Posts by Cathy Yardley
Photo by Farther Along
I recently moved from a home on the outskirts of Seattle to a very small town in a rural area, six hours away. Gearing up for selling our old house, buying our new house, and then moving took up most of last year. The year prior to that, I had a different set of challenges. I’d been diagnosed with breast cancer, fortunately in early stages, and it had taken up a good chunk of the year getting things like surgery and radiation handled. Both years meant taking a hit on my writing and my coaching work.
Over the course of all of this, my mojo went missing. My writing was definitely a step off. Hell, my whole life was a few bubbles off plumb.
I was having a crisis of confidence.
I was missing my faith.
If there’s one key component in a writer’s toolbox, it’s faith. Faith is the invisible fuel that propels us forward in the face of critique and rejection. It’s the scaffolding that keeps us from collapsing when we see systematic injustice. It’s the rope that we cling to when we’re trapped in a blinding blizzard of doubt, convinced that our writing is wretched and we should abandon all hope and pursue something more stable, like running a three-card-monte game.
Faith is elusive, and by its very nature, illogical. You can’t learn faith. You can’t study it or buy it. You either have it, or you don’t.
So what do you do when you lose faith in your writing, and yourself?
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Photo by Theo Crazzolara.
I do a lot of brainstorming with writing clients. (At the risk of sounding immodest, I am a champion brainstormer. If there were an Olympic event, I would medal. I adore brainstorming.)
Let’s say I have two clients, who have both emailed me that they want help with their next projects.
The first says:
“My next book is going to be about a girl who was cloned from a holy relic.”
The other client says:
“My next book is going to be about a woman who contacts her college ex, who is now a powerful attorney, for his help because she’s being framed for murder… only he’s starting to think she might somehow be involved, and that she’s developed this Count of Monte Cristo plan to get revenge on him.”
Now, if you look at both of these statements, you’ll see that there’s a fatal flaw in the first one. It’s not a story premise. It’s just a cool idea.
People pop up with cool ideas constantly. (If you’ve ever been approached by a non-writer at a party or family function, they often say: “I have this cool idea for a book – you write it, and we’ll split the profits!” As the idea spews forth, we usually realize that one, it’s not a cool idea – and it’s really not a story. And two, there’s no way in hell you’re going to write this.)
But a cool idea is just a wisp of a concept. It’s not even the seed of a story. It can involve an intriguing character: a hitman who quits and becomes a KonMari Organizer. It can involve a compelling setting: an ensemble story about people who all live in a farm cult in Wyoming who believe in UFOs. It can involve a twist: a woman who discovers our mirror reflections are actually real and different people.
These all may have interesting elements. (Personally, I want to find out about a hitman who helps people “spark joy” and whose experience with cleaners probably has a different context.) But they’re not actual story ideas. They don’t stand up to scrutiny. It’s like saying you want to build a house, and when pressed for a blueprint, you say “it will have stained glass windows!” That’s a nice detail. Love me some stained glass. But what is holding the house up?
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Photo by NOAA Photo Library
As we dive into National Novel Writing Month, I’m reminded that writing is a highly intuitive practice, way more of an art than a science. That said, especially in the crucible of something like NaNo, it’s easy to lose perspective, which is why going in with a plan or an outline often means the difference between floundering aimlessly, freezing up, or moving forward.
So what do you do when your “gut” tells you to take your story on a hard pivot? Or when your instincts are telling you that there’s something fundamentally wrong? What do you do when you’re convinced that your writing sucks, or that you need to take a break rather than keep pressing forward… even though you haven’t made any progress in the last year, much less the past month? Are you right – or are you fooling yourself?
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My agent recently had a confab with a number of editors in New York, all from various houses. I can’t tell you the details of which house wants what (she’d kill me) but I can say this: what everyone is looking for is something fresh. They want the unique, the immersive, and the truly different.
There are a few catches to this.
First: in the nineteen years I’ve been professionally writing, editors have always said they wanted something fresh. No acquiring editor in their right mind is going to say “you know, give me the same-old, same-old.”
Second: in many cases, they are lying. They want fresh, and different, absolutely – but not too different. (Often what they really want is a slightly different version of some fresh and successful thing that came out recently.)
Third: when you’re writing genre, especially now, coming up with something that hasn’t been done before is a tough gig, indeed.
So how do you do this? How do you come out with something that’s going to wow with its originality and verve?
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I’ve been writing professionally – as in, getting paid for my writing – since signing my first contract in 1999. In that time, I’ve written both indie and for traditional publishing houses.
Something I don’t often share: I have also ghostwritten a few books and projects. I don’t publicize it because that’s the nature of the beast. The idea behind ghostwriting is being a ghost, vanishing into the work.
When I talk to writers about ghostwriting, I tend to get two reactions.
The first is a veiled contempt at the concept of not writing one’s own book. They’re not contemptuous of me, necessarily. They just don’t like the whole concept of someone handing off an idea and then taking credit for someone else’s labor. (Of course, not all ghostwriting is like this — there are co-writers, etc. — but this is the thought that often comes up.)
The second reaction is a not-so-veiled eagerness. These are often writers who are eager to quit their soul-sucking day jobs, and who see ghostwriting as a foot in the door, a chance to do what they love (writing) while getting paid. They often ask me how to get ghostwriting jobs.
There are a lot of pros and cons to ghostwriting. It’s like working in food service, in my opinion: it’s a good thing for everyone to try, because you’ll never look at the process the same way again. (You’ll also tip better because you know just how hard the work is. <g>)
If you’re on the fence about pursuing ghostwriting, here are some of my experiences to help you decide.
The Pros
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Photo by Ed Brownson
Let’s say you were house hunting.
You’ve got two small kids, two incomes, a decent budget. You’d like something with four bedrooms so you can have room for a home office and/or craft room, a garage for tools and the car, maybe a yard for a dog.
“I’ve got the perfect place for you,” says your plastic-smiling realtor. And she takes you to a decent but otherwise nondescript home. “You have to see this.”
You look around. “Um… the yard’s sort of small,” you point out.
“Yes, yes,” she says, ushering you through the living room.
“Does it have four bedrooms?”
“Sure,” she says, getting a little impatient. “And a garage. Sort of.”
“How’s the school dis…”
“Ta-dah!” She’s standing in the bathroom, and she moves her hands with a flourish… pointing to the toilet.
You blink. “That’s a toilet.”
“It’s a PLATINUM toilet.” She looks proud enough to bust. “And the SINK is platinum, too!”
You’re staring at her like she may be high at this point. “Um… okay. But how’s the school district?”
She is now obviously frustrated. “The kitchen sink is platinum too, you know. So are some of the doorknobs.”
You are really uncomfortable. Apparently platinum is a thing around here. “It’s lovely,” you say, hoping to mollify her. “Can we, er, look at the bedrooms?”
She grudgingly gives you the full walk-through. The house is serviceable, no question, but you wish that the owner had spent the money they’d blown on platinum-plating the plumbing on fencing the yard, or built an actual garage instead of the currently open carport. So this house will definitely be a no.
What does all of this have to do with your writing, you might ask?
(Or you might not. I was piling that on with a trowel there.)
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Photo by Moyan Brenn.
Sorry – that’s a bit of a clickbait title, I know. But how often have you seen that kind of writing article? How often have writing reference books stated their stances in stark, all-or-nothing, my-way-or-the-highway terms?
Cut out all prologues.
Burn all adverbs.
If you don’t plot, you’re a mess.
If you do plot, you’re a robot.
(Did I mention that the advice is often conflicting?)
I am a contrarian. Much of my writing career has been motivated by sheer spite. I’m not proud of this, but I know myself, and I know that if you tell me I can’t do something, I’m going to laugh and wave at you with my proof of accomplishment at some point. It’s just my nature.
I’ve been writing professionally for nearly twenty years now. In that time, I’d like to think that I’ve learned some things, about the industry, about writing, and about writers. In that time, there is one fact I believe, profoundly, when it comes to writing and publishing.
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Photo by Sam D.
“Writers write.” It’s the action that defines us.
What do you do, then, when you feel like you can’t write?
Maybe something horrible has happened: illness (your own, or someone you care about), financial issues, break-ups. Any number of physical and emotional stressors.
Or it could be the result of a gradual build up. You’ve tried being too strong, for too long, and now the gradual accumulation of life’s indignities has made you brittle as sugar glass.
Looking at the world around you, you feel hopeless. Looking at the page, you feel panic.
Whether it’s topical or gradual, sometimes life feels overwhelming and terrifying.
For some, that is exactly when they bow their heads down and bull through, taking solace in their fictional worlds, living someone else’s life as they compose it on the page. They replenish through the writing itself.
Alas, I am not one of these people.
If you’re not either, then here are some tips and tricks that can help you write when, for whatever reason, life sucks and you’re having a tough time of it.
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Photo by Bev Sykes.
I recently read Shonda Rhimes’ wonderful book Year of Yes: How to Dance It Out, Stand in the Sun, and Be Your Own Person.
Here’s a funny thing, though. I didn’t even want to read it. I’d seen the title, but it hadn’t really resonated with me.
Left to my own devices, I’d said “no” to reading it.
Then, suddenly, I’m helping a client with a non-fiction proposal, and Year of Yes is one of the competitive titles. It crossed my path in a business capacity – I’d literally been paid to read it.
It was wonderful, and yet still a shock to the system. (Honestly, it was a bit like having an eyebrow waxing while eating an ice cream sundae… scrumptious, with a serious side of ouch.)
The ultimate concept of the book is: Shonda Rhimes, one of the most successful television writers ever, has crippling social anxiety. She buries herself in her work. Her sister pointed out: “You never say yes to anything.” So she made a pact with herself. As she texted her friend:
“Am going to say yes to anything and everything that scares me. For a whole year. Or until I get scared to death and you have to bury me. Ugh.”
And then, for the next year, her life changed radically.
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Photo by Jacob Vanderheyden.
Alone is a reality TV show where ten competitors get dropped off on various parts of Vancouver Island, and are forced to figure out how to survive by themselves. The last one standing won half a million dollars.
My son is charmed by tales like My Side of the Mountain and Hatchet, and my husband is a fair outdoorsman. As for me, I’d be the idiot who dies in the first hour because I tripped on a limpet shell and managed to strangle myself with my own rucksack. (I am what you’d call “indoorsy”.) Nonetheless, I was still hooked.
Who takes on this kind of lunacy?
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Photo by Anne Thorniley
Lately, I’ve seen some posts and memes about writing and publishing that have genuinely set my blood boiling. I have seen authors get all stirred up about things that ultimately showed, in my opinion, a fundamental misunderstanding of the publishing industry, while other things, that I feel are vitally important to the industry, continue to get ignored.
I was all set to type out a well-researched and utterly eviscerating rebuttal. Bar graphs and diagrams might have been incorporated. I was going to channel Alexander Hamilton (the original and Broadway versions), Chimimanda Ngozi Adichie, and possibly Che Guevara. Maybe a little Adam Smith thrown in for good measure.
Seriously, guys. I was on fire.
Fortunately, I came to my senses before subjecting you to that. Hopping into a phone booth and donning my superhero rantypants is more like eating a bucket of M&M’s: initially pleasurable, but ultimately a bit sickening. As the meme so eloquently states, “Ain’t nobody got time for that.”
Besides, I’ve talked at you enough in my time here as a columnist. Today, I want to hear from you.
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Photo by George A. Spiva Center for the Arts
There is no such thing as the “average reader.”
I usually see references to this mythic creature — the average reader — in one of two contexts.
First:
“I’m going for mass market appeal — I think the average reader would enjoy my book.”
Second:
“Well, the average reader obviously doesn’t know what good writing is. Why else would they buy crap like (popular bestseller)?”
I’m going to tackle these two usages separately.
The myth of the “mass market” average reader.
Readership is not monolithic. In this day and age, there really isn’t a mass market consumer, and very few mass market products. Commodities like flour and milk are split into more and more specific categories: whole wheat, unbleached, gluten-free, 2%, 1%, lactose-free, organic, goat, cow, almond, soy, etc.
So how could something as subjective as reading taste be considered “mass market”?
Yes, you’ll have some FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) readers, who are jumping on the bandwagon, only because they want to discuss what everyone seems to be reading. But with the plethora of entertainment choices out there, reading isn’t necessarily the water-cooler discussion point it used to be. (Come to that, there aren’t really water-coolers that people chat around. Break room discussion? Facebook discussion?)
This isn’t something to bemoan. This is not a cultural commentary, and quite frankly, I am not going to waste time making a judgment on a nostalgic “mass market/higher reading” audience. This is the reality we are working with. Story comes in a lot of forms. There are simply more options than there ever have been before, and we have got to stop being so precious about it if we hope to create a sustainable living from it.
The days of demographics.
Demographics are the segmentation of a group of people by factors like age, ethnicity, race, religion, income, and education.
In the earlier days of marketing, any consumer description was couched in demographics. For such-and-such a product, they might describe the ideal consumer as:
Woman, 30-40’s, married, household income of $60k, lives in suburbs.
The assumption is that people of the same gender, marital status, income, etc. would have the same tastes, the same interests. More importantly, they could be reached by the same marketing techniques (which, at the time, were “push” promotion, spread through heavily controlled, one-way mass media.)
The rise of psychographics.
As people started connecting in new ways with increased and easier communication options, and sales of products became easier and more global, it became clear that simple demographics weren’t as effective as they used to be.
For example, the original assumptions of the rise of the romance genre was that it was mainly read by suburban housewives of lower education and household income, so marketing should appeal to that supposed “demographic” by referencing things like “when you need a break from the kids!” or literally marketing them like bleach or other household products, emphasizing similarity and brand over individual authors.
While this worked incredibly well for a while, the “category romance” has been in documented decline for the past decade, as their audience is, essentially, dying out. It’s simply easier to get exactly what you want now, rather than settling for a limited range of “commodified” genre offerings. The success of re-tooled category romance has come from the increased sharpening of focus by category lines and the diversification of […]
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Photo by JD Hancock
I just launched my first self-published novel in January. Prior to this, I’d been a traditionally published author in a handful of different genres… always making midlist with decent numbers, but never capitalizing on my audience because I have ADHD that would put a hyperactive retriever puppy to shame. (Oooh! Squirrel!)
Beyond that, I took a two-year hiatus from fiction writing altogether. I haven’t had a new book on the shelf since 2013. Tumbleweeds blew through my Facebook author page. Twitter was still a crowded bar that I occasionally frequented, feeling horribly uncomfortable and generally staying silent.
And did I mention I didn’t email my newsletter once during that time?
For a writing coach who also helps with marketing strategy, this is akin to me standing here in my undies, guys.
Appalling. I know better. The cobbler’s kids are barefoot, alas.
Still, it’s been a useful exercise. First of all, because that two-year hiatus was just what I needed to get my financial foundation in order, so I wasn’t writing from a place of desperation. Nothing puts my creativity in a chokehold like the thought that “if this doesn’t take off, goodbye mortgage.”
Secondly, this gives me a chance to start from a relative ground zero. I am not coasting off of previous momentum from a series or previous releases. Heck, I’d chosen to wade into the pond of self-publishing with the skill set that kick started my career, romantic comedy. I haven’t written category-length rom com in well over a decade. There was no guarantee any of my audience from that time period would remember me, nor would they be following me or watching me.
How, then, to promote a new series, in a crowded marketplace, in my first time at bat?
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Once upon a time, I wrote erotica.
Let me preface this with: I have nothing but respect for erotica authors. I’ve written prologues for erotica anthologies, and one of my favorite authors edits erotica (and writes some of the most stunning personal essays you’ll read. Her name is Rachel Bussel Kramer, and her collection called Sex and Cupcakes is well written, authentic, marvelous stuff.)
That said — when it comes to erotica…
I, um, sucked. (Ba-dum-bum!)
Actually, that’s not entirely true. From what I’ve been told by my editor and the few but dedicated fans of the series, the stories were solid, and I’m proud of what I was able to accomplish.
However, it fell into a wormhole.
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