makes it real and tangible, and adds a fair amount of useful cognition along the way.

Fiction writers often mention those strange, and unfortunately fleeting, moments when something seems to be writing itself.  It’s suddenly effortless, the words flowing on the page as if directed by divine inspiration.  What could be happening, miraculous though not quite as romantic, is your brain, as your write, quickly sorts out all the inchoate reasoning that’s been going on in the background, and letting you reveal what you’d been thinking all along. 

It's also possible that the language you’re putting on the page is triggering other thoughts, which then express themselves as words, sentences and paragraphs, which then fuels further thinking, and concomitant writing, and so forth in a virtuous circle.

Brain scientists describe a process whereby raw emotions express themselves, spontaneously and involuntarily, as words in the heat of a stress-filled moment.  This is when your amygdala (once referred to as your “lizard brain”) gets so riled up that it sends a message right to your mouth, or in extreme cases your fists, bypassing all that other refining and moderating circuitry.   We usually apologize after one of these episodes by saying, “Sorry, I lost my temper.”  Or “Really sorry.  I guess I lost my mind.”   The latter is technically more accurate.  You have, in fact, lost portions of your mind when they’ve been sidelined, or hijacked (an actual clinical description) by the primitive bits from our evolutionary past.

I bring all this up to illustrate that it’s not unreasonable to assert that thoughts originating in one part of the brain can find themselves transformed for the better as they pass through the other parts.  Why the purely emotional sensations you might feel witnessing the dawn of a beautiful spring day can splash across a piece of paper in the form of a sonnet, and you have no idea how it got there.

 It would be fair to say that speaking serves the same purpose.  It also organizes the cacophony of impulses and feelings that constitute thought into discernible meaning you can communicate to other people.  That’s true, though written language operates at a different level.  It is more structured, intricate and reliant on basic logic.  You are more likely to be working your way to a conclusion, a summation that faces greater rigor than merely thinking out loud. 

            My wife would maintain that the act of writing itself not only harnesses thought, it is a type of thought itself that arrives at a destination unreachable by any other means.  It’s possible that some fiction writers compose their work fully in their heads before delivering it to the page.  But most are like me.  I have some idea of what’s going to happen in the next chapter, but I really won’t know for certain until I get there.  Often, my assumptions are misplaced, and the narrative goes merrily off in another direction entirely. 

You could argue that writing is merely a tool that facilitates thought, and by extension, creativity.  Feel free, but in my experience, no good ever comes from arguing with my wife.  

Guest Post: What Kind of Relationship Do You Have With Your Writing?

This month, I'm turning my column over to a guest, Eric Beckstrom. I've been friends with Eric, a talented writer and photographer, for some thirty years, and I'm pleased to have the chance to let him address the SleuthSayers audience on a topic I'm sure many of us can identify with. As Eric mentions here, his first published story appeared in the 2017 Bouchercon anthology--an enviable place to make your debut, given the competition for those spots! What's even more remarkable is that he's since placed stories in three more Bouchercon anthologies (how many other writers have been selected for four? Certainly none I know of). His latest, "Six Cylinder Totem," will be in the 2025 edition, Blood on the Bayou: Case Closed (available for preorder here). Without further ado, here's Eric!

— Joe

What Kind of Relationship Do You Have With Your Writing?

Eric Beckstrom

We all have a relationship of craft to our writing, or however you choose to put it--relationship, interaction, approach--but I find myself wondering whether other writers also think about their relationship with their writing as a truly personal one--a nearly or even literal interpersonal one, as distinguished from simply craft-centered and intrapersonal. Maybe every writer reading this column experiences their writing in that way, I don't know. That is my own experience– closer to, or, in practice, even literally interpersonal. It is intrapersonal, too, but I also relate to my writing as this other thing outside of myself, like it's a separate entity. The relationship has been fraught. Sometimes– much more so now– it is functional and healthy, sometimes less so, and, for an interminably long time, it was dysfunctional right down to its atomic spin. It includes compromise, generosity, forgiveness, impatience, resignation, joy, trust, fear, just like any other important relationship in my life. The current complexity of the relationship is a gift compared to when it was an actively negative, hostile one, defined by avoidance, fear, and resentment, with only the briefest moments of pleasure and appreciation.

That was years ago. Then, one night, I made a decision that changed my relationship with my writing forever in an instant: I let myself off the hook. More on that later. I understand, of course, there are many very accomplished writers among the SleuthSayers readership, and that perhaps everyone moving their eyes across this screen has also moved well beyond anything I have to say here; but if you ever trudge or outright struggle with your writing--not the craft connection, but the relational one--then maybe there's something here for you.

One of the most common pieces of advice or edicts offered by established writers to budding or struggling writers is, "Write every day," "Write for at least an hour each day," or some variation thereof. This advice is always well-intended, but in my view it seems awfully essentialist. Sometimes it even seems to stem from writers with--I'm being a little cheeky here--personality privilege, such as those who have never or rarely had difficulty with motivation; or from other forms of privilege, like growing up in an environment that encouraged and nurtured creativity or was at least free from significant obstacles to creativity.

© Eric Beckstrom,
LowPho Impressionism

Or maybe those edicts about the right way to approach writing aren't nearly as pervasive as I have thought, and it's more that my (more or less) past hypersensitivity turned my hearing that advice four or five times into a hall of mirrors back then, fifty-five times five in how I felt it reflected negatively on me. Back when I was struggling for my life as a writer, I heard it as judgment. "Eric, you don't writer every day, let alone each day for an hour or two. Therefore, you are not a real writer because you obviously don't have the passion everyone says you'd feel if you were. You are a piker: you make only small bets on yourself, and to the extent that you make writing commitments to yourself, you withdraw from them."

While advice around commitment, writing schedules, regularity, and habit, is, on the face of it, sound, it has a hook on which I used to hang like someone in a Stephen Graham Jones novel or the first victim in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. That hook has barbs of guilt, fear, imposter syndrome (not to mention nature-nurture baggage). It also has barbs forged from practical challenges like having to work full-time and having other commitments, and being too mentally exhausted to sit down and write at the end of a day of all that. Until the night I let myself off the hook, I used to absorb those writing edicts as barbs into flesh. As profoundly, debilitatingly discouraging.

For sure, that's also on me. Also, on my upbringing. Also, on the third-grade teacher who called my very first story silly and unrealistic. But, at the end of the day, it was on me to change how I relate to writing. From the age of ten and decades into my adult life, yearning to write, but blocked by inhibitions and other stumbling blocks I'd never learned to turn into steppingstones, I absorbed the standards set by established writers as slammed doors, guilty verdicts, and commandments I had broken.

Here's what happened the night I let myself off the hook– off other people's hook.

I was sitting in front of the TV feeling conflicted, as I felt every night. I knew I ought to go into the other room, turn on the computer, and write. I longed to do so– it was a physical sensation– but couldn't bring myself to. I hadn't been writing, so I wasn't a real writer, right? And since I'd finished very few writing projects, I had limited evidence of talent anyway. All my Psych 101 childhood baggage was there, too, present, like that longing, as something I felt as you'd feel someone slouching behind you in the town psycho house, reaching for your shoulder.

Then, for some reason– and I don't know where this came from– I said out loud to myself "You know what? Screw all that. Screw the edicts and other people's standards. Screw the judgment you feel from others and screw the self-judgment. If you write tonight, great. If you don't write tonight, then don't castigate yourself. Maybe you'll write tomorrow."

In that moment, a strange kind of functional (as differentiated from dysfunctional) indifference triggered a profound letting go which permanently changed my relationship with my writing. And, finally off the hook, having made a deliberate, defiant choice to stop judging my writer self by others' standards and even by my own standards at the time, that very same night, I turned off the TV, turned on the computer, and started writing. Years later (not all my hangups disappeared in one night), after I began making the effort to submit stories for publication, one of the first ones I ever completed, over a single weekend just weeks after I finally began writing in earnest, landed in the 2017 Bouchercon anthology as the first story I had published.

Since then, I've encountered, or perhaps just become more capable of seeing and absorbing, more down to earth, approachable advice and insight offered by others. William Faulkner said, "I write when the spirit moves me." Now, he also said, "The spirit moves me every day," but his words contain no edict or implied universal standard, no judgment. Jordan Peele added an entirely new dimension to my relationship with writing, and, I will share, to my approach to life, with his suggestions to, "Embrace the risk that only you can take." One of the most practical, wise, simple, and compassionate insights I've gotten from another writer– and because of that component of compassion, this insight most clearly describes my current, far more healthy interpersonal relationship with my writing– came from a good writer friend, who, when I described my ongoing struggle with tackling large writing projects, said, "You know, I think it's just about forward progress, whatever that means to you." I also recall the wisdom of another friend who, when I told him about some life issues I was struggling with at the time, said, "That's good. If you're struggling it means you haven't given up. Don't stop moving, don't stop struggling." It's not advice specific to writing, but it sure works.

Nowadays, for me, forward progress could be a single sentence I drop into a story right before my head hits the pillow. It could be a cool ending to an as-yet nonexistent story. Or an interesting first sentence. An evocative title without even the vaguest notion of what plot it might lead to. A single word texted to myself at 2:00AM because it strikes me as belonging to whatever I'm working on. I often do research on the fly, so forward progress is sometimes a link to some article I drop into a given story doc, which I keep in the cloud so I can do that from wherever, whenever. And yes, sometimes forward progress is pages of fast, effortless, final-draft quality writing.

But I never measure my "progress"--those quotation marks are important--by the number of words or pages, though if I make good progress in that way I consciously, usually out loud, give myself credit. And, submission deadlines notwithstanding, I rarely measure my progress according to some timeline. Some days, and I hate to say, sometimes for weeks, I don't write a word, though if that happens now it's almost always due to external constraints rather than resistance; and that is in itself forward progress with respect to my relationship with my writing, upon which the writing itself, and really everything, depends. But that doesn't mean I'm not making forward progress with respect to writing itself, because during those stretches of not writing paragraphs and pages I'm still doing everything I've noted, like simmering ideas, writing in my head and emailing it to myself later, reading like a writer. It's a delicate and, yes, sometimes fraught, balance between self-compassion and self-discipline--after all, what relationship is perfectly healthy?--but these days my relationship with my writing is more characterized by compassion, generosity of spirit, and confidence. Stories have greater trust that I will finish them, and I have greater trust that stories will lead me where they want to go. Even if I don't know where a story is leading me, or I think I do but it changes its mind, or if my confidence flags, or it just seems too difficult to finish, the two-way charitable nature of the relationship between my writing and I has transformed how I approach these situations: at long last, more often than not, that is in a healthy, functional way.

And it's a good thing, too, because for reasons I won't get into here the relationship between my writing and me has become a truly existential thing that sways the cut and core of my life. This thing has been described as a need, a compulsion, a yearning. In Ramsey Campbell's story, "The Voice of the Beach," the protagonist-writer says, "If I failed to write for more than a few days I became depressed. Writing was the way I overcame the depression over not writing." I am grateful to have reached the point where writing is something I want to do, not just something I must do to reduce bad feelings. Writing has become something that I do because, yes, if I don't then I feel sad and unfulfilled, but that's no longer the principle motive. For decades, I yearned to reach a point where I would write because it brings fulfillment and pleasure, even when it's hard or I don't feel like writing in a given moment or on a given day. I am relieved to have reached that point, even if I'm not very "productive" compared to most other writers I know of. That's no longer a hook I hang on. These days, for me a hook is a good story idea, a good opening line or a great title, and the only barbs are the ones my characters must contend with.

That is what I wish for every writer, whether well-established or yearning to begin: a satisfying and healthy relationship with your writing, and, in the words of my friend, forward progress, whatever that means to you.

© Eric Beckstrom, LowPho Impressionism

Only One Writer in the Room

I've talked about whether or not to listen to music while writing. No two writers are the same. I often need music, except in those quiet hours before the day begins. Then I need silence. But later in the day?

Yeah, I need my tunes. But that comes with a caveat. Deep Purple's "Highway Star" or jazz instrumentals do not disrupt the story flow. But I can't have a storyteller singing or rapping. As such, no post-Animals Roger Waters and no Carrie Underwood. The former I find kind of annoying anyway. I was thrilled when Floyd became a trio led by David Gilmour because I want to hear Floyd, not Roger's daddy issues morphed into geo-politics. Carrie?

"Two Cadillacs" already has its own story spinning up in my head. And then we have the most noir country song since "Goodbye, Earl": "Blown Away." First time I ever heard a story about a girl using a tornado to kill her abusive father. Guess there was enough rain in Oklahoma to make that happen.

I used to blast Metallica when I was younger. They put out this thundering wall of sound that drowned out the world. Now I have a persistent ringing in my left ear. It's not bad, and sometimes, ambient noise tamps it down. But I'm not in my thirties anymore. I may listen to Van Halen or Metallica in the car, but when I write, I find myself drifting more toward jazz. While it could be, its vocal songs are not stories as often as other genres. Plus it has more instrumentals than rock or country or, especially, pop. Acts in the other three genres, along with hip hop, are dependent on someone fronting the band. You need your Robert Plants and Taylor Swifts and Blake Sheltons. And hip hop, which is more rhythm than melody to begin with, is a lousy genre for instrumentals. Ludacris, for instance, has some of the best backing tracks in the genre, which really make his songs pop. Take out the vocals, however, and it sounds like half a bar of some interesting synth on a loop.

But jazz? Strip the vocals off "My Favorite Things," and you have a playground for Miles or Coltrane (and later, his wife, Alice) or the Marsalis brothers. In jazz, voice is more an instrument than something to be supported by the backing band.

And pop, which is all about spectacle, needs a charismatic person to draw in the audience. Hence, most pop acts are solo, often an outlet for songwriters these days. I've heard my share of country instrumentals. The genre can use more in this era of Spotify blandness. But rock? There's always room in rock for sending the vocalist on break. Like when Stevie Ray Vaughan took on Jimi Hendrix's classic "Little Wing."

Thoughts on Finding Time and Space to Write

Ladies and gentlemen of the crime community, we take great pleasure in introducing Mr David Heska Wanbli Weiden. Please give David a warm welcome.

— Leigh

author David Heska Wanbli Weiden
photo by Aslan Chalom

            David Heska Wanbli Weiden

            I am delighted to join the SleuthSayers roster! It’s a pleasure to join writers whom I’ve known for some time and others that I’ve yet to meet. In this introductory post, I thought I’d share some thoughts on publishing and marketing a debut novel (spoiler alert: during a pandemic!) and also on finding space to write one’s second novel, although I hasten to add that no one should take any advice from me on this topic, given that it’s been five (!) years since my debut was published. I am happy to report that the sequel, Wisdom Corner, is forthcoming in 2026, and I also have an edited anthology forthcoming from Akashic Books titled Native Noir.

            By way of background, my debut novel, Winter Counts, was published by Ecco/HarperCollins. It’s the tale of Virgil Wounded Horse, a vigilante on the Rosebud Indian Reservation in South Dakota. I’m an enrolled citizen of the Rosebud Sioux Tribe (known as the Sicangu Lakota nation in our language), and so it’s no surprise that I set the novel there. I wasn’t raised on the reservation, but I spent a great deal of time there growing up, as my mother was born there and our family still has a presence on the rez. Indeed, I “own” three small parcels of land on the reservation, although that land is held in trust by the federal government and is leased to white ranchers, who pay rent for the use of the land (the princely sum I receive ranges from 75 cents to several dollars per annum.)

            I wrote and revised Winter Counts in the period from 2017-2019 and was extremely fortunate to secure representation from a literary agent, the wonderful Michelle Brower, in 2018. On submission, we were lucky to have a number of Big Five imprints interested in the manuscript, and Ecco offered a two-book deal, which we accepted. Publication was set for August 2020, and I excitedly attended to all of the details of publication: copyediting, proofreading, cover design, audio book creation, etc.

            And then the global pandemic happened.

            The Covid-19 years now seem very far away, but it is difficult to understate the impact the virus had on the publishing world in the early stages. My entire book tour was canceled as was every planned event, including a live book launch in my hometown of Denver. Indeed, every brick-and-mortar bookstore in the country had closed, which did not bode well for hand sales of the novel by booksellers. Naturally, I was devastated, as it seemed like all of my hard work was going down the drain. But, people were dying, and I was of course grateful that no one in my family was affected (although I did contract the virus, just weeks before the first vaccine was released) and I mourned for those lost, including a former classmate. The impact of Covid-19 was catastrophic for citizens of my reservation, as there were few opportunities to quarantine on Indigenous lands and many Native nations did not have the resources to purchase medical masks before federal funds began to be distributed. (Jumping ahead of the story a bit: after my novel was released, private book clubs began to ask me to join them virtually; I never charged a fee, but I did request that they donate to the Rosebud Sioux Tribe Covid fund, and I was gratified to raise a fair amount of money for my people to purchase masks and other items.)

         For those of us with books published in the first wave of the pandemic, there were no templates on how to move forward. Given that the usual model of in-person book promotion was not possible, I made the decision that I’d utilize every option offered to discuss the novel. And indeed, that’s exactly what I did. In the year after the book was released, I engaged in nearly two hundred events: virtual bookstore readings, podcasts, virtual festival appearances, radio broadcasts, meetings with private book clubs, print interviews, television appearances, and even an Instagram takeover of the HarperCollins account. I also wrote several dozen blog posts and articles, including an op-ed for the New York Times. I was grateful for these opportunities to talk about the novel and the issues in the book, and my initial awkwardness with video appearances lessened to some degree. Happily, I believe that my work paid off, as the novel was able to attract significant attention in the press as well as dozens of positive and rave reviews. Sales were excellent, and the book made a few bestseller lists as well as receiving twelve awards in the U.S. and England.

            The point here is that book promotion and marketing apparently changed as a result of the pandemic years, and this change may be permanent. I’ve spoken to veteran authors who told me that they never participated in any virtual events before the pandemic, but that these appearances are now standard for them. To be sure, there are some authors who have such a national presence that they can eschew these virtual gatherings, but for most of us, Zoom events are now the norm. For example, about one hundred private book clubs adopted and discussed Winter Counts, and I made a virtual appearance for about half of those. It’s always a pleasure to speak with these enthusiastic readers, but these meetings take time and energy, of course.

         And that brings me to the issue of writing the second novel. I’ll confess that I’ve sometimes felt like a slacker when I observed folks in my writer friend group publishing novels every couple of years (or even more frequently!) But I know that each of us has a different process and different circumstances. Like most, I’ve maintained a day job as well as family responsibilities. Raising teenagers—at least in my house—ensures a steady stream of issues that demand immediate attention. In addition, many of us maintain side jobs and passion projects. In my case, I’ve made it a priority to give back to the Native American and writing communities, engaging in fundraising, mentoring, and various forms of professional service. But these activities also take significant time and attention.

            This brings me to the practical advice on finishing a second book, although I’ll repeat my caveat that I’m not sure I’m the person to advise on this. For me, the most intense bursts of creativity have occurred when I’ve been in attendance at artists’ residencies. I’ve had the exceptional good fortune to be in residence twice at MacDowell, Ucross, and Ragdale, as well as once at the Vermont Studio Center and once as Artist in Residence at Brown University. For those who aren’t aware, these residencies are spaces for artists to work, uninterrupted, in the presence of other creatives. At MacDowell, located in the woods of New Hampshire, each artist is given a cabin or studio in which to work by themselves; lunches are silently dropped off at the front door. In the evenings, a communal meal allows for discussion of work projects and other topics. In 2018, I wrote the final chapters of Winter Counts in two weeks in an intense period of focused creativity in the Garland studio at MacDowell. In the last several years, I’ve worked on Wisdom Corner at other residencies with similar results.

            For those struggling to find time in which to write while juggling family and other responsibilities, artists’ residencies can be a godsend. Many of these residencies charge no fees and some even provide travel stipends. For the best-known residencies, admission is competitive while others are less so. But, despite the benefits of these residencies, I’ve found that there are vanishingly few crime or genre writers at these spaces. It’s tempting to infer that there may be a bias by the judges against genre writers and in favor of literary fiction authors. I can’t definitively answer that question, but I can share at least one data point. For the last two years, I was a judge for a well-known residency (I’m not allowed to say which one), and, in that time period, there were exactly zero crime writers who applied for admission. Perhaps this was just an anomaly, but my sense is that crime and genre writers are either unaware of these residencies or believe that these spaces are not for them. This is most certainly not true! I urge crime and genre writers to apply to these residencies as well as other conferences, festivals, and events. I’ll briefly note that many general writing conferences—such as Tin House, Bread Loaf, and Sewanee—are also frequently overlooked by genre writers.

            I’ll end these thoughts by noting that the landscape of publishing has certainly changed in the last decade for a variety of reasons. Not only the transformations wrought by the pandemic, but the consolidation of publishing as certain presses and imprints have merged or shut down. Many more changes are certainly coming given the economic uncertainty we face. In light of this, it’s in our interest as genre writers to remain aware of these challenges and adapt as necessary. To this end, I’m heartened by the formation of communities such as Crime Writers of Color, Queer Crime Writers, and others. These groups have tirelessly worked to open up spaces for writers previously marginalized from mainstream publishing, a positive development in our ever-changing industry.

Dust and Write

            I've been doing some research on the American Civil War for my next project. The notes I'm taking are stacking higher and higher. I could write a first-class term paper at this point, but I'm not ready yet to write a story.

            In particular, I’m still looking for a hinge fact.

            The hinge fact, in my definition, is the tidbit that hooks the reader and opens up the story. I assume that it will capture the reader’s interest if it grabs my attention.

            I recently read Dust and Light. The author, Andrea Barrett, writes historical fiction and has garnered numerous national prizes for her work. Dust and Light is a short nonfiction book in which she discusses finding and using facts in her writing. The book received some nice attention and seemed perfect for helping me clarify my thoughts on research and writing.

            The Devil's Kitchen, my debut novel, unfolds across dual timelines. The remaining books in the series will as well. To write the historical chapters, I need a basketful of facts. However, to progress as a writer, I wanted to consider new and better ways to utilize them.

            Dust and Light has me thinking about historical facts and their judicious use. I want to deploy the facts to tell the story rather than using the story to display the facts. That's always the goal, but it's easier to articulate than to execute.

            I also hoped the book might show me how to pinpoint the hinge fact.

            That final search didn’t pay off. As Barrett outlined her method, I kept hearing the word "chaotic" in my head. In interviews, she has described her research and writing process as odd, inefficient, even crazy. One of the book's themes is that a discussion of process isn't intended to teach a particular method of writing. Instead, the conversation teaches us that we all have our own individualized method for writing and that “we should cherish those ways.”

            Andrea Barrett may be the dictionary definition of ‘pantser.’

            Her book reminded me of a few other things. The author related a story about scientific research from the nineteenth century. Fridtjof Nansen theorized that in the frozen wilderness of the Polar Sea, ice drifted northwest. He searched for evidence to support his belief. Nansen learned of the Jeanette, a ship exploring the region that had been lost at sea. Several years after its disappearance, a pair of oilskin pants from the Jeanette washed up on the shore of Greenland. Nansen recognized their clockwise drift pattern and set off on his own largely successful expedition.

            An empty pair of pants floating onto the Greenland coast is my idea of a hinge fact. 

            To make his leap of understanding, Nansen needed this fact. But to appreciate its significance, he required a solid knowledge foundation in his field. The explorer also benefited from a community to support and challenge him. He needed resources— a crew, a ship, and time. Finally, Nansen required the courage to try.

            The scientific or explorer’s method may not be identical to that of the fiction writer, but the resource demands are similar. The entry point, an adequate base, space and time to explore, and a supportive community are all elements of successful writing.

            Barrett seriously downplays the use of facts. She acknowledges that fiction must be about something. Setting out a story about a character doing something within a specific time and place necessarily involves articulating facts. While reluctantly agreeing, she wants her facts to be dissolved into her fiction. The basket of facts she accumulates is used to inform what characters love and what motivates them rather than providing specific details about who and when. She doesn't like to overburden her stories with facts. 

            Much of Dust and Light is devoted to clarifying this idea. What Barrett wants to convey about her characters needs to be true, even if not entirely factual. Everyone who writes fiction probably thinks the same way. We write stories and not encyclopedias. 

            To write crime fiction rooted in history, I need a plot. And within a plot, I need facts. In interviews, more so than in Dust and Light, Barrett makes clear that she writes literary historical fiction rather than genre fiction. I felt the metaphorical pat on the head and the implied, 'I’m not really talking about you.' While her polite dismissal sounded a bit pretentious, the take-home lesson--to separate the cause from the result--retained value. Barrett encourages writers “not to confuse the material with the aesthetic creation arising from the material.” In fiction, the facts are in service to the story.

            We think the same way about character building. Somewhere on my computer are saved a host of surveys I’ve been given. These are questionnaires to flesh out fictional characters. When I’ve thought through what sort of dessert she likes and what pet she had as a child, I have a better picture of who my character is and how she might respond in each situation, even if nowhere in my story does she ever pause to eat strawberry ice cream with her cat. The pile of facts Barrett accumulates help her to know her historical characters in the same way.

            Dust and Light is a quick read. I didn’t find my guide to locating the hinge fact. I did, however, come away with a lesson on delicacy in selecting and incorporating facts into my stories. I got a cautionary tale about the temptation to flood my stories with excessive information. The book gave me a glimpse into different research and writing styles. It reminded me about the value of the community.

            And speaking of community. I’ll be traveling from ThrillerFest on the day this blog posts. I won’t have internet access. Please excuse the failure to reply to a comment.

            Until next time.

Pet Peeves: 2025 Writing Edition

Interesting, title, right? Perhaps a little provocative?

Let’s be clear. I’m talking about writing pet peeves.

I mean, come on. This is a blog ostensibly about writing. And while many of my fellow SleuthSayers and yours truly frequently indulge our impulses to discuss other interests, There’s plenty going on in the writing world right now that merits commentary.

In light of this, I offer below a few of my own beefs about current trends in writing, As well as some pithy observations from other writers among my circle of friends. Where the comment is my own, I have left it unattributed. Other contributors are noted alongside their entries.

With that said, let us begin.

GROUND/FLOOR

I’ve noticed lately that a lot of writers (Many of them, Indie) have a tendency to conflate the words “ground” and “floor”.

For example:

“The glass candelabra dropped from her hand, crashing into a hundred pieces when it hit the ground.” 

This when the character is in a second story bedroom. Not outside, and not even in a basement with a dirt floor!

I have seen this literally dozens of times in books I’ve read over the past year. What’s more, said conflation seems to go only one way. And that is using the word “ground” when the word “floor” is appropriate.

I have yet to see something along the lines of: “Milton stood in the middle of the road, watching the wagon retreat into the distance. And when it had gone from sight, he fell to his knees on the dusty floor.”

Weird, huh?

An actual example of something actually being thrown on the actual ground.

NOT JUST THE TITLE OF A TERRIFIC PETER GABRIEL ALBUM

I’m referring, of course, to the word “so.”

Specifically, at the head of a sentence, and solely used in dialogue.

For example: “So I heard you got cancer.”

I suppose seeing something like this once or twice over the course of 80-90k words is one thing. But here’s the thing about “dialogue leading so”: once it crops up one place, pretty soon you’re seeing it as dialogue tag signaling a transition in every conversation in said book. I have seen this time and again. And that is just lazy writing. Why not just go with: “I heard you got cancer.”?

AND DON’T GET ME STARTED ON (OVER)USING A.I.

No question A.I. can come in handy when a writer needs a quick answer to a research question in the middle of a scene. We’ve all been there. It’s like a Google search on steroids.

But (and again, I’m seeing this mostly with Indie writers) I have begun to see bloated passages where paragraphs tend to run together, often repeating the exposition of a certain set of facts over and over, as if to show the importance of said facts, and the intensity of the revelation of their existence by sheer repetition.

Mess around with any form of A.I. long enough and this pattern can seem awfully familiar. And then there’s stuff like this:

Readers Annoyed When Fantasy Novel Accidentally Leaves AI Prompt in Published Version, Showing Request to Copy Another Writer’s Style.

And apparently there are plenty of other examples of this sort of thing.

And when caught out, the authors in question seem to be leaning hard on the notion that what tripped them up and revealed their use of generative AI constituted an “editing mistake.”

Uh-huh.

Laurie Rockenbeck says:

If I see “long moment” I want to scream. (Mainly because a best selling author uses it ten times in every novel….)

David Schlosser (who writes as “dbschlosser”) says:

Hyphenation proliferation. The stupidest example I see everywhere now is 70-percent.

Or seven-out-of-ten.

It's like engineers using Random Capital Letters to tell you How Important This Is.

I (also) have an opinion about "as" from editing non-native English speakers' technical reports.

Because, since, as all *can* mean the same thing ... and so we should choose carefully which word to use in each instance.

Because is explicitly causal. In research on influence and persuasion, it is literally a magic word - people will do things they would not otherwise do when they hear a reason justified by "because."

"Since" and "as" both have temporal implications "because" does not have.

Use "since" to describe time elapsed SINCE something happened - not to describe why what happened since then happened.

Use "as" to describe events occurring simultaneously.

Use "because" to describe cause-and-effect relationships.

Jim Thomsen says:

I would say the growing reliance on histrionic reaction beats in thrillers. From a recently released novel: “Guilt had twisted in my entrails like a knife.”

Other examples:

“Anxiety churns along her skin.”

“Anger, pulsing anger, dripped down her body.”

“Grief hurtled toward me, crashing into me and beating inside my chest like a giant, furious animal.”

“Horror stole over me like a mist, uncurling deep within. And then a fiery knot began to burn in my stomach.”

“Agony was stamped indelibly on his body, weighted across the miserable hunch of his shoulders. He looked smaller somehow, shrunken, the way a grape shrivels into a raisin.”

I collect these.

My evergreen sarcastic retort: “That makes my heart pound like a hooker’s headboard in a highway hotel.”

******

And that is about as great a last word as we’re gonna find. So I’ll leave it there. How about you? Pet peeves? Got ‘em? Share ‘em in the Comments section below!

See you in two weeks!