It used to be that you could give a new writer advice on the publishing industry and be pretty certain that what you were telling them was the truth to the best of your knowledge. There were ‘sure’ paths to take (ie write the best book you can, get it critiqued, start the next book, then submit to an agent and keep your fingers crossed). These days not so much.

Unless you’ve been living in a cave, you’ve probably noticed the explosion or implosion happening in the publishing industry. Even those of us who’ve been in the rodeo for a while, don’t exactly know how to ride this particular critter. There are clauses popping up in contracts that would curl anyone’s hair. So what’s a writer to do?

I’ve been giving this particular question a LOT of thought. See I started out selling books to an online e-publisher, then moved to NewYork publishing via several contest wins. I’ve had three separate agents–one of which left the business–and I have the scars to prove it. The scent of desperation coming out of New York right now is absolutely cloying. I find myself in a position that I hadn’t anticipated. (I’m sure a lot of writers do.) I have a release, Blood Lite 2 coming out in September 2011 (shameless plug), but I’m officially out of contract. What does that mean? I haven’t sold a new book yet.

Being out of contract is not unusual in publishing. In fact, it happens to most writers at some point in their careers. What’s different now is that for the first time I’m not sure exactly what to do. Due to the current publishing climate, I’m not in a particular hurry to jump back into the fray. This does not mean that I’ve stopped writing. On the contrary, I seem to be in squirrel mode. By that I mean I’m writing and stockpiling manuscripts. I have one novella, one contemporary, and a fantasy YA finished. I’ve also just started work on an urban fantasy romance. Hope to have a rough draft done in August. I plan to follow that book up with a straight urban fantasy. Once I’m done, I think I’ll be in a good position to test the waters again…if I want to.

These days authors have a choice when it comes to publishing and the line in the sand continues to grow. There are some authors who believe that N.Y. publishing is antiquated and should be done away with. Most of these authors come from a self-publishing/indie background. There’s nothing wrong with indie publishing. I’ve been slowly putting my backlist up with a few original pieces tossed in for giggles. The other side of the fence is lined with authors from a traditionally published background. They’ve written their books, got an agent, and sold their work to N.Y.  Both sides have strong opinions about the right way to publish. (HINT: There isn’t one.)

The thing is I think in order to survive in today’s publishing climate an author must figure out how to do both. Right now there’s a lot of enthusiasm coming from indie authors, especially the ones making decent money. For every one of those authors, there are thousands of othersmaking very little–much like in the traditional publishing model. As excited as I am about the indie opportunities, I know just like when the first wave of ebooks hit in 2000/2001, it will not last. That’s why these days it’s more important than ever to diversify. I cannot stress this last point enough. Every writer has to think about the long game. Short-sidedness is inexcusable, especially with all the free information floating out there.

Indie publishing has been touted as a short cut to publishing. Although most aspiring writers won’t want to hear this, indie publishing is not a short cut. You still have to spend hours and hours working on your craft.  By the way, this never ends. You still have to write hundreds of thousands of words. You still have to know how to tell a good story. You still have to have your work critiqued by someone other than your mom. (Unless your mom is like my mom and will tell you exactly what’s wrong with your book.) Just because you can publish a book in a matter of hours these days, doesn’t mean that you should. Indie publishing is always an option, but it should never be your ONLY option.

Jordan Summers has eighteen published books to her credit. She is a member of the Horror Writer’s Association, Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, Novelist Inc., Romance Writers of America, and the Published Author’s Network. Her next release, BLOOD LITE 2 comes out Sept. 2011. You can reach Jordan through her website: www.jordansummers.com.

Storyteller job 1: Transport Your Audience

Ensure that some element or elements of your work takes them to another place, where they can feel something poignant, something that will impact their experience of the real world. Whether you’re looking to write the next media juggernaut bestseller or the next critically-celebrated award-winner; whether you’re peddling spoon-shallow adventures or deep journeys through your characters’ souls; whether it’s High Fantasy, High Art, or Highlander fanfic; you must draw the audience out, in, and onward. A non-compelling read can still be enjoyable, but if the readers aren’t sucked in, then the story won’t resonate with them, and they won’t recommend or remember it in a month. Compare a generic Kung Fu Theater flick to “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon”.

What basic story components ensure that the reader’s real world vanishes, replaced temporarily by the ones on your pages? There are 4: Setting, Characters, Plot and Style. Every book, film, and sporting event has these elements, but if yours is rich enough in any one of them, then your transporter is sure to work its magic (or high-tech function) on the readers.

Yes, I’m aware that you know all this already, but it bears repeating. To prove our agreed point, and hopefully to illustrate the methods you can emulate when constructing your stories, let’s examine how Setting, Characters, Plot and Style have been applied in our culture’s greatest works. And by “greatest”, I mean “most far-reaching, widely-known, and influential”, i.e. “Lord of the Rings”, “Star Trek”, “Star Wars”, and “Harry Potter”, with nods to the big 3 Superheroes: “Superman”, Batman”, and “Spider-Man.” The Big 4 + 3. Some of these are primarily film and television and serialized comic stories, but their lessons can certainly be applied to the written word. (Yes, I also love “Dune”, “Hitchhiker’s Guide”, “Firefly”, “Neuromancer”, et cetera, ad infinitum. . . This is just my cultural observation. If my assessment overloads your geek outrage meter, then direct the angry comments at me. Don’t bother the fine folks at Parking Lot Confessional.)

In the interest of blog brevity, we’ll conduct a high level view, without getting overly detailed.I’ll present examples of what works; you’ll have to figure out on your own how these apply to your material.

Setting

How iconic and unforgettable is the Death Star, with all of its dread power and titanic scale? Who wouldn’t love a chance to explore the fully-realized wonders of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Middle-Earth? Spidey’s New York and Clark Kent’s Metropolis are adequate, but Batman’s gothic, decadent Gotham is a marvelously sinister playground for his dark acts to play out. When the protagonists inhabit a distinctive place, like the Starship Enterprise or Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the setting can often take on a personality of its own, becoming a minor character unto itself. Similarly, some low-or-one-dimensional side characters can serve well as setting. Yes, as long as a minor character is interesting, it’s perfectly allowable for them to be two-dimensional. Jabba the Hutt is possibly the perfect example. The Klingons as a species are another (hatemail to [email protected]).

Setting must also necessarily include the fantastical elements and possibilities. Who watched the Star Wars films and didn’t want a lightsaber of their own? How fascinating and rich is the concept of The Force? Yes please, I’d love to take the Batmobile — any of the Batmobiles — for a test drive. What Harry Potter generation kid didn’t want to have a wand and broom of their own and learn spells from Dumbledore and the Hogwarts teachers? I, for one, would love to give Quidditch a try – - or 3D chess vs. Mr. Spock.

I’ll be in the Batcave, testing out my web-shooters.

Characters

Of course we need to love and cheer and feel empathy for the central protagonist, but it’s possibly more important for the reader to fall for the people around them. As Luke ascends on his path to Jedi Knighthood and unlocks the secrets of his destiny, he also becomes something godlike and no longer attainable. We’re left on the bleachers (or with Ewoks on the Moon of Endor) with his friends to cheer on our hero in his final stages. Yes, we weep and cringe at his moments of agony, but he’s still stepped up to a plane above our own. If we weren’t gaga over the more relatable superstars Han Solo, Chewbacca, Leia, and everyone else by now, then we’d feel a bit left behind in their mundanely awesome company. The same goes for Harry Potter. Our heart breaks for him in his cupboard beneath the vile Dursley’s stairwell, but when his journey begins, we fall in love with Hagrid, Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore, Snape(!), etc., through his eyes, at the same time that he does. In each of these cases, it’s their flaws at least much as their admirable qualities that have won our hearts.

Character interaction should display variances in tone and civility, just like your real-life relationships. The Spock (cold logic), McCoy (red-face emotion), and Kirk (cool-headed strength) dynamic made us care and feel as though we were there with them in red shirts (gulp); this was also far more important to Star Trek’s success than any hokey aliens or bogus techie plot resolutions. Spider-Man and Batman’s special abilities and toys look like fun, but we also feel for their personal, private struggles.

Which leads to a final point about characters. . .  Audiences are also pretty fascinated by Power, with a capital P. It’s what drew us instantly to Darth Vader in Episodes 4 and 5, before we knew he was a deadbeat dad; he was a f***ing force of nature. It’s what draws us most to Superman. We love Frodo and his Hobbit bromances, but we swoon for Gandalf, and to a lesser extent, Aragorn. Gandalf’s undisputed command of sorcery is his sexiest quality. OK, now I feel awkward. . .

Plot

Much has been made of Luke Skywalker’s Campbellian Hero’s Journey. It’s been a long time for most of us (cough), but let’s not forget how each of the revelations, victories, and defeats dropped our jaws wide during our first Star Wars viewings. Harry Potter’s world is marvelously, cleverly constructed and populated with wonderful friends, but the destiny planted on his brow as an infant has kept zillions of eyes glued to pages and movie screens, all feeding minds that need to know how everything turns out. The Lord of the Rings’ epic story never relents, never lets us or Frodo or the scattered pieces of the Fellowship relax; the edges of our seats are worn thin as we journey with them through their trials and dangers and enemy confrontations. We’re always interested and compelled to continue because fascinating new events are constantly unfolding, minor victories are being won, all while we’ve been teased with incredible excitement to come (Luke’s final confrontation with his Father and the Emperor, Harry’s final confrontation with Vol – - He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, Frodo’s final trek through Mordor to confront the Crack of Doom). We’re interested and compelled to continue because we care deeply about these characters, and might cry during Kirk’s sermon at Spock’s funeral.

Style

The most neglected of the 4 elements, and also the most-criticized element of our 4 + 3 example franchises, if you listen to naysayers. In spite of the whines, J.K. Rowling’s style was light, comedic, and delivered her story in a way that kid readers found irresistible. Line up with the hipsters to bash George Lucas’s writing ability, but Yoda’s legitimately real-world applicable wisdom (from Episodes 4-6) and distinctive speech mannerisms have mesmerized generations. Stan Lee’s goofy conversational eloquence added fun and humanity to our Spider-Man experience. I find LOTR kind of dry at points, though not as desert-like as The Silmarillion – - but there’s still a lyricism and a grandiosity that works for the epic scale and scope of the story of the One Ring. Batman is coated in buckets of matte black style. Forget the movies, great and awful and campy; have you read “The Dark Knight Returns” graphic novel?

It’s often stated that the author’s first job is to tell the story, and I don’t disagree, but there’s no reason to tell the story in a dead or coldly descriptive way. A momentary departure from our usual examples: read William Gibson, read China Mieville, read Tom Wolfe, read John Steinbeck, watch a Quentin Tarantino film. Note the loving care they put into each sentence and scene and each description, where every paragraph is alive, and even non-smokers need a cigarette at the close of each. Their words never obstruct the Setting, Characters, or Plot, never bring the author too much to the forefront, but they help to convey the auteur’s “brand” and feel and style, which the audience will come to love and recognize even without seeing bylines. Don’t underestimate the power of The Force, and don’t underestimate the power of vibrant, distinctive prose to transport your reader.

Now, let’s be honest. . . You and I both love some artworks that are lacking in as many as three of these categories. It’s possible to succeed so well at one, that the others no longer matter. And hey, posit that certain stories can’t accommodate one or more of the four categories; I’ll back up your argument. An example of my own that had a formative effect on me as a writer: Christopher Reeve’s first Superman film did a masterful job of telling his story, of bringing depth, soul, and pathos to the cartoonish Superman and Lex Luthor, all within a fairly stock city setting. Let’s not even get started on the cherished, cheesy Godzilla films of yore.

I digress.

As a sub-NYT Bestseller – - or even as a NYT Bestseller – - you need to master the art of the 4 elements: Setting, Characters, Plot and Style. If you’re too cool for Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, Star Trek, Harry Potter, or comic book heroes, then identify how these 4 elements have been utilized in your personal favorites and make them work for you.

Jack Mangan is an author, podcast pioneer, musician, father, etc., born in New Jersey, but now residing in Arizona. His “Jack Mangan’s Deadpan Podcast” features over 200 episodes of interviews, commentary, comedy skits, original music, and a great deal of community-contributed content. Jack’s “Spherical Tomi” was among the first wave of podcast novels, and was the first number one title at Podiobooks.com. His fiction and non-fiction writings have appeared in numerous online, print, and podcast venues, including such prestigious outlets as Michael Stackpole’s Chain Story project, Interzone Magazine, Podthology: The Pod Complex, Theme and Variations, 2020 Visions, Variant Frequencies, and Tales of the Talisman. He seeks to shake up perceptions and provoke independent thinking, through music, comedy, writing, and his outspoken, sometimes controversial views. More info about Jack Mangan and his work at: http://www.jackmangan.com.

Did you know that when you write something and type the end, you really have two manuscripts? There’s the manuscript in your head and the manuscript on the page and they don’t match up.

The manuscript in your head is what you intended to write. It’s the pie-in-the-sky manuscript, perfect, moving, capable of evoking tears and contracts. It is nuanced and comprehensive. We know more than we can put on paper, always. We intend more than we actually put on paper, always.

The manuscript on the page is the result of trying to translate the ephemeral thoughts, intentions, emotions of a story. In the translation, we have to deal with word choices, sentence choices, paragraph choices and all the interactions that occur among those choices. We deal with creating a living, breathing character that has unique, compelling motivations and emotions. Add to that the choices the characters make that work together to create a plot. Multiply all that by a couple subplots. And add in the spice of creating a great voice that leads the reader through the story in a compelling way.

Wow. It’s hard to match up the thing in your head with the thing on the paper.

That’s why revision is essential. The purpose of a first draft is to get something on paper. The purpose of a revision is to match up the story in your head with what you put on paper. Sometimes that means you need–desperately–a reader who can tell you what they understand from the story: did your thoughts get reproduced EXACTLY in the reader’s head? No, didn’t think so. That’s the job of revision to make your thoughts transfer exactly–through the medium of the written word–to your reader’s mind.

Don’t look at revision as a chore, but as part of the process. The only good writing is revised writing.

Darcy Pattison is an Arkansas children’s book author and writing teacher. In 1999, she created theNovel Revision Retreat, which she now teaches across the nation. Translated into eight languages, her picture books and middle grade novel (listed below), have been recognized for excellence by starred reviews, Book of the Year awards, state award lists and more. She is the 2007 recipient of the Arkansas Governor’s Arts Award for Individual Artist for her work in children’s literature.

When Amy asked me to guest at PLC, the first thing I did was go to the site and read how the group started.  What I found was an earnest story about a few people standing in an empty parking lot, pouring their hearts out to each other about their hopes and aspirations.  These were people that desperately wanted to write.

She also let me know that the majority of PLC’s readers are aspiring authors.

It’s a bit daunting then to try and compose a blog post that’s inspiring to writers but I felt I should try because I thought I understood these folks, at least partly, since I too had come from this stock.  When I was in my twenties I wanted to see a book in a store with my name on it so badly that I couldn’t even explain the desire to my friends or family without sounding crazy.  I lived in a small town.  My writing group consisted of one.

I think it’s because of these solitary roots that I love Cyril Connolly’s assertion that it is, “Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.”  Sounds brave, doesn’t it?  There’s a bit of spit in there, projected at the face of the world (if you take it the wrong way). But I believe the spirit of the thing resides in a fundamental commitment to honesty which I believe (unless you are a profoundly good liar) fuels all good writing.  In other words, “writing for yourself” is writing honest.

And so?  That means it’s ok to have no public?  To have no book on a shelf?  Yes, I realize that the essential counsel is drown out by the longings of an unpublished writer.

Nevertheless: having a book on a shelf at B&N is not so different from *not* having a book on a shelf at B&N (even though, yes, you can want that and, yes, you should keep trying).

I’m not a new writer.  The only thing new for me is having published my first novel and attained the life-long aspiration of seeing it at the book store.

When this sort of thing happens to people, I’m sure there are those out there who believe that they have finally “arrived.”  After all, the hard cover first edition is like the birthing of your masterpiece into the universe, isn’t it?  Some may think they’ve transformed or transcended to some celebrity status and that they are now truly and unequivocally “professional grade”.

I’m not going to pound those people but…

You see, it’s all quite a bit less rapturous.  I think of it more as a wedding rather than being drawn into the media’s heavenly rays of light.  I mean, it is a big event full of euphoria and celebration, but it’s also tinged with worry.

You’re thinking, “Well, here I am.  Found a partner who’d have me.  I wonder where it goes now.  Like another story: I wonder how this will turn out.”

The publisher is your partner.  They’re quite nice to you because, of course, they believe in you: else they wouldn’t have bought your stuff(s) see?

But you do tend to have some anxiety over reviews, sales, etcetera.

“Yeah, but those are good problems to have!” you yell at me.

Sure.  You’re correct.  But I’m just saying it’s not magical bliss.

Once the novelty of the thing has worn off, the bliss still comes from writing, from assembling words and sentences and so on.  That’s your joy.  Your joy is not in a spot light somewhere or even in the best review of the year.  Good and bad reviews both affect you only momentarily.  The only thing that is permanent is the craft itself and what it does to you while you are doing it.

On the shelf, your book is looking back at you with all of its polished stiff-spined sheen, a thing to be consumed.  It is an object fit for consumption, just as easily mass-produced as it is returned and mulched.  It is a brand, fit for derision and adoration and everything in between.  And now, congratulations, so are you.

But it is not (unless you earn your bread from writing) the thing that matters.  Thank God I don’t earn my living from it.  If I did, I’m afraid it would thoroughly suck the joy from it.  Because what I want is to savor words and mess about with ideas and construct wild realities.  I don’t want to try and guess what I think will sell and then write that thing.  Sorry Tor, it’s the truth.

In that regard, there is no telling how long I will be “in print” as it were.

Yet, the fact remains: I have written.  Like you, I have slaved over that sentence, that paragraph.  I have literally sweated it out, agonizing over the words, knowing that no matter which ones I choose, they will be wrong for some readers.  That’s when you have to stop caring and start writing.  I did and so have you.

And that’s what it means to write for yourself.  I don’t look at my book on the shelf and see it like other people see it.  For me, it is not a consumable. For me it is the proof of my struggle to create something and learn something and tell something that for me was true.  It is like a monument now, a stone graven with some obscure message I have left along the road.

Passersby may pause at it, marvel, or try to hurl it into the weeds.  But for me, its heft goes through my palm along my arm and into my soul.  For me it represents things that I do not expect it to represent to anyone else.

Getting published will bring you a set of fans and critics.  Admittedly, this is fun: to be loved and hated.  There’s something cosmically *right* about it.  You get your emails and your reviews and you experience a margin of fame.  You realize that for better or worse, the world at large has to some degree noticed you and responded.  But this is nothing to do with writing.

The thing you keep is the battle fought in the pages, before they were polished (published or not), before you called it “done.”  You are a writer if you write because you must.  This is the truth.  When your truth is solid enough that other people feel it in your words, then you will certainly be published.

Until then, you carry on.

Anthony Huso is a video game designer, “self-described nerd” and the author of The Last Page, published by Tor Books.

http://anthonyhuso.com

I’ve yet to meet a writer who hasn’t admitted at least once that his or her characters are the ones telling the story; that the writer is but the humble servant to the protagonist’s and antagonist’s whims. “I’m just the typist!” they claim. “The characters take over!” (Actually…I’m quoting myself.)

Turns out I was wrong.

I used to believe my characters controlled the story, deigning to let me into their world; I was the mere vassal to their tale. This idea should be better known as “crap.”

You are the boss. Royalty checks are not made out in your protagonist’s name.

I’m cool with being “led by the characters” for a first draft. Even a second or third draft. In fact, I encourage it. That’s where the sweat and blood and viscera come from; it’s the heart of the story.  Once you enter revision, though, the game changes. Your characters cannot tell you what plot elements work; whether the dialogue is crisp; if the narrative is elegant, functional, and entertaining all at once. That’s your job.

My first novel, Party, consists of eleven chapters told by different narrators. It used to have fourteen chapters. Three were unceremoniously deleted, and that was before it got pitched to editors. This resulted in shedding great gluts of my creative arterial blood (which I used to refill my ink cartridges).

My agent at the time never said “These chapters suck!” or “I’d sooner line the bird cage with these pages!” She merely said, “These chapters don’t further the story.”

In revision, you must be merciless. Every chapter, page, paragraph, sentence . . . everyword counts, and every one must matter. Sometimes changes require a chainsaw, the wholesale slaughter of great swaths of your novel (e.g., deleting three chapters). Sometimes you need the fine-tuning of a scalpel. And sometimes, it means trashing a whole scene (or book?) and starting over. My second novel, Zero, retains the characters and plot of the original draft written in 1993, but it was completely rewritten from page one more than twice, including a switch from third-person, multiple-perspective to first-person, single-perspective. Staying married to what I thought the characters wanted would not have yielded a marketable novel. And in fact, did not; the first version didn’t sell.

This isn’t to say you should surrender your story to the market—or to your editor. Many changes were made to both my novels, yes. Some I fought to keep, and kept; most I didn’t fight at all, because they were excellent changes. Perhaps a better word to describe the changes would be “growth.” At no point did I obliterate the fundamental premise, plot, theme, or idea of either novel. I stayed true to the story I needed to tell.

But don’t surrender your story to the characters, either. They work for you, not vice-versa. Avoid becoming a literary Pygmalion. You should love your story, of course; but don’t let it blind you to the need for well-crafted conflict, action, and dialogue.

Submit your first drafts to rigorous interrogation:

1. Does this chapter/paragraph/line reveal character or advance the plot?
2. Does this dialogue show the characters struggling to advance their agendas?
3. Is the protagonist really fighting for a goal? Is the antagonist? Do their goals conflict? (Tip: They should.)
4. Is every single character here for a purpose?

Your story will thank you.

Tom Leveen is the author of PARTY, a multiple-perspective young adult novel published in hardcover by Random House in Spring 2010, and now available in paperback. His second YA novel, ZERO, is due out in Spring 2012, also with Random House. Tom has guest blogged for WriteOnCon and Guide to Literary Agents, and continues to do school and conference appearances. For more information, visit him at www.tomleveen.com.

You’d think that, given the time I’d just spent writing, my brain would have offered up that idea and vision, you know, while I was working.

But no. It’s only when I’m out of the chair, walking away from the desk, moving on to the next thing, be it dinner or laundry or jumping rope with my daughter, that I can see. Oh, that’s what I should have done. Or, Oh, that’s where it’s headed.

I told my guru about this and he said it was a good thing. That I’m sensitive to what the text wants instead of forcing it into places it doesn’t want to go.

But why is it happening away from the work?

See, I’m a big believer in the whole The Writer Is The One Who Stays In The Room philosophy.

“The most important thing a writer can do after completing a sentence is to stay in the room. The great temptation is to leave the room to celebrate the completion of the sentence or go out in the den where the television lies like a dormant monster and rest up for a few days for the next sentence or to go wander the seductive possibilities of the kitchen.” – Ron Carlson

So I stay in the room as often and as long as possible. And I write and rewrite and work and rework. And then I stand up and walk away from my desk and immediately see what I should have done and where I should go next. Ugh!

It’s frustrating. But it’s also becoming reliable. So I’m going with it. When I’m not sure what the next sentence is, I relax my attention to it. Go get a glass of water or jump some rope. Because, sure enough, five steps away from the desk, there it is: the answer I was looking for.

Does this happen to anyone else? Or just me?

So, this being our B.I.C. (Butt In Chair) week, I say yes, of course, keep your butt in the chair. But also be willing to be B.O.C. (Butt Out of Chair) to see if that doesn’t keep you writing as well.

(Just don’t tell Mr. Carlson I suggested that, okay? Thanks.)

Last summer, I stopped working on a novel that I had been writing for the last few years. I put it in the drawer, or on the back burner, or in the cooker (I never can get that metaphor straight) to let my subconscious puzzle out what it needs – because my conscious self sure as heck doesn’t know. In the meantime, I was itching to start something new. I drafted two short stories, and then, lo and behold, I started a new novel.  By the end of the summer, I had about eighty pages. So far it involves a journalist who, after her father’s sudden death, quits her job and opens a bookstore. It also features a Civil War-era prostitute, a dead parachutist, a unicycling college dropout, a hoarder, and a mysterious 1950s-era suicide.

In other words, it’s a hot mess.

To be clear: I’m not a big fan of messes. I’m that woman who picks lint off of furniture and straightens the corners of towels and placemats. This annoying habit is in part personality, but it also relates to how I cope with stress. Always socially awkward at parties, I compulsively gather cups and plates. When the grading piles up, my poor front lawn gets buzzed and edged with military precision. This nitpicking – which I recognize, of course, as a need for control – calms me. If I can manage nothing else, I can manage the elegance of a chair neatly squared against its table.

And so it began with this unexpected novel. I spent the first few months of its unruly life trying to straighten it out. I concocted spiffy plot charts and outlines and elaborate character inventories. I sat down and tried to reason with it: Everything will work out best for everyone if we just stick to the plan. I wheedled: Come on, baby, what’s the matter? I grew stern and exasperated: We’ll do this my way. Because I am the author. Because I said so.

It got ­– messier. The more I tried to wrangle it, the more unwieldy it got. First the characters went haywire: The protagonist – ta da! – has a daughter. And an ex-husband. And a half-sister. Then the plot went off the rails: I concocted a mystery that I don’t know yet how to solve. Finally, the structure started to crack: along with a more traditional third-person point of view, I started adding found objects, bits of news reports, historical letters, fake historical letters, loops and layers and fragments that somehow all relate­. I think.

Mired in this mess is a question of how to create fiction out of historical fact. Part of the book involves a true Civil War incident circa 1863 in Nashville. Long story short, more than a hundred women working as prostitutes were forced onto a boat, which then floated up and down the Cumberland River for a month and a half. When I discovered this history, I knew that I wanted to create a fictional character based on one of those women. I have found enough information related to the time, place, and event, but as of yet, I have found no evidence from the women themselves, the majority of whom likely could neither read nor write. How exactly does one capture the voice of a person from 148 years ago who, according to history anyhow, never had a voice?

Part of the turmoil, too (and this, alas, is always part of my chaos) is the questioning of self: What do I do now? Can I do this? Do I have the chops? Will this be another novel that I fail to finish? Why, exactly, am I a writer again? Am I a writer? (If you’re a fan of Anne Lamott, you’ll recognize this as Radio KFKD. Speakers full blast.)

Amid this mental flailing, I sought propping up from some of this project’s influences: Margaret Atwood’s The Blind Assassin, for its fearless weaving of multiple stories; Richard Russo, for his humor and his unabashed focus on working-class people who run stores and diners and run in and out of luck; the weird, delightful movie The Station Agent, for reminding me about chance and the unexpected; and David Milch, creator of the foul-mouthed, endlessly engrossing Deadwood, a show based on a real place with reimagined historical figures. Milch says, “When you do research, you study and study and study. And then, if you’re a storyteller, you try to put all of that in your preconscious, [and] then you forget the research.” Lamott’s kind advice about turning off Radio KFKD is that “we need to sit there, and breathe, and calm ourselves down, push back our sleeves, and begin again.” While these models and advice offer reassurance, ultimately they don’t hold answers. I can’t ask them what they would do; I have to ask, What would I do?

Eventually, somewhere in the midst of this muddle, I sat down and reread these “chapters” I’d made. There, with my own pages in hand, I realized something else: I love this book. I love it in a way I haven’t loved my work in a long time. And it’s exactly because I have absolutely no idea what it is. This uncertainty and disorder is how writing is supposed to work. Making art is messy. It’s intuitive. It’s not about predetermined order or patterns ­– not yet. There’s a time for cool-headed logic and criticism, and eventually I will have some tough decisions to make in service of the story, but now is not that time. This time is about why I started writing in the first place: For the mystery. For the discoveries. For the sheer, uninhibited joy of it.

It’s easy, sometimes, to fall into patterns, into comfort zones, to seek to manage our creative work. So much is uncertain in this world that it’s natural, I think, to foist our need for control in our lives – and the solace it can bring – to our art. But it’s not what our art needs. Our art needs us to let go.

As for capturing that Civil War-era voice: I’m trying not to worry about “getting it right”; instead, I’m trying to imagine the world of one character. I ask, Into whose life have we come? What’s at stake and for whom? (These are questions that I learned from a mentor, Ron Carlson, when I first toddled into the writing life. I recently ran into him in an elevator at a conference. Through the jostling riders and whooshing doors and rattling pastry bags, he reminded me, in the unflappable way that mentors do: “Bryn, there’s no hurry.” Thanks, RC.) An important moment also came when I realized that I could change the name of the riverboat itself. Which means, it’s my boat now.

Bryn Chancellor’s short fiction has appeared in Gulf Coast, Blackbird, Colorado Review, Crazyhorse, Phoebe, and elsewhere. Her honors include a fellowship and a project grant from the Arizona Commission on the Arts, scholarships from the Bread Loaf and Sewanee Writers’ Conferences, and a nomination for Best New American Voices. She holds an M.F.A. from Vanderbilt University and is an assistant professor of creative writing and English at the University of Montevallo in Alabama. Her work-in-progress includes a short-story collection, which was a finalist for the 2009 Mary McCarthy Prize in Short Fiction, and a novel tentatively titled The Magnificent Wild.

When I’m working on a new picture book, I remind myself that if people don’t care about my main character, they won’t care about my story.

I always keep A.R.F. in mind.

A stands for active. I want my main character to be doing something. No one wants to read about a kid who just sits on the couch all day.

R stands for relatable. I would never write a story about a little old lady who does yoga in the morning, works in her garden in the afternoon, and knits sweaters at night. Why? Little old ladies are not relatable to my young readers. I want my readers to have a connection with my main character. I want my readers to think, “Yeah, I know what that feels like.”

F stands for flawed. My main character is not allowed to be perfect. Perfect is boring. A flawed character is much more interesting. A bonus? Those flaws often increase the tension.

In my latest book, Mr. Duck Means Business (Simon & Schuster, 2011), Mr. Duck enjoys a life of quiet solitude and keeps a tight schedule for himself.

He’s active. Each morning he stretches, fluffs his feathers, and glides across his perfectly still pond.

He’s relatable. Mr. Duck enjoys the sameness of his days. Kids can easily understand what it is like to not want to embrace change.

He’s flawed. Mr. Duck flips out when the other barnyard animals mistakenly think they’ve been invited to his pond for a swim.

In the end, however, my active, relatable, flawed Mr. Duck makes a big discovery:  sometimes life calls for a little commotion.

Tammi Sauer has sold nine picture books to a number of major publishing houses:  Bloomsbury, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, Simon & Schuster, and Sterling. One of her latest books, Chicken Dance, received the 2010 Oklahoma Book Award and the 2009 NAPPA Gold Medal Award. It was named a 2009 ABC Best Books for Children and a 2010 Chicago Public Library’s Best of the Best book. This book was also recently released in French which makes her feel extra fancy.

Visit Tammi online at www.tammisauer.com.

My path to publication was a long and winding one: seven and a half years to get to the first publishing deal.  And in that time, I racked up so many rejections, I sometimes felt as though I could probably keep my house warm all winter just by burning form letters.  When all you hear is “no,” you begin to think there’s a trick to it.  There’s got to be.  As a writer seeking that first deal, I’d joke about what I thought it would take to snag an agent or editor: blank checks with my submission?  Maybe attention-grabbing glitter?  Maybe hand-delivering the manuscript dressed up in some unforgettable favorite-literary-character-of-all-time costume?

In truth, there IS a trick to landing an agent or editor.  And I used the same trick to snag my first publishing deal—and the second—and to land my agent.

And that super-highly-classified secret, which I’m about to divulge for the very first time?

It’s…

It’s…

A query letter.

That’s it.  That’s what got me in the door at a publishing house, where I sold two novels myself—and at a literary agency, where my agent sold my third novel, my first middle grade, which will release in ’12.  A query.

Your shoulders just fell a little, didn’t they?  “A query?” you’re saying.  “But I’ve been writing queries all along. That’s no secret.”

But, in a way, it is.

So many writers spend so much time working on their manuscript, I think that they can often neglect to really hone the query.

Write the query, put it aside, and write it again.  If you belong to a writer’s group, the group needs to give you feed back on your query—not just your manuscript.

…So much exists in writing guides and online regarding queries, I’d encourage you to read and digest it all.  Every writer’s guide and agent’s blog has its own slice of advice.  Try several different techniques to figure out which angle works best for your own specific project.

Trust me: stop looking for crazy tricks.  The deal is the query.  Work on the query.  I guarantee it’ll sell your work.

Holly Schindler is the author of two YA novels: A BLUE SO DARK (2010) and a romance titled PLAYING HURT (2011). Her debut middle grade is forthcoming from Dial. She has a YouTube channel where she posts writing advice and tips.

PLAYING HURT (available March 8, 2011):

My newest book is an adult novel titled Frankenstein’s Monster, a sequel to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. It begins immediately when hers ends, with some overlap to set the scene and to introduce other characters from the first book that remain in the second.

Shelley’s book is a classic and holds a rightful place in the pantheon of Western lit. It’s also considered the first work of science fiction—and so it even created a new genre. Its character is instantly recognizable; its themes are eerily prophetic.

It is, in short, an icon. Only someone audacious, ambitious, and possessed of diamond-hard balls would dare touch it.

This is where I stumbled in. I was clueless, as I generally am. I never once thought that I was taking on an icon. If I had, I never would have dared put fingers to keyboard. Like most writers, I just had a story to tell.

I wrote Frankenstein’s Monster the way I’ve written my other novels: I knew the beginning, which survived. I knew key incidents in the middle, only some of which survived. I knew the ending, sort of, which didn’t survive. And I absolutely knew my characters, who spent most of the book laughing at me. All the rest was a gooey black void. I call this “letting the story emerge organically.” I believe the academic term is being a pantser.

So I never consciously thought about what should go into a sequel.

Fortunately, even though I am semi-comatose, bloggers and other online reviewers are not. In their posts and reviews for Frankenstein’s Monster, they were very articulate in listing the requirements of a good sequel and thus what they were looking for when they read mine.

A good sequel—

• Should be faithful to the language, style, and mood of the original
• Should be true to the character and his or her situation
• Should expand the same themes
• Should be “necessary”; that is, should result from matters left unresolved
• Should nonetheless deliver new insights and new surprises
• Should, to sum it up, be a book that the original author might have written

Anything I did right, I did largely unconsciously. And I believe most of it resulted from reading Shelley over and over and over both before and while I wrote.

Should be faithful to the language, style, and mood of the original. Because our two books overlapped, I wove her language and mine tightly—using her exact sentences, editing them, twisting them, adding words, taking them back, so that I no longer know which are whose. I also used other phrases and sentences from her book in other parts of mine. Although they were obviously used in different contexts there, they worked in the new ones and helped keep the style and mood throughout.

Should be true to the character and his or her situation. Her character was a hideous creature assembled from dead body parts. I had no plans for time travel and plastic surgery and was tapping, at least I thought I was, into a Beauty and the Beast theme, I still had a hideous creature assembled from dead body parts.

Should expand the same themes. No matter what other ideas might be threaded through the book, the monster forced his own upon me: What does it take to be human? What does it mean to be human?

Should be “necessary”; that is, it should result from matters left unresolved in the original. At the end of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (not the movie version), the creature is still alive. What happens next? In a way, the only resolution in the book is for Frankenstein himself, who dies as a consequence of his own actions in creating the monster. But there’s been no real and certainly no satisfactory resolution for the monster himself.

In addition, I used other less obviously unresolved matters in Shelley’s book. Reading it over and over and over, I somehow absorbed remarks by her characters and pushed them back out as flaws, motives, and plot points. Key elements that seemed to arise spontaneously in the writing actually came from subconsciously using clues strewn throughout her book and coming up with conclusions.

Should nonetheless deliver new insights and new surprises. Well, “using clues and coming up with conclusions” was really more like “being shocked,” and many of the surprises surprised me too. However, the one thing I was conscious of (but not until about the fifth draft) was that the character had to change over time, that the monster had to be different at the end from what he was at the beginning. And insights for him would hopefully be insights for the reader. They were for me.

Should, to sum it up, be a book that the original author might have written just yesterday. Did I pull it off? Many reviewers were kind enough to say things like “seamless” and a “sequel worthy of the original” and “as if Mary Shelley lives on.” My favorite Amazon Vine review is “superb sequel, masterfully written…an authentic masterpiece.” (Hee, hee. Shameless self-promotion.)

I’m glad I finally have a list that shows how to write a sequel. If I write another one, then perhaps I can save myself about several drafts and countless bruises from stumbling around, semi-comatose, in the dark.

Susan Heyboer O’Keefe is the author of Frankenstein’s Monster (Random House). This is her first work for adults. She’s also published over two dozen books for children, including the best-selling One Hungry Monster, its sequel, Hungry Monster ABC, and the middle-grade comedy Death by Eggplant. Her day job is to tame semi-colons, to force subjects and verbs to agree, and to complete incomplete footnotes in other people’s manuscripts. She, her family, and her two parrots live in northern New Jersey. Please visit her at www.susanheyboerokeefe.com.