Over the coming weeks, paid subscribers will receive every chapter as it’s released, followed by the complete downloadable guide.

If you’ve ever wondered how literary journals actually work, how editors make decisions, how to research journals, write cover letters, navigate simultaneous submissions, and build a sustainable submission practice, you’re in the right place.

Become a paid subscriber to receive every chapter as it’s released, and at the end of the series I’ll send you the complete guide as a beautifully formatted PDF to keep.

How to Submit and Get Published Guide

✔ Why Sharing Your Work Matters

✔ Knowing Your Work is Ready

✔ Choosing Which Piece(s) to Submit

✔ Choosing Where to Submit + How to find Journals

✔ Submission Logistics + Cover Letter Templates (!!!)

→ This week: Literary Citizenship + Organization (My actual submission spreadsheet)
☐ What Happens After You Submit + Submission Responses

☐ Closing Wisdom

📄 Complete PDF delivered to paid subscribers at the end of the series.

Subscribe now

Read more

Over the coming weeks, paid subscribers will receive every chapter as it’s released, followed by the complete downloadable guide.

If you’ve ever wondered how literary journals actually work, how editors make decisions, how to research journals, write cover letters, navigate simultaneous submissions, and build a sustainable submission practice, you’re in the right place.

Become a paid subscriber to receive every chapter as it’s released, and at the end of the series I’ll send you the complete guide as a beautifully formatted PDF to keep.

How to Submit and Get Published Guide

✔ Why Sharing Your Work Matters

✔ Knowing Your Work is Ready

✔ Choosing Which Piece(s) to Submit

✔ Choosing Where to Submit + How to find Journals

→ This week: Submission Logistics + Cover Letter Templates (!!!)
☐ Literary Citizenship + Organization (My actual submission spreadsheet)
☐ What Happens After You Submit + Submission Responses

☐ Closing Wisdom

📄 Complete PDF delivered to paid subscribers at the end of the series.

Subscribe now

Read more

Over the coming weeks, paid subscribers will receive every chapter as it’s released, followed by the complete downloadable guide.

If you’ve ever wondered how literary journals actually work, how editors make decisions, how to research journals, write cover letters, navigate simultaneous submissions, and build a sustainable submission practice, you’re in the right place.

Become a paid subscriber to receive every chapter as it’s released, and at the end of the series I’ll send you the complete guide as a beautifully formatted PDF to keep.

How to Submit and Get Published Guide

✔ Why Sharing Your Work Matters

✔ Knowing Your Work is Ready

✔ Choosing Which Piece(s) to Submit

→ This week: Choosing Where to Submit + How to find Journals
☐ Submission Logistics + Cover Letter Templates (!!!)
☐ Literary Citizenship + Organization (My actual submission spreadsheet)
☐ What Happens After You Submit + Submission Responses

☐ Closing Wisdom

📄 Complete PDF delivered to paid subscribers at the end of the series.

Subscribe now

Read more

Over the coming weeks, paid subscribers will receive every chapter as it’s released, followed by the complete downloadable guide.

If you’ve ever wondered how literary journals actually work, how editors make decisions, how to research journals, write cover letters, navigate simultaneous submissions, and build a sustainable submission practice, you’re in the right place.

Become a paid subscriber to receive every chapter as it’s released, and at the end of the series I’ll send you the complete guide as a beautifully formatted PDF to keep.

Subscribe now

How to Submit and Get Published Guide

✔ Why Sharing Your Work Matters

✔ Knowing Your Work is Ready

→ This week: Choosing Which Piece(s) to Submit
☐ Choosing Where to Submit + How to find Journals
☐ Submission Logistics + Cover Letter Templates (!!!)
☐ Literary Citizenship + Organization (My actual submission spreadsheet)
☐ What Happens After You Submit + Submission Responses

☐ Closing Wisdom

📄 Complete PDF delivered to paid subscribers at the end of the series.

Read more

Over the coming weeks, paid subscribers will receive every chapter as it’s released, followed by the complete downloadable guide.

If you’ve ever wondered how literary journals actually work, how editors make decisions, how to research journals, write cover letters, navigate simultaneous submissions, and build a sustainable submission practice, you’re in the right place.

Become a paid subscriber to receive every chapter as it’s released, and at the end of the series I’ll send you the complete guide as a beautifully formatted PDF to keep.

Subscribe now

How to Submit and Get Published Guide

✔ Why Sharing Your Work Matters

→ This week: Knowing Your Work is Ready
☐ Choosing Which Piece(s) to Submit
☐ Choosing Where to Submit + How to find Journals
☐ Submission Logistics + Cover Letter Templates (!!!)
☐ Literary Citizenship + Organization (My actual submission spreadsheet)
☐ What Happens After You Submit + Submission Responses

☐ Closing Wisdom

📄 Complete PDF delivered to paid subscribers at the end of the series.

Read more

You all appreciated my recent posts about submitting to literary journals so much, I decided to serialize my entire guide to submitting and publishing. This post is one chapter of that guide.

Over the coming weeks, paid subscribers will receive every chapter as it’s released, followed by the complete downloadable guide.

If you’ve ever wondered how literary journals actually work, how editors make decisions, how to research journals, write cover letters, navigate simultaneous submissions, and build a sustainable submission practice, you’re in the right place.

Become a paid subscriber to receive every chapter as it’s released, and at the end of the series I’ll send you the complete guide as a beautifully formatted PDF to keep.

Subscribe now

How to Submit and Get Published Guide

→ This week: Why Sharing Your Work Matters

• ☐ Knowing Your Work is Ready

• ☐ Choosing Which Piece(s) to Submit

• ☐ Choosing Where to Submit + How to find Journal

• ☐ Submission Logistics + Cover Letter Templates (!!!)

• ☐ Literary Citizenship + Organization (My actual submission spreadsheet)

• ☐ What Happens After You Submit + Submission Responses

• ☐ Closing Wisdom

📄 Complete PDF delivered to paid subscribers at the end of the series.

Your Desire for an Audience is Natural

For many, writing is not a choice but an urgent calling from within—a thing we do before we realize that we’re doing it, or that it has a name. When we write, we write from the heart to process thoughts and emotions, to record and document beauty and memory. We write because we need to. The above tends to be a universal notion among writers, but there is still often a shame or guilt associated with the desire to build an audience for our work. We think: if I’m truly doing this for me, why do I want to feel validated by external sources?

Here’s the thing: the desire for an audience is a completely natural human instinct. We want to share our experiences, and sharing our creative writing provides us a medium and industry to do so. There’s nothing shameful about finding communities through which you can share the struggles and delights of your unique yet shared human experience.

Think about the times you’ve read a piece of writing that you related to, that made you feel like you’re not alone, that maybe saved your life. You need words. And someone, or many people, out there may need your writing. How will you ever know and how would they ever find it if you don’t share it?

Writing can still come from your heart, and be, at its core, for you. That doesn’t mean that you can’t also share it. Make space for both of these values in different parts of your process and accept when you’re doing one more than the other. At times when you have less creative energy for yourself, the act of submitting, sharing, and getting published can be incredibly rewarding fuel to move you back into the creative process. At times when your creative energy is flowing, don’t feel pressured to spend a lot of time submitting.

Access to Information and the Ivory Tower

The other thing about building an audience is that, in some industries, it’s necessary for success and career marketability. Particularly so in academia. If one wants to become, let’s say, a creative writing professor, they must have books published and distributed by major presses. In order to get to that point, the professor likely has work published in a number of reputable literary journals and has attended expensive conferences and retreats. They also must have an MFA, and within the MFA a lot of information about submitting and publishing is readily available, whether it’s in the curriculum (rare), or simply circulated through professors and students (common).

But what if you don’t have a degree in English, or an MFA, or don’t have access to these resources? What if you never went to college? What if writing finds you at an age when your education and career are already firmly established? What if access to this industry and its information seem like a sad, unwinnable game with no instructions? I’m hoping to provide materials that at least begin to fill that gap.

My word is not gospel, friends. There is no “right way” to be a part of this industry. And, if I’m honest, this industry could use some shaking up and questioning every now and again. Don’t settle for what you’re told is the “right way.” This series is not for that. It is, instead, to liberate your practice by providing the industry standard information and some tips and tricks along the way. Information is a pathway to so many things, including change, freedom, and success. I’m here to give you the information and best practices. And with that information, you can choose what to do with your work. Question everything. Stay true to you and your art.

Compassion Goes a Long Way!

This leads me to my next point. Yes, the whole publishing world is a fraught place with a lot of issues constantly being worked out. There are old biases abound and lots of red tape and access issues. In recent years, government funding for the arts has decreased, and with it, individual donor dollars have diminished as well. I’ll speak more about the financial aspect later, but just know that the publishing industry and literary journals have been making difficult decisions.

With that said, I highly recommend entering the space with compassion. I have seen writers around me become very numb to the process, sort of flinging their work around mindlessly without spending much time with the journals or the process, or making intentional decisions about where and how to send their work. They also succumb to the general notion of what is prestigious or successful, forgetting to consider what makes the most sense for their work. We’ll look into all of this more soon, but some of my greatest advice is to not numb yourself to the process. Remember that behind every screen and every journal there are people. Everyone else that is sending in work is also a person. Do not let humanity slip away from this work.

Seeing the “Other Side”

I cannot stress enough how valuable I found it in my own journey to work at multiple literary journals, both in paid and volunteer capacities. It made very clear to me how necessary the information I’m providing here is, as well as just how many people have forgotten the notion I speak about above: that there are humans behind the screens. I won’t go on about those struggles, as I feel it would be a victory for those without compassion to entertain their toxicity, but just know that there are so many people entering this space with their defenses high and their entitlement higher.

Beyond this, though, working at a literary journal offers unique insight into the process after you hit submit. I will do some work in this series to demystify the process but seeing it firsthand can be a really comforting tool. Again, if you have the knowledge of what’s happening with your work once you press send, the anxiety of it will recede, at least a little bit. Some people also look at it as giving back to the community that they want to be a part of. Especially if you’re not in a place to financially support literary journals and publishing through donations, volunteering a bit of your time can be a great way to invest in the community. Many journals have application opportunities for a variety of roles. We’ll get to know these journals and how to seek out their opportunities more later. It is, of course, a privilege to be able to take on any unpaid work. The thing is, you can find an opportunity to be a reader that may only take an hour or two per week, or you may specifically seek out the paid opportunities. No matter how you make it work, I promise it will be valuable to “see the other side”.

Releasing Your Heart into the World

Releasing your heart and soul in the form of poems into the world is not easy. Protect that and allow space for that. If you’re scared and nervous to let this work go, don’t worry: you’re not alone. Also, this nervousness means that you really care about the work. This compassion and care will take you far in making intentional decisions in the submission process. I encourage you, though, to release your heart. Remember—someone out there might need it.

An Invitation to the Journey

If this resonated with you, I hope you’ll join me for the rest of the How to Submit and Get Published Guide. This post was free but the next ones with all the juicy details will be paid.

Over the coming weeks, I’ll walk through every stage of the submission process—from researching journals and deciding where your work belongs, to cover letters, simultaneous submissions, what actually happens after you hit submit, and the realities of acceptance and rejection. My goal is simple: to demystify the literary journal world and give you the information I wish I’d had when I began.

Paid subscribers receive each new installment as it’s published, and when the series concludes, I’ll send the complete guide as a downloadable PDF.

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It’s been almost ten months since I left my 9-5 job and started working for myself full time, building a life that revolves around creating instead of a soul-sucking traditional career path. I’ve said before that this decision altered my brain chemistry but I’m finally processing some of the major realizations I’ve had about shedding my past self and becoming who I’m meant to be now. I’m letting you all into the topic that has been occupying my personal journal for the last several weeks. And I think these thought patterns apply to any major life shift that we experience, the kind that breaks open your brain a little bit and asks you to piece it back together.

Toxic patterns survive the thing itself

The way we’re conditioned, I believe we’ll find ways, like any way possible, to retain the systems and mindsets that we already have, even if they’re toxic. We don’t do this consciously; it’s because these patterns feel safe and familiar and our mind seems to be protecting us. But removing the job itself — cutting out the thing, whatever it is for you — will not break the systems that are drilled into you because of it.

For example, for me this presented a lot in being addicted to stress, being used to a break-neck pace, having people rely on me constantly, everything being urgent and emergent, and so on. Even without my 9-5, I leaned into reproducing situations that created these effects, or manufacturing these effects unnecessarily. When I became anxious, the spiraling thoughts I had were about those cases in my life where people were still relying on me. And I wonder if I was actually anxious about those specific situations, or if they just came to the forefront of my mind because they reproduced the old patterns. I was stressing myself out when I didn’t need to be stressed, or I felt urgency toward something that didn’t require it.

And I see this in others, too. People will remove one negative structure or one shitty boss just to replace it with a different negative structure or being a shitty boss to themselves. Our patterns, our internal systems, thrive on creating new ways to reinforce themselves. The big lesson here is this: you can’t just remove the element, you have to identify the patterns and mindsets that you’ve adopted from that element and address them at the source. This is how you move forward.

This S*** Takes a Long Time

Next, I realized that this s*** just takes a long time. A lot longer than I thought it would or than I wanted it too. I see people talking about how they feel completely different like two days after they leave their 9-5 job and that hasn’t been the reality for me and I suspect it probably isn’t for most people. Like most major life shifts, while I’m super happy and at peace in my decision, I’m still grieving a past self and a path closed off.

Ten months out, I also still feel like I’m decompressing. This is partly to do with the fact that I had a lot of other obligations outside of my 9-5 that are finally settling down now (dance contracts and directing an arts organization, for two) but that’s besides the point. I still feel that sense of deep tiredness that can’t be fixed by sleep. I acknowledge that, especially as a marginalized person, this feeling has something to do with the horrors of our world. Seeing my homeland decimated while my current country devolves further into fascism doesn’t exactly make for the most ideal circumstance. But, at the same time, I know this feeling’s seeds were planted at my 9-5 job, and that feeling hasn’t ever really gone away.

I need to move slower nowadays, and I get so frustrated with myself for it sometimes. I still get little jolts of anxiety when my phone buzzes. I compulsively check my GCal at night before I go to sleep as if I don’t make my own schedule. In an ideal world I would have taken a creative sabbatical, fully taking a year off from all kinds of work to focus only on my poetry. But, like most people, I need money to live so that’s not possible for me right now. Still, my life is so much more open and free and aligned – and my burnout is still hanging on for dear life.

Resistance Means You’re Actually Changing

The most resistance seems to arrive when we realize something is wrong and move toward clearing it away. I get the deepest sense of anxiety when I recognize a pattern and start breaking it, or when I realize that something isn’t serving me or isn’t right for me and start to set a boundary or stop that thing.

I suspect that when we feel the most resistance and the most friction against a mental or physical change – when we’re at that point where we could turn around because something doesn’t feel right – that likely means it’s exactly right and that you need to keep pushing through to the other side. These negative aspects of our lives push back against us the most when they realize we’re about to exorcise them. Just like the first point, this is our minds trying to protect us, in a way — trying to keep things the same as they’ve always been. So maybe that means to make true change we must feel friction and resistance and keep moving anyway.

I feel this on a spiritual level. I have nothing to back it up except for my feelings. But I believe it’s true. I feel the things that I’m clearing away resisting their own demise. I feel the heaviest before the light leaks in.

Craving Solitude

I just want to be alone a lot. I’ve had times in the past where I’ve used self isolation as a negative coping mechanism, or times when my anxiety has pushed me away from friendship and connection, but I can tell that this is different.

I’ve had the noise of the world pushing in aggressively for six years, and have had some level of that noise my whole life, as most people do. I spent my twenties giving all of my energy to improving other organizations, to helping other people fulfill dreams and reach their full potential, to raising funds to support other peoples’ work, to making other peoples ideas come to fruition, to listening to other peoples f***ing office drama that I don’t care about, and when I finally made the decision to channel some of that energy back into myself and my own dreams, I just all of a sudden had no desire for external noise anymore.

This is kind of a separate but related point, which is that I just can’t put up with bullshit anymore; I can’t put the filter back on. I’m really sick of people who only relate to one another over gossip and negativity and whatever they have to complain about in their life without any indication that they’ll take action to shift it. I’m not interested in that energy; I live a much richer life than that inside my head. I don’t want input — I want silence. I want the deepest most peaceful quiet. Because inside of that quiet, my own mind and my own ideas and my own dreams are what get to be loud.

This doesn’t mean I’ve cut people off. I still love my community and connections, but it’s just not what I’m craving now, and I find this deeply representative of shedding the person I used to be. I hope that I’ll find organic ways to prioritize connection again in the future. Maybe this craving for isolation just means we need a little space to find who we are now.

The Snowball Effect

The last one is that this choice was an unexpected snowball effect. I knew that quitting my job was an important step that would open my life up to other possibilities, but I really didn’t think it would snowball into having realization after realization about the systems in my life and the ways they need to be unraveled. After I quit, I realized that there were other places in my life where I was fulfilling past desires that weren’t serving me anymore (again, replicating the same systems!!!!).

Quitting my job made me realize that it’s okay to change, and that it’s okay to get everything you ever wanted and realize that it’s not actually what you want at all. This one choice was a catalyst. I didn’t know that quitting my 9-5 would also make me realize I didn’t want to be a company dancer anymore, or that I needed to leave Massachusetts (let me know if you all want the life updates).

It’s this weird thing where when you make a big life changing decision, everything loses its meaning. It’s an Everything Everywhere All At Once kind of situation where you realize that you have every possibility spread out in front of you. When you break down and rebuild one aspect of life, you realize that you can rebuild any part of your life — your whole life for that matter. Identity is not static; it can shift and change. This can be uncomfortable because it means every choice we make shifts our identity. And it means that our identity is something that we choose and become and build. For me, this one change definitely began a monumental shift in my identity as a whole.

When you choose to forge a nontraditional path, or even just occupy this world with the lens of an artist and a creative, you see things others don’t. And while this sounds romantic, I also think it’s incredibly difficult to see all the systems laid bare and to honor them in your own journey. It’s often so much easier to just stick with what’s acceptable and contract oneself into the predictable. To expand is difficult. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Tell me: what shifts in life changed your brain chemistry and what did it make you realize about your own becoming?

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Of course, this list could go on for ages as there is something to be learned from every book we read. However, these are ones I recommend again and again and come top of mind as “masterclasses” in various elements of craft.

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On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong

A novel written as a long letter from a young Vietnamese-American man named Little Dog to his illiterate mother. Vuong has shared that it’s semi-autobiographical, pulling themes from his own life and relationship with his mother, his heritage, and his queerness. It’s non-linear, it’s queer, it’s coming of age, it discusses intergenerational trauma through the lens of migration, and it examines deeply both the power and the limitation of language and storytelling.

This book will make you a better writer for many reasons, but chief among them is voice. You would be able to identify the voice of this particular speaker from reading just a paragraph or two. It’s a powerful example of how the voice and interiority of a character can be the storytelling engine for a novel. This voice is wildly confident, and reminds you that you don’t have to choose between beauty and meaning, or lyricism and plot. They can all co-exist, weave together, and support one another. The prose is poetic, but it’s not just flowery, it’s also clear and compelling.

Something I believe Vuong always does well and that many writers including myself continue to strive for is writing with deep emotion and vulnerability and nostalgia without being cliche or sentimental. Vuong never forces you to feel something or explains a feeling, but instead lays bare the wounds and the heartbreak in clear terms. He creates the feeling for the reader to process.

This is one of my favorite books so it’s hard to shut up, but I’ll offer one last thing which is the unique structure. The entire book is written as a letter, and because of this it’s told in the way that memory unfolds, in the way that we tell a story to a friend or family member–winding, nonlinear, sometimes forgetful, with bursts of bright memory. Emotional and thematic logic can hold together a narrative just as well as chronology. Another book that does this same thing, not in the form of a letter, is Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro in which Kathy shares about her life up until the point of writing in a winding and associative storytelling pattern.

Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner

Unrelated to becoming a better writer, can we tell I have mommy issues and that I’m a child of immigrants? Ok… moving on. This next one is a memoir in which Michelle Zauner discusses her complex relationship with her Korean American identity and her complex relationship with her mother especially as it relates to grief after her mother’s death. The book takes on cooking Korean food as a central theme to reconnect with identity and process grief.

The book’s subject matter sounds heavy, sad, complex, and this is exactly what I believe we can learn from Zauner: the actual reading experience of the book is incredibly entertaining and funny. Zauner is incredibly “voice-y” and yet it never comes off as tacky or overdone. Every memoir is reflective, but what sets a story like this apart? She has personality, humor, and wit that she lets shine through in her conversations and reflections. I see a lot of authors try to write with wit and candor and find that it can be quite hard to do well. It can easily read as tacky or forced. So if you’re trying to be voice-y or witty, regardless of genre, this is a great read.

As a secondary note, I also appreciate the way that she uses a consistent theme element like food and cooking to talk about emotional experiences. Again, every memoir is reflective in some sense but as readers we need something clear and sensory to carry that reflection so it doesn’t all start to sound the same. Zauner does a wonderful job of weaving the physical acts of cooking with the emotional acts of unraveling her feelings around grief and identity.

The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison

This one is a classic so it speaks for itself in many ways. The novel is set in Ohio in the 1940s and it focuses on young Pecola Breedlove, an African-American girl who internalizes racism and believes blue eyes will make her beautiful and loved. It’s narrated by Claudia MacTeer, a friend of Pecola’s, and she often reflects on the events later in life. We spend the book within Claudia’s interiority primarily.

This book is often cited as a masterpiece tackling major socio-political topics like race and racism, gender and sexism, womanhood, sexuality, beauty standards, and so on. But it does all of this from the individual and internal perspectives of a few characters’ day-to-day lives. It does not make grand sweeping remarks about racism or beauty–no–it focuses on one young girl’s obsession with blue eyes. Richard Price once said, “You don’t write about the horrors of war. No. You write about a kid’s burnt socks lying in the road.” This book is a perfect representation of writing the political through the personal; it shows you how the kid’s burnt socks are the entire system that burned them. In essence, Morrison shows how large societal ideas about beauty and worth are represented through intimate, everyday experiences. It’s show don’t tell on this highest conceptual level. It’s political writing by telling a story and allowing the reader to see the injustices and the systems at work that would cause a little girl to feel the way Pecola feels.

I’d also study this for historical fiction writers, or for anyone whose story/project is attached to a specific place, where place can become character. The small town in Ohio in the 40s really comes to life here.

Autobiography of Red by Anne Carson

Autobiography of Red is a novel in verse that reimagines the Greek myth of Geryon as a modern, queer coming-of-age story. It follows a winged red monster as he navigates childhood trauma, loneliness, and his intense, unrequited love for the hero Herakles.

This one is kind of “weird” but stay with me. A lot of people are working on re-tellings or are pulling from mythology or references to important literary texts and myths. Many retellings feel entirely derivative–like why exactly did you need to rewrite this particular story in this particular way at this particular moment? This retelling feels not only urgent but also completely fresh.

But, the ultimate reason I believe it will make you a better writer is how much it trusts the reader. Carson writes through these surreal and mythical elements as though they are completely ordinary. She doesn’t stop to info dump or world build. She trusts the reader to come along for the ride through immersion and it makes the whole thing feel more immediate and believable.

I think there’s something to be said especially about world building here. That if the world is abundantly clear to the author and that knowledge is baked in, there’s often not a reason to stop and explain it all to the reader. Instead “move your description” the way Carson does, by immersing us in the already clearly built world.

This book is a masterclass in compression, too, which is how this level of trusting the reader comes in on the micro-level. A single image or brief exchange often conveys what another writer might spend pages explaining. Every word is important. Every scene moves the story forward.

Normal People by Sally Rooney

This book will probably make it onto every list I write about craft, and the reason is pretty straightforward: it’s a masterclass in writing dialogue. This novel follows the complex, on-again, off-again relationship between two Irish teenagers, Connell and Marianne, from their final year of school through their university years. Ultimately it’s about relationships, about the ways people shift and change. It sounds pretty, well, normal when you describe it. But the book is remarkable, heart-breaking, challenging, intimate, immediate.

And I think a lot of that strength comes down to the dialogue. Most adults don’t speak to explain things, and this book shows you how a lot of meaning can be conveyed through tone, what is left unsaid, or what is misconstrued. This book writes how real people speak which is what makes it feel so intimate and immediate.

I said it’s a masterclass in good dialogue, but I’d also argue that it’s a masterclass in subtext–how to write meaning between the lines.

In the Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado

This is a memoir about the author’s experience with emotional abuse in a queer relationship. It’s written in a very experimental form, each chapter beginning with “Dream House as X” and taking that premise throughout the section. Machado uses various narrative tropes like horror, fairy tales, and erotica to dissect the experience from many angles.

I believe this book will make you a better writer, regardless of genre, because of how effective it is at using an experimental form and structure. Each chapter adopts a different lens, genre, or narrative device, and those shifts mirror the narrator’s attempt to understand an experience that resists a straightforward telling. Instead of forcing events into a clean chronology, Machado lets gaps, contradictions, and repetitions become part of the story. In this way, the structure becomes a part of the story’s meaning. Because the meaning is in the examination of a traumatic time and accumulating insight then processing that information, the structure mirrors this by de-personalizing it and examining the same relationship from every angle. It is written how trauma feels–fragmented and incapable of being cleanly understood.

And so, it’s not just a book that recounts trauma, it’s a book that enacts trauma through form and structure.

This book will make you better at writing trauma and characters who have experienced trauma across genres. And, it may push you to experiment with form and subvert expectations within your genre.

Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin

I didn’t understand the hype surrounding this book until I was about halfway through, but then I realized just how expansive it is and it grew to be a favorite. This novel is about the decades-long, complex friendship between Sam and Sadie, who become successful video game designers. It explores themes of love, identity, disability, and the nature of connection through their creative partnership.

The most remarkable thing about this book is that it spans almost thirty years–and does so with incredible effectiveness.

It shows that not every story has to follow the same structure or timeline. I’ve never read a novel structured quite like this before.

The characters’ development across the thirty-year timeline is also a masterclass in long-term, long-form character development. If you’re working on developing believable and deeply researched characters, this book is a great example of what that looks like.

It’s also expansive in terms of point of view, timeline, and writing style. There is a second person chapter. There is a chapter written like a video game. There are chapters from many different characters’ perspectives and they jump around in time often. Much of what is done in this novel may be shunned in a writing workshop. Pare back the timeline; it’s too much to put in one book! Choose what POV you want to write in! Don’t jump around in time so much! It’s going to be messy and all over the place! I imagine would be some of the comments. But this book expands instead of contracts and sort of goes against the rule book. It’s rebellious on the craft level. And of course I might not recommend that a first-time author attempt these same rebellions, but it’s an incredible lesson nonetheless on taking unique ideas, characters, structures, and craft choices and really running with them.

Every story may have already been written, as people say, but what you add to the conversation is the unique way in which you envision and write it.

Calling a Wolf a Wolf by Kaveh Akbar

You know you’re not getting out of a list written by me without some poetry! Calling a Wolf a Wolf is Kaveh Akbar’s debut poetry collection and was incredibly formative for me as a writer in grad school. It’s a book I can safely credit for contributing to the poet I am today. On the level of subject matter, the poems tackle alcoholism and addiction, identity, migration and inherited trauma, wrestling with God and faith, and so much more. Throughout, it blends the mundane with the divine.

I think it’s going to make you a better writer because it will remind you how important every single word on the page is. Akbar’s lyricism is compressed and “muscular” as some might describe it. Images are dense and associate from one to the next. You can travel across worlds over a line break. The image can go from something grotesque related to alcohol and land you in heaven a few words later.

I want to say that I believe writers of every genre need to be reading poetry. Poetry will help you with imagery and compression and crafting beautiful sentences. Kaveh’s poetry does all of these things with mastery. In particular, he writes some of the freshest and most unique imagery in contemporary poetry. So, whether you’re a poet like me or you’re a prose writer who knows they should be reading some poems now and again, this is a collection I’d recommend to everyone.

Let me and the fellow readers know in the comments: what books would you add to this list to become a better writer? Have you read these, and what did you think? And let me know if you enjoyed this and would like more list posts like this one. Who doesn’t love a good list?

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I’ve spent years on both sides of this process, as a poet submitting my own work and in editorial roles reading submissions and helping shape issues. One thing I’ve learned is that literary journals can seem much more mysterious than they really are. The process varies from journal to journal, but most journals are not black boxes where your work disappears into oblivion.

Quick note before we jump in: I created my poetry submission guide because I realized so much of this information lives in scattered conversations, assumptions, and trial and error. If you’re looking for a more complete walkthrough of literary journals, cover letters, simultaneous submissions, and building a submission practice, you can find the guide here.

So: what actually happens after you hit submit?

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Very Small Journals

Very small journals often don’t have a team of readers, or screeners, as they are sometimes called. Because there is a lower volume of submissions, the editor in chief, or the genre editors if the journal has multiple genres, often read all of the submissions that come in. One person will read through each submission, and send declines on a rolling basis. They’ll probably save all the ones they like and want to consider further, then look at that group all together and select which ones they’ll ultimately publish. Then they’ll send out those final acceptances and encouraging declines. This model is great if that individual has a good artistic vision for the journal, and is diligent about tackling their submission pile, but can go wrong if the one individual is not adept at this role.

Tiny journals have varied response times, as they receive a small amount of submissions, but it totally depends on that single person, or a couple people, with no particular systems in place to get back to people. Most of the time they respond quickly, but can also be some of the worst in terms of lengthy response times.

Small to Mid-Sized Journals

This model is common in small to mid-sized publications and is probably the most common model. You hit submit and your submission joins the pool of submissions the journal has at that time. Eventually, a genre editor or managing editor will “assign” your submission along with a group of other submissions to a reader.

That reader will review the cover letter and submission, and rate it in some way. Some journals will do a simple yes/no, others will rate with a star rating, or something else. The goal is for the reader to communicate whether they recommend that piece to be looked at further, or not. If it’s a definite no at this stage, a rejection will be sent. If it’s a maybe or a yes, or otherwise gets moved along in the process, it will often be sent to the genre editor for consideration, or another round of readers, or a senior reader, in some cases.

The genre editor will read everything that has been recommended, and make another round of cuts, sending out rejections.

From here, the genre editor will either, a. make decisions on their own about which pieces are the best and send out acceptances, as well as encouraging declines to those who almost made it, on a rolling basis until an issue is full. Or, b. they’ll get the whole team of readers together again to discuss the final packet, and decide together which ones will make it into the journal, then sending out acceptances and encouraging declines.

In the first round of reading, the readers are assessing the piece for craft, quality, and if it aligns with the journal. Once a piece reaches the final rounds, every piece is really fabulous, and the conversation becomes more so about how pieces fit together to create an effective issue.

As I’ve mentioned before, it’s pretty cool to be sending work to any journal that has readers, as your work will probably be assigned to a different reader each time you send it in. A different set of eyes may see a completely different merit in your work, and could pass it along, even if you’ve been rejected from that journal many times prior.

This size journal tends to have the shortest response times. They have the appropriate team and structure to tackle a manageable number of submissions.

Large Journals

Large journals often have large teams and a lot of submissions. The basics of their process is similar to what I described above, but may have some more intricacies.

One of these intricacies is tiered screeners. Some large journals have regular readers and a team of more experienced or well-known readers. Sometimes, in these cases, submissions will go through two rounds of reading. A first tier screener will read and pass along any submissions they recommend, declining the others. A second tier screener will then read those submissions, culling them further before passing along to the genre editor. So, the more experienced readers are only reading submissions that have already been read once and recommended, and the editor is only reading submissions that have already been recommended through two rounds of reading.

Another way that multiple tiers of screeners may be used is separating who reads the “slush pile” versus who reads “notable submissions”. This is another intricacy that sometimes occurs with large journals. Staff will look through the submissions and sort them into slush versus notable submissions. A notable submission will be identified based on notable book publication with a large press, multiple notable journal publications in renowned publications, past encouraging rejections, or past contributions to the same journal. The slush pile is every other submission that does not meet those specifications. So, if a journal distinguishes submissions this way, sometimes the regular readers will read the slush, while the senior readers read all the notable submissions, both passing directly to the editor. Or, regular readers will read slush, while senior readers read slush that is recommended from round one AND notable submissions that go straight to them.

What we hope to believe with this model, and what I know to be true in my experience, is that these distinctions do not serve to disqualify the slush pile from ever truly being considered. Instead, it’s just to make sure that the journal can acquire really good work quickly, which often comes in as notable submissions. While there are more acceptances by percentage from the notables, it’s not by much. Lots of rejections are still sent to notables, and lots of acceptances are still extended to slush pile authors. At this level of journal, there are a ton of submissions coming in, and the acceptance rate ends up being less than 1%. Because of this, there need to be some systems in place to help get through all of the submissions, and no matter whether you’re notable or not, it’s still against the odds to receive an acceptance of any kind. But, your submission is being read thoughtfully, no matter your notoriety.

In the worst case scenario, and what I also know to be true unfortunately, is that some journals use these distinctions for worse purposes. They read and select almost entirely from notable submissions, while never reading and never sending any responses to the slush pile. You can tell that this is happening if the entire journal is made up of already well-known people, or if you never receive a response, not even a form rejection, to any of your submissions.

Large journals can have higher response times, simply because of the volume of submissions they receive. Or, because the submission may go through many rounds of consideration.

“In-Progress”

All together, it’s nice to know what happens when you hit the submit button. In most cases, you’re not waiting aimlessly, sending your work into a black hole. You’re waiting while the readers tackle their queue, and the team considers your work and makes decisions about their forthcoming issue. I hope this helps demystify that “In-progress” status on Submittable, which, by the way, gets turned on the moment someone opens your submission for the first time. Rest assured that most people who volunteer to screen work or edit a literary journal love what they do, and care deeply about each submission they read.

This area is one that demystifies a lot if you’re able to volunteer to read for a journal. I can explain it endlessly, but getting a chance to take part in it yourself is really going to change the way you think about your submission journey.

Dealing with the Wait

Even if you do know what goes on behind the scenes, dealing with the wait is pretty torturous. When I was in graduate school and deeply immersed in the publishing world, there were times where I’d have my Submittable open constantly, checking it multiple times per day, noticing every tiny change in status. I’d commiserate with others regarding when they’d submitted to a journal versus when they heard back, comparing my response time to theirs, wondering if a longer response time could potentially mean an impending acceptance. Surely if they’d been looking at a submission since June and it was now November, I thought, it must be in the final round.

Friends of mine even used a site called Duotrope, which detailed for them the nitty gritty details of every journal’s response times, acceptance rates, and even different response times based on the expected response. Writers would even report on Duotrope when exactly they heard back from a specific journal, so other writers could know to expect a response.

I never got on Duotrope, because maybe on some level I realized how wrong it felt, but regardless, my relationship with my submissions was toxic. I was unreasonably obsessed, as if staring at the submissions and thinking about them constantly would somehow manifest acceptances, or just quicker responses. It never did. And you’d think that this obsession would make the rejections feel even worse, but in reality, they became part of a game. I stopped feeling the rejections, tallied them up, moved onto the next. No response actually brought any relief or excitement.

At some point after I finished my MFA, and actually switched industries for my day job, I naturally became unobsessed with my submissions. I was still writing and submitting plenty, but I didn’t have the time or energy to stare at my Submittable page every day anymore. What changed? My relationship with my submissions became much healthier. I remembered to see it as a compassionate process with humans on both sides. I remembered to feel the acceptances and the rejections. I remembered that it wasn’t a game, and that what was on the other side of the line was not a game piece but my heart distilled.

So what I recommend is this: put deep care into your submission process but do not allow yourself to become entangled in a constant mind game. The “In-progress” designation, as I’ve mentioned, means so little. There’s no use staring at it, as if it’s a crystal ball that will offer you an answer. You will get an email when the journal makes a decision about your submission–I promise. Until then, nothing will come of laboring over it. Comparing your submissions to others, or god forbid perusing Duotrope and theorizing about the fate of your submissions, will not change anything, except maybe make you anxious and feel like crap. Hit submit, and walk away. That’s it.

If there’s one thing I hope you take away from all of this, it’s that your submission is usually not floating aimlessly through some literary void. There are people on the other side of it. People reading after work, discussing pieces with one another, arguing over favorites, building issues carefully and thoughtfully.

Understanding the process won’t magically make waiting easier, but it can make the experience feel a little less mysterious.

And if you’re ready to begin submitting your own work and want a fuller guide through literary journals, researching publications, simultaneous submissions, cover letters, response times, and everything else I wish someone had explained to me earlier, my submission guide goes much deeper into all of it. The title mentions poets, but 95% of the information is applicable to any genre.

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Questions come up over and over: Do I need previous publications? Who is reading these submissions (or is anyone reading them at all)? Is everybody secretly connected to one another? Do they actually publish anything from the “slush pile”? What happens after I hit submit?

I’m here to remove all the smoke and mirrors, answer your assumptions, and explain what actually happens behind the scenes.

I also want to encourage you, if you have the time and space in your life, to volunteer for a literary journal for a year. Seeing the process from the other side of the desk (or screen) is a wildly helpful practice in easing the pressure and removing the mystery of this Wild West.

In this post, we’re going to talk about some of the common assumptions around submitting to literary journals and whether or not they’re true.

In my next post, we’ll break down exactly what happens after you hit submit.

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Quick Note Before We Jump In

I’ve been thinking a lot about how mysterious literary journals can seem from the outside, which is part of why I put together my guide on how to submit and get published, which collects everything I know on this topic from years and years of experience. The title mentions poets, but 95% of the information is applicable to all genres. If you’re looking for a step-by-step resource on submitting your work, researching journals, cover letters, simultaneous submissions, and more, you can find it here.

“You have to know people, have a lot of previous publications, or already be a well-known writer. These people aren’t actually publishing anything that comes in from general submissions and lands in the slush pile.”

Sure, there are some journals that mostly publish already established writers, like the New Yorker or the Paris Review. And yes, well-known or notable writers will likely get forwarded along in the submission queue more easily.

At the well-known journal I worked at, interns were assigned to pre-screen submissions based on cover letters, and anyone with a certain number of notable book publications or journal publications was forwarded along to senior readers. Anyone who mentions a personal relationship with the editor gets forwarded straight to the editor.

Additionally, there is typically some space allotted in each journal issue for a few “solicited submissions,” meaning the editor specifically asks a writer to publish their work, as opposed to it coming in through the general submission pool.

While these practices are common, they do NOT mean that general submissions are not being read, nor that general submissions have no chance of being published.

The senior readers and editors at that big journal I worked at would frequently decline those notable authors, or people they had personal connections with that were forwarded along to them directly. They were just as discerning with notable submissions as they were with the slush. The poetry editor would often decline his friends and colleagues and would tell me, “Well, the packet he sent just wasn’t all that great this time.”

Despite the fact that there are some solicited works in each issue, in many notable journals that only makes up a small percentage of the pages, the rest of which come from general submissions.

There was a trend of “reading submissions blind” for a time, which some journals still do, in order to eliminate any bias they had toward already notable writers, so they were reading everyone on the same playing field.

Blind submissions were designed to ask editors to ignore the writer and their qualifications and focus entirely on the work. But some critics have argued that this risks treating “literary merit” as objective when our ideas about what counts as strong, polished, or important writing are themselves shaped by culture, institutions, and history.

Sometimes, seeing the names and backgrounds of the writers actually pushes readers and editors to further question their own biases—to understand the types of work they’re seeing as “good” and “worthy,” and why.

It’s just a numbers game. Notable writers are notable for a reason (usually)—their writing is quite good. So the fact that they’re being selected for publication shouldn’t be a surprise.

The general submission pool contains thousands of submissions, and less than 1% is published in large journals, maybe ~5% in mid-sized journals.

At MOST journals, every single submission is read and assessed. And oftentimes, journals pride themselves on discovering new voices in this low-stakes format of publication.

“You Need an MFA”

It’s no secret that many literary magazines and journals are tied to academic institutions. I would argue that the historical barriers of academia certainly do extend to the journals that the institutions support. However, I think it’s more of a funding problem than anything else. Journals have a lot of trouble making enough money to stay afloat.

And so, an academic institution provides funding for the journal to continue to run based on its cultural merit and its benefit to the institution, often without having to prove that it’s a money-making model—because it isn’t.

Many journals that start outside of academic institutions remain quite small, unable to find a funding model sustainable enough to grow and scale. Many independent journals go underwater after just a few years. There are some fabulous examples of independent journals that have innovated in creating sustainable models—Adroit Journal being chief among these examples—but largely, it’s incredibly difficult.

This is a whole other topic worthy of its own post to break down the nuances. But the fact is that many notable journals are tied to academic institutions. This means that the editors, staff, and readers often come from those academic institutions.

You 1000% do NOT need an MFA to submit to or be considered for literary journal publication.

However, I can’t say anything about the individual biases of readers and editors because of their ties to academic institutions and their own backgrounds with academia that may affect their tastes and what they believe to be good writing. I believe some editors are great at discerning good writing regardless of background, while others are not.

This is all to say: having an MFA or not having an MFA should not be a deciding factor as to whether or not you choose to submit to journals. And, just in case it’s comforting to you, Joan Didion, Stephen King, James Baldwin, Toni Morrison, Haruki Murakami, and so many more famous writers never got an MFA.

“Rejections Mean My Work Is Bad”

Finally, we have to address this one. Even though it sounds silly if you say it out loud, I think we all secretly think it. Oh, they didn’t choose my piece for the issue? It must be terrible. In an industry filled with rejection, self-doubt, and imposter syndrome, these things are more difficult to avoid than an airborne virus. I get it.

BUT you must remember the statistics I shared just a moment ago. There are thousands of submissions per reading period in the general submission pool. Notable journals accept less than 1% of the submissions they receive. A ton of incredible, amazing work gets declined. The journals simply don’t have enough space, issues, or pages to publish every good piece that they see.

Often, once work is narrowed down to only good pieces, the conversations are more so around what the best fit for the journal or that particular issue is, and a lot less so about the merit or quality of the work.

You must also remember that submissions are read by (sometimes volunteer, sometimes paid) readers or screeners. They are individual people with their own likes, dislikes, interests, and feelings. I’ve heard people joke that your submission outcome could be affected by what your reader ate for lunch that day, or whether they skipped lunch. The outcome is influenced even by the submission they read before or after your own. It’s all so incredibly subjective and changeable.

All it might take is the right piece of yours meeting the right reader at the right time to find a breakthrough. But this should also be comforting because it means your work is scarcely being declined because it’s bad.

Again, it’s a numbers game. The more often you put yourself out there, the more likely it is that your work will find its best reader.

What assumptions do you have about literary journals? What have you heard that you’re curious to know whether or not it’s actually true?

I’m happy to answer allll of your questions in the comment section and in future posts.

And if you’re at the stage where you’re ready to actually start submitting but still feel overwhelmed by where to begin, I put together a guide that walks through literary journals, cover letters, simultaneous submissions, research, and the parts of the process I wish someone had explained to me earlier.

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There is heated debate over which point of view is best to use, whether first person is childish, whether third person is annoying to read—I’ve heard it all!

In developmental edits, nine out of ten times POV issues appear in my feedback, but the POV you choose itself isn’t the problem. Each point of view has its own unique set of opportunities and use cases, as well as limitations and downfalls.

What’s most important is understanding which POV best serves your story, as well as the rules and ways to utilize the point of view that you chose.

If you’d like a deeper dive into each point of view option and their opportunities and limitations, go back to my previous three posts. They’re going to save you a ton of time, money, and heartache by helping you make a good decision about the best POV for your story before you start writing.

So here are the mistakes I’m seeing most often in the book manuscripts that I edit, and some concrete tips on how to avoid or eradicate them.

Head Hopping

The first and most common mistake I see with point of view, time and time again, is head hopping. Head hopping is defined as shifts in the narrative point of view between multiple characters within the same scene or paragraph, usually without clear transitions. It is often considered a mistake because it can disorient readers, weaken emotional connection, and blur character focus.

Head hopping can occur in any point of view, but I find authors most often slip up in third person limited (which is probably the most common point of view because of its ease of use and abundant opportunity). We see the characters from the outside—“he said this, she did that”—but we have access to one character’s, usually the protagonist’s, inner world and inner thoughts. Essentially, the camera is always following that character, and we experience the story closely with them. This also applies to dual/multiple point of view when we’re in a specific character’s chapter or section.

So authors will start here, but then when they need to give the reader information that the protagonist doesn’t have, or show a scene that the protagonist is not in, or offer an emotion that someone else feels, they simply head-hop over to a different character, or a different scene, and then switch back to the protagonist. It’s sloppy, clunky, and confusing.

Imagine our protagonist is Ahmed. We’ve spent several chapters seeing the world with Ahmed, having access to his thoughts and inner world, the camera trained closely on him. Then, all of a sudden, the author wishes to show how another character, Aya, feels about Ahmed or sees him in that situation: “Aya noticed his eyes cast down at the table, his sadness sucking the air from the room.” Maybe this continues for a while, and then we move back to Ahmed’s inner world.

Another way I’ve seen this play out is that the protagonist goes to sleep, or leaves the room, and the author needs to show a conversation between other characters in order to move the plot forward or deliver specific information. So they just shift into the other character’s point of view while the protagonist is not present, then shift back when they arrive back in the scene. Again, you can’t do this.

When planning, if you’ve chosen third person limited (or first person, as mentioned above), you must understand that your protagonist must be in every important scene, and any information delivered to the reader must also be delivered to that character. Additionally, if we start the story seeing the world closely with that character and through their lens, we must stay in that lens. We cannot suddenly see a person or situation from the perspective of another character.

If you need other perspectives in your novel, you should choose omniscient, dual, or multiple point of view. You can’t shift the POV when it’s convenient for your plot.

Uneven Development in Multiple POV Stories

Dual or multiple point of view is a popular POV choice in many genres, where we see the story from the first- or close third-person point of view of several different characters. When editing, I often notice uneven development between the POV characters, meaning one character’s arc, voice, personality, etc. is fully fleshed out while the other(s) are less so. This tells me one of a few things about the book’s development.

The author has a favourite. If there is one character that the author favours, or who mirrors their own personal journey most closely, that character gets the most attention and clearest development. Be aware of your own favourites, or characters you personally relate to, so you can ensure you’re not falling into this trap.

Additional POVs were added later in story development, or even after the first draft was completed. Sometimes an author originally develops a story from one character’s point of view and then decides it would strengthen the narrative to add additional points of view. If the time is not spent properly and fully integrating these points of view, it can feel like an afterthought or a bandaid.

Lastly, extra point-of-view characters are added for functional reasons or to fix an issue. I can often tell this is happening when most of the book is in one point of view and then just a few chapters are in different points of view. It’s almost always to see a scene the protagonist isn’t in or to receive information that the protagonist is not privy to. This feels like an afterthought. The choice to add that additional POV doesn’t add anything to the way the story is told; it’s just there to deliver information or put a bandaid on a plot problem.

When you choose to write in dual or multiple POV, every POV character needs to be intentional and important. In most—but not all—cases, it’s best to balance the amount of the story told from each of their perspectives. Each POV character needs to have their own distinct voice, inner world, backstory, and character arc/development across the book. The sections told from their POV should be chosen intentionally. It should feel important that we see that moment through their eyes.

Lacking First-Person Characters

First person is the most intimate point of view you can select, as there is little to no narrative distance between the narrator and the reader. If we go back to our camera metaphor, in first person, the camera is the eyes of the protagonist. Typically, in first-person narratives, the protagonist and their character arc, development, and growth are the story’s engine. The narration of the events, seen specifically through the filter of their eyes and experiences, is important to how the story unfolds.

So their inner world better be interesting! We spend the entire book with them. It will be easiest to write a great book in first person if that person’s inner world is complex and unique—if the lens we are seeing the whole story through adds a level of interest. It especially works well if they’re intelligent and observant of the world around them.

Something I find when I’m editing first-person stories is that sometimes the first-person narrator isn’t compelling enough to hold the whole narrative. If their character development isn’t really what drives the book, or if there’s nothing particularly interesting about how they see the world, or if the author doesn’t give us enough intimacy with them to really take advantage of being in that closest of close first person, the story can often fall flat.

I recently edited a story in first person where the character’s primary trait was her ignorance—that she knew very little of the world. It got boring pretty quickly, though it could have been done well! I felt it was being used mostly to hide information so that it was a surprise to the reader—a plot device—as opposed to intentional character development.

Some fixes would be to potentially have her curiosity and questioning of the world come to the forefront, even if she doesn’t yet have a lot of knowledge. Or the book could have been written in third person limited to allow the narration a bit more distance from the protagonist’s limited worldview.

Choosing the Wrong Point of View

This is a broad issue that encapsulates everything we’re talking about, so I won’t dive too deep. The key idea here is that what matters in the story you’re telling is going to affect which point of view you should select. That takes a little bit of work and planning to figure out what best serves your story.

You need to understand what your story’s engine is—what moves it forward. In my first post in this series about POV, I offered a list of questions to help you decide which POV to choose. Revisit that for some helpful questions to ensure you select the right POV.

[insert post]

Not Using Omniscient Intentionally

Third-person omniscient is a narrative perspective where an all-knowing, “godlike” narrator tells the story using third-person pronouns (he, she, they). This means the narrator is almost like a separate character themselves. They have access to every character’s thoughts, feelings, memories, and perspectives. They can move through time and space, or “walk through walls,” as some folks like to call it. They can also step outside the scene and provide context, commentary, or judgement from above and outside. This narrator almost functions as a character themselves.

Omniscience can appear easy because the narrator has access to everything. It’s too good to be true! You can access all characters, all time, all space. What could be better? But this lack of constraint can actually become the primary pitfall. Freedom can be dangerous when not used well.

Even though the narrator can see into every character’s thoughts, they cannot become any one character. If the narration slips into deep interiority with one character, the POV has shifted. They must stay outside, above the story at all times. This is subtle when it happens, but it’s a POV shift and will create a different tone and potentially unsettle the reader’s experience. It’s as if you have too many tabs open and keep clicking between them all.

Excessive jumping between characters and timelines can also create confusion if not handled carefully. If you zoom around time, space, and different characters too much, it can grow confusing and can be considered head-hopping. Additionally, it’s possible that the reader won’t feel any connection or intimacy with any character, leaving the book too surface-level. In this way, you’re using omniscience as an excuse to have all information available, instead of as a tool for strong narration and a tactful wide lens.

Across the board, point of view is one of the most important craft decisions you can make before writing your book. It’s not just a functional tool or something that can be fixed in the editing process. The point of view you choose shapes how the entire story works and what drives it forward.

Think about that camera-lens idea again—if you see a scene from a wide lens, versus trained on one character at mid-range, versus on a character’s shoulders, the entire experience of the story feels different.

What questions do you still have about POV?
Let me know in the comments.

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Thank you for reading, and if you’re looking for a book editor, as always, please feel free to check out my offerings and get in touch.

For stories that are plot-driven, have a wider scope, or have several to many important characters, another perspective is necessary. In these cases, writers often turn to omniscient narration or multiple POV. These approaches open up new storytelling possibilities because we have access to more characters, but they also come with their own challenges.

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When it comes to the stories I edit, the point of view options I see most often are first person and third person limited. These two point-of-view options are closely related, both working well for stories with strong character drive and intimacy. So how do you choose between them?

Today we are deep diving into first person and third person limited—their opportunities, use cases, limitations, and some questions you might ask yourself to decide between the two.

Read more

Point of view dictates where the camera lens is. Is it sitting on a character’s shoulder? Or floating high above the story world? It dictates whose inner world we have access to and whose we don’t.

The choice is so much more than a functional or mechanical one. It fundamentally shifts the storytelling engine of the book.

What are the point-of-view options? Why is it important to choose one intentionally? How do you decide which one actually serves your story?

I recently posted about everything your Book Editor wishes you would do before you begin writing your manuscript, and on reflection I think choosing a tense and point of view is among the most important.

I will absolutely write another post regarding tense options and how to choose one, but over the next four posts we’re focusing on point of view.

Why choosing a point of view matters

In developmental edits, nine out of ten times POV issues appear in my feedback.

Usually this happens because the author did not choose the point of view before writing, and so they didn’t fully understand its opportunities and limitations.

When they run into those limitations, they have two options:

• find convoluted ways to get information to readers
• or take what feels like the easy way out and shift the POV whenever it’s convenient

I’m sorry, but you can’t do this.

For example, many authors default to third person limited without thinking much about it before they begin writing.

We see the characters from the outside—he said this, she did that—but we have access to one character’s inner world, usually the protagonist’s.

Essentially, the camera is always following that character and we experience the story closely with them.

But then when the author needs to give the reader information that the protagonist doesn’t have, or show a scene that the protagonist is not in, they simply head hop over to another character or scene and then switch back.

It’s sloppy. It’s clunky. It’s confusing.

Head hopping is defined as shifts in the narrative point of view between multiple characters within the same scene or paragraph, usually without clear transitions. It disorients readers, weakens emotional connection, and blurs character focus.

When planning a novel, if you’ve chosen first person or third person limited, you must understand something fundamental:

Your protagonist must be present for every important scene, and any information delivered to the reader must also be delivered to that character.

Understanding these limitations in advance makes planning much easier.

You can begin asking questions like:

• What can I include?
• What can’t I include?
• How will important plot information be delivered?

If you don’t make these decisions early, things get tangled very quickly.

Questions to help you choose a POV

Whose story is this, really?

Who undergoes the biggest internal change over the course of the book?

Who makes the decisions that drive the plot forward?

Who has the most at stake emotionally?

Whose perspective would make the reader care the most?

Who is present for the most important scenes?

Who knows the most about what’s happening in the story world?

Who knows the least—and would that make the story more interesting?

Whose misunderstandings or blind spots could create tension?

Would the story benefit from the reader knowing things the protagonist does not?

Are there important events happening outside one character’s awareness?

Do we need access to multiple characters’ internal experiences?

Does the story rely on intimacy with one character’s thoughts and feelings?

Would a little narrative distance help the story breathe?

Does the voice of the narrator matter as much as the events of the plot?

Would this story feel stronger if it were told by someone reflecting back on events?

Would the story lose power if told from outside the central character’s experience?

Would alternating perspectives deepen the themes of the book?

Can the entire story realistically unfold through one character’s eyes?

Which point of view makes the story feel most alive on the page?

In the next few posts, PAID subscribers will more specific information and guidance about the most common point-of-view choices in fiction.

First, we’ll look at first person vs. third person limited, the two POVs most novels are written in, and talk about the opportunities and limitations of each.

Then we’ll move into omniscient and multiple POV, and when a story actually benefits from expanding beyond a single perspective.

Finally, I’ll walk through the biggest POV mistakes I see as a book editor, including head hopping, accidental perspective shifts, and structural POV problems that can weaken an otherwise strong manuscript.

If you want my most detailed craft guidance, early access to editing tools, and monthly Q&As, please consider a paid subscription.

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Thank you for reading, and if you’re looking for a book editor, as always, please feel free to check out my offerings and get in touch.

As a book editor, I’ve realized dialogue can make or break a novel. When dialogue is good, a reader can fly through it without noticing much at all, simply immersed in the scene as if they’re there in the room with the characters. When dialogue is bad, though… readers can get confused, the book can suddenly feel cliché or elementary, the pacing can slow down, or the reader will wonder if the author has ever heard a person speak out loud before.

But why? What makes bad dialogue bad, and how can you identify it and fix it?

Here, I’m going to share the biggest mistakes I see authors making with dialogue and offer some concrete suggestions for how you can make your dialogue better.

Punctuation and formatting

Let’s start with something simple: it’s become clear that punctuation and formatting around dialogue is still a mystery to many, so I want to clear up some basics.

First, every time a new character speaks, there should be a paragraph break. The dialogue of two characters should never appear in the same paragraph. I also suggest that if dialogue is coming in after a stretch of regular prose, you add a paragraph break for the dialogue to begin.

If there is action or description in the same paragraph as dialogue, it should only be action done by the character speaking, or description about the character speaking. If the action is done by someone else, or the description is of someone else, put it on a different line. Even if the other character doesn’t respond with words but with an action only (like a pointed look, for example), put that action on a separate line to keep the flow of back-and-forth speech.

Actions can often be used instead of a dialogue tag, which is great as it’s more efficient and intersperses dialogue with scene. So certainly use this tool, but ensure that you’re doing it clearly.

If you’re using a dialogue tag—he said, she said, he asked, she shouted, etc.—there should be a comma to set off the dialogue:

“Hello,” she said, casting her gaze to the floor.

However, if you are using action (or literally anything else) instead of a dialogue tag, there should be a period to set off the dialogue:

“Hello.” She cast her gaze to the floor.

I often see authors switching the above rules, using commas where there should be periods and periods where there should be commas. Or often, everything is set off by commas as a default, creating comma splices around complete sentences. I also see folks putting the actions of other characters on the same line as a character’s dialogue, which can become quite confusing.

Over- or under-use of dialogue tags

This one is related to the above, so we’ll go here next. In many manuscripts I edit, there are either way too many dialogue tags or not enough.

If a conversation is between two characters and they are the only ones present in the scene, dialogue tags are only needed at the beginning to establish the players, and then sparingly throughout to add emotion, description, and action along with tags. Otherwise, most tags can be removed. This helps the pacing move quickly and with forward momentum and avoids the repetition of “he said… she said… he said… she said…”

On the other hand, if there is a large cast of characters in a conversation or in the room during a conversation, not enough dialogue tags can result in confusion about who is speaking. Ensure that if dialogue is volleying around to several characters, tags are used often enough so the reader doesn’t get bogged down in confusion.

Too many complete sentences

In an effort to write “correctly,” dialogue can often end up sounding too formal and like written text. People naturally speak in sentence fragments. They interrupt themselves and each other. They trail off mid-sentence, use sarcasm, undertones, and slang. They say boring, normal things, and unless it’s part of a specific character’s persona, they don’t often speak in beautiful sweeping sentences or use large vocabulary words.

Try to release the need for your prose to be polished and correct as you’re writing dialogue, and instead try to write how real people speak.

There are conflicting opinions on this exercise, but I personally recommend it and find it helpful. I even do this while I’m editing other people’s work. Consider reading dialogue aloud. This can help you flag the moments that don’t feel like natural speech patterns, and then you can modulate them to feel more comfortable spoken aloud.

Every character sounds the same (or sounds like the author)

When you write dialogue, it should sound different from the rest of your prose. Building off the point about complete sentences, dialogue is spoken word, not written word, and inherently sounds different in many ways.

Your characters should not sound exactly like the writer of the book. They also should each have distinctions from one another that continue to build their character qualities and emphasize their background and intentions.

Ensure that as you work on character development for each speaking character, you also define how that particular character speaks. Do they have any verbal tics? Do they speak eloquently and at length, or in direct, clipped sentences? Would they use a specific kind of slang or register, and would it be with all characters or just some? What region do they live in, and is there a dialect? Are they in a specific social or age group that has inside jokes or cultural references they use often? What is their response when in conflict: logic, irritation, silence, talking a lot?

Making these decisions (among others) will help you clearly distinguish each character’s dialogue. Once you have this information about each character, when you come to a scene with speech, you can ask yourself what that particular character would sound like and how they would react in that situation. In this differentiation, your dialogue immediately sounds more authentic.

Peter Pan dialogue

I often see novels where the adult characters sound like children, or it feels YA when it’s not meant to. The characters sound like they’re from Peter Pan, even when they’re meant to be fully grown, mature adults.

All the other tips in this post will help with this, but one thing I see often with this issue is that authors explain things on the nose instead of circling them. Most adults don’t speak to explain something. They don’t give background information every time they speak, so you can’t use dialogue purely as a way to deliver information to readers.

They don’t say:

“We’ve known each other for thirty years since we met at science camp in middle school, my dear long-lost friend Karen!”

They speak in response to something. They speak to avoid discomfort, protect themselves, test a boundary, or move a conversation in the direction they want it to go. They may even speak to avoid saying something. Many adults are not actually great at articulating their feelings.

Building off the previous point about every character sounding unique—again, here it’s useful to know how each character’s qualities and story will influence how they react during each scene. Using your character’s arc and motivation in that specific scene, determine what their intention is behind their speech, or what they are avoiding.

If a character is scared, they won’t say “I’m scared” (unless they are, in fact, a Peter Pan character or a young child). Depending on their personality, they might make a joke, get sharp and clipped in their tone, become irritable, or go quiet and say very little.

So keep the reactions and delete emotional explanations, doing the rest of the work through vivid description—not dialogue.

Complex versus simple dialogue tags

There are two types of dialogue tags. The first type is the simple “he said… she said,” and the second type is more complex tags where different verbs and adverbs are used, like “he remarked loudly… she questioned quietly…”

There is much debate on this topic, and I do think it depends on your story, tone, and writing style. But generally, I would suggest about an 85/15 balance:

• 85% simple tags

• 15% more stylized tags when emphasis truly matters

I also mentioned earlier that dialogue tags can sometimes be replaced by actions (with proper grammar and punctuation), and I think this is a smart choice. The actions a speaker takes before, during, or after they speak can say volumes about how they are speaking without needing an adverb every time.

Referring to characters by name

People don’t refer to one another by name often—especially not family and romantic partners. Think about it for yourself. How often do you call your spouse by their first name? Or your sister?

Maybe once at the beginning of a conversation to get their attention, and then likely not at all after that. Even then, with those closest to you, you often use nicknames or pet names.

This one is a personal pet peeve of mine… In so many novels, I see characters referring to one another by first name constantly. It’s weird and unnatural.

Tell me: what questions do you have about writing dialogue? What are your pet peeves when you read dialogue that really kill it for you? I’d love to know in the comments.

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In this post, we’ll cover everything you need to do before you start writing that will make the process of writing, editing, and ultimately getting published, easier (if that’s your goal, of course…

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I knew I needed time and space to focus on my poetry again. I was burnt out from over five years of giving more than half my soul to a job that wasn’t meant for me – and from simply doing too much. Pushing so hard to make ends meet in this capitalist hell hole that I grew further and further away from my inner pulse: poetry. So I knew I needed the residency.

But I didn’t know I needed to breathe out. I didn’t know I needed to be fed, to have every meal cooked for me. I didn’t know I needed the banana cake, its careful caramelization and its care. I didn’t know I needed to walk up the hill, feel my breath and breathlessness, to see the deer and the mountain, to meet myself. I didn’t know I needed to hear the ice freeze and crack and fall and freeze again, the waterfall still relentless against the river. I didn’t know I needed to see the ducks, how they arrived at the river and asked no matter the weather for community and nourishment. I didn’t know I needed so dearly to be quiet. I didn’t know how hard it would be to face myself in the quiet. I didn’t know I needed Nika’s screaming karaoke, or Crystal’s wise and unrushed words, or knowing my new poet friend was on the other side of the studio wall, or Jack’s patience, or the way a mostly quiet novelist lit up when she told a story. I didn’t know that I needed to shake the dust from my mind, nor that my mind had collected dust. I didn’t know I needed to sit by the fire and read a novel and cry when it told me everything I’d forgotten about my own darkness.

There was a part of myself, a big part, I had been leaving to rot. For years, I left her. I didn’t know that I was there waiting for myself in the quiet, in the discipline to show up.

And so here I am after–still struggling to fit writing into life or life into writing – but here, and closer to myself than I was.

***

While in residency, after years of feeling entirely disenchanted with the publishing space (as intertwined with power and the politics of the ivory tower as it is), I started submitting my work again. I submitted to contests and journals and even the New Yorker–because no matter how often I doubt it, I felt a lucid knowing that my work needs to be in the world. I know poetry is my only gift in this lifetime, my first and true calling.

I read two of my poems to a room of beautiful, open souls (the other residents). I love to read my work, but still panging nerves. There was so much incredible talent in the room–so many writers with far more success, books and book deals to their names, while I’ve remained in the purgatory that is “emerging” for what feels like a lifetime. I could feel the energy in the room focus into a fine point receiving my words, though, and it was a nice feeling–to stay together in attention to a moment.

Afterward, a filmmaker named Michelle asked where they could buy my book. “I want to read everything you’ve ever written.” I’ll always remember that comment – its generosity a reminder, a small light. “Tell that to the publishing houses” is what I wanted to say in return. A book deal still eludes me. Maybe if I allow this energy to carry me… maybe this will be my year.

***

It’s very hard, as a poet (though I’m sure other artists and writers also relate to this), to drop into your art practice when you have an hour or two here and there to dedicate to it. It’s less about having time and more about being able to see life through the lens of your art practice, so much so that when you arrive to the page, you’re bursting at the seams. You must remain open enough to see the poetry.

But reality is mostly not this way. A lot of life is a struggle to stay afloat, to stay soft within the hardness of a fascist regime. To seek truth when fact and story are manipulated so easily and openly. How do you write poetry when children are kidnapped off the street by the government? But at the same time, how do you not? How do you write poetry when the sacred and ancient farms of your homeland are being poisoned in an act of war? But also, how can you not? How do you write poetry when the person who created you hates you? But also, you must.

When life is chipping away at your kindness and softness, when the best you can do is make the money you need to survive and put in the laundry every so often. When art only feels right in specified containers.

This is why my time at the Vermont Studio Center meant to much to me. It gave me permission. Time and space not just to write, but to soften, to open myself to my craft and to the tangled things within me that needed room to breathe. I am most often afraid to open myself to these subjects because I fear something in me will break, that I’ll no longer be able to go along with normal life. It was so important to me to be able to descend into the severe vulnerability needed to take in and process all the information, to not go numb to a world that wants us unfeeling.

I felt a lot, uncovered a lot, realized truths I hadn’t yet spoken in my work or my life. I sat with the deep sadness of all that I’ve lost and didn’t fear what it meant to take the cap off that sadness. Because nothing exactly was next, the only goal to be there with what was bloody – to look at it and tell it as truthfully as I could, whether they were my wounds or the wounds of the world.

So maybe that’s why, in the endless and rapid news cycles of horror, Renee Good’s murder hit me particularly hard going into the residency. I had space to let it in. And once I had let something like that in, it disturbed me for days and fueled a deep and rolling anger.

And to know that Renee was a poet… This poem poured out of me almost in one fell swoop of anger and disgust and sadness and bitter hope. If she could have the courage, I could have the courage. She was a poet in the time of empire and so am I–so I will be what she no longer has the chance to be.

I don’t want to wait for some journal to publish this piece. I want to live inside of it with all of you now, all of you who understand. Please enjoy one of my latest poems, written in residency at VSC:

She Was a Poet In the Time of Empire
	For Renee Nicole Good

Snow slopes off 
the roof in sheets, crashes 
violently below. 
Everything is melting 
and the empire insists 
we cannot see
with our own eyes. 
They say she was a poet 
so we share 
this fickle faith, 
this space we make for wonder.
And I am melting 
the world down 
to one consistency
soft enough 
to be spoonfed to the masses.
An old man in Beirut 
went blind from a bomb blast
but he still keeps 
the TV on for the noise, 
his eyes like wide 
open blue seas 
that howl at the moon. 
Part of our money
makes the bombs. 
We are starving.
We are running.
We are staring at every pixel 
on this little metal box as if 
it will make us better. 
They can’t hide it from us now–
the evidence 
is everywhere,
careening across space 
into screens.
And so we resist.
And so we lace up our boots 
and trudge through the slush
and listen to screamy music. 
In the time of empire 
we are freezing
and burning.
They blew up a mountain 
for more border wall
and they unprotected the land 
which was formerly protected
which was 
a very fractionally small 
amount of the land
that only had to be 
protected 
because of colonialism
in the first place. 
I saw a dead fox
on the highway 
and I’ve been obsessed 
with it ever since. 
How it almost looked alive 
except for its closed eyes.
But then again 
I also saw two deers playing
prancing around in the snow 
and it was only my voice
saying “oh my god, deer!” 
that startled them 
back into the woods.
And I was too slow 
to pull out the tiny pocket camera
we all have on us 
that zooms now forty times. 
They cannot hide 
anything from us. 
We are starving 
We are running 
I’ve never had to run 
away from much 
but professional agitator 
is starting to sound 
like a nice calling. 
In the time of empire
everything is melting
and burning and freezing  
and I wish to eat 
everything in sight, 
to take anything that will fill 
this vessel of flesh 
asking for a name. 
After 9/11 my father decided 
to use another name, 
a dissociation from self, 
the sharp american voice 
answering work calls. 
Not assimilation, 
not even fear, 
just ease 
of not having to explain oneself. 
I like that his accent returns 
when he’s tired. 
I wish I could drop 
my guard like that, could drop 
from the roof like snow 
violently to the earth
but my nervous system is all fried, 
spiked up on cortisol
and caffeine and rage.
The world is burning, melting
and she was a poet 
in the time of empire
and they can’t hide
anything from us–no– 
we can see it all clear as day. 

I’ve seen so many manuscripts where I just know if the writer had done some of these things before they started writing, they would have saved a lot of time, money and heartache. We’re writers; researching and outlining and logistical considerations are not nearly as romantic or sexy as the actual writing process, but I promise you’ll be glad you thought about these things in advance.

If you’re more interested in craft considerations regarding how to take an idea for a story and move it toward a book, revisit my previous post, which is all about how to START. It offered generative tools to take an idea and flesh it out until it starts to become a book on the creative and craft level.

In this post, we are looking at more logistical considerations. So, here we go:

Identify the tools you need

The first and most obvious tool every writer needs is a place to write. Will you write in Microsoft Word? In Google Docs? Or do you prefer a more complex drafting tool like Scrivener that is specialized for long-form project management? Scrivener has wonderful features, but also costs money (I think about $60 for a license). I personally recommend just using Microsoft Word and a good file organization system. As an editor, keep in mind that all editors pretty much work in Microsoft Word, using the commenting and tracked changes features to deliver edits to you. We don’t like working in Google Docs. When you query agents, you’re also going to typically submit a docx file.

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That’s why I decided to take that complex question over here to Substack, so I can break the process into something clearer and more doable for you all.

Start Before the Idea Feels Perfect

Curiosity is enough to begin.

Don’t wait for the perfect idea. Inspiration doesn’t always arrive as a lightning bolt. More often, it shows up as a question you can’t stop circling, a concept you keep thinking about, or an aspect of your own life you want to explore through memoir or fiction.

Write what feels compelling to you now. You don’t need the whole thing yet, just enough curiosity and interest to get going. You’ll find that the clarity comes later once you’ve actually written into the project. Thinking about it may never yield the clarity you’re looking for.

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But why? We love to write. We want to be writers. We want to be published authors. We want to dedicate ourselves to this practice. In many cases, it’s because our goals aren’t truly achievable, or because we aren’t setting up the systems and strategies that help us reach them. So here are some ways to help hold yourself accountable to actually achieving your writing goals this year.

Decide when to write and schedule it in.
You might say you want to write every day, but then realize you’re letting everything else take precedence. Your job, or even life maintenance like doing laundry. Any other commitment suddenly feels more urgent than writing. By scheduling your writing as an appointment, by time-blocking it, you’re showing that it’s as important as anything else in your calendar. Once the time is physically set aside, you’re much more likely to follow through and stay consistent. This can also help you set boundaries with those around you. This hour is writing time—it’s on the calendar. Only bother me if it’s an emergency!

Find community for accountability.
Writing groups, writing buddies, or even digital communities can make a huge difference. Surrounding yourself with others who are pursuing similar goals and engaging in community discourage can be inspiring and can help writing feel like a more integrated part of your life. Seeing what other writers are working on and striving toward can motivate you to keep going, too.

Set rituals around your writing practice.
Create a small routine that helps you transition into writing mode. Light a candle you only use for writing. Make yourself a cup of tea before you sit down. Turn on the same kind of music. Take a short walk. Even do a little spell, if that’s your thing. These repeated actions and sensory cues tell your brain it’s time to write. They help romanticize your practice and signal that it’s time to get creative and focused. You may even find over time that the juices start flowing earlier in your writing session when your brain is set to these specific cues.

Change how you set your writing goals.
Instead of word-count or page-count goals, try time-based goals. Rather than saying, “I need to write 1,000 words today” or “I need to edit five poems,” try saying, “I need to write for one hour today.” We’re artists. Our energy, inspiration, and flow change day to day. Some days the writing pours out effortlessly. Other days you may spend time crafting a single important paragraph, rereading a section, or doing deeper research. As a poet, I sometimes spend an entire hour editing just a few lines. All of these modes of working are valid and necessary.

Word-count goals tend to measure your worth by productivity alone, which is unfair and often discouraging. They don’t account for the variety inherent in the creative process. Time-based goals, on the other hand, measure dedication and consistency. They set you up to succeed by honoring the act of showing up. Some writers also like pairing time-based goals with tools like pomodoro timers or writing sprints within their scheduled blocks.

Get feedback.
Whether that means hiring an editor, joining a writing group, taking a workshop, or exchanging pages with a trusted writer friend, knowing someone else is out there waiting to read your work can be incredibly motivating. Feedback and conversation can spark new ideas, help untangle tricky sections, and push you to refine what’s already there. Having another brain inside your process is invaluable. Even the most experienced authors have editors, agents, and trusted colleagues they talk through ideas with. Finding feedback helpful is not a weakness.

Set aside a dedicated writing space.
Where will you write? This might sound simple, but having a space that’s already set up can make all the difference. A desk with your notebook or laptop, or just a corner of the kitchen counter. A comfortable chair. Clear the surface. Designate it for writing. Hang up a mood board. Bring over a desk lamp. Keep your favorite pens nearby. Surround yourself with books that inspire your project. Even if you’re not actively referencing them, they help anchor you in the world you’re building. Create a vibe that grounds you and invites you into the work.

If you want to write but don’t have a space that supports it, it’s much harder to sit down and sink into a session consistently.

Immerse yourself in inspiration.
Read books in your genre. Read new releases by authors who feel aligned with you. Follow research rabbit holes that feed your project. Visit art museums, or go to dance or theatre performances. Walk around your city without headphones, or spend time in nature to reconnect with your body and the world. Book a retreat or residency if you can. Read craft books and treat writing as a skill you’re continually honing.

Inspiration can be especially powerful when your writing feels flat or stuck. Just be mindful not to let inspiration replace writing altogether. You can’t avoid writing by reading more books or doing endless research. Inspiration should feed the work, not delay it.

Alright, writers. We’re in this together. Let me know in the comments how you’re staying accountable to your writing practice in 2026!

Thank you for reading, and if you’re looking for a book editor, as always, please feel free to check out my offerings and get in touch.

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