“Editing” Life

by Tamera Alexander, @tameraalexander

I'm currently heavy into writing the first full-length Carnton novel (title yet TBD). Each day when I begin writing, I reread what I’ve written the day before. It’s part of my routine. It helps me to get back into the flow of things, plus I have a pretty wicked editor inside me that I have a tough time shutting down.

I tweak here and there. Remove sentences. Move things around. Delete information that either the character—or perhaps the reader—ended up not needing to know at that point in the story.

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Don’t Be Afraid of The Story

by Rachel Hauck, @RachelHauck

A couple years ago as I fast drafted a novel, I realized I had this tension in my gut.

What was going on?

Yea, it’s tough to hammer out a first draft on a tight deadline but I was pleased with my progress. I wasn’t behind schedule. Though the story wasn’t really popping.

Hmm… the tension? I concluded I was actually afraid of my story.

We talk about being afraid of the blank page, but it’s really being afraid of the story.

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Help! I've Fallen Out of Love With My Story!

by Lisa Jordan, @lisajordan

As I wrote out my synopsis, I came to a heart-sinking realization—I wasn't in love with my story anymore. When I brainstormed the initial story, I was so excited and on fire to dive into character development and plotting. And yes, I still like certain elements of my work-in-progress, but the crux of the story left me feeling a bit...meh. If I didn't love it, how could I champion it to my agent, my editor, or most of all, my readers? So I asked a group of writing friends for some advice. I’ve compiled their responses to help other writers who may be struggling with story love as I have been. 

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Strengthening a Scene vs. Rearranging Words

by Susan May Warren

Now, what is the difference between strengthening a scene and re-arranging the words?

Strengthening a scene is discovering the emotional significance to the scene, the way it will affect the overall book, and milking it for the reader. Using setting and dialogue and body language and disappointment and WORDS to cut to the heart of a character.

Let’s take a look at the editing process in an actual scene. Below are three excerpts…the original, the edit, and the final product. See if you can see how I applied my editing checklist to strengthen the scene. This is the prologue from In Sheep’s Clothing.

Prologue

Five more minutes and she would be safe.

Gracie Benson hunched her shoulders and pulled the woolly brown scarf over her forehead, praying desperately her guise as a Russian peasant worked. Fear roiled through her as the train engine thundered through the station. She bristled, watching an elderly gentleman gather his bags, two canvas duffels, and shuffle across the cement platform. Would he turn, and scream, “Foreigner!” in the tongue that now drove fear into her American bones?

Without a glance at her, he joined the throng of other passengers moving toward the train as it rumbled by, one forest-green colored wagon after another. Another man, dressed upscale in a three-piece black silk suit fell in behind him. Gracie stiffened. Did he glance her way? Help me, Lord!

She didn’t know whom to trust after this morning’s horrific events.

The train slowed, ground to a stop, and hissed. Gracie shuffled forward, in keeping with her disguise of tired village maiden. She clutched a worn nylon bag in one hand — her black satchel safely tucked inside — and fisted the folds of her headscarf with the other. The smell of diesel fuel and dust hovered over the platform like a fog. Cries of good-bye drifted from well-wishing relatives, for others more fortunate and less alone than she.

Casting a furtive glance beyond the crowd, she caught sight of a militia officer. Fear coiled in her stomach. The soldier, dressed in muddy green fatigues, had an AK-47 hung over his shoulder like a fishing basket, and leaned lazily against the entrance doors, paying her no mind.

Hope lit inside her. Freedom beckoned from the open train door.

Stepping up to the conductor, she handed the woman her wadded ticket. The conductor glared at her as she unfolded the slip of paper. Gracie dropped her gaze and acted servile, her heart in her throat. The conductor paused only a moment before punching the ticket and motioning for Gracie to enter.

Gracie hauled up her jean skirt and climbed aboard.

The train smelled of hot vinyl and aged wood. The body odor of previous passengers clung to the walls, and grime pooled along the edges of a brown linoleum floor. Gracie bumped along the narrow corridor until she found her compartment. She’d purchased the entire private berth with the intent of slamming the door, locking it from inside and not cracking it open until she reached Vladivostok. The U.S. Consulate, only ten minutes from the train station, meant safety and escape from the nightmare.

Surely Evelyn’s assassin wouldn’t follow her to America.


Prologue with edits

If the train trudged any slower into the station, American missionary Gracie Benson would be dead by sunset. Five minutes. Twenty steps. Then she’d be safely aboard.

God obviously wasn’t on her side. Not today, at least.

Then again, He certainly didn’t owe her any favors. Not after her fruitless two years serving as a missionary in Russia.

Gracie purposely kept her gaze off heaven as she Five more minutes and she would be safe.

Gracie Benson hunched her shoulders and pulled the woolly brown scarf over her forehead. , Please,please let her guise as a Russian peasant work. praying desperately her guise as a Russian peasant worked. The train huffed its last, then belched, and Gracie jumped. Hold it together, Grace. Long enough to fool the conductor, and find her berth on the train for Vladivostok. Fear roiled through her as the train engine thundered through the station. Then she could finally slam the compartment door on this horrific day – no, on this entire abysmal chapter of her dark life. So much for finding redemption as a missionary in Russia. She’d settle for getting out of the country alive.

She tensed bristled, watching an elderly man dressed in the ancient Russian garb of worn fake leather jacket, wool pants, and a fraying beret gentleman gather his bags, two canvas duffels, and shuffle across the cement platform. Would he turn, and scream, “Foreigner!” in the tongue that now drove fear into her American bones?

Without a glance at her, he joined the throng of other passengers moving toward the train as it rumbled by, one forest-green colored wagon after another. Another man, dressed mafia-style in a crisp black leather jacket and suit pants, upscale in a three-piece black silk suit fell in behind him. Gracie stiffened. Did he glance her way? Help me, Lord!

Just because God wasn’t listening didn’t mean she couldn’t ask. The irony pricked her eyes with tears. This morning’s events had whittled down her list of trustworthy souls in Russia to a fine point. She’d give all the rubles in her pocket for someone like her cousin,

Chet, FBI agent extraordinaire, to yank her out of this nightmare into safety.

Not that she would give any man a chance to introduce himself before decking him. She’d been down that road once. Never was too soon to trust another man within arm’s distance.

She didn’t know whom to trust after this morning’s horrific events.

The train slowed, ground to a stop, and hissed. Gracie shuffled forward, in keeping with her disguise of tired village maiden. She clutched a worn nylon bag in one hand — her black satchel safely tucked inside — and fisted the folds of her headscarf with the other. The smell of diesel fuel and dust soured the breathable air and cries of good-bye The smell of diesel fuel and dust hovered over the platform like a fog. Cries of goodbye drifted from well-wishing relatives, for others more fortunate and less alone than she. from well-wishing relatives pooled grief in Gracie’s chest. Poor Evelyn.

Biting back grief, Gracie cast Casting a furtive glance beyond the crowd and, she caught sight of a militia officer. Fear coiled in her stomach. The soldier, dressed in muddy green fatigues, had an AK-47 hung over his shoulder like a fishing basket, and leaned lazily against the entrance doors, paying her no mind.

Hope lit inside her. Freedom beckoned from the open train door.

Stepping up to the conductor, she handed the woman her wadded ticket. The conductor glared at her as she unfolded the slip of paper. Gracie dropped her gaze and acted servile, her heart in her throat. Please, please. The conductor paused only a moment before punching the ticket and moving aside motioning for Gracie to enter.

Gracie hauled up her jean skirt and climbed aboard.

The train resonated with age in the smell of hot vinyl and polished wood. The train smelled of hot vinyl and aged wood. The body odor of previous passengers clung to the walls, and grime pooled along the edges of a brown linoleum floor. Gracie bumped along the narrow corridor until she found her compartment. She’d purchased the entire private berth with the intent of slamming the door, locking it from inside and not cracking it open until she reached Vladivostok. The U.S. Consulate, only ten minutes from the train station, meant safety and escape from the nightmare.

Surely Evelyn’s assassin wouldn’t follow her to America.

Escape from the memories. Surely Evelyn’s killer wouldn’t follow Gracie to America.

Final Prologue

If the train trudged any slower into the station, American missionary Gracie Benson would be dead by sunset. Five minutes. Twenty steps. Then she’d be safely aboard.

God obviously wasn’t on her side. Not today, at least.

Then again, He certainly didn’t owe her any favors. Not after her fruitless two years serving as a missionary in Russia.

Gracie purposely kept her gaze off heaven as she hunched her shoulders and pulled the woolly brown scarf over her forehead. Please, please let her guise as a Russian peasant work. The train huffed its last, then belched, and Gracie jumped. Hold it together, Grace. Long enough to fool the conductor and find her berth on the train for Vladivostok. Then she could finally slam the compartment door on this horrific day – no, on this entire abysmal chapter of her dark life. So much for finding redemption as a missionary in Russia. She’d settle for getting out of the country alive.

She tensed, watching an elderly man dressed in the ancient Russian garb of worn fake leather jacket, wool pants, and a fraying beret gather his two canvas duffels and shuffle across the cement platform. Would he recognize her and scream, “Foreigner!” in the tongue that now drove fear into her American bones?

Without a glance at her, he joined the throng of other passengers moving toward the forest-green passenger cars. A younger man, dressed mafia-style in a crisp black leather jacket and suit pants, fell in behind the old man. Gracie stiffened. Did he look her way? Help me, Lord!

Just because God wasn’t listening didn’t mean she couldn’t ask. The irony pricked her eyes with tears. This morning’s events had whittled down her list of trustworthy souls in Russia to a fine point. She’d give all the rubles in her pocket for someone like her cousin, Chet, FBI agent extraordinaire, to yank her out of this nightmare into safety.

Not that she would give any man a chance to introduce himself before decking him. She’d been down that road once. Never was too soon to trust another man within arm’s distance.

Gracie shuffled forward, in keeping with her disguise of tired village maiden. She clutched a worn nylon bag in one hand — her black satchel safely tucked inside — and fisted the folds of her headscarf with the other. The smell of diesel fuel and dust soured the breathable air and cries of good-bye from well-wishing relatives pooled grief in Gracie’s chest. Poor Evelyn.

Biting back grief, Gracie cast a furtive glance beyond the crowd and caught sight of a militia officer. The soldier, dressed in muddy green fatigues, hung an AK-47 hung over his shoulder like a fishing basket, and leaned lazily against a cement column, paying her no mind.

Hope lit inside her. Freedom beckoned from the open train door.

Stepping up to the conductor, she handed the woman her wadded ticket. The conductor glared at her as she unfolded the slip of paper. Gracie dropped her gaze and acted servile, her heart in her throat. Please, please.The conductor paused only a moment before punching the ticket and moving aside.

The train resonated with age in the smell of hot vinyl and polished wood. The body odor of previous passengers clung to the walls, and grime crusted the edges of a brown linoleum floor. Gracie bumped along the narrow corridor until she found her compartment. She’d purchased the private berth with the intent of slamming the door, locking it from inside and not cracking it open until she reached Vladivostok. The U.S. Consulate, only ten minutes from the train station, meant safety and escape from the nightmare.

Escape from the memories. Surely Evelyn’s killer wouldn’t follow Gracie to America.

Again, the key to strengthening a scene is to tighten it down and pull the most and best emotion from the scene. But knowing what emotion to pull out, the right words to use, how to NOT overwrite, and layering in all the elements can be tricky. 

This year, at Novel.Academy, we’re diving deep into the editing process with a series called Extreme Book Makeover! We’ll be looking at everything from the structure and characterization, to scenes, scene tension, storyworld, dialogue, emotions, wordsmithing and even polishing your novel. Get that course, and over 100 more when you join Novel.Academy. Check it our free lessons and see for yourself!

Your Story Matters. Go, Write Something Brilliant!

Susie May

TWEETABLES

Strengthening a Scene vs. Rearranging Words by Susan May Warren (Click to Tweet)

Discovering the emotional significance to the scene~ Susan May Warren (Click to Tweet)

Pull the most and best emotion from the scene~ Susan May Warren (Click to Tweet)

Susan May Warren is owner of Novel Rocket and the founder of Novel.Academy. A Christy and RITA award-winning author of over fifty novels with Tyndale,Barbour, Steeple Hill, Summerside Press and Revell publishers, she's an eight-time Christy award finalist, a three-time RITA Finalist, and a multi-winner of theInspirational Readers Choice award and the ACFW Carol. A popular writing teacher at conferences around the nation, she's also the author of the popular writing method, The Story Equation. A full listing of her titles, reviews and awards can be found at: www.susanmaywarren.com. Contact her at:susan@mybooktherapy.com.

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Building Your Own Cage

by Ron Estrada

Recently I received a phone call from my agent. Yes, it was “the” call. A big 5 publisher read my entire middle-grade manuscript and likes what she sees. However, if I don’t mind, please re-write the entire thing and here’s a better idea for the series.

Now, I’ve been at this for a long, long time. I’m way past pride. I have arrived at the “whatever you want I’ll do it because I’m going to die soon” phase of my career.

So the re-writing, as of this post, is almost complete. The first quarter of the book has been slashed and about a dozen chapters added to please aforementioned publisher. As much as I hate to admit it, the story is much better. I have yet to resubmit and sign a contract, but even if it doesn’t work out with this publisher, I feel my odds of success are greatly improved thanks to her input.

Same with the series suggestions.

If you’re like me, you have a tendency to box yourself in with your series idea. I had so completely sold myself on the concept of my Navy Brats series that I left no room for better ideas. I had intended to write about a different Navy Brat in the years spanning 1968 through 1984 because, you know, I lived it.

The publisher said (and I’m paraphrasing), “boooooooriiiiiing.”

Know what kids want to read about? War. The stuff in their history books. She loved my idea of using military families in my stories, but suggesting I use some recognizable historical incidents as my setting. She blasted my original Navy Brat series, even hated the name. So where does that leave me?

Free.

Suddenly, I’m not caged in by my own narrow scope for my book and series. To be honest, I was absolutely hung up with book two of my original idea. And not willing to change directions. Sure, I knew that a military brat in the middle of the attack on Pearl Harbor would be somewhat more interesting than the same brat in 1972 Hawaii, but I couldn’t see past my own self-imposed restrictions.

Now I’m already planning book two of the new series (still don’t have a good name) and reading up on the Japanese invasion of the Philippines. And this is exciting stuff! My middle-grade readers will eat it up.

So the moral of my story today is thus: when you get “the” phone call with a long list of suggestions, there’s a good chance the publisher knows what she’s talking about. And there’s also a good chance that your story and series will be much improved whether you get this deal or not.

What about you? Has a suggestion from a publisher or agent drastically changed the direction of your writing? Or are you, right now, stuck in a series you’re no longer excited about?

TWEETABLES

Building Your Own Cage by Ron Estrada (Click to Tweet)

I had left no room for better ideas~ Ron Estrada (Click to Tweet)

There’s a good chance the publisher knows what she’s talking about~ Ron Estrada (Click to Tweet)

Ron Estrada has multiple published magazine articles, including a regular column in the bi-monthly Women2Women Michigan. He also freelances as a technical writer, specializing in white papers for manufacturing and consumer products. He writes spec fiction, hovering somewhere between post-apocalyptic and dystopian fiction (he prefers the term pre-Last Days), but has also dabbled in Mystery and Suspense. Turn-ons include long walks to Frosty Boy and dinner by Kindle light. His real-writer’s blog can be found at RonEstradaBooks.com.  You can e-mail him at rmestrada@ameritech.net or catch him (at pretty much any time) on Facebook. Twitter handle is @RonEstrada. CB handle is God’s Gift.

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When you Can't Run, Crawl

by Kelly Klepfer

I’m no stranger to discouragement. Likely, you could say the same. How many opportunities are there to find a brick wall, a difficult situation or challenging person in our lives? Yeah, that many. Sigh.
I’m sharing about a trudge through the mud of discouragement I suffered while co-writing my book, Out of the Frying Pan. More importantly, what I learned in that season.

My co-author, Michelle Griep, is far more disciplined and prolific. As a matter of fact, this is her sixth or seventh book release and she’s just contracted for three more.

She’s very good. I mean, the woman can write. We met at an on-line Christian author critique group. She and I hit it off right away. We bantered, shared sarcasm and even began sharing lives. Soon our families got involved and bonded. We became sisters separated at birth and became aunties to each other’s kids.

Michelle plugged away at writing. I played with it. We both got little pieces published and had some bigger successes, too. But I hung on the fringes. Not that I didn’t want to write and be published, but I didn’t want to pursue publishing if I didn’t feel like there was something that I specifically needed to say. I did have an idea for a story. About elderly sisters-in-law who happen upon a murder scene. Michelle loved the idea and we decided to write it together. I was given the task of putting the skeleton together and then we’d each pick main character points of view to write and add the muscle, skin and personality.

Other than the fact that I would drag my feet, this worked well. She would pester me to write a few scenes, I would, she’d write a few. Then I’d suggest she write another book and we’d put it on hold. This novel has been a very long labor. Because Michelle was the stronger writer, I deferred to her. The woman loves to edit, too. At one point she sent me the manuscript so I could get up to speed and I noticed my scenes had been edited to sound very much like her voice. Now picture Pac-Man and that sound he makes when those little ghost things get him. That is the sound my confidence made.

The changes were in rewording some of my stiffly written prose. My heart was still in my scenes but I couldn’t see that. I sunk into a funk. Finally, we talked about it, and she agreed that she could just send me suggestions and I could fix the problems, but the arrows of insecurity and failure had sunk deep into my joy. I told her I needed a break from the story and went to a corner to lick my wounds. I’d love to give you deep spiritual truths and applications revealed by the Lord through my prayer and immersion in the Word in my time of need. But I have to admit that taking this to the Lord wasn’t a priority. My pity party was.

Delighted that Michelle had another project to work on I slowly began to process and deal with my insecurity. I continued to read, review and blog, working on my writing skills that way. But Michelle eventually asked me to pick up where we left off. The story was too good not to tell and we needed to finish it. I agreed and persevered. What I noticed was that the tools, the conference knowledge, the how-to book sense, I’d packed in the back of my brain somehow had come to the surface through the reading and processing I’d been doing which was using those neural pathways.

Since I had shared my heart with Michelle, and my commitment to work on the book was short term and a close family member was hospitalized leaving me hours sitting in a quiet hospital setting I set out to finish as soon as I could. I just wrote scenes on my phone and sent them to her telling her to let me know what I needed to fix.

I will never forget the comment I received from her after: “Did you seriously just crank that scene out in twenty minutes? Because if you did, I hate you. It would take me hours to get a scene that ready.” Another critique partner read it and said I had grown leaps and bounds as a writer.

I don’t tell you this because I think I’ve arrived and am a good author. Far from that. But I share because of what I learned:

1.    Sometimes we have to process hard things. And in the processing we mature. However, if we ignore what we are supposed to work through we get stinky.

2.    A real friend is willing to tick you off, even hurt you to help you deal with something that’s holding you back.

3.    What you’ve learned and poured into your mind isn’t wasted. God has created an amazing brain for each of us and it doesn’t sleep. If something is important to you and you are willing to do the addition and subtraction you will eventually wake up and realize you understand more complex things.

4.    God’s faithfulness to me isn’t dependant on my attitude or choices. He lets me pout in the corner until I come to my senses. And teaches and blesses me anyway.

And on the chance that you are a writer or want to be, take heart. If you plug away and follow the wisdom of those who have gone before and you read good books, books like you’d like to write, you might be amazed at what happens when it clicks.

-------
I initially wrote this post for Elaine Stock for the blog tour for Out of the Frying Pan. Michelle, my co-author suggested that I share it here, too. Because writing is 20% soaring and 80% agony, insecurity and angst and anyone in the 80% needs all the encouragement they can get.

TWEETABLES

When you Can't Run, Crawl by Kelly Klepfer (Click to Tweet)

What you’ve learned and poured into your mind isn’t wasted.~Kelly Klepfer (Click to Tweet)

Kelly Klepfer had ambitions to graduate from the school of life quite awhile ago, but alas . . . she still attends and is tested regularly. Her co-authored cozy/quirky mystery, Out of the Frying Pan, is the culmination of several of the failed/passed tests. Kelly, though she lives with her husband, two Beagles and two hedgehogs in Iowa, can be found at Novel Rocket, Novel Reviews, Scrambled Dregs, Modern Day Mishaps, Instagram, Pinterest, Facebook, Goodreads and Twitter with flashes of brilliance (usually quotes), randomocities, and learned life lessons. Zula and Fern Hopkins and their shenanigans can be found at Zu-fer where you always get more than you bargained for. 

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Processing the Paralyzing Premise

by Rachel Hauck

I’ve heard editors and agents comment on book proposals. “Wow me.” Or, “I’m looking for something dynamic. Fantastic.”

As a hungry writer, such words can be paralyzing. Editors and agents are asking for filet mignon when I’m approaching with my supersized McDonalds meal – hot from the grill and fry vat.

I think, hope, pray, believe it’ll be a satisfying meal. But, no, turns out the requirement is filet.

High concept. I’ve heard that too. Have you? “We’re looking for high concept ideas.”

I’m not even sure what that means from house to house, agent to agent. Definitions and tastes vary from agent to agent, editor to editor.

One agent loves literary. To him, a high concept, wow-me-fantastic story will have a literary tone. Another agent loves the high concept mainstream contemporary story that’s more plot driven than character.

Rats. I just pitched to the wrong agent. Now what?

So, we eat our own supersized McDonald’s meal and contemplate how to produce a filet from two-all-beef patties, special sauce and cheese on a sesame seed bun.

Wait, I got it! What about a cooking show host who can’t cook?

It’s high concept. I can spout the premise in a single sentence. I’ve nailed the elevator pitch. Cooking shows and foodie blogs are all the rage.

Great. Sold. Go for it.

Little did I know I would go from high concept to paralyzing premise syndrome. As I told people about my WIP during the first draft, they’d laugh. “I can’t wait to read it.” Or, “What a great idea. Too funny.”

Really, okay, but just what is that idea? What do you expect to read?

The delighted would shrug. “I don’t know exactly.”

Great. Me neither.

When I started writing Dining with Joy, about a cooking show host who can’t cook, I had to ask myself several questions.

1. Why can’t she cook? Even a little bit?

2. Why does she even do the show? Doesn’t she have other goals and dreams related to her talents?

3. Is she successful? If she’s not, why not just quit the show? If she is, what is at stake if she quits?

4. How do people not figure out she can’t cook? Do people know? Do they keep it a secret? Why?

5. How did she get the show in the first place? I knew it had to be circumstantial, but then why does she stay with it?

6. Does she learn to cook over time?

7. How does the hero discover her secret and help her overcome?

8. What’s the black moment? Well, I knew the heroine had to be exposed in a big way, so what were the stakes?

9. Who loses when she’s outed? If she’s the only one, then it’s not as dramatic. But if others are at risk, then her actions have devastating rippling effects.

10. How does she recover? What does she really want to do with her life?

As you can see, I had a lot of questions to figure out before I could even get to the plot of who, what, when, where, why and how.

Some of my answers lead to more questions. Each scenario had to have a plausible outcome.

I talked to show producers, cooking show producers, and a chef. I talked to a women who taught the untalented how to cook. I talked to people, like me, who aren’t into cooking.

I read memoirs and biographies of foodies and chefs.

Still, when it all boiled down, the premise had its very paralyzing moments no matter how much pre-planning and research I did.

Why? Because the heroine’s lie lives. It’s not that Joy believed a lie like, “I can never learn to cook.” She lived the lie.

My friend Susie, Susan May Warren, had the same problem with her book about a radio host who advises the lovelorn even though she’s never been on a date.

The hows and whys are endless. Once you find one solution, another question arises.

For me, the plot called for Joy, who is beautiful and great in front of the camera, to move from a small network to a large one. She’s funny and quirky. They love her.

But it’s also her perfect time to bail. Tell the truth to her new producer. But if I did that, the book would be over. Then what? Three hundred pages of Joy trying to find herself?

I know, I know, others have written such masterpieces, but not me.

So, a great idea usually comes with great problems. Worse, readers often miss all the details threaded in to show motivation, to give reason. They blow right past them and write a review that goes something like, “Why didn’t she just tell the truth?” Or, ”How did the hero figure it out when no one else did?”

Um, didn’t you read the book? All of those questions are answered. I’m not a fan of skim-reading. If you skim, don’t bash. Chances are, you missed something. I speak from experience.

Nevertheless, it was a fun book with a witty premise that can be pitched on one sweet sentence. “A cooking show host who can’t cook.” Like it or not, the sales team at any given publisher has about that much time to sell a book.

A rep can go to a book buyer with, “It’s Amish” and write a large order. Or the rep can say, “A rogue New York cop saves his wife and an L.A. building from terrorist,” and write a decent order.

If the salesman has to explain a book, “Yeah, this is a great story about a woman who lives an every day life. She’s the happiest of homemakers but one day her daughter comes home with a new friend. That’s when things really take off. Yeah, I can wait for you to take this call. But trust me, you’re going to love this book.”

Book buyers see a lot of sales reps. And as hard as we all work to promote our books, there’s only so much time and space allowed to sell them.

So, where does this little diatribe of mine leave us, the writer? Let me list a few tips:

1. Dig deep to come up with a unique idea. By that I mean, a twists on a common theme. There are cooking show novels. But only a very few where the host can’t cook.

2. Juxtapose your character’s talent and problem. In Lost In Nashvegas, Robin was a songwriter afraid to sing in front of large crowds. Her fear doused her desire. What’s your idea? What’s the opposite of that idea? Fit your character into the scenario. What is her desire? Contrast it with her fears.

3. Once you come up with an idea, write down all the ways it will work. All the ways it won’t. Brainstorm scenarios. Ask yourself “why?” and “what if?”

4. As you write, keep digging. Is there a door your protagonist should see as an escape hatch? If so, why don’t they? Dig deep to figure out internal struggles that keep them from the truth.

5. Create a complex character. Protagonist in situations opposite their desires have to be strong enough to carry the premise. For Joy, she was a college athlete, a competitor. She never quits. Even if she’s ill equipped. And, she had a wound over her father. In Susie’s book, the protagonist suffered a tragedy that locked her in fear. The reason why she never went on a date was because she rarely left her house.

6. Write it and write it again. Answer all the questions, close all the loop holes. If a reader or reviewers asks, “Why didn’t she just tell her new producer she couldn’t cook?” I was prepared with an answer. And I wrote it in the book.

7. Be prepared to change the plot. As the questions pop up and demand answers, be ready to change your story. Once I realized Joy was going to have a new producer (problem one) on a major network (problem two) with fame and fortune being promised to her and her staff (problem three) I realized she couldn’t just walk away. It fit her character to try. She was a competitor. And, she was a popular TV show host. She knew she could pull it off. As long as the universe stayed in harmony…

Those are some tips on gaining a high concept story idea and seeing it through when it becomes the paralyzing premise!

Off to McDonalds…

TWEETABLES

Processing the Paralyzing Premise by Rachel Hauck (Click to Tweet)

The why and the how of a premise that can be pitched on one sweet sentence by Rachel Hauck (Click to Tweet)

New York Times & USA Today best-selling, award-winning author Rachel Hauck loves a great story. She is on the Executive Board for American Christian Fiction Writers and leads worship for their annual conference. In 2013 she was named ACFW's Mentor of the Year. She lives in Florida with her husband and ornery cat. Read more about Rachel at www.rachelhauck.com.

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