Eight Ways to Beat Writer’s Block

a small mannequin stuck under stones

Writing is a lot of fun, but can also be kind of a struggle.

Especially if you’ve gotten yourself into a negative headspace about something, it’s hard to get words on the page or revise them.

In this post, I’m going to talk about some strategies you can use to get past that feeling, commonly called “writer’s block.”

Is Writer’s Block Real?

Writer’s block is kind of a catch-all phrase writers use to describe any time they’re having difficulty writing.

People like to talk about writer’s block as if it’s some well-defined specific ailment, but — at least for me — I haven’t found that to be accurate. Instead, I tend to think of writer’s block as a symptom of some underlying issue, and not in itself the root cause that needs to be solved.

For example:

  • Are you burnt out from writing too much?
  • Did you read a great story that was similar to your own?
  • Is something in your life making it hard for you to focus on anything?
  • Did you get a negative response from a critiquer?
  • Is your imposter syndrome flaring up?
  • Are you troubled by the fact that you are secretly three dachshunds in a trenchcoat?

And so on. There are any number of things that can lead to writers being discouraged about their work and experiencing something like writer’s block. Because of this, it makes more sense to me to figure out what that underlying issue is, and try to fix that.

a Greek vase picturing Sisyphus carrying a boulder up a mountain
Photo used under a CC-BY license from Marcus Cyron

Of course, as they say on the Internet, the struggle is real. Whether you consider writer’s block to be a monolithic ailment with a single cure or just the symptom of something else, the end result is the same: the act of writing becomes a bitter struggle as you stare at that blank page for hours.

When writer’s block strikes, it’s easy to tell yourself you’re a failure as a writer and a human being, but neither of those are true. Writer’s block is perfectly normal, established authors deal with it all the time, and it certainly doesn’t mean anything at all about your worth or value as a person (neither of which are, spoiler alert, in fact tied to your writing and productivity).

So, how can you get past writer’s block? Here are eight different methods that sometimes work for me. If you’re stuck, try one or more and see if they help!

One: Fix the Underlying Cause

If you like my take on writer’s block as a catch-all phrase that stands in for any number of other problems, one approach is to figure out what those other problems are and try to resolve them.
Of course, this is easier said than done. Some problems are pretty hard to solve, and there’s no guarantee that fixing anything will get rid of your inability to write.

All the same, if you’re experiencing writer’s block because you’re stressed about something in real life, it’s not a bad idea to try and take care of whatever it is that’s bothering you. If you’re lucky, doing that will help you write again. And even identifying that the problem is outside your writing can be a relief, which might relieve some of the pressure your brain is putting on itself to produce “good” writing.

As an example, let’s take “Did you read a great story that was similar to your own?” from our list of bullet points in section above.

Let’s say you’ve finally been getting into the groove with your brand new, soon-to-be-award-winning-assuming-you-finish-it novel about eighteen rabbits flying fighter pilots in a rebellion against the cruel fox overlords that have taken over a far-future terraformed Mars.

I mean, what a concept, right? How could it not be the best thing ever written?

PUMPED!

And then you see someone on Twitter gushing about this rabbit space pirate novel they’re reading by a multiple award winning, NYT bestselling auhor that everybody loves, and, well…

Oomph.

The next time you sit down to write — a climactic scene, where plucky young rebel Marigold is finally about to face off against the haughty, hungry Duchesse de Renarde — words fail you. You stare at that blank word document, the wind knocked right out of your (solar) sails.

A person in a rabbit suit looks at distant hills in late afternoon light.
The touching final scene, where Marigold looks out at the unrecognizable Martian landscape, only wishing that she’d been able to convince de Renarde that love was more powerful than the conflict between them.

There’s a pretty good chance in this case that your writer’s block is actually tied to anxieties about overlap between your in-progress work and a well-respected author’s already-published novel.

Once you realize that, it might be easier to move forward: even if you’re still upset, you have new strategies you can look to, things like focusing on the differences rather than the similarities, and other ways you can make your own writing stand out. Method three, “kick perfectionism to the curb” is probably also good in situations like this.

The bottom line is that figuring out what’s really bothering you and resolving that, instead of beating your head against the vague and menacing spectre of writer’s block, can be one good way to move forward.

And who knows! By the time you come back to your manuscript after some time off to figure out other problems, maybe you’ll feel refreshed and ready to tackle the words on the page even if that other problem still bothers you.

Two: Find Joy in Something You’ve Written

Let’s take another look at anxieties.

Maybe your writer’s block doesn’t come from an external source, but a general feeling of disappointment at perceptions about your own ability. If the words flowing from your fingers (or not) are getting you down, take a moment to go back through other things you’ve written.

Have a published story? Great! Take a read through it, break out that notebook and pen and write out your favourite line from it. Add the story title and your byline to make it official-looking and fancy, and tack it up near your workspace if you want to.

Or just bask in the glow of “Hey, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Haven’t been published yet? That’s okay, you’ll get there!

Find the thing that brings you joy about your writing and focus on that.

And you can still do this exercise. Just look through something you’ve already written for the best parts, and proceed as above. Even if you’re writing your very first story, there’s probably something you can find in what you’ve done so far that brings you joy. Failing anything else, think up something clever now and write it down.

Maybe it’s not even a line — maybe your characters bring you joy, or the idea of a particular scene. Find the thing that brings you joy about your writing and focus on that for a minute, then get back to the writing with that energy in mind.

Take that, writer’s block!

Three: Kick Perfectionism to the Curb

One big thing I struggle with in my own writing is perfectionism.

I’m the sort of writer who pays attention to the flow of my sentences, and likes a little bit of lyrical poetry (even when it seems like I’m just writing goofy nonsense). That means it’s easy for me to get bogged down in specific details, especially in a first draft.

Even if you don’t write the same way I do, it’s really easy to get writer’s block if you obsess over how different the vision you hold in your head is from what you’re writing down on the page. And first drafts can be particularly problematic.

Remember Hemingway? He famously said that “the first draft of anything is shit.”

Nobody writes perfect first drafts.

Unlike the 6-word story thing it’s possible that this is an actual Hemingway quote, too. Or at least derived from something he said. After some digging, and a bit of librarian-like frustration at the lack of accurate citations on the Internet, I had a stroke of luck: Aron Roberts pointed me to this great analysis on Quote Investigator, a website run by Garson O’Toole which puts the origin of the quote in advice given to another writer, Arnold Samuelson, in the 1930s.

A related quote (which proves Hemingway loved using the word ‘shit’ when talking about writing) is an interview in Issue 18 of The Paris Review (1958), where he says that “the most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof shit-detector.”

Hemingway digressions aside, this is worth reiterating: nobody writes perfect first drafts.

Think back to our SMART goals from lesson one. The whole idea is to break down a huge, daunting, impressive goal into tiny, manageable chunks, not do everything perfectly from the start. (Again: that’s impossible. Don’t try.)

Acknowledging (or accepting) that untramelled genius isn’t going to flow from your fingertips and into your manuscript as soon as you start drafting can sometimes help you to get rid of writer’s block. Giving yourself permission to write a shitty first draft can work, too.

After all, you can always revise a terrible first draft. You can’t even do that with an idea that’s still in your head. Focus on getting words down, not on proving how awesome a writer you “should” be. (Spoiler alert: lots of awesome writers also write terrible first drafts.)

Four: Take a Break

If none of the techniques above are getting you past your writer’s block, ask yourself if you just need a break.

I know there’s the idea out there that “real writers” write every day, no matter what.

Frankly, holding to that ideal can harm both your self-esteem and your ability to write.

Do some writers write every day, no matter what? Absolutely! And good for them. It’s nice to do it if you can.

Do you have to? Absolutely not.

a hedgehog carrying moss in its mouth

The phrase “real writer,” incidentally, is garbage.

If anyone starts a sentence with “real writers,” you have my permission to ignore the rest of what they say unless it’s “Real writers are much more complicated than hedgehogs” or something.

Seriously, there’s no such thing as a “real” writer. The status of “writer” is based on practice, not “number of publications” or “has an Amazon page” or some other equally arbitrary qualification. (I see this especially leveraged against non-male, non-white writers, and it ticks me off every time!)

If you’re writing, have written, or are going to write, guess what you are? You’re a writer. Even if you are dealing with writer’s block, that doesn’t change anything.

Anyway, plenty of published authors I know don’t write every day. I sometimes go weeks at a time without putting down words. A friend of mine just started writing again after a two year break. Ernest Hemingway has been dead since 1961 and apparently he still comes back to writing for the occasional inspirational quote.

Life happens, and it’s okay to take a break. Even if life isn’t happening and you’re just not feeling it today, that’s fine. You’ll come back to it some other time, and then you’ll write. (Even if you don’t, life will go on, I promise you.)

Take a little time off to relax and practice some self-care instead of obsessing over productivity, and see if your writer’s block clears up the next time you sit down to write. You might just find that all you needed was a little distance from your work.

Five: Power through It

Sometimes, of course, the opposite to method four holds true.

While you don’t need to write every day, you do need to write sometimes. It’s just a matter of numbers. While you can write a complete novel in a year at 250 words a day (250 * 365 = 91,250), you can’t even write a single piece of flash fiction at 0 words a day no matter how long you do it for (0 * any arbitrary large number = well… 0).

Again, don’t stress about this.

But sometimes you do need to put words on the page. If you’re a “mind over matter” kind of person, forcing yourself to write even though you hate every word of it can sometimes work to beat writer’s block. At least you wrote something, even if it was terrible.

I often find that after the fact I don’t hate stuff quite as much, anyway. Or, if I’m being perfectly honest, that I hate things I loved when I was writing them about as much as stuff I hated writing.

The bottom line is: nobody can tell if you think your work is amazing or terrible, and what you think about it usually doesn’t line up with what readers do.

So if you’re the sort of person who doesn’t mind mechanically doing things you hate, you can try to power through it. I really wouldn’t recommend this approach unless you know you’re that kind of person, though. Forcing yourself to write when you hate it can lead to burnout.

Six: [Apply Brackets]

For longer stories and novels, I follow a pretty weird writing process.

I don’t just sit down with my outline, start at the first scene, and write through to the end. Actually, I often write the ending scene before I’ve finished most of the novel. I’m not afraid to jump around, either, especially if I’m getting stuck on a particular scene.

So if you think your writer’s block might be coming from the particular part of the story you’re writing, or if you find that your wheels are spinning over some detail — no matter how major it is — allow me to introduce you to your new best friend: the [bracket].

the lesser striped swallow has not been proven to cause writer's block
One lesser striped swallow (unladen).
Photo used under a CC-BY license from Jack Versloot

Can’t figure out the average air speed velocity of a laden swallow? Just stick [speed] in there!

Facing a blockage because you can’t come up with a perfect name for your character? [name1] to the rescue!

This trick is infinitely flexible, up to the point where you can bracket off a whole scene to yourself to come back to later, if it helps you move past a point that’s causing you writer’s block.

You could also use parentheses for this, of course. But square brackets are convenient because you can run for [ and hop to the next thing that needs fixing when it’s time to revise. This is also why professional editors use TK to mark things that need to be fixed. Neither a square bracket or the combination TK is likely to appear in your manuscript file elsewhere.

Just remember that you will need to fill in your brackets eventually. I can’t count the number of times I’ve cursed past me because he’s left me a note like [insert clever dialogue here] halfway through the climactic scene of a new story.

Really, past-me? That’s the best you could do?! Ugh, past selves.

Seriously, though. Bracketing off something you can’t figure out can free you up to move forward with your story. Again, the goal is to get something down and fix it up later, not write perfection.

Seven: Remember Why You’re Writing

This is similar to method number two.

Again, the idea is to remind yourself why you’re doing this.

If you’re a goal-motivated person, just taking a moment to explicitly pull those goals up and remind yourself that there’s something waiting for you after you make it through everything can be enough to banish writer’s block.

Of course, if your anxieties about writing are at the root of your problem, or you’re the sort of person to obsess over every last thing that will keep you from your goals, this can backfire. So apply with caution! (See also: the next method in this list.)

Eight: Be the Friend

It sounds a little hokey, but think of what you’d say to a friend who came to you with writer’s block, or to express insecurities about their writing.

A green troll holds a sign saying "trolle bitte nicht futtern," meaning "don't feed the trolls" in German.
Please don’t feed the trolls.
(Used under a CC-BY-SA license from Simplicus)

Would you say, “Well yeah, you’re garbage and so is everything you write LOLOL DON’T QUIT YOUR DAYJOB!”

Hopefully, no. No you would not. (If you answered “yes,” please re-examine your life choices!)

So don’t let yourself get away with talking to yourself in such a negative way. Remind yourself that it’s okay to not be at the top of your game all the time. That your worth as a person doesn’t depend on your ability to puts words on a blank page, or revise ones that are already there. Practice a little self-care. Build yourself up instead of putting yourself down.

Low self-esteem sucks, and can definitely impact your writing, so try this out if you’re the sort of person who’s pessimistic about your own abilities.

Or take a break, if you think it’d be helpful. Think about writer’s block, and come up with a plan for what you might do if it ever strikes you.

Next week, we’re going to build on our strong start — and the flash story you’ve been writing — by learning about the art of short fiction critiquing.

Interview: Laura Pearlman, Queen of Flash Fiction (and Radishes)

I’m following up last week’s post on how to write short stories with an interview with Laura Pearlman, a professionally published speculative fiction author and all-around mad genius. But you don’t have to take my word for it…

Laura Pearlman's author photo

Laura Pearlman’s fiction has appeared in Nature, Shimmer, Flash Fiction Online, and a handful of other places. Her LOLcat captions have appeared on McSweeney’s. She’s a former associate editor at Escape Pod and editor of the almost entirely hypothetical CatsCast podcast. You can find her online at @laurasbadideas on Twitter

If you haven’t read Laura’s fiction, you’re in for a treat. Her visions are unique and often hilarious, making it pretty easy to pick out a “Laura story” even if you don’t spot the byline. To be honest, she’s also a whizz at titles, as you can see from “So, One of Those Tiny Alien Spaceships Has Flown Into Your House. Now What?” (Nature, 2018) and “The Shadow Over My Dorm Room” from 2018’s Cackle of Cthulhu anthology.

Perhaps my favourite piece of fiction from Laura, though, is “I am Graalnak of the Vroon Empire, Destroyer of Galaxies, Supreme Overlord of the Planet Earth. Ask Me Anything,” (Flash Fiction Online, 2015). So I was thrilled when Laura agreed to let me interview her about the story (which I’m going to just call “Graalnak”) and her writing process for this blog post!

You don’t have to read the story to enjoy this interview (Laura’s just that good), but I highly recommend it. Not only will it help you figure out how the insights she shares can be applied to writing a story, it’s just such a fun piece of flash.

Interview

Stewart: Graalnak is one of my favourite pieces of humorous flash fiction. It’s got personality in spades (no doubt because spades are important for harvesting radishes), has multiple running gags, effectively mimics a real-life form of communication, and–even more impressively–it does all that while telling an actual story. Which part of the story came to you first, and how did you manage to keep all of those moving parts coherent in under 1000 words?

Laura: At some point, I noticed that the same “I am [name], [verb]-er of [noun]” structure showed up in Reddit AMA titles and Game of Thrones dialogue, and I knew I had to do something with that.

a man dressed in medieval armor lies on the ground after a joust
Pictured: Deleted Game of Thrones character, Everan Staedmon, Bearer of Regrets.

I made the jump to an alien overlord AMA pretty quickly. I had to make a few adjustments — my original concept was that the Vroon were grinding up humans for radish fertilizer, which, it turns out, isn’t funny — but it mostly flowed pretty smoothly from there.

The hardest part was the ending. I knew I wanted Graalnak to leave Earth. I eventually decided he should be tricked into searching for better radishes elsewhere, but my initial thought was that this would require a vast, complicated conspiracy. I couldn’t come up with a good way to convey this without breaking the format, though, so I scaled it down to the current ending.

As to keeping it all to 1000 words — one nice thing about this format is that there’s no need to spend any words on descriptions of characters, settings, or movement.

Stewart: Humans being ground up for fertilizer definitely would have been a very different story! It’s interesting how you jumped from AMA/GOT to alien overlords to uh… less murdery humour. Could you talk a little bit about your usual process for writing flash, and whether you stuck to that with Graalnak or not?

Laura: Graalnak was probably the easiest story I’ve ever written, because I had a strong sense of what it was going to be before I started writing. The details changed along the way, but it was always going to be about an evil alien overlord with an overbearing personality who eventually left Earth.

Most of the time, though, I don’t start out with a solid sense of what a story will be, so I tend to flail a lot. For flash, I might decide on a format (e.g., a Reddit thread), and I’ll write and rewrite the first paragraph until I have a good feel for the main character and voice. Then I’ll struggle to find a plot. At some point, I’ll wonder whether I’ve completely lost my ability to write. Eventually, I’ll either abandon the story or produce a terrible first draft.

Then comes the part I actually enjoy: iterating over that draft, finding threads (themes, running gags, character traits, voice, aspects of the world, etc.) and strengthening them, cutting away excess clutter, changing the ending, sometimes switching to a completely different format — basically, transforming that first draft into something I can read without cringing, then to something that’s maybe sort of okay, and then to something that’s actually pretty good, if I do say so myself.

Stewart: It’s definitely a great feeling to move from a cringey first draft to something that meets your standards! You’ve written flash and longer fiction. Do you think there are any noticeable differences between writing each form? Any tips for people trying their hand at flash fiction for the first time?

Regardless of what form you’re writing in, make sure there’s an actual story behind it.

Laura Pearlman

Laura: My goals are different for flash and for longer stories. When I’m writing a longer story, my goal is usually to more-or-less directly relate the events of the story. When I’m writing flash, I typically think about what events are happening in the story and then create an artifact (a reddit thread, one side of an email conversation, a public service announcement) that reflects those events indirectly, leaving it up to the reader to infer what’s going on. Just to be clear, I’m not saying all flash should be like that! Lots of excellent flash stories use a straight narrative structure to communicate clearly and directly; it’s just that none of those stories were written by me.

So here’s my advice:

  1. Regardless of what form you’re writing in (straight narrative, epistolary, a series of yelp reviews), make sure there’s an actual story behind it.
  2. Trust your readers. They’re probably better at picking up inferences than you think.
  3. Of course it’s always good to show your story to someone else and get their opinion. But don’t think you need every reader to understand everything about the story — that’s an impossible goal, at least without overexplaining things to death.
  4. Ignore this if it doesn’t work for you. There’s lots of writing advice that’s good for some people and bad for others.

Stewart: Excellent advice! Incidentally, have you noticed how “advice” and “radish” have almost all the same letters? Okay, maybe they don’t. But what’s the deal with the radishes in Graalnak? (I notice they’re also in the header image on your website.)

radishes on a cutting board

Laura: For the story, I chose them more or less randomly — I wanted something consumable that most people don’t have strong positive or negative feelings about (I don’t think the story would have been nearly as funny if Graalnak had been obsessed with bacon or kale).

Radishes started invading my real life around the time the story was published. My interviewer at Flash Fiction Online told me she grows radishes in her garden. Right after the story came out, my sister said she’d seen radishes at the farmer’s market had bought some because of me. Over the next few weeks, friends started telling me things like “there were radishes in my salad at lunch, and I thought of you.”

So radishes are my thing now. Also, they’re pretty.

Stewart: To be fair, radishes are delicious. I’ve always identified with Graalnak on a deep, primal level for… Okay, I can’t say that with a straight face, either. Anyway, thanks for letting me pick your brain about this story and writing flash fiction in general! Do you have any other stories you’ve written that you’d like to share with people, or any exciting news?

Laura: No exciting news, but you can find links to all my published stories on my website.

Stewart: Thanks again for stopping by!

Closing Thoughts

That’s pretty much it for this post!

You can read and analyze Graalnak, if you want to see what makes a great flash story tick. Otherwise, just keep writing with an eye to your goals and schedule, and take a breather if you’re feeling burnt out. Self-care is an important part of any hobby or career!

Next week, I’ll cover writers block and some methods for tackling it.

How to Write a Very Short Story, or Flash Fiction 101

Starting a new hobby or picking up a new skill of any kind is difficult. There are basic concepts to pick up, strategies for success to consider, and — potentially worse — plenty of people willing to offer advice of questionable use.

Writing a short story certainly isn’t an exception to any of this.

One way turn your strong start into ongoing success is to start small. This doesn’t mean lowering your expectations or your standards for yourself, but to acknowledge your beginner status and focus on discreet, achievable steps that will eventually lead to your goal. (Remember those SMART goals from lesson 1?)

a lightning bolt strikes near an abandoned barn
The lightning bolt — brief, surprising, memorable — is a commonly used metaphor for flash fiction.

These blog posts is designed around the principle that small successes can be reinforcing and lead to bigger successes, so we aren’t going to be starting out by writing an epic fantasy novel. Instead, we’re going to start small with flash fiction — a form of fiction also known as a “short short story.”

Flash will give you a constraint, a goalpost to aim for as you write, which I find is often helpful in sparking creativity in fiction and poetry alike. (Maybe this isn’t a surprising insight from me, since most of my poetry is haiku.)

Of course, practically speaking, starting small is also good for morale boosts: it’s easier to finish a very short story than it is to finish a very long one.

What is Flash Fiction?

Flash fiction is a term used for very short stories.

Also called short short stories, sudden fiction, or a half-dozen other things, the exact definition of flash fiction varies. In speculative fiction, most magazines use the term to refer to short stories of between 500 and 1,000 words. Literary magazines tend to have a broader definition, sometimes as high as 2,000 words, while some places add other constraints such as the use of non-traditional narrative structures. In most cases, though, the number of words in a piece of flash fiction is between 500 and 1,500 words, and the structure of the piece doesn’t matter.

There are also specific subcategories of flash fiction:

  • Drabble – A short story of exactly 100 words
  • Twitterature – 280 characters (the length of a post on Twitter)
  • Micro-fiction – Exact length varies, but usually anything up to 200 words
  • Minisaga – 50 words
  • Six-word story – Does what it says on the tin (Note: Hemingway didn’t write the one about baby shoes)

Just because flash fiction is very short doesn’t mean it can’t be very good.

Good flash fiction tells a complete story, and is like a lightning bolt from a clear sky, surprising with its dramatic abruptness and leaving a lasing impression. Indeed, a very short story can even win awards. Rachel Swirsky’s “If You Were a Dinosaur, My Love,” published in Apex Magazine in 2013, is just under 1,000 words long but still won the Nebula Award offered by SFWA and was a finalist for the Hugo and World Fantasy awards—two other major genre awards.

Good flash is a lightning bolt from a clear sky, surprising, abrupt, and leaving a lasing impression.

In the literary world as well, there are authors famous for their skill at the short short story. Yasunari Kawabata, for example, received the Nobel Prize for literature in 1968. Although the award committee mentioned his novels as driving their selection, Kawabata also wrote over 140 “palm-of-the-hand stories” throughout his life, some as short as a page.

With its low word-count and equal potential for powerful story-telling, flash fiction can be a good starting place for newer writers — although of course the brevity of flash doesn’t mean it’s easier to write a short short story well, as such. Flash is also convenient if you’re really busy and can’t spend many hours a day on writing. Even if you’re an accomplished writer, a full-length short story can take weeks — months! — to finish to your satisfaction, and you necessarily need to pay more attention to tying up all your loose ends in 10,000 words than in 1,000.

Full disclosure: I might be a bit biased in my opinions about flash.

I’ve written and published a lot of flash fiction (including my first professional sale), and it’s a form I always enjoy. It’s a fun challenge to try and tell a complete story in a thousand words, to pare down what’s on the page to exactly what you need an nothing more.

As we’ll see later, you can also get away with structural things in flash fiction that are harder to pull off in a longer short story. You don’t have to stick to the traditional Western three act structure, although you certainly can stick to that structure, if you like. It’s certainly a familiar structure to anyone who’s had to analyze a short story in a high school or college class, and there’s a lot to be said for familiarity when trying something new.

Act one introduced the character conflict, act two is rising tension, act three is the climax or resolution.
Used under a CC-BY-SA license. Creator: UfofVincent

If you’d like to branch out, though, there are many other ways to write a story. We’ll talk about those later, though. For now, let’s briefly review what a story is.

The Basics of Short Story Writing

What is a short story, anyway?

There are many different ideas about what a short story should do. A lot of it depends on context, and of course in different cultures storytelling serves different purposes. For the purposes of this post, let’s say that a short story is a piece of fiction of under 7,500 words that shows a character or characters trying to do something, learning something about themselves in the process.

That is, to be fair, a terrible definition and one that doesn’t apply to some of my favourite stories. But for our purposes here, it’ll do!

A short story is a piece of fiction of under 7,500 words that shows a character or characters trying to do something, learning something about themselves in the process.

Most Western conceptions of the short story use something like the chart above, with an exposition that introduces the conflict, setting, and characters, a period of rising action that leads to a crisis, where the main character (protagonist) must decide how to act to resolve a specific problem or problems in the story’s climax. Not every short story follows this pattern, but enough do that you can probably think of a story you’ve read recently in these terms.

Cover art for my short story At the Edge of a Human Path, showing a fox in human clothes beneath the moon

For example, in my story “At the Edge of a Human Path,” the first scene introduces the main character (K, a shapeshifting fox), the setting (ancient Japan), and hints at the conflict (K vs her mother). The next few scenes deepen our understanding of these three things, showing K acting to try and accomplish her goal in the story (convincing her mother to stop the Yamato from destroying the countryside rather than encouraging them to do worse) while also introducing new setting details and another character (Soga no Yoshitsuki, the warrior her mother has sent for her to entrap).

Towards the mid-point of the story, K has experienced her crisis point and decided that if her mother won’t act responsibly she must be removed. The tension continues to rise as she works towards this new goal, and in the climactic scene she and Soga no Yoshitsuki succeed in driving her mother out of the Yamato. In the final short scene, the story’s conflict is resolved, as K decides she will stay and guide the Yamato people away from their destructive habits to a lifestyle that respects the natural world.

Other people like to talk about a successful story containing “try/fail” cycles. In this conception of storytelling, the main character’s continued struggles to achieve their goal are what drive the plot. K first tries to convince her mother to return to beign a fox. When that fails, she keeps watch and consults a kami before trying again. It’s only after her first two failures that she changes her goal, and tries to convince Soga no Yoshitsuki to help her drive her mother away. This time, she succeeds, and the story’s main conflict is resolved.

There are many other ways of understanding a story, including the Japanese idea of kishōtenketsu, which uses a four-part structure:

  1. Ki () – The introduction of the story setting, characters, etc.
  2. Sho () – Additional development of the ideas introduced, with no major twists or changes
  3. Ten () – The “turn” or twist, where an unexpected development appears
  4. Ketsu () – The conclusion, which follows logically from the turn and brings the story to a close

A lot of people define kishotenketsu as “stories without conflict,” but that isn’t really accurate. It’s just that the conflict isn’t necessarily what drives the story — as opposed to Western ideas like the try/fail cycle and the three-act, rising-tension-and-climax model.

There are plenty of other ideas about narrative form and structure, as well. Jo-ha-kyu is a three-part conception often used in traditional Japanese drama, with the idea that a play should start slowly, speed up, and resolve rapidly. Aristotle suggested a play should be split into two parts: “complication and unravelling.”

Etcetera, etcetera.

Writing a Character Driven Short Story

On Codex, an online writing workshop and community for speculative fiction writers, one of my favourite answers I got to the question of “What is the poitn of a short story?” was from writer Addison Smith, who suggested the simple, yet compelling: “Feels over coffee.”

That is: a short story should make you feel something, but be short enough that you can finish it in about the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee.

A cup of coffee with heart-shaped cookies next to a pair of glasses and a printed document.
Coffee. (Feels not included.)

The idea of feels over coffee leads neatly into a discussion of character driven stories. A character driven story is one that focuses on character growth and change, rather a plot driven story where the focus is on events that happen. You might consider a plot driven story to be an action movie, with thrills and explosions a plenty, while a character driven story is a play in a theatre — the characters, not the events, occupy the metaphorical central stage.

Character driven stories can be very compelling, because they let you experience what life might be like for other people. They can build empathy and understanding, and honestly I just find it a lot more interesting to read about people than a string of explosions. (Michael Baybamsplosions!)

It’s an oversimplification, of course, to say that a story is either character driven or plot focused. It’s very hard to write a successful short story with only plot or character growth.

For flash fiction especially, though, “feels over coffee” isn’t a bad place to end up. So how do we make sure our feels hit home?

Character Arcs

A story’s plot is the changes that happen to the setting of the story. The character arc is a series of changes that happens to the character themselves.

A spiral staircase

Although “character arc” is the standard term for this, I like to think of character development as a helix, a three-dimensional spiral rather than a flat series of curves or a simple vertical increase. In a story, the character often returns to the same (external) struggle, but things have changed inside them; they’re not quite the same person they were. They’re able to see the problem from a different perspective, and that makes a huge difference that allows them to accomplish their goal.

Think of a spiral staircase: even though you’ve walked in a circle, you’ve reached a new level of the building at the same time.

You can also think of character arcs in terms of Classical Drama. In Classical Tragedy, the main characters have a fatal flaw — something that they can never overcome despite their struggles. The final act of a tragedy, because of this, usually ends in the character’s death or something even worse. The same happens in modern-day genres such as horror, where characters often stay the same and are ultimately unsuccessful in overcoming their struggle as a result.

Classical Comedy, on the other hand, has a happy ending. Misunderstandings are cleared up, the characters figure things out, and — at least stereotypically — everything ends in a wedding. Obviously, modern short stories don’t have to end in weddings. It’s probably not the best idea to even try. All the same, a character’s success at achieving their goal and clearing up the story’s conflict is usually a result of their changed understanding of themselves, rather than just trying harder and thinking more about the rules of their world.

What gives the best short stories their emotional impact, in other words, is the “arc” of a character’s growth. We see people learn and change (or not), and that affects us emotionally, because we’ve been invited into their heads and feel a connection with them.

Remember: feels over coffee.

Flash 101

Flash fiction is just a very short story. That means you want to try and do similar things but in less space.

Practically speaking, though, this isn’t useful advice. Here’s some that’s hopefully better.

Four Questions for Effective Flash

One way to look at flash is to think of it as a story that answers four questions in order:

  1. What conflict does your protagonist want to resolve?
  2. What does your protagonist do about it?
  3. What happens as a result?
  4. What is the resolution?

If you like telling stories in a straightforward way, with a beginning, middle, and end, you can fit each of these questions into 250 words a piece and end up with a 1,000 word story.

You can also get away, many times, with just implying some of the questions. By telling part of a story, you can show that there’s a world beyond the page, and engage your readers by letting them figure out what happens next.

What does a story look like when you only imply the conflict? When you spend 750 words describing your protagonist’s struggle but only hint at the resolution? Because flash is so short, these can also be successful strategies.

Non-Traditional Narratives

One fun thing to do with flash is experiment.

Forget “three act structure!” Break out of traditional narrative conventions altogether.

Tell a story as a list of bullet points, as a series of tweets, as a set of GPS coordinates. An AMA on Reddit.

By playing with structure in this way, you can simultaneously break up a story into many small scenes and give yourself tight wordcounts while still showing a larger story.

That said, you still need to tell a story, not just show off a clever list of things. Using your experimental structure as headers, with more traditional narrative in between each, is one way to do this. The story linked above, Laura Pearlman’s “I am Graalnak of the Vroon Empire, Destroyer of Galaxies, Supreme Overlord of the Planet Earth. Ask Me Anything,” is a great example of this. Even though it’s just comments on a website, by the end of it we understand that an intergalactic conflict has been resolved.

You certainly can tell an effective story with nothing more than a list of items, but it’s a lot harder. Alex Acks’s“List of Items in Leather Valise found on Welby Crescent” is one story that does this very well.

Subtle Patterns

Another flash shortcut is to look for patterns in nature or other kinds of art, and fit your story into them. Patterns are literally everywhere, so they can give you a boost if you’re stuck. (The technical term for this is ekphrasis.)

This technique works best when the pattern you choose actually relates to the story you’re telling.

A good example is Takamichi Okubo’s “Shinbu Unit 99,” the form of which mimics a haiku: five paragraphs, then seven paragraphs, then five paragraphs. Eleanor R. Wood’s “Fibonacci” uses the mathematical sequence of the same name, starting each paragraph with the next number in the pattern.

Description and Detail in Flash Fiction

Gustav Flaubert supposedly said, “Three details are enough to fix a strong picture in the reader’s mind — if they are the right details.”

In flash fiction, you don’t have the wordcount to spend 500 words describing the origins and history of a dress, but you can say it was eggshell yellow, ankle-length, and tattered, giving the reader a clear picture of it that helps them “see” your story’s world.

To find the “right” details, focus on your viewpoint character (if there is one) or the person central to your story. What are the details that are most important to this character? What do they notice, and why?

The right details will not just describe your setting, they’ll tell your reader about your character’s struggle, making it much more moving and memorable.

Three Signs of Ineffective Flash Fiction

In his management book Three Signs of a Miserable Job, Patrick Lencioni describes how anonymity, irrelevance, and immeasurability can be warning signs for miserable employees. We can look at those same three things to figure out some potential things to avoid in flash fiction:

an invisible person in a suit and bowler hat
  1. Anonymity: It’s hard to relate to a character in a short story if we don’t know something about who they are.
  2. Irrelevance: If something isn’t relevant to your plot, character, or setting, it will distract your readers.
  3. Immeasurability: If the main character of a story isn’t trying to do something and doesn’t grow as a person, readers may wonder why they’re reading about them. (Think character arcs!)

Obviously, you can write great flash that has all three of these elements. But it’s harder!

Convservely, if you’re writing a piece of flash fiction that tells a story about a specific character who tries to achieve specific goals, and if you focus on what’s important to that character and those goals, readers will be able to feel your feels that much more easily.

Assignment: Write a Piece of Flash Fiction

Now that we’ve talked about what makes a short story work — and flash fiction in particular — here’s your assignment for the week.

  • Write the first draft of a short story that’s 500 to 1,000 words long.
  • Don’t submit it anywhere.

Hopefully, you’ve been able to stick to your schedule (If not, that’s okay! Try again!) and have been spending some time every day writing or thinking about writing.

This week, we’re going to use that schedule to start writing more purposefully, with the goal of a finished short story that’s between 500 and 1,000 words — the wordcount most often associated with flash fiction. If you’re feeling ambitious, you can write more, but try not to set a goal above 1,500 words maximum. You want that word-count constraint to guide your creativity, and you’re also more likely to finish a 500 word story than a 5,000 word one, especially if it’s the first thing you’ve tried to write.

The second part of this assignment is counter-intuitive.

What’s the point of an assignment that tells you not to do something? I’ll talk more about my reasons for this in future lessons, but the short version is that my approach to writing and submitting fiction works better when you have more than one story you can send out. I also find it’s easier to revise stories (and make them better!) when you let them sit for a while.

So after you do write your assignment, don’t try to sell it right away. Set it aside in a drawer or file folder and just let it turn over in the back of your mind. If you haven’t used up your entire week’s worth of writing time, start something new! It’s even better to have two finished short stories than to have one.

[Previous Lesson: Start Strong on Your Fiction Writing Practice]

Start Strong on Your Fiction Writing Practice

a pen and planner for scheduling fiction writing

The hardest part of any new habit is getting started. This is certainly true for fiction writing.

In fact, one of the things I’ve found as a writer is that no matter how many stories I’ve finished and submitted getting started on even a new story is hard, sometimes — that blank page just stares you down, and all your great ideas just flee in the face of the endless possibilities.

We’ll get into how to deal with that in another post. For now, let’s focus just on the idea of fiction writing.

In the post below, I’ll outline some suggestions for how to start a writing practice without burning out or beating yourself up, two things that turn fiction writing from an enjoyable hobby or career and into a grueling autopugilistic disaster.

First, let’s go back over our materials list. You don’t necessarily need to run out and buy a fancy planner or scheduler (unless that sort of thing motivates you!), but you’ll want to have either some paper and a writing implement or the digital equivalent on hand to write down a few things.

For bonus points, you’ll also need a friend who’s willing to receive updates about your progress — although if this idea gives you anxiety like it does me, I totally understand why you’d skip it.

Also, this is kind of a long post. If you don’t have a lot of time, you can split each sub-heading out into its own day. If you have more time, working through all of it at once should take you an hour or two at most.

Holding Yourself Accountable

Why write things down? Why set goals at all? Can’t we just start writing? Well, sure. Nothing’s stopping you, and if that invigorating rush of starting something new will sustain you in the long run, it’s worth a shot.

Speaking from my personal experience, though, I do a lot better if I have a goal in mind and a plan for how to get there. Writing it down gives me something to look back at if I forget where I’m going or how I plan to get there, and looking at goals can be motivated.

At this point I’d just like to reiterate something: There’s no One True Way to Be a Writer. If you’ve tried and succeeded in the past without written goals, or if for some other reason you can’t or don’t want to write stuff down right now, that’s okay.

That said, on this occasion I have SCIENCE to back me up!

cartoon: a man standing on the outside of a rocket ship holds up an orange flag.
I don’t really understand what this has to do with science, but it’s what my public domain stock image site gave me, so…



Science!!!!

Heck yeah, I guess.

Setting Goals for Fiction Writing

More seriously, psychologists have actually carried out empirical studies on goal-setting and writing things down.

This article from Michican State University cites a 2015 study by Dr. Gail Matthews that split participants into groups, with some writing down and sharing their goals with friends and a control group who just thought about their goals.

The result?

Of the participants who wrote down their goals and shared weekly progress with a friend, 76% successfully achieved their goals. Those who thought about their goals, but didn’t write them down, only had a 43% success rate.

Pie charts show 76% success for people who write down goals, versus 43% success for people who only think about goals.
data source: Dominican University of California

It’s pretty clear from this study that writing down what you want to do and how you plan to get there can increase your chances.

Full disclosure: I suck at doing this, and it has 100% slowed down my attempts to draft and revise the novel I’ve been working on since 2018. For short fiction writing, where I actually keep track of my submission goals (and deadlines!) in a spreadsheet, I do much better.

This year I’ve set myself a goal of working on the novel revision for 30 minutes a day. It might be a pretty small number, but it’s something I can actually do. So far, I’ve been sticking to it and while I haven’t gotten a lot done yet, I know those 30 minutes will add up eventually.

Which is a nice segue into the next part of this lesson:

The Gentle Art of Goal Setting

Not all goals are created equal.

There are many different methods for creating useful goals, but one that’s worked for me is the SMART criteria system. Originally designed by George Doran in the early 1980s as a way of meeting management objectives, this system is easily adaptable to any situation, and is one useful way to guide yourself as you set fiction writing goals for yourself.

SMART, in this case, is an acronym that stands for Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Realistic, and Timey-Wimey. (Okay, maybe it wasn’t timey-wimey in the original acronym.) Let’s break down each of these terms.

Specific: Don’t set big goals like “become a best-selling author.” Break that big goal down into smaller, more specific ones. “Write a short story” isn’t as impressive on paper, but it’s much easier to do because it’s specific. Don’t think of this as compromising on your dreams — after you finish that one story, you’ll set a new goal. And another. And another. Keeping them specific just ensures you have a better idea of how to achieve what you want to do with your fiction writing.

Measurable: Measurable goals are easier to achieve because you can see how you’re progressing. If instead of “write a short story,” we say “write a 500-word short story,” then you can start feeling good as soon as you’ve got those first 50 words down — that’s 1/10 of the way there alraedy! It doesn’t have to be wordcount, and in fact some fiction writing goals are better without numbers attached, but try to find some way you can measure your goals, whether it’s words written, hours spent writing, stories finished, or even just number of strangers you’ve awkwardly introduced yourself to by saying “So, I write short stories….” (Advice: don’t be that person.)

Try to pick goals that rely only on you.

Attainable: This ties in with specific and realistic, but is a little different. Goals work best when they’re something you have control over. I have some fiction writing friends who set goals like “This year, I’m going to sell a story to [insert magazine name here].” That might be motivating, but it is (in my opinion) not an attainable goal because it relies on someone other than you. You have no control over the editor of a magazine, and can’t guarantee they’ll buy your story no matter what you do. If your goal, however, is “This year, I’m going to submit three stories to [insert magazine name here],” that’s entirely within your control. In short: Try to pick goals that rely only on you.

Realistic: Think back to “become a best-selling author.” Sure, who wouldn’t love that? It’s definitely on my writer bingo card. But it’s not super realistic, especially if you just started out. “I want to get better at writing fiction” is realistic, but it misses some of the other targets above, since it’s non-specific and not really measurable. Honestly, if your fiction writing goals are specific, measurable, and attainable they’re probably already realistic. Just make sure you’re aiming for something you have a chance of actually succeeding at, and you’ll be good here.

A man in glasses says "wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey."

Timey-Wimey: Speaking for myself, nothing motivates me like a deadline. If I say “I’ll revise this story someday,” someday never comes. If I say “I’ll finish revising this story by next Wednesday so I can send it to Mermaids Monthly,” chances are good it will get done — even if it is only because on Tuesday night I started scrambling…

Of course, “write a 500 word short story” is maybe a bit too small for your overall goal. (But maybe it’s not! I don’t know your circumstances!)

Try to think of what you can reasonably accomplish in a 3-month period and shoot for that. Just Remember: You want something you can feel satisfied with, but not something so time-intensive and difficult you’ll want to quit.

Setting a Schedule for Fiction Writing

Goals are one big part of a sustainable fiction writing habit. Figuring out a schedule that works for you is equally important.

Now, I have two kids. I have a full time job. I do freelance nonfiction and have other commitments as well. That means it’s not possible for me to set an ambitious schedule (or at laest, not possible to keep it). Keeping my goals realistic helps, but I also have to make compromises and just drop the schedule in the short term if it’s not feasible.

It’s also worth mentioning that there are different approaches to fiction writing. Some authors do really well with an hour a day at the same time every day, and neither rain nor snow nor glom of nit will stop them. Others don’t write anything at all for weeks (or months!) at a time, and then crank out a story in a single day. Some even just write when they feel like it.

a stopwatch and glasses lie on a wooden table next to a pencil

At some point, though, you have to write if you want to get anything done. Many writers in the speculative fiction writing community call this “butt in chair time.”

Keep all of this in mind as you think about what a writing schedule might look like for you. An hour a day? Thirty minutes? Maybe doing two 15-minute sessions a day is more workable, and will get you where you want to go. Setting a stopwatch or other timer can be helpful.

No matter what you go with, try and stick to it for a month and see how it goes.

Just like with goals, you probably have a better chance of sticking to your schedule if you write it down. Writing down your schedule also has other benefits: you can show it to people who might not otherwise understand quite what you’re doing when you lock yourself away (physically or mentally) and sit in front of a keyboard or notebook for an hour every day.

Don’t be rude about defending your time, but try to be firm — within the bounds of reason. Explain your goals and why they’re important to you, and why you need the time you’ve set aside to reach them.

That said, I have a 10 year old and a 9 year old. I’ve been writing at home since my kids were born, and have long since learned to drop my writing at a moment’s notice when they need me and pick it up again later. Learning to work around constant interruptions is actually a pretty great skill for fiction writing.

In the end, scheduling is about balancing fiction writing goals with not being a William Faulkner level asshole. Faulkner may have won the Nobel prize for literature, but he also once told his daughter “Nobody remembers Shakespeare’s children.” (Spoiler: She released an autobiography after his death, including this and other charming details.) This is not a recommended approach and is, frankly, abusive.

If your schedule doesn’t work out, it’s not the end of the world. I’m not saying I don’t get frustrated when my fiction writing is interrupted — it is frustrating — but rather that it’s important to me that I keep a sense of perspective.

If you get called away during your fiction writing time, try not to stress. It will be waiting when you come back.

Don’t Compare Your Goals (or Output) to Others

One last thing about goals and schedules, and then we’ll move on to failing (an exciting topic!).

It’s natural to see what other writers are up to and feel jealous, or to feel like you’re useless because Wuck Chendig can write 63,000 words a month and you can barely manage 1,000.

But here’s the thing: Wuck Chendig is in a totally different place than you.

Barack Obama and the Dalai Lama meet.
Very different approaches can all lead to success.

He (or she, or they!) might be a full time writer, spending 4-6 hours a day on nothing but fiction writing while you’re only getting in half an hour a day around a full time job and family obligations. Or he might have started writing twenty years ago, while you just picked it up three months before.

Especially for fiction writing, there are huge differences in schedules, writing habits, and writing output. That’s all fine.

This goes in both directions, incidentally. One of my writing friends who’s only been writing for a year or two had six stories published in 2020, receiving critical attention and a glowing review on a major industry blog. Another friend who started writing around the same time I did also had a great 2020, with a lot of attention and buzz for several stories.

It’s hard not to look at my own 2020 and feel like a failure by comparison. To look at the attention other people are getting and not want to ask what I’m doing wrong because my own work didn’t get any buzz. It’s hard, but I try. But without that comparison I did pretty well for myself, with seven of my own stories published.

Aidan Doyle has a great take on this called the Science Fiction Writer’s Hierarchy of Doubt.

The short version of what I’m saying is this: Everyone is on their own path, and as long as what you’re doing works for you then what you’re doing works.

Comparing your own fiction writing successes to someone else’s is a surefire way to make yourself miserable, so my advice is to avoid doing that as much as you can. Instead, focus on meeting your own goals and congratulate yourself for meeting them when you do.

What to Do when You Don’t Meet Your Goals

Failure is a part of life.

Writers in particular seem fond of quoting Samuel Beckett’s “Try Again. Fail Again. Fail Better,” from the author’s Worstward Ho! (Oddly, nobody quotes the other parts, despite insights like “Say for be said. Missaid. From now say for missaid.” Gotta love modernism!)

Failure is inevitable. It doesn’t have to be permanent.

Anyway, the point is not entirely that absurdist drama is a questionable source of inspiration. It’s that failure is inevitable. However, it doesn’t have to be permanent.

What do I mean by that?

Unless you are unimaginably lucky (I do not like the word “talented” — talent is learned, not innate, and it isn’t all you need to succeed anyway.) you are absolutely going to fail at some point. That’s true in just about anything. In fiction writing, you might fail to your goals, you might stop sticking to your schedule, or you might . And of course, there’s dealing with rejection letters, and the many other wonderful ways fiction writing can go sideways.

The disappointing truth is this: failure is totally normal.

All writers have to cope with failure at some point in their career, and that goes doubly for most of us who write short fiction, which requires a steady submission habit. If you ask 10 published short fiction writers how many times they get rejected in between each story sale, the number is likely to be higher than you think.

Here’s an example: I sold ten stories in 2020. That might sound impressive. But I also received 103 rejections in 2020. Failure is everywhere in my short fiction career, and it vastly outnumbers my successes.

So when you find yourself failing, whether it’s by not meeting your goals, not sticking to your schedule, or whatever, don’t beat yourself up over it.

If you quit forever after failing at something, you’ll never get to where you want to be. Instead, review your goals to make sure they still meet the SMART criteria and that they still feel like goals you want to achieve. Review your schedule to make sure it’s a realistic one. Ask yourself “What went wrong that time?” and make a note of it, then try again with that in mind.

It’s sometimes hard to keep going, and that’s okay. Take a break! Refresh yourself! But if you want to meet your goals, you have to try again at some point. If you persist, you’ll eventually succeed.

Assignment: Set Your Fiction Writing Goals and Schedule

Your assignment is both simple and hard:

  1. Come up with a list of two to three goals for your writing
  2. Figure out a schedule you’ll use for your fiction writing

If you’re having trouble getting started, here are a few example goals:

  • Write, revise, and submit three short stories
  • Write, revise, and submit a single 3,000 word story
  • Write three poems each month in January, February, and March

and some example schedules:

  • Spend an hour every weekday on fiction writing
  • Write for three hours a week
  • Two 25-minute pomodoros of fiction writing a day, or 500 words a day (whichever comes first)

For extra credit, you can find someone to share your goals and schedule with and arrange weekly check-ins.

Other writers are great for this kind of thing. If you don’t already know some, check out the #amwriting tag on Twitter. You’re also more than welcome to comment on this post for accountability purposes.

Next week, we’ll start writing!