NaNoWriMo is over… now what?

NaNoWriMo 2020 Winner's badge featuring a castle on a purple background surrounded by confetti
A winner is you!

National Novel Writing Month is once again behind us, and what a November it was. 2020 has been a year of pandemic, quarantine, politics, stress, and a host of other complications and catastrophes on top of the usual stuff. As far as I’m concerned, anyone who even attempted NaNo this year deserves to celebrate. And to those who succeeded in making the 50,000-word goal: if you can do it now, this year, of all years, you can do it anytime! I hope you feel heartened and emboldened and proud, even if you’re also emotionally hung over and empty and deflated.

If you’re feeling a little adrift, or full of energy without a sense of how to use it, here are some thoughts on what you can do next. All of them are optional, so please consider what is best for you and what aligns with your own goals and life circumstances.

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Space cats!

Space cats? Space cats!

Everyone always quotes the great Terry Pratchett when talking about cats: “In ancient times cats were worshiped as gods; they have not forgotten this.” But through the inimitable Granny Weatherwax, he also said, “If cats looked like frogs we’d realize what nasty, cruel little bastards they are. Style. That’s what people remember.”

Personally, my experience with cats has been more along the lines of derpy snuggle-fiends who like to rub their face on me and cry for snacks. They can also be sneakily empathetic, appearing from their undisclosed cat sleeping locations to comfort me when I’m struggling with big feelings.

Cats have been our allies for ages, and given that they were often employed as pest control on ships, it’s reasonable to expect we’ll want their companionship and skill set once we start exploring the stars. We’ll have to solve the whole artificial gravity problem first, of course; cats always land on their feet, and this makes for a rather tragic scenario when one is floating around with no fixed concept of “down.”

With that in mind, I present to you a list of some of the best (so far) fictional cats in outer space–besides mine, of course:

Jones hard at work on the Nostromo

Jones, aka Jonesy (Alien): The pinnacle of space cat. Did his job, accepted occasional affections from the human crew, and valiantly attempted to warn everyone when there was an incursion he couldn’t handle from a horrifying xenomorph. Declined to participate in further missions with Ripley, because cats are no fools. A survivor, a legend, and an adorable orange tabby who I would absolutely nuzzle.

Spot: An endothermic quadruped, carnivorous by nature

Spot (Star Trek: The Next Generation): Another orange tabby (and sometimes Somali) cat who is more stripey than her name would suggest, Spot was Data’s companion, so beloved that he wrote an ode to her. She behaved in standard cat ways: sleeping, playing, and bothering Data while he was trying to work. She even scratched Riker’s face once! While other cats are pest-catchers, in the pristine future of Star Trek there are apparently no rats on the ship, so instead Spot gets busy making babies–weirdly, while turned into a lizard. She got better.

Cat is appalled at your lack of fashion sense

Cat (Red Dwarf): Cat is a descendent of the original pregnant cat smuggled aboard the ship, whose progeny… evolved into felis sapiens. He’s a bit of a cat stereotype, and he likes to go around licking people and marking stuff with his signature scent from a spray can. Self-centered and a bit cowardly, but ultimately a loyal crew member. Definitely the most fashionable space cat.

Being a cat in space is serious business

Chessie and Chester (Barque Cats): Like Jones, Chessie is part of a proud tradition of ship cats tasked with chasing down pests, while also alerting humans to other ship problems that may not be obvious. Like Spot, she’s part of the proud tradition of making babies, and Chester is one of her kittens. And like the cats in my books, Chester is psychic, though his abilities are more direct telepathy with his human companion than emotional manipulation. Proud, parental, and psychic: three excellent qualities for some adventurous felines.

Honorable mentions:

Goose (Captain Marvel): Goose is not actually a cat; Goose is a flerken, which looks a lot like a cat until, well, it doesn’t. Still, Goose is an excellent companion and Infinity Stone guardian, even if he did do Nick Fury dirty.

Lying Cat (Saga): Lying Cat is also, sadly, not an actual cat, despite the name. But this now meme-famous felinoid is still a badass. Who wouldn’t want a sidekick with the power to tell when people are prevaricating in your presence?

Jake the Cat (The Cat From Outer Space): His real name is Zunar-J-5/9 Doric-4-7 and he is, once again, not a terran cat. His collar lets him communicate with humans, and he has his own spaceship, so he probably outranks the other not-cats on this list.

Orion (MIB): He’s a cat! Sadly, he does not go into space, but he has a galaxy on his collar, so that’s kind of the same? Space comes to him.

So there’s my list! Who are YOUR favorite space cats?

It’s the end of the year as we know it

2019 has been a hell of a year, the kind where some days felt like weeks and weeks felt like decades.

I feel like I could sum it up in a list song. I left my old job. I moved to a different state. I didn’t start the fire, but it’s literally burning in Australia right now. It’s the end of the world as I know it, but does anyone really feel fine?

I guess I do. I feel fine. Sometimes great, sometimes terrible, sometimes exhausted, sometimes furious, but mostly… fine.

Every year, people use the excuse of a new year to start being a new person. I like to tell my son that every day is a chance to start over–that you don’t have to wait for a good reason, that just wanting to do it is reason enough–but the collective milestone, the changing over of the calendar for most of the world, is a convenient demarcation. It’s a boundary we cross together, a door we all open, a portal fantasy where we can choose to leave our old lives behind and find a fresh adventure waiting for us.

Or not. No pressure. You do you.

This year, my first book came out. Chilling Effect wasn’t the first book I ever wrote, or the first one I finished, but it was the one that made me a published novelist. It’s wild to write that down, to know that after so many years of hard work it finally happened. And next year, unless the world completely combusts, it will happen again.

But then what? Well, hopefully another one, and then another, onward into the future. Beyond Prime Deceptions, I have two fantasy novels in different stages of completion, and plans for a third adventure for Eva Innocente if the publishing powers are kind. I have older novels I could revisit, revamp, rewrite. I have new ideas patiently waiting for me to pick them up and start scribbling.

No one knows what’s on the other side of the door, though. No one can predict what you’ll find once you step through.

Now we get to the part where I bestow upon you my sage advice. That could be a whole other list song, but I’ll keep it short and allusive: be excellent to each other.

My friends and family supported and kept me going this year in ways I could never have hoped to manage alone, and I’m intensely grateful for all of them. I hope in the new year I can pay it back, and forward, even though such things aren’t intrinsically transactional in nature. But the more kindness we spread around like seeds in a field, the more opportunities there will be for it to take root and grow and flower.

If you’re feeling lonely or helpless right now, I’m sorry and I hope it passes. I hope you find the strength to reach out to someone, or to accept a hand being offered to you, or to let go of whoever is holding you back.

May your 2020 be awesome, amigos. Salud, amor, dinero, y tiempo para disfrutarlo.

Pantsing for plotters

You like to plan your stories. Write detailed outlines and character backgrounds and wikis for your setting with reference photos where appropriate. Answer hundreds of questions that may never be addressed in your book. Maybe you even craft in-world songs and stories, sometimes in languages you’ve invented. Before you ever type the words “Chapter One,” you’ve prepared more than some people actually work on a single project.

Pantsing? Hell no. You would never. You’re an architect, not a gardener!

But what do you do when your plans fail? What happens when you hit a roadblock or traffic jam on your carefully planned route? What if you find yourself getting bored and wondering how to reignite the spark you’ve lost? Or glancing at other paths, their mysterious attractions and sideshows shimmering with potential?

That, amigos, is when you take a page from those pantsers you previously scorned.

If you’re a plotter and you’ve gotten mired or disinterested or frustrated by your story, or you’ve hit on something you didn’t plan for and are scrambling to keep your momentum going, here are some options cribbed from folks who are more comfortable with flying by the seat of, well, you know.

You’ll notice that the key to a lot of these approaches is randomness. Having some external input from outside your own mind works well because humans are naturally pretty good at finding patterns and coming up with ways to integrate new knowledge. Being given some random thing to incorporate into your story is like sticking a piece of grit in an oyster; your brain tends to start working to turn that sucker into a pearl, assuming it doesn’t spit it out immediately. Or it can be like finding a strange puzzle piece, and your imagination perks up and tries to reconstruct more of the picture from that small fragment.

Use random generators.

Websites like Seventh Sanctum or Fantasy Name Generators have dozens, even hundreds of different random generators for everything from character names to magic potion descriptions to fake history book titles. If you’re stuck and need to come up with something on the fly, a random generator can give you a useful placeholder. Or if your brain has taken a temporary vacation and you’re hoping to lure it back, a generator can jump start your imagination and suggest options that lead you to whatever ends up working. Beyond internet options, there are products you can buy like story dice or cards, which tend to be more vague and generalized but offer similar randomized input scenarios.

Take suggestions or dares from family, friends or people on social media.

If you’ve ever been to an improv show, you know most scenes start with the performers asking you to give them a word or a phrase, maybe something more specific like a non-romantic relationship or an object you’d find in your house. You don’t have to give any context for your question, either; in improv, the suggestion inspires the scene, so there’s no need to launch into an explanation about your story and how you’re stuck and why. But don’t be afraid to ask for outside input from your fellow humanoids and see how you can make those ideas work with what you’ve already written or were planning to write. Sometimes it gets lonely in your head, and adding a few extra voices turns an echo chamber into harmony.

Go for a walk/ride and write about anything you see.

This won’t work if the weather is trash, or if your area isn’t accessible, or if you literally can’t move for some reason, but getting outside or simply switching up your location can give you fodder for characters, descriptions, and so on. Look for stuff you can integrate into a current or future scene. What specific sensory details can you pull from your surroundings? What patterns of speech or quirky appearances? What strange smells and dissonant sounds? If you’re stuck in one spot, open Pinterest and type in a general location, like “desert” or “coffee shop” or “hot spring,” and see what images come up. If you’re stuck and you don’t have internet access, then…

Look around you: pick an object and add it to the story.

Objects in stories can function as gravity wells, adding weight to a scene or setting. They can be motifs that repeat to give the reader anchor points, or to accumulate emotions like snowballs rolling downhill and gathering snow. They can add depth to a character, convey theme, flesh out back story, all sorts of useful stuff. Maybe your original plans didn’t include any particular objects that might be associated with a person or place or theme, but nothing is stopping you from grabbing some random item off a shelf and imbuing it with meaning. It doesn’t have to be something unique or strange, either; a perfectly ordinary thing can take on extraordinary proportions when used properly.

Tell a story within the story.

Maybe it’s a flashback, or an origin myth, or a morality tale. Maybe it’s a parent embarrassing their child, or a villain revealing their tragic origins. Maybe it’s a newspaper article or eyewitness account of an event that occurred beyond the point of view of your characters. If you deploy this trick carefully, you can do some neat world or character building, or even slide in some important plot information in a more entertaining way than a straight infodump or “as you know, Bob” conversation. Use sparingly, or make it a feature of your particular structure and apply liberally.

Add a new character.

Whether it’s some minor annoyance or a major antagonist suddenly busting in like the Kool-Aid Man, throwing a new character into your mix can turn a linear narrative into a frantic bee dance. Who are they? What do they want? How do they know your other characters? Are they here to help or hinder? Will they come back later or are they only here for a single scene? Are they just really sad about their cabbages constantly being destroyed?! It’s up to you! Make them as odd or enticing or disruptive as you like.

What’s the worst thing that could happen? IT HAPPENS!

Whether you suddenly don’t know what comes next, or your previously planned plot feels lackluster now that you’re writing it, you can always default to asking an operative question. Which question you want to ask depends on the kind of story you’re telling. Instead of figuring out the worst thing that could happen, maybe instead you should come up with the funniest, or strangest, or sexiest, or saddest. Regardless, whatever you choose should probably make your character’s life harder somehow, their goals more unattainable, their present or future situation more complicated. Raise the stakes. Brainstorm without rejecting any options; you can pick and choose later. Push past the obvious first choice and find secret options X, Y and Z.

Be receptive.

This may sound vague, but it’s an essential skill to cultivate, and one that pantsers often have naturally. As you work, your brain is probably doing a lot more subconsciously than you realize, whether it’s forming connections or drawing out themes or supplying character details you hadn’t considered before. A closed mind will reject new ideas or changes to old ideas, which shuts down your inspiration factory and keeps it from producing to its full potential. An open mind will accept ideas without judgment, then consider and integrate the cool things and gently discard the rest. The more receptive you are, the more of that background processing your brain will do, and the more it will produce either on demand or as sweet bonus material when you least expect it.

When in doubt, write it out.

Plotters may be nauseated by the prospect of (gasp) wasting time and words on the wrong choice or scene or whatever, but sometimes you have to do something the “wrong” way to figure out what the right way looks like. No writing is ever truly wasted, in the same way that experiments don’t fail, they simply prove or disprove hypotheses. And even if a particular approach is wrong for this story, there may be some core element that can be scavenged for another tale in the future. If nothing else, you’ve practiced your craft, and that’s always intrinsically useful.

Part of the sweet joy of pantsing is chasing the rush of the surprising, the unexpected, the flashes of unanticipated and unpremeditated brilliance like lightning or rainbows on a clear day. It’s the thrill of discovery, uncovering the unknown and bringing it back to show others. Sometimes plotters concentrate so hard on the road that they forget to look at their surroundings; they focus on the destination and miss out on unforeseen adventures along the way. Don’t be afraid to occasionally succumb to spontaneity! Life rarely goes according to plan, so why should your story?


Special thanks to Jeffe Kennedy for the idea of putting this together, and to Jay, Cee, Chelsea, Amanda, Mary, Maureen and Jo for input and support.

Go ahead, make your choice

So many paths, so many decisions.

Outlining approach #247.3: character choices.

If you want to get a BioWare fan talking, ask who they romanced in a game. (It’s probably more than one character, tbh, we replay a lot.)

But if you want to get them arguing, ask which narrative choices they made in certain games.

Choice is one of the best and easiest tools for showing who your characters are. You wedge them into a situation where they must choose a thing to proceed. You make them sweaty and uncomfortable because making choices is hard!

Their choice tells the reader about their most deeply held beliefs and priorities, about shifting allegiances and agonizing doubts, about all the collected experiences that add up to make a person.

Setting up the choice is the challenge, of course. Some choices can feel artificial: do you save the boyfriend dangling off the edge of the building, or stop the villain from escaping? GASP OH NO.

The best choices are tough to make and have lasting ramifications for the rest of the book. Too easy and who cares? And they don’t have to be binary, but too many options will dilute the impact, so don’t go overboard.

Also, because you are wise and sneaky, you do not have to make the character pick one of the options you offer. Oh, no. Never forget that you are in charge, dear writer. You control the horizontal and the vertical and also the SECRET FIFTH DIMENSION NO ONE ELSE CAN SEE.

Faced with terrible consequences behind every door, your character may go for Secret Option bust through a wall like the Kool-Aid man. It’s a great way to surprise readers, but it will get predictable if you overdo it, so deploy it carefully.

The characters also don’t necessarily have to make the choice right away. Setting up a choice, with a deadline that’s looming, is a great way to create and maintain tension. Especially if the secondary characters have their own opinions, and there will be fallout among them when the decision is finally made. Big consequences + delayed choice = SUSPENSE.

So, how to do this when outlining? Instead of just plotting out what happens, from one chapter or scene to the next, look for specific points where you can force your character to make a dramatic choice. This can either be a variation on tentpole moments or as part of whatever outline method you normally use. Have at least one Big Choice in a synopsis. If you go chapter by chapter, try to sprinkle choices throughout.

Tentpole moments are big deal things you build the narrative around. They can be plot moments, like when Luke chooses to leave Yoda to save his friends even though his training is incomplete. That choice impacts the rest of the events of that movie and the next one.

Or tentpole choices can be character moments that impact the relationships more than the plot, like when Aladdin chooses to use his final wish to free Genie from the lamp. (It’s a resolution to their relationship plot, too, but good plot and character are interwoven SO.)

If you’re stuck and need a tool to add more suspense to a flat or linear narrative, look to the choices your characters are making. Are they too easy? Too obvious? Nonexistent? Fix it! Your readers may not remember other plot points, but big, hard choices will stick with them.

This concludes our morning craft ruminations. Let us all go forth and mess with our characters accordingly. Adios, amigos, may your mana bar be full and your potion supply unlimited.

How to stop hating your WIP and get back to it

Originally posted on Twitter, and compiled here for convenience!

I was helping a friend and it was suggested I share these tips more widely, so, behold: HOW TO STOP HATING YOUR WORK-IN-PROGRESS AND GET BACK TO IT. This is mostly geared toward writing, but some stuff can be applied more broadly.

In my experience, the bad feels are a big tangle of separate individual feels. Dealing with any single feel can maybe help unravel the tangle, or sometimes you have to deal with all of it at once to get moving again.

Sometimes it’s external life problems and your writing is just taking splash damage, so you need to deal with those first. Sucky, but so it goes. You can’t always write through the sads, anymore than you can walk through a brick wall.

That said, certain kinds of bad mood will kill motivation and sparks a cycle that’s like: I’m struggling, I can’t do this, it’s impossible, etc. ad nauseum. You have to break the cycle somehow or it will keep repeating and nothing gets done.

The best way to get out of the cycle is to do something you CAN do. Something not too difficult, something that will give you the tiniest jump start of success juice. A quick mana refill, if you will. Mana yields motivation, and you carry that motivation to the harder stuff.

Now, okay, maybe your feelings are genuinely rooted in something that needs work, instead of bad mood feels. How do you get back to a productive brain place when you’re not meeting your own expectations?

Stop comparing your messy drafts to polished, completed work. Stop it. Alto. Para. I believe it was my bud Jill who talked about how you have to make a test pancake or two before they start looking nice and fluffy and delicious. Don’t hate on your test pancakes, or yourself.

Write down what your ideal version of your novel/story should be like; maybe a paragraph, maybe a page, up to you. It can be as abstract as you want, and focus on whatever qualities you deem important. Think of it like a manifesto. A creed. A war cry.

Write down specific things you want to have in the novel, images or moments or tentpoles or themes, anything cool or dramatic or funny or meaningful to you personally. These are things you can write toward and/or refer back to when you get lost, like landmarks.

Tell yourself you’ll make it awesome later, because you will, even though it feels like a lie. Writing isn’t improv; the reader only sees the final version, not any of the messy attempts where you were trying to figure out what the hell a pancake is supposed to look like.

Pick a few outline methods and outline more broadly/deeply, so you feel better/more in control of the big picture stuff. A lot of issues that come up in a draft can potentially be rooted out before you even begin, or you can pause at any point while writing and re-outline.

Replenish your mana! Read some books, watch TV or movies, play some video games. Go outside if you’re into that sort of thing. Hit up a museum or art gallery. Surf Pinterest for inspiration. Knit a scarf. Hang out with friends. Write fanfic. Enjoy life.

If you’re writing a book, make a wiki for it so all the details are organized and clear in your mind. Or make a bullet journal, or a murder board (see Macey for details), or a spreadsheet, or some other thing that is less creative and more analytical.

Make a list of the most awesome moments from your favorite books and movies… And then steal them. Figure out how they would function in your world, with your characters and your plot. Like painting a Cubist version of the Mona Lisa or something.

Try stuff! Don’t be scared of making wrong choices. Writing things one way doesn’t mean you can’t change your mind later and rewrite them another way. It’s not final until it’s final, and no one is watching over your shoulder as you work. Except Gary, because he’s gross.

If I think of more tips, I’ll add them, but how about you, amigos? Any extra ideas I didn’t cover here, for when writers are in a rut and feel like throwing themselves on a chaise longue and groaning inchoately? I mean, that’s a thing you can also do. Groaning. Maybe it’ll help?

The truth that tells a lie

Pictured: five pounds of actual candy.

I have never, to my knowledge, met a disciple of Shub-Niggurath.

“But Valerie,” you say, “I never thought you did. Shub-Niggurath is an imaginary cosmic horror invented by a racist white dude. Why would you think you need to clarify that?”

Well, dear reader, we don’t know for sure that the Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young isn’t real; have some respect, just in case. But more to the point, writers often run into a little problem called verisimilitude: the appearance of something being true or real.

Most of the time, it’s a feature and not a bug. You want your writing to feel believable, realistic, as close to true as fiction can get. The lie that tells the truth, as the saying goes. However, sometimes that means you’ll end up convincing people the things you’re writing about really happened to you.

And sometimes they have. Sort of. Call it the truth that tells a lie.

To get that tasty verisimilitude, writers pull details from their own lives and tweak them. The sweet old ladies wandering my neighborhood with their umbrellas and pamphlets become acolytes proselytizing for an ancient evil. I take the processed fake sugar center of my story and cover it in an organic handmade coating of stuff that actually exists and is familiar to me, so I can write about it from a place of personal experience. The real bits make the made-up ones easier to swallow.

Unfortunately, this means my friends and family will occasionally worry that I’m talking about them to the whole universe. Sharing Dark Family Secrets or Cherished Childhood Memories for my own nefarious reasons. They’ll recognize something I’ve written about and think, “That’s not how I remember it, what a jerk!” Or they’ll see a story or poem about something awful, brutal, sad, and worry that it happened to me. Worry that the emotions I’m conveying through the characters are ones I was experiencing at the moment I was writing them down.

Sometimes they are. Sort of. But remember that writers are liars, and unlike most lies people feed you, ours have been reworked repeatedly before you see them.

It can be hard to tell which parts of an artwork are the bespoke artisanal coating and which ones are high fructose syrup center. It’s one thing to reasonably assume JK Rowling has never cast spells with wands, or that Narnia isn’t a place you can visit through your closet, or that there are no black monoliths waiting for us on the moon or around Jupiter. (They’re on Pluto, obviously.) It’s another thing to wonder whether that character’s dad is my dad, whether their annoying boss is my boss, whether their depression and anxiety are mine, and so on.

With speculative fiction, the true-ish details usually help ground the fantastic elements, to suspend the reader’s disbelief so they don’t spit out the candy I’m peddling. My time working in a movie theater helped me paint a convincing picture of a man trapped in an endless soul-sucking loop of cleaning up popcorn and spilled soda. Watching my dad lie on a hospital bed in a coma for weeks became one of my characters doing the same in the medical bay of a spaceship. The pain of childbirth became a kidney punch or a wound from a sword. Locations, events, people, feelings… Anything can make it into a story or poem, with varying degrees of similarity to the subjective truth that passes for life experience.

They’re all ingredients. A pinch of how my mom talks, a dash of that cafe I had lunch in, a spoonful of my wry laughter when my son tells a truly awful knock-knock joke. Put them together and you get something that may be completely different from the source, but still tastes like delicious candy.

Maybe don’t take any candy from those ladies wandering around outside with the pamphlets and umbrellas, though. Just to be safe.


Ah, the dreaded query letter. The bait you lay gently on top of some leaves covering the enormous pit that is your novel, in the hopes that an agent will wander over and fall in and decide that it’s actually a pretty nice pit, now that they’re here. But which kind of bait is most effective? How much should you use? How can you get the agent to take YOUR bait instead of that other person’s over there?

(I recommend roasting a whole pig in the pit, but that’s just the Cuban part of me talking. Mmm, lechon.)

The wilds of the internet are full of sage advice about how to write a query letter, so I won’t throw in my two cents except to say that I think nailing the voice worked for me. Without further ado, here’s what I sent to my agent when I was querying CHILLING EFFECT.


In space, no one can hear you cagando en la mierda.

Captain Eva Innocente and the crew of La Sirena Negra cruise the galaxy delivering small cargo for smaller profits. When her sister Mari is kidnapped by The Fridge, a shadowy agency that holds people hostage in cryostasis, Eva struggles through one unpleasant, dangerous mission after another to pay the ransom debt. To make things worse, she’s stuck with a hold full of psychic cats, a fish-faced emperor wants her dead for rejecting his advances, and her ship’s sweet engineer is giving her a pesky case of feelings. Qué jodienda.

Chilling Effect, humorous science fiction that parodies pop culture and video games, is complete at 115,000 words but has series potential. My fiction is published in Nightmare Magazine and She Walks in Shadows, and I am a graduate of the Viable Paradise workshop.


I opened with a personal note, but some folks will counsel you to put that at the end rather than the beginning. I also mentioned that the agent had liked my #DVPit pitch, and reproduced that pitch so she’d remember it.

Hope this helps, and good luck with your bait and pit-digging!

How to critique

This is a repost from my old blog, with updates where they felt necessary. Hope it helps!


“You are insufficiently white and fluffy!” you scream at a passing cloud. The cloud pays you no mind. It is secure in its cloudness and has no interest in your opinions, but more importantly, your critique was not a very good one.

“But Valerie,” you ask, “what should I do instead, I who am insecure in my critiquing abilities but eager to develop them further on my path to writing the BEST THING EVER?!”

The simplest method I’ve encountered so far came from an Odyssey workshop taught by CC Finlay. Behold, the four-part critique process.

1) Summarize what you read.
2) Say at least one thing it did well.
3) Say at least one thing it did poorly.
4) Offer at least one suggestion to fix it.

Step 1: Summarize what you read. A couple of sentences suffices, and ideally you want to touch on any theme or subtext you noticed.

Example: “This story is about a puppy who goes on an epic journey to find the Slipper of Superpowers, but his best friend finds the slipper instead and in a jealous rage he becomes a supervillain and vows revenge. It’s an allegory for the inherently self-destructive nature of capitalism, the literal representation of a dog eat dog world.”

Why do this: If the story you read and the story the writer thought they wrote don’t match up, then either the writer needs to figure out where they went wrong, or you didn’t do a great job of reading. Possibly both! But it’s important to know up front that something is amiss.

Step 2: Discuss at least one thing you thought the story did well. Maybe the characters were fully fleshed out, or the imagery was vibrant, or the language took your breath away. Think about stuff like character, plot, setting, language, etc.

Example: “I thought the dialogue was clever and felt true to the experience of puppyness. I laughed out loud at the jokes about eating cat poop.”

Why do this: It’s good for writers to know when they’ve done something right, so they can keep doing it. We all want to fix our flaws, but it’s important to maintain our strengths as well. It also helps cushion the blow for the next bit.

Step 3: Discuss at least one thing you thought the story didn’t do well.

Example: “I thought the setting of the story was poorly described. I wasn’t really sure where they were at any given time. A castle? A cave? They were just sort of walking through blank spaces. Where did all the cat poop even come from?”

Why do this: Regardless of whether you tell a writer HOW to fix something, it’s good for them to know that a reader stumbled over a certain part, or couldn’t suspend disbelief, or found a particular character excessively gross. Just because I can’t fix a car myself doesn’t mean I can’t identify that it’s making a weird noise and smoke is billowing out from under the hood PULL OVER WHAT ARE YOU DOING STOP THE CAR.

Step 4: Offer at least one suggestion for how to improve the work. Yes, I know what I said in step 3, but this is a different step, okay?

Example: “I would give more detail about the setting, maybe show us how they’re going through this maze of catacombs, which is why they keep finding cat poop (CATacombs, get it???).”

Why do this: While the writer is never under any obligation to use your suggestions, it can be helpful to see how other people would fix a problem. Maybe you have exactly the right solution. Maybe your solution helps point the writer in the direction of the right solution. And maybe your solution shows the writer what the obvious answer is, so they can go in an entirely different and more satisfying direction.

So, one more time, the steps to a useful critique:

1) Summarize what you read.
2) Say at least one thing it did well.
3) Say at least one thing it did poorly.
4) Offer at least one suggestion to fix it.

While I tailored this to stories, it can apply to poetry just as easily. These are not required for any and all critiques offered here, but it’s a good template to start with.

“But Valerie,” you say, “I’m not sure the above is enough, and it’s not super useful for line editing. Got any other ideas?”

Another simple method by way of Mary Robinette Kowal: the ABCD method. It works overall, but is also good for figuring out which bits you should call attention to as you’re reading.

Look for four things: Awesome, Bored, Confused, Disbelief. If something is great, say so. If there’s a place in the story where you find you’re getting bored, point it out. If something confuses you, ask about it. If some part strains credulity, note it.

The two methods mix and match together pretty well. Step 2 covers the awesome things, while step 3 lets you talk about the boring, confusing or unbelievable stuff.

Additionally, going further to describe WHY you feel bored, confused, etc. will help both the writer and you. The writer, because they can see into your thought process as you read, which gets them out of their own head to consider stuff from an alternate perspective. You, because the more you think about the how and why of other people’s work, the better you’re likely to be at doing the same for your own.

Personally, I like to do a minimum of two reads of any story. For the first read, I approach it like, well, a reader! I let myself sink in and enjoy what I can and be surprised by things. Then I do a second reading, armed with the knowledge I gained from the first one, and use that to find elements I missed from the first read, while hopefully better analyzing what works and what doesn’t. First reads are good for surface impressions and immediate reactions, but second reads are vital for more nuanced analysis.

Now go forth, and explain to some clouds how you enjoy their sun-hiding properties, but perhaps they could be a little less rainy.

The other D&D: drafting and deadlines

A row of role-playing game books on a shelf
Yes, I even own a copy of Rifts.

I used to play D&D about a decade ago. Other times, too, but that was the longest-running game I played in, DMed by a friend who came up with some of the most amazing characters and adventures I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing. Heroes turned villains! Zombie apocalypse caused by our own hubris! Alternate reality versions of ourselves! It was truly epic.

The best part was, we played every Sunday. It was this magical anchor for the rest of the week, a thing I could look forward to and plan for and daydream about. We’d make food and shoot the shit for a little while, then dive in and play for hours, from the afternoon well into the evening, and sometimes later.

For my friend, of course, it was a constant rolling deadline, pulling together the threads of what we had already done and what he was gently nudging us to do while leaving extra thread for whatever we actually did end up doing. Then it was hour after hour of performing, playing different characters and listening to our bickering and tolerating our endless tactical scheming instead of just shouting, “HIT IT with a SWORD already!”

It’s not so different from writing a novel, though I’m never in danger of losing my voice from too much talking. Unless you’re Moorcock, it can take months or years to draft an entire book. You have these characters and plots floating around in your head, and periodically you sit down and let them bicker and scheme until it’s time to do whatever else life demands–eat, sleep, work, parent, etc.

Sometimes the characters hit things with swords, and that is pretty great.

Now that I don’t play D&D on Sundays, I write. Every week, I go to the same place with (more or less) the same people, and for a few blissful hours we put our butts in chairs and make words happen. When you don’t have external deadlines–when there isn’t a room full of your friends waiting for you to make magic every week, same Bat time, same Bat channel–it’s easier to let things slide. Having a firm date with myself gives me enough friction to keep the slide under control.

I also like to use NaNoWriMo in November and its brethren Camp NaNoWriMo events in April and July to get work done. Being a part of that community of writers three times a year gives me an additional set of deadlines, even if they’re still largely self-imposed. The structure of it helps me focus when it would be easier to procrastinate or let other life needs take priority. And there will always be something vying for the little time I have for myself.

My approach won’t work for everyone, but it works for me, for now. My novel comes together one Sunday at a time, just like that D&D game did. And someday, hopefully I can share its magic with everyone else.

Swords definitely included.