Yesterday, I spent about a half hour reading over stories and poems I wrote last year and the year before. Among them was a legend that one of my characters told to a character who is never named, but hinted at in Dwyn’s backstory during Ironsfork. The entire story is a fun one, but I don’t want to give away too much of the “other character” because I have a feeling I may meet her soon in preparation for drafting the third book of that series as a first draft later this year.

But the legend is interesting, and very seasonal at the darkest point of the year for my dwarves. Enjoy!

The First Dh’Morda: Legends of Ironsfork

Once, the dwarfs were a folk of great magic, complete in ourselves, and there were no children.

We came from the mountain: born of the stone, of the fire in the earth, the wind that caressed the mountaintop, the earth that made the fertile soil, the water that gave life to the valleys below. Men and women both came from the stone. We were never the same as the goblins say they were in the beginning, and never coupled the way the humans say they did in the beginning. No. To our men, the mountain gave the magic of finding and making beautiful things, we took delight in creating. To our women, the mountain gave the magic of strength and cunning, and they delighted in conquest and battle. And so we were sundered—because men will fight for their treasure, and women for their land, and the mountains flowed red with blood.

Mother Mountain, from whom all magic begins and ends, feared for the lives of her warlike children, and so she tried to speak, to reason with them. But the men were too occupied with making things of her flesh and blood, and the women too occupied with warring over her body and bones, and of all the folk, only two dwarfs heard and made the quest to the holy caverns of Rigah Tarn where her voice was strongest.

The woman arrived first. She laid aside her weapons, and in obedience to the mother, she let down her hair and unbraided her beard, and removed all of the armor she wore to be in union with Mother Mountain. And Mother Mountain showed her the mysteries of magic, and so we say that the getting of magic comes from our mothers.

Then the man came, and when he found himself in the presence of Mother Mountain, he spread the treasures he had brought as a gift at her doorway, and he danced for the joy that was in him. He did not see the woman was already there, and had won the mysteries for her sex. But Mother Mountain loved him, and she blessed him, because he was no mighty fighter like the woman, nor a great crafter of his folk, but a man who could lay down all his wealth and occupations to answer her call. And so we say that the understanding of magic comes from our fathers.

The woman raised her hand to strike down the man, but she had laid her weapons down in return for the magic. Mother Mountain touched the hand of her daughter, and said, “If you would know why I have blessed him, dance with him and share his joy.” And so she danced, and he danced. For four weeks, they stayed together in the lap of the Mother, dancing in the ways she taught them. When the time was over, they gathered their clothes, armor, and the magic they had learned, and left for their homes. They soon forgot the wisdom of the Mother in their pursuit of war and craft.

Then came the season of war; and the mountain of women came upon the mountain of men, and the slaughter was great, until the woman who had danced for the Mother found the man who had danced with her. She raised her sword to kill him. As she drove her weapon down upon him, he took up a shield to defend himself and in doing so, he looked and saw her belly was swollen under her armor, and he remembered her, and threw his shield aside. But she, a warrior in her blood, cut him, deep into his shoulder, and when his blood flowed there, she knew him also. We say this is why all dwarfs must bleed to overcome the struggle against our mates. We must throw away the shields in our bodies and allow our blood to run.

Then Mother Mountain raised her voice, and earthquakes shook the minds of the men and the women, and they ceased all fighting, and they looked into the faces of their enemies, and saw their mates.

The child born of the first man and the first woman to know Dh’Morda was Heldasa the Hero. And ever after, when the sun hides, and the winter drives our folk deep to mate, the dance of Dh’Morda begins again. It is both a dance and a battle, for it was forged in the belly of war.

Last week I talked about productivity, and why word count isn’t always the best way for a writer to measure productive writing time. Moving forward is the best way for me to think of productivity. Sometimes that translates to word count. Sometimes it doesn’t.

This past week was more or less a “doesn’t”.

Don’t get me wrong. I wrote over 10,000 words in four days and not all of them were bad. But I’ve been working most of the week, and keeping up is like trying to juggle a lot of raw eggs. Sometimes I drop one or more of them. This week, I dropped the attitude one. I was so grouchy and irritated with everything! However, the ensuing grumpiness as I tried to work, keep up with the house, make sure my children were not educated by wolves, were fed, clothed, and happy, kept up with my drafting, character work, and reading, I did have some time to reflect on success in writing.

Like productivity, I think writers can define success in ways that are less than helpful. At one point or another, many writers fall into the trap of thinking in terms of “if/whens”.

If/when I finish my first draft, I will be successful. If/when I get an agent, I will be successful. If/when I get published, I will be successful. Personally, I find the “if/when” game self-defeating.

Bottom line, none of those things are necessarily achievable. First drafts—well, some stories take about three drafts to get them to the story they were meant to be. (And don’t start on me about all stories being perfect if you plot them first. I know that’s a fallacy.) Getting an agent is largely a gamble of getting a good story in front of the right person at the right time. Publishing means finding a place that wants your story which means they have to see the market for it. Do I really want to tie my idea of success to variables outside my influence? I might want all those things to come true, and work hard to make them come true, but realistically, most of the if/whens are out of my control.

Some years ago, I decided that I was a writer. I write stories because they are mine to tell, and because I like telling them. Because I like telling stories, I want to tell as many as I can as well as I can. Success is getting better at what I do, one story at a time.

I can control that. I can influence that. I can study my craft. I can practice by writing as much as I can, getting feedback, and then rewriting, revising, and even shelving a story that simply isn’t holding up because of a concept flaw or too many plot improbabilities. I can rewrite whole stories multiple times until they say exactly what I want it to say. Every day becomes one more stepping stone on a road to a successful year.

Changing the definition of success to reflect improvement rather than achievement is also an excellent tonic for impostor syndrome, too. So what if I don’t sell a book as fast as one of my writing friends? So what if I don’t get an agent with my first book? So what if I have to rewrite my debut twenty-five times? So what if I have to shelve a book because it just isn’t strong enough to hold up to the intense process of writing-revising-rewriting-revising-revising again? So what if I can’t sell that short story? None of those things reflect failure. They are simply situations. How I react to them is up to me. They don’t change my success.

I would challenge any writer struggling with a defeated outlook this year to give up the if/when game if that’s holding you back. Change your view to look at yourself and how you have grown as a writer over the last year. See if that isn’t a better way to both give yourself a well-deserved pat on the back and challenge yourself to go further in the next year. After all—this kind of success you own!

It’s that time again. NaNoWriMo is over. For better or worse, so is the writing year. Time to assess, see how it went, and decide if next year needs to be a year of improvement, drawing back, charging forward, or just steadily walking the tightrope between writerly productivity and that thing they talk about, you know, the thing? What normal people do? Where they go out with friends, and do stuff, and take vacations, and…

A life! That’s what they call it. Having a life.

So, how did I do this year? Was it a good year? Was I productive? Did I learn new things? Did I take new risks? Did I have…a life? How does a writer measure productivity when it can mean so many things?

I could go by word count. That’s the quantitative way. Let’s see how I did, November to November.

• I drafted Tree Gods, and three sequels, completing a first draft of each book in what I hope will be a new fantasy series.
• I drafted and submitted a handful of short stories, one of which ended up an Honorable Mention in Writers of the Future.
• I revised Tree Gods from first draft to second draft in six weeks.
• I revised Tree Gods again into third draft form while revising Ironsfork. I did both in six weeks. It was eight-hour days, seven days a week to get that done. I practically ate every meal in front of the laptop. This would be the third time I revised Ironsfork in one year, too.
• I wrote queries and synopses for most of the stories I have, including the ones for all the Tree Gods books, and what I hope will be the Ironsfork Trilogy. I drafted queries for two standalone novels, including Flipping, which I hope to finish in first draft form by the end of December.
• I wrote spin-off novel from the Ironsfork trilogy to discover what happens when the entire world has changed as a result of Ironsfork and all that happens there. It’s halfway finished.

That’s a lot of words. I’m estimating because I’m way too lazy to go look them all up at the moment, but if we just count the novel material, I wrote right around 460,000 new words this year, and I revised two novels three times. Boy, was I ever productive!

What very few people know was just how stressed I was. I write when I’m stressed.

• I went on sub. Never done that before. I didn’t know many writers on submission. I’d heard it could be a very lonely, devastatingly rejecting sort of place. It wasn’t as bad as all that, but it was scary. I wrote.
• After a breast cancer scare in January of 2018, in April of 2019 I developed a lump in my shoulder in my right supraclavicular space. Top differential was some sort of lymph node enlargement. I spent most of this summer hoping I didn’t have cancer, and trying to get some sort of diagnosis. Nobody seems to think it’s dangerous now—thank goodness—but they also can’t tell me what it is. If I still don’t have a name for it by the end of December, I’m calling it George. I’ll probably dedicate a book to it. “Many thanks to George who scared the words right out of me.”
• I parted ways with my first agent. That was one of the hardest decisions and scariest things I’ve ever done. I’m still processing that. I’ll probably be processing it for a while. I wrote.
• I euthanized two ancient cats two weeks apart in January, including one of the best cats I’ll ever own. I have her graphite portrait that I drew hanging above my desk. It’s hard being both a pet owner and a veterinarian, making that call to let your baby go, and then actually taking that life yourself. That’s one of those inward skewerings of the heart that never fully heals, and probably never should.

Now, how does that productive year sound? And compared to some things that writing friends of mine went through this year, I had it easy.

I’m incredibly grateful to my writing friends who helped me through “George”, who were my sounding boards and advocates through what happened with my writing career this summer, who sympathized with my losses of my pets. I am beyond grateful to my new agent, Naomi Davis, who took a chance on me, my novel, and helped me through that difficult process of changing agents and agencies. Still, all that “productivity” was my form of coping with things that are so hard to articulate they only come out screaming and bleeding on paper.

I’m looking forward to another productive year (hopefully a little less dramatic!), but I’m not looking at word count to quantify that. I didn’t look at it much this year. I just wrote. And that’s all productivity really means to me: going forward in whatever way I can over whatever obstacles are in front of me.

It’s very easy for a writer to fall into the habit of looking at a word count and seeing that as the basic measure of productivity. But out of all of those words, the most productive month I had was October 2018, before NaNoWriMo 2018 kicked off my writing year. I wrote only one thing. I wrote 50 pages of character work on Holly Hillwalker. Those 50 pages spawned a new world, a new series, and a forest full of characters I love. I was happy. I wasn’t distressed by health issues. I wasn’t on submission. I wasn’t grieving my pets. I was just being me, and doing what I do best—creating characters and building imaginary worlds.

My goal this writing year? Recreate that feeling I had back in October. Relax more. Read more. Be more. Even if I write less, I may ultimately move further ahead in my writing life. And after all, the only way I should measure productivity is forward progress.

WIM Week 5: Final Thoughts

During this event, I kept track of the time I spent on the story and  blog posts. I wanted to check this statistic for a few reasons.

• This event took place during NaNoWriMo. My usual NaNoWriMo word count for a month is between 75,000 to 120,000 words.
• I have become more aware of time as my writing career has developed. I am working toward my eventual goal of being able to put out one new book a year regularly. I’ve been taking notes on how fast I am, and how fast I need to be.
• I have a goal of writing a short story a week. Now, that’s not editing it and revising it, but I wanted to find out how many hours a week it might eat up from my writing time.

These were my results. They don’t reflect time that other participants logged, or anything other than the hard facts of how much time I spent writing for this particular event.

Final Time (Draft to Finished)

0.16 hr rough draft

2.25 hr redrafting

4 hr self-editing/revising

1.5 hr processing general CP feedback/brainstorming

3.5 hr revising based on feedback

2.5 hr revising based on second CP round

You can double that amount when it came to preparing the process notes, blog posts, etc.

I spent almost 14 hours on the story, and around 28 hours on the blog posts.

To put that in a little perspective, I draft at the rate of roughly 750 to 1,000 words an hour. Had I used all of that time for my NaNoWriMo project, I might have added 31,500 to 42,000 words to my current draft of 53,000 words. In short, I’d probably have a full first draft of a novel.

Ouch.

So…would I do WIM again? Well, not during NaNoWriMo. But at another time of year? Possibly. Word count isn’t always a good measure of productivity or of time well spent. I got to chat with other writers, do a lot of critiquing, talk craft and process, and develop a habit of putting up a blog post a couple of times a week, which I needed to do. Plus, I needed to spend some time reading and resting after an intense summer and fall of revisions. The jury is still out on whether I do better recharging by drafting a new novel or drafting and revising a short story. The edge goes to the drafting without revision, but I’m such a solitary writer in general, that doesn’t surprise me!

So, what about my idea of a short story a week?

Well, if I look at the time spent for the short story, in practice, I would probably spend 10 to 11 hours. Some of the rounds of feedback would go, and maybe all of them. I don’t often get a CP involved for a short story. Plus, short stories are great places to explore new techniques, try a different genre, mess around with POVs you wouldn’t dare try in longer fiction, not to mention trial things you are personally working on in your longer work. Not to mention they are fun to write. I’m still planning on trying to write a new piece of short fiction every week in the New Year.

Last week, while talking to my art instructor, I asked her to hold me to my New Year’s resolution for painting next year. I feel I’ve been spending too much time on still life paintings and portraits. While I want to continue working on those, I also want to add whole body drawings and paintings, landscapes, and buildings (interior and exterior) to my practice pieces this year. In short, I’m expanding my range. I want to draw and paint pictures of scenes from my novels. I have an idea that they might be nice things to share with readers. It’s just for fun, but if you can’t have fun with your art, why do it?

In the same way, I don’t always need to be writing novels. I need to be writing short stories, flash fiction, and novellas. By experimenting with these various forms of fiction, I may learn what stories are suitable for longer exploration, and what stories are better told in a condensed form. I’m not saying that short stories can’t form the backbone for longer fiction, or that longer fiction won’t have moments that can make a great short story. But the ability to know what form fits a story best is something that comes with practice.

So why not get that practice with short stories? The worst that can happen is that you get to practice your prose. The best that can happen is that stories start flying in and out of your head like a butterfly migration.

I like those odds myself.

WIM Week 5: Final Thoughts

Flash Fiction and The Terrible, No-Good, Very Bad Cake

So many things happened last week. Thanksgiving happened. That’s always an event. I ended up working additional days out of town. I busted through and finished the first 50,000 words of my paranormal fantasy novel FLIPPING for NaNoWriMo. And my twin sons had the big one. The big birthday. SIXTEEN.

In honor of their birthday, I promised them a cake. One of my sons is gluten-free, as am I, so when it comes to cakes, I have to make it. This is non-negotiable.

They asked for … Lemon Layer Cake.

I hate Lemon Layer Cake. I don’t like to eat it, and I don’t like to bake it. At this time of year, the lemons are terrible. Despite my very best efforts, the filling is going to taste like someone took vanilla pudding and added lemon-scented furniture polish. And these cakes never put on the volume they are supposed to achieve with the whipping of the egg whites, meaning I’ve got to make four cakes instead of two. Then there’s the frosting. It’s about as sticky as a hot mess can get.

This year was an absolute disaster. Not only were all those things wrong with the cake, the filling proved to be so slippery that I had a complete cakeslide, and had to cross-pin the cakes with a pair of chopsticks to keep the whole mess from falling apart. And the taste—well, let’s just not go there. Suffice to say, I did not want the thin slice I had, and would not go back for seconds.

But everyone else did. I think they were mostly being nice, but every last one of them, including my somewhat hard-to-please sons, thought it was a very good cake. In fact, inside of two days, they’d eaten it all.

Which brings me to WIM and my short story, Waiting To Jump.

When I first saw the prompt five weeks ago, I felt like I’d just been asked to make Lemon Layer Cake. What on earth was I going to do with such a static image? Worse, what was I going to invent from that lemon and serve in 1,000 words?

Waiting to Jump, much like my Lemon Layer Cake, is not a great thing. There’s barely enough tension to hold it together, even cross-pinned with a bit of allegory. The prose is so-so. The characters are pretty flat. It’s cloying with the overly sweet ending. In short, I wouldn’t dream of sending this thing out anywhere without a complete overhaul. It’s simply not a good story.

But … it’s not terrible. And moreover, I think some of the other writers enjoyed it too. As a Lemon Layer Cake goes, it sufficed. It got through the five weeks as a whole story. And while it may have avalanched a time or two from one side or another, it’s held together somehow by the concept. That’s not too bad.

That’s what events like WIM are for. Turning lemons into Lemon Layer Cakes. Or lemon pound cakes. Or lemonade. You might not always be happy with the final result, but it’s a learning experience. Nothing wrong with that. And the result can’t be as bad as that Lemon Layer Cake!

WIM Week 4: Second CP Round

Part 4: It’s Never The End

Waiting to Jump

By R. Lee Fryar

Kenny was waiting for Batlady to jump. When she did, he would too, but he never thought it would happen. Until today.

Kenneth Oden. Fired.

His morning coffee chilled in his stomach. He’d recommended layoffs in the interest of verisimilitude, but he didn’t expect this. He thought it was a mistake at first, but the only mistake was HR’s, copying him on the email. First time he’d ever been glad for the ineptitude of a department that smelled like cheese puffs and body odor. They’d given him time to decide. In minutes, he and his life-in-a-box would be out of the building. He fingered the thumb drive in his pocket. He should have given the damned thing to the Feds last week when they’d invited him to squeal.

He glanced around the cramped office at his fellow shit-shovelers, but they were busy with their own piles. On the walls, the motivational posters mocked him. To the west, a mountaineer dangling from Everest reminded him he couldn’t do it. To the east, a peloton of bikers threatened to run him over if he tried. To the north, Batlady watched him with the eyes of a woman who understood his position. Facing her future, she gazed out across an abyss, torch in hand, frozen in the kind of despairing truth that leaves no room for emotions. Kenny hadn’t taken the Feds offer, and not because he didn’t have the guts.

Like her lone painting on the wall, he was an oddity. Integrity was in short supply in Regen Corp.’s accounting division, and he was soiled in as much shit as upper management, but he had his pride. He wouldn’t compound fraud with disloyalty.

His resolve hardened. He’d come back by night to do it. No one else needed to know. Not like he was saving lives after all. He had always been able to make auditors believe anything he said. With a little finesse he could work the same sleight-of-mind on anyone, including the flustered, red-faced junior accountant working his way across the room right now.

Kenny accompanied his former employee to the door, accepted his condolences, and then calmly swiped the man’s keycard.

Kenny returned by the dingy light of the streetlamps to fire himself. He told the security guard the cardboard box was for a few things he’d left behind. The man believed him. People always did. In the box, Kenny carried a tightly sealed gas can.

Ascending by elevator to the ninth floor, images of his childhood raced through his mind—cold days on the farm helping his father with the sheep, warm days digging the garden with his mother. Hard works, but it was an honest living. Shame burned his cheeks.

Batlady cut her eyes at him when he walked in. Sometimes Kenny thought whoever painted the petite woman in the batwing cape had actually imprisoned her soul. Kenny had once asked a fellow manager what the painting was worth. It was painted by an accountant, the man said, a former company controller. What did he think? Kenny knew better than to say what he thought. It was the only authentic thing in the place. He loved truth when he saw it, even pinned like a dead butterfly to a card.

He sat at his desk and opened the gas can. The fumes escaped with a desperate gasp. Only one person in the world would witness his redemption and understand it.

He raised his unlit match like a torch. “Well, lady?”

She jumped. Her cape became tattered wings, her feet trailed blood like streamers. He couldn’t hear her scream. The glass stopped the noise. But her face broke with fear, poise shattered forever by the kind of desperation that drives a person off the ledge of their life. She tumbled end over end in an eternity of blue. No bottom. No sudden stop to end it all.

Kenny couldn’t bear it. He raced across the room, tore the picture off the wall, and smashed the glass on the nearest desk.

“Grab on, I’ll catch you!” He thrust his arms into the picture.

She hurtled past him, flailing, shrieking his name. He thought he’d lost her. Then she tumbled past again, top of the frame to the bottom. A sudden weight on the end of his wrists jerked him forward. Her shriek became a terrified whimper.

“Don’t let go,” she said in a tight voice. “Kenny, please.”

“Can you climb?”

“If you help me.”

Pulling upward, he dragged her to the edge of the frame. She cried when her bleeding feet raked over the broken shards of her prison.

“I didn’t know,” he said, staring down at her feet in horror. She had been nailed to her perch, just as the numbers had nailed him to lies he felt he must uphold. “I would have jumped sooner.

She stared up at him, weary, windblown, almost as jaded as he. “I was waiting for you,” she said.

They left the building together. Kenny carried the gas can in one hand. Batlady held the other, leaning against him for support. His shoes were too big for her, but she limped bravely, a faint smile painted on her face. No one stopped them. The cloak had disguised her for years, first in the boardroom, and then in the accounting department. It had always been big enough for them both. In the folds of it, she carried Kenny’s thumb drive. He’d entrusted it to her. As for the rest, she knew it all. SEC undercover work was a bitch, but she’d been a controller at the company before they fired her. Regen Corp. was doomed from the moment Kenny came to work for them. She loved integrity when she saw it, even trapped under filthy lies.

They live together on a farm in Oregon now. Kenny grows organic vegetables and raises sheep. He’ll never lie for his living again. Batlady cards wool, spins thread, and weaves batwing capes for those who would change their look, and possibly their lives. Kenny still calls her Batlady. She says he can call her whatever he wants. He saved her.

But Kenny knows the truth. She saved him.

Notes:

Well, now. That’s not a terrible first draft. I think I have the whole story there, some backstory for the characters, motivation for both characters pulled out and baldly stated, and there’s even some decent lines in it. But it’s still a first draft in my mind.

Everything, up to this point, is negotiable, and will be on the chopping block once a story is done and goes off to agent or editor. This hasn’t been an easy lesson for me to learn, but whatever amount work I may have done to a story means nothing in terms of whether the story is ready. It’s polished. It’s written to the best of my current ability, given the constraints of form, and what I know about these characters. But it is far, far, far from the final product.

That’s why it’s so important to know your process, love your process, and find your own way to write that allows you to write your best work in a way that gives you joy, embraces your creativity, and allows you to have fun. You’ll be doing it over, and over, and over, and over again! If you don’t love it, or at least love parts of it, it gets very rough. Burnout is real.

So find your best way, tweak it until you know exactly what works for you and what doesn’t. Try a few new things, even when they don’t work for you, simply to be familiar with them. I don’t use beat sheets, outlines, and story maps, but I know what they are. If I must “turn them in” with a story for someone else who needs them, I can create them. Not happily, but it can be done. Remember what your math teacher used to say? Show your work? Sometimes a pantser has to show their work, too.

It’s also important to understand your personality, and not only to find what feedback helps and how to process it. You need to understand you and what motivates you. Find what recharges you when you are writing, and how much time it takes you to write from your first draft to your polished first draft, and work on streamlining that. Bottom line, find how you work hardest and happiest, and get good at it.

You’ll be doing it a lot!

Time spend on processing critiques, brainstorming feedback—30 min

Time rewriting, revising—90 minutes

Reading for flow, once to myself, once to my writing group—30 minutes

Total 150 minutes

WIM Week 4

Part 3: Beta Readers

Late today with this post! FYI—never try to stack four cakes with a lemon filling layer unless you are prepared to bring a level and a knife to the job! Cakeslides like you wouldn’t believe. But while the messy cake is messily devoured, here’s a post on those valuable taste-testers in the writer’s kitchen: Beta readers.

Beta readers don’t have to be writers. Technically, it would be better if none of them were writers. But let’s face it. Writers are readers, or we should be. And many writers don’t have the luxury of haunting the local bookstore for regulars who buy their genre, and then bribing them with cookies to read a story. I’ve found the majority of my Beta readers through the #writingcommunity, but they can come from anywhere.

From my perspective, I don’t mind if my readers are writers, editors, or don’t write at all. They are all readers, and that’s the operative word here. Don’t give your Beta readers something that isn’t finished, that you just want a quick opinion on, or that you plan to rewrite but you thought you’d see what readers had to say before you trash the whole thing and start over. You might actually want them to read your new version, right? So, send them a story that is as good as you can make it, and if you have a CP to help you with that, so much the better. Send to Betas when you feel you think you’ve achieved your vision for your story. You haven’t, but you should feel you have! When you get the feedback, you will discover how much you missed your mark, and then it’s time for more self-edits, consultations with your CPs, and probably another few rounds of revision.

My criteria for Beta readers is less rigorous than that for CPs.

• They have to want to read the story. If someone doesn’t really want to read, or can’t read past the opening chapter, that’s good to know, but it won’t really help you find out if your whole book works. Time to read is also important. Don’t tell a Beta they have two weeks to read your book. Give them time. If they say they don’t have time, they don’t have time. Respect that.
• They have to like the genre. I can’t stress this enough. You may even have to look at subgenre. A person who loves urban fantasy may very well say they love fantasy and put your own battle axe through your chest if you foist your 120,000-word secondary world epic on them. I’m not saying that a person who writes and/or reads outside of your genre can’t be a good Beta reader, but I’ve found that it helps to know that in advance. A romance expert may very well help you in with your romance arc in your fantasy novel, but you’ll know that if they say they hate your magic system, that may not be feedback you can really use.
• They have to tell me which parts they liked and didn’t like. If they tell me why, I’ll love them forever. If they start telling me how to fix it, that’s fine. But I am unlikely to take their fix unless it’s just really, really spot on. In which case, I might be asking to Beta read for them and start thinking about whether or not that writer—and it’s usually writing Beta readers who can’t help themselves and start trying to fix things—might be a potential CP.

That’s about it.

Filtering Beta feedback is similar to what I did for the general critique round. Rule of three. If three people don’t like something, and I know they aren’t genre haters, it’s probably an issue. I mark it, and if it’s a vision thing (aka—I hate your unlikable MC, and they are supposed to be unlikable) consult with my CP. Don’t consult with a Beta about this, and don’t argue with them. It’s their opinion. Thank them, and if you have a problem with the feedback, talk to your CP about it. It may be too subjective for you to use, or they may have a point that your CP can find and work out with you.

After threes, look at where there is agreement by two Beta readers. If I agree, I will put this in the fix or repair column. Again, filter through vision. If I have two people hate something, and that was my intention, excellent! Particularly helpful to me are these emotional reactions because I view that as my own personal area of weakness. When someone reacts in a strong way to something I wrote, positive or negative, I’m evoking emotion! I did something right! Gold star for me.

Everything else I consider on a case by case basis. If it’s something that bothered me, and one reader picked up on that area too, I would be working on it anyway. If one reader piles on in an area that no one else has trouble with, I’ll probably discard that feedback. It’s not that their opinion isn’t valid. I just find it too subjective to be generally useful.

After Beta reading, and after I look through places that I want to fix, I usually work through the story on my own one more time. I might get a CP involved, especially if it’s a place where I have a vision in mind, and want to be sure I have articulated that vision accurately. And after I’ve revised to the best of my ability, I may ask the CP to read and work with me before yet another revision.

WIM Week 4: Second CP Round

Part 2: Trusted CPs

Now that I’ve talked about the difference between CPs and Beta readers, I thought I’d talk about how I look for CPs, how many CPs I’d like to have, and where and when I like to have my CPs help with manuscript development.

The very first thing I consider is myself and my needs. That sounds very selfish, doesn’t it? It is. I’ve discovered over the many years of my life that I’m a very independent person. That’s not the greatest quality to have when it comes to receiving and processing feedback, but it is who I am, I’m a bit old to expect my personality to change that much.

I handle criticism best when I fully trust the individual giving it, when I love their writing and their style, when they have the ability to see through what I wrote to what I meant, and when they suggests a change that they can brainstorm with me, and when I can argue the changes that are the most difficult. These changes are ones that I can see happening, but I sometimes struggle to visualize how I will make it without unraveling the whole story to do it. I know I’m not the easiest person to work with, and so I try to choose my CPs carefully.

I’ve found CPs from contests, from forums, from writing groups. They can come from anywhere, but once I’ve found these writers, it’s time to test out whether or not we might be a good fit long-term.

First of all, they are writers who write and read in my genre. Ideally, they have a number of finished manuscripts in that genre, and are busy writing more. They don’t have to be fast writers, but I am looking for dedication. Once I’ve decided to see if a writer is a possible CP, I will usually offer to Beta read something for them. This gives them a chance to see how I evaluate their work, and it gives me a chance to see their story craft, prose, grammar, weaknesses, and strengths as a writer. I want to be on close to equal footing in terms of writing ability, but I also want to be of use to that writer.

Ideally, after deciding that their style of writing is something I like, and want to work with, I may ask if they want to try to CP something for me, and I will CP something for them. I like to start with a single chapter, or better yet, a short story. See if their feedback is actionable and understandable. Sometimes, I will even ask for specific feedback on one or more areas, to see if they are adept at brainstorming, thinking through a problem, and coming up with possible solutions. I will challenge some of their comments, and see how they handle that. Can they think through my responses, incorporate them, and see my side of the argument? Ideally, they’d do all this to me, too. I like give and take.

If that all works out well, try with a longer piece of work.

My personality plays a role in the decision too. I’ve got a temperamental side. I can be hard to get along with. I’m not all that great at recognizing when I’m getting on my CP’s very last nerve. I don’t pick up subtle hints. My CPs know this about me. And for some amazing reason, they don’t hate me! At least not entirely. And for that alone, they are rare, special, precious unicorns! When they need me to read, I clear my desk for them as fast as I can. They put up with me, and for that alone, I am incredibly grateful!

So, how many CPs should a writer have? I have no idea. I want four. I have two.

I’d like to have a few more for a couple of reasons.

First, CPs are writers. They have their own stories to write. I don’t need a lot of handholding, but I do need a reasonably rapid return on manuscripts. If one CP is tied up in revisions, and another is mired in a particularly tough second draft, it would be nice to have a few other CPs to turn to.

Secondly, I have come to realize (the hard way) that if I use the same CP for the same manuscript more than twice, their feedback becomes less useful. They get too close to my work. When they become too familiar with the world, the characters, and the magic, they get cut-happy. Since I do the same thing, I blithely hack through my manuscript, slicing out things that are actually important to readers who aren’t as immersed in character and world, especially in the critical opening chapters.

If I must have a CP work through something with me twice, I really need to give them a minimum of six months between work, and ideally, another manuscript from a completely different world with all new characters. Because I revise hard and fast, sometimes I need feedback before that CP has had time to regain objective distance. So, having multiple sets of eyes can be a good thing.

Thirdly, I love having CP’s with specialties. We can’t all be great at every aspect of writing. I have my strengths, and so I like to have CPs with different strengths from mine so I can choose who I need and at what time in a manuscript’s development. Ideally, I like CP’s in early development (2^nd or 3^rd draft) and after Beta readers (5^th  or 6^th draft).

However, once you have multiple CPs, you’ll find you have a new problem to sort out: conflicting feedback. You’ll seldom get anyone more opinionated on how you should write than your own CPs! Why? Because they love your story. They love your words. They want what is best for it. But sometimes, what is “best” is probably not going to make all your CPs happy. And that’s okay. Advice is subjective.

However, you have an option with trusted CPs that you don’t have with Beta readers. You can ask your CP why they made that recommendation. You can tell them that their feedback is in conflict with another CP. You can discuss your vision with them. You can brainstorm ways to bring out that vision. It’s not a my-way-or-the-highway relationship. Just be nice about it, and invite them to do the same with your feedback! The goal is to make the story better, and that can take some tinkering, arguing, problem solving, rewriting, and reassessment. That’s what CPs are there for!

So that’s CPs. Tomorrow, Beta Readers.

WIM Week 4: Critique Round 2

Part 1: Critique Partners and Beta Readers

Last week was the hardest week of WIM for me. General critiques from multiple CPs at the same time are not part of my usual writing process at this point in manuscript development (2^nd draft). Typically, I will have a trusted CP go over a second draft before it goes out for a general critique round, a.k.a. Beta reading, and then it’s time for CPs again.

I think most writers have a preference about how many CPs they want handling their MS. It’s always like “cooks in the kitchen” for me, and I’m a little picky about how many cooks and which cooks I want in my kitchen. I prefer to work with a limited number of CPs. Now when it comes to Beta readers, the more the merrier. Beta readers are taste-testers! Love having lots of them! But when it comes to CPs, I am selective.

So, what is the difference? How is Beta feedback different from CP feedback, and why do you need both? How do you choose a CP vs. a Beta reader? How do you know when a CP is a good fit or if a CP relationship isn’t working for you? Where do you find these rare persons?

This is my opinion, but for me, a CP is an individual with valuable writing skills and insight whom I trust to work with me on achieving my vision for the story. I solicit their feedback, but I also feel free to challenge it, to ask for clarification, to argue points, concede points, and belabor them until I own those changes. They are partners in my manuscript kitchen, people I trust with a knife and a mixer, and although it’s not in the job description, I am lucky enough to have CP’s who have listened to me bawl out my emotions in the glorious agony that is writing.

In contrast, Beta readers are readers. They sample a prepared manuscript and evaluate it as readers. Was it good? What did they like? What did they hate? It’s up to you, the writer, to filter that feedback and decide what need to happen to that manuscript to make it better. Later this week, I’ll do a post on choosing CPs, and on how to find and evaluate your Betas. But the important distinction for me is that Beta readers taste-test the finished (or close to finished product) before it goes back to the kitchen for further work. They aren’t there to tell you how to fix it.

So, your CP is the cook in the kitchen with you, who will listen when you yell that your Beta’s clearly don’t know that your MC is supposed to be an unlikable jerk in chapter one. They will commiserate. And then they’ll help you figure out a way to make that unlikable jerk a vulnerable, understandable jerk who is ripe for change. They work with you on your vision to make it better.

Do you need one or the other? Well, you need both. Tomorrow’s post will be about finding and selecting CP’s, and then I’ll talk about Beta readers.

WIM Week 3: CP round

Part 3: 3^rd Draft

After processing feedback and thinking through the changes, here is my story incorporating feedback and brainstorming.

Waiting to Jump

By R. Lee Fryar

Kenny was waiting for Batlady to jump. When she did, he would, too.

It would never happen. She was a painting among the motivational posters on the walls of Regen Corp’s accounting division. He was an accountant, soiled in as much shit as upper management because he had a gift. Kenny could make auditors believe anything he said. With a little finesse he could work the same sleight-of-mind on anyone. Like the flustered, red-faced junior accountant working his way across the room right now.

Kenneth Oden. Fired.

His morning coffee chilled in his stomach. He’d recommended layoffs, and it was company policy to kill the messenger. HR had made the mistake, copying him on, but there was no mistake about his name in the email cached on his phone. First time he’d ever been glad for the ineptitude of a department that smelled like cheese puffs and body odor. In minutes, he and his life-in-a-box would be out of the building. He fingered the thumb drive in his pocket. Should have given the damned thing to the Feds last week when they’d invited him to squeal.

He glanced around the cramped office at his fellow shit-shovelers, but they were busy with their own piles. The motivational posters mocked him. To the west, a mountaineer dangling from Everest reminded him he couldn’t do it. To the east, a peloton of bikers threatened to run him over if he tried. On the north wall, Batlady watched him with the eyes of a woman who understood his position. Facing her future, she gazed out across an abyss, torch in hand, nailed to her perch, frozen in the kind of despairing truth that leaves no room for emotions. Kenny understood the look. He felt it breeding on his own face as he accompanied his junior accountant to the door, accepted his condolences, and then calmly swiped the man’s keycard.

He’d jump, but he’d come back by night to do it. No one else needed to know. Not like he was saving lives after all.

Kenny returned by the dingy light of the streetlamps to fire himself. The alternative was waiting for the firing squad to do it. He told the security guard the cardboard box was for a few things he’d left behind. The man believed him. People always did. In the box, Kenny carried his death—a tightly sealed gas can.

Ascending by elevator to the ninth floor, images of his childhood raced through his mind—cold days on the farm helping his father with the sheep, warm days digging the garden with his mother. At least that was honest work. Lying paid better, but now those lies would kill him.

Batlady cut her eyes at him as he walked in. Sometimes he thought whoever painted the petite woman in the batwing cape had actually imprisoned her soul. He’d once asked a fellow manager what the painting was worth. It was painted by an accountant, the man said, a former controller. What did he think? Kenny knew better than to say what he thought. It was the only authentic thing in the place. He loved truth when he saw it, even pinned like a dead butterfly to a card.

He sat at his desk and opened the gas can. The fumes escaped with a desperate gasp. Only one person in the world would witness his redemption and understand it.

He raised his unlit match like a torch. “Well, my lady?”

She jumped. Her cape became tattered wings, her feet trailed blood like streamers. She was screaming. He couldn’t hear it. The glass stopped the noise. But her face broke with fear, her poise shattered forever by the kind of desperation that drives a person off the ledge of their life. She tumbled end over end in an eternity of blue. No bottom. No sudden stop to end it all. Forever freefall.

Kenny couldn’t bear it. He raced across the room, tore the picture off the wall, and smashed the glass on the nearest desk.

“Grab on, I’ll catch you!” He thrust his arms into the picture.

She hurtled past him, flailing, shrieking his name. He thought he’d lost her. Then she tumbled past again, top of the frame to the bottom. A sudden weight on the end of his wrists jerked him forward. Her shriek became a terrified whimper.

“Don’t let go,” she said in a tight voice. “Kenny, please.”

“Can you climb?”

“If you help me.”

Pulling upward, he dragged her to the edge of the frame. She cried when her bleeding feet raked over the broken shards of her prison.

“Why did you wait so long?” he asked. “I would have jumped sooner.”

She stared up at him, weary, windblown, almost as jaded as he. “I was waiting for you,” she said.

They left the building together. Kenny carried the gas can in one hand. His lady held the other, leaning against him for support, limping. His shoes were too big for her, but she walked bravely, a faint smile painted on her face. No one stopped them. The cloak had disguised her before; now it was big enough for them both. In the folds, she carried the thumb drive with the files he already had. As for the rest, she knew it all. SEC undercover work was a bitch, but she’d been a controller at the company before. Regan Corp. was doomed from the moment Kenny came to work for them. She loved integrity when she saw it, even trapped under filthy lies.

Now, they live together on a farm in Oregon. Kenny grows organic vegetables and raises sheep. He’ll never lie for his living again. Batlady cards wool, spins thread, and weaves batwing capes for those who would change their look, and possibly their lives. Kenny still calls her Batlady. She says he can call her whatever he wants. He saved her.

He knows the truth. She saved him.

Notes

Time to process the feedback and brainstorm—30 minutes on finding the consensus remarks, and closer to 60 minutes of brainstorming, which mostly involved letting those ideas percolate while I was working on another story. I usually work on multiple projects at the same time. It’s efficient for me, and makes me happy.

Time to rewrite: 180 minutes

Time to edit that revision to final: 30 minutes

Total: 300 minutes.