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We all know about Chekhov’s gun. The playwright wrote to a young dramatist saying: “One must never place a loaded rifle on the stage if it isn't going to go off. It's wrong to make promises you don't mean to keep.”

And quite right too. Bang, bang, do svidanya, tovarishch, and all that.

But? Oh hang it:

• He was Russian, and Russians drink black tea with jam, and how far can you trust anyone who does that?
• He was a dramatist and we write novels, and those two things are obviously related but they’re also obviously not the same.
• He was clearly rather prone to giving that advice, since he’s recorded as giving it at least three times, and at a certain point, you do wonder if he wasn’t simply enjoying the aphorism as much as truly believing it.

The biggest difference between the novel and the play is simply that of length.

Chekhov’s Cherry Orchard runs to about 18,000 words. Macbeth runs to 17,000. King Lear, 26,000.

Now, I don’t know about you, but my character’s barely pulled on her jeans and pistol-whipped her first victim by that point in a book. She’s barely done brushing her teeth. If your chosen art form is (by our lofty standards) rather short, then damn right you can’t fool around with guns that don’t fire.

Novels, I think, can be messier. They are built to resemble life, and life is messy, so I don’t really see why novels can’t be messy.

Now there are strict limits here, of course. Your plot needs to be plotty. Your resolution needs to feel like it’s summarising and concluding some important thing that has occupied the reader for the past 350 pages.

The ragged edge

But a ragged edge? Some questions answered only with a shrug? For me, that’s fine. Here’s an example from one of my books. The question is how Parry (a kidnapper) ended teaming up with a bunch of monks. Here’s all I say about it:

Parry’s living in this valley. Maybe starts going to one or two services in the monastery just for the hell of it. Or because he had a guilty conscience. Or to build himself some cover. Who knows? Anyway, he gets serious. He finds God—or his own crazy and violent version of God—and he decides to make some changes in the way he operates …

And Parry’s new buddies, these monks, are more than a bit crazy themselves. They have this big silence and reflection and abstinence thing going. They have a deep sense that people who grew up with God in their lives have become deaf to His word …

Now, quite honestly that’s more of a hand-wave than an actual answer. Structurally speaking, what I say here is “Maybe … or … or … who knows? Anyway …”

For me, that’s fine. Even in a crime novel whose purpose is to solve mystery, that kind of thing is fine.

Here’s another example, at the end of another novel:

‘All a bit messy and last minute, but anything to get the job done.’

‘Yes, exactly. If we work hard enough, I expect we’ll find a link between Devine and Wormold. At any rate, I’m pretty sure that Devine gave the order.’

Jackson thinks about that. Gathers more daisies. We’re motoring now. Him gathering, me stitching them.

What we have here is a slightly disengaged conversation about how Bad Guy A ended up conspiring with Bad Guy B, but in the end, the business of making a supermassive daisy-chain seems more important and that thread is never picked up again.

I think so long as the text somehow acknowledges that yes, some questions remain unanswered, it doesn’t really matter that they exist. And, me – I prefer it. It feels more authentic, makes the world more real.

The long game

And at that same time, I also love the ridiculously delayed punchline – a way of tying things up neatly, but 10s of 1000s of words later than the reader might expect.

So in one of my books (chapter 29) this bit of dialogue takes place:

‘Twll dîn pob Sais,’ I say.

‘Pardon?’

‘Doesn’t matter. The address of the cottage, please.’

That phrase in Welsh isn’t explained. The matter is just left. In Chekhovian terms, that gun may be unimportant, but it feels very not-fired.

Except that, a full twenty chapters, later, we get this:

[In deepest Glasgow,] Two kids pass my car. One of them raps on my window. I wind my window down and say, ‘Yes?’ The kid says something in an accent so thick I don’t understand it. I reply in Welsh, the same thing as I said to Sophie Hinton.Twll dîn pob Sais. Every Englishman an arsehole. He goes off muttering. He might as well be speaking Icelandic.

That’s the punchline. We didn’t understand what Fiona said to pretty Sophie Hinton at the time, but now we do, and the delay is entertaining. It’s like the author was remembering that twenty chapters back, the reader felt a little moment of discomfort – tiny, but nevertheless a little negative prick – and, ta-daa, the author, smiling says, I hadn’t forgotten you. Surprise! Here’s your little gift. In the process, we understand something more about the Fiona / Hinton relationship. The whole thing feels more delightful because of the absurdly long pause.

Or here’s another example. Fiona is talking to the abbot of a small monastery in Wales:

‘You’ll recognise our patron, of course?’

It takes me a second, but I realise he’s talking about St David, a Welsh bishop of the sixth century and the patron saint of Wales.

‘David,’ I say. ‘A local boy.’

‘Local enough. He was preaching at the Synod of Brefi to a large crowd. Because those at the back couldn’t hear him, a small hill rose up beneath him. The dove here settled on his shoulder.’

‘That’s his big miracle?’ I ask. ‘Making a hill? In Wales?’

It’s hard to think of a more superfluous achievement.

That moment is complete in itself. No little prick of disappointment for the reader. But then, ten chapters on, we get this:

I chide him. ‘You’re thinking modern again, Inspector. You need to think medieval.’ That doesn’t illuminate things for some reason. So I explain, ‘This is the monastery of St David. He’s their patron saint. Now David’s big thing, his signature miracle if you want to put it like that, was raising a hill at Llandewi Brefi—’

‘A hill? In Llandewi? Why would anyone—?’

‘I know, don’t ask. But …’

And what this does is to bring the reader onto the inside of the joke. It’s like we and the reader are old buddies, with a shared set of jokes and references. When Inspector Burnett stumbles into the set-up, the reader has the delight of recognising it – “Oooh, I know this one!” We don’t even have to complete the joke properly to get that pleasure, and Fiona moves rapidly on.

One last example. In the Deepest Grave, Fiona proposes to fake an antiquity. Here she is talking with her two co-conspirators:

George stares at Katie. Stares at me. And back again.

‘Do you mean what I think you mean?’

Katie nods. ‘Exactly. Yes. She wants to make—’

I interrupt. Say, ‘Caledfwlch.’

Katie: ‘What?’

‘Caledfwlch. The damn thing is Welsh, not some fake Latin, medieval French knock-off.’

Now there’ll be some Welsh-speakers who know their ancient history and for whom that little passage is as plain as day. But the vast majority of readers, will be thinking huh? On the one hand, Fiona has just told us exactly what she intends to make. On the other, virtually no one has any idea what she means.

It’s that Chekhovian gun again, very not fired.

Only then … and again, many chapters later we get an incident at an archaeological dig in the south of England. The researchers have just extracted a remarkably ancient sword from a burial pit, when armed robbers swoop in, and steal it. Here’s what happens afterwards:

[The robbers] drive off. The whole thing takes two minutes, maybe less.

For a moment, just a moment, there is perfect stillness.

A bird, a lapwing maybe, calling aloft. The burr of the motorway.

Then Tifford, Dr Simon Tifford, Senior Archaeologist and a man now very close to tears, breaks the silence.

‘They’ve stolen Excalibur,’ he wails. ‘They’ve stolen fucking Excalibur.’

And, aha!, now we know what Caledfwlch is. We solve that little moment of mystery some 75 pages earlier, but there’s laughter here too. The reader’s saying, “Ah! You even told me what the thing was, and I didn’t guess, and I probably should have done, and now you’ve got an archaeologist wandering around swearily talking about the world’s most famous-ever sword. Yep, you got me there.”

It's the length of the delay that delivers the pleasure – all the joy rests in that huge delay.

The ragged edge, the long game

So yes, I do love a ragged edge to a story. A sense of nothing ever too tidy, questions still nibbling like minnows. But I do love jokes and puzzles where the punchline takes an age to come – that gun finally fired, but long, long after it was expected.

That’s it from me. Last night, I ate stewed apricot, served very cold, with big soft pillows of whipped cream. Toasted hazelnuts on top. Oh my. Summer is lovely.

FEEDBACK FRIDAY / The long game

Do you have any much-delayed punchlines or reveals in your book? Things held out of sight for a long period, then released to delight? Tell me about it. I want some quotes. Let’s feast on some actual text again – it’s been too long.

Log into Townhouse and share it in this forum.

Til soon.

Harry

Whether you're halfway through a novel or haven’t written in a while, short stories can be such a refreshing way to get back into the flow. They’re quick, creative, and honestly brilliant for warming up your writing muscles—especially if you’re in need of a nudge.

Maybe you’re thinking of entering a competition, or just want to shake things up with something totally different from what you’re working on. Either way, short stories are a brilliant space to experiment— with voice, structure, characters, all of it—without the pressure of a huge project. And the best part? Writing more short stories really does make you a better writer.

If you’re looking for a spark of inspiration, we’ve put together some writing prompts to help you get started. Who knows—one of these might just turn into your next favourite piece.

Short story writing prompts

Let’s start broad. These creative writing prompts can be adapted to any genre, and they’re perfect for sparking those first few sentences when you’re staring at a blank page.

• A character finds a letter in an old book—addressed to them, but written 100 years ago.
• Someone makes the exact same wish every year on their birthday. This year, it comes true—but not in the way they imagined.
• A shop that only appears at night opens its doors to one unsuspecting visitor.
• A character decides to disappear for a day without telling their family. What happens when they return?

These short story prompts are especially handy for short story writers entering competitions—judges often look for originality, a strong hook, and a satisfying ending, all of which can grow from a well-formed idea.

Romance short story prompts

For those who love a dash of longing and connection, these romance-themed ideas are ideal:

• Two rival street performers keep trying to outdo each other at the same spot. Their acts get more elaborate... and more flirtatious.
• A character agrees to be someone's fake date for a wedding—only to realise too late it's their ex’s wedding.
• Someone receives a text from an unknown number. They start replying. It becomes the highlight of their day.
• A florist keeps receiving anonymous deliveries of rare flowers. Each one comes with a clue.

Romantic short stories are a great way to test chemistry and tension between characters in just a few pages—and who doesn’t love a heartwarming twist?

Funny short story prompts

Want to make your reader laugh (or at least raise an eyebrow)? Here are some humorous creative writing prompts to play with:

• A ridiculous item gets posted to the wrong address.
• A character joins a cult by mistake after trying to sign up for a free yoga class.
• A character joins a protest thinking it’s about climate change—turns out it’s to save a beloved local sandwich.
• A character tries a new mindfulness app, only to find it starts commenting on their life choices. Loudly. In public.

Funny short stories are a brilliant way to experiment with voice and timing, and they’re often memorable in competition entries for all the right reasons.

Fantasy short story prompts

Need something a little more magical? These short story ideas are great for fans of speculative fiction:

• A character sells spells for other people, but why won’t their own spells work for them?
• A secret guild of mapmakers redraws the world every night, but one accidentally erases their hometown. Now they have to fix it before midnight.
• A witch gives a character the ability to read minds for one day only.
• A character decides to bottle and sell dreams. One buyer wants a refund.

Fantasy is where short stories get to play big. You don’t need a thousand pages to whisk a reader off to a world with dragon-crawling forests, talking crows, or secret societies in the sea. In just a few scenes, you can explore magic, power, good vs evil—or just what happens when someone opens the wrong door. Its imagination turned up at the highest volume, and the best part? You make the rules. Then you break them.

Scary short story prompts

Ready to chill your readers’ bones? Try these scary short story prompts for a darker twist:

• A character moves into a new house and finds the exact same furniture they left in their old one—right down to the scratches.
• Every time someone looks in the mirror, the reflection smiles just a second too late.
• A voice on the baby monitor starts giving warnings.
• A child draws the same faceless figure every day, saying it visits them at night.

Short horror stories are brilliant for bumping up tension and mood—and they make deliciously scary entries for seasonal contests (hello, Halloween looking at you) or eerie little anthologies.

Psychological thriller prompts

What happens when your character can’t trust what they see—or themselves? Try these psychological thriller prompts and see just how deep the rabbit hole goes:

• A man wakes up every day to a voice recording he doesn’t remember making. Each day, the message gets more disturbing.
• Someone starts to suspect they’re being followed. But when they finally confront the stalker, the person insists they’re the one being followed.
• A therapist realises all of their clients are dreaming about the same person—but none of them know each other.
• A woman’s new housemate is perfect. Too perfect. And she’s starting to mirror the woman’s habits… exactly.

Short stories are a perfect match for psychological thrillers—tense, twisty, and packed with just enough uncertainty to leave readers checking over their shoulders. These stories thrive on doubt, shifting perspectives, and the slow unravelling of what we think we know. Whether it’s obsession, memory, or a truth hiding in plain sight, it’s all about playing with the mind.

Historical fiction prompts

What might your characters uncover—or risk—when the past refuses to stay buried? Try these historical fiction prompts to dig into secrets, scandals, and moments that still echo through time:

• During WWII, a woman running a bookshop starts slipping coded messages between the pages for the resistance.
• A photographer in the 1920s captures something shocking on film—and must decide whether to share it.
• In 1950s Soho, a jazz singer becomes the target of surveillance after befriending someone with political ties.
• A lighthouse keeper in the 1800s battles loneliness and the strange lights that appear offshore every foggy night.

Short stories are a brilliant way to zoom in on a single moment, a hidden voice, or a tiny rebellion that never made it into the textbooks. All you need is a sliver of time, a strong sense of place, and someone with something to lose.

Take a break, try a prompt

Whether you're deep into your novel or juggling a few too many writing plates, stepping away to write a short story can feel like a creative exhale. Prompts are brilliant for breaking through blocks, playing with new characters, or sparking an idea that surprises you and takes on a life of its own!

And who knows—your next short story might just turn into something bigger than you expected.

Want more inspiration?

Check out these other blogs on short story writing...

Short Story Structure: The Art of Writing a Great Short Story

How To Write A Short Story In 10 Steps

10 Great Examples of How to Begin a Short Story

That’s right: eight months. Less than a year.  

If you’re like I once was – that is, if you’ve spent years thinking about writing a novel but rarely putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard – this timeframe might sound mad. But, as I discovered when I finally gave writing a proper go, showing up to your manuscript consistently can yield far quicker results than you might think.  

Now, having published four books, I’d say a good quality draft (90,000 words or so) takes me around six months to pull together. So, what took me from dreaming about writing to actually doing it? I didn’t undergo an overnight personality transplant or discover a magical wellspring of motivation. (Unfortunate, as that would still be super useful). In fact, I did that most cliched yet crucial of things. I gave myself permission to try.  

As if to signal to myself that having a bash at writing a book was 100% allowed, I signed up for a creative writing course. Ultimately, this made all the difference to my craft, discipline and self-belief – but in the short-term, following a structured programme felt far more comfortable than simply winging it in the hope I’d one day reach ‘the end’.  

If you think you’d benefit from a similar experience, our eight-month Novel Writing Course might be exactly what you need. It’s designed for writers who have great ideas but feel they’re flying blind when it comes to plot-planning, character development, worldbuilding and so on. 

Not ready to commit to a course? With a little planning, plus positivity and persistence, you can still get your book written (or at least well underway) in less than a year.  

Feeling fired up? Here’s what to do next… 

Eight steps to writing your novel in eight months

1. Plan your story upfront

George RR Martin could have written about the bitter divide between House Planner and House Pantser. For the uninitiated, the debate comes down to the difference between people who simply must have an outline before they begin drafting and those with the brass neck to sit down at a blank screen and just… see what happens.  

I joke, of course: there’s no real argument. We writers are a peaceful people, and most accept there’s no right or wrong way to work. Personally, though, I need a proper plan before I get going – and if your ambition is to write a book within eight months, I don’t think risking ‘dead time’ (where you produce thousands of words that may serve no clear purpose) makes much sense.  

If you’re a Premium Member, you can access our Build Your Book Month content for free. This includes a very helpful plot-planning spreadsheet and a bunch of fantastic video lessons on the three-act story structure. (Not a PM? You can buy the content as a standalone course for £99, or join us to get this, plus plenty more writing resources).  

Alternatively, you might want to consider the Save The Cat approach, the five-act story structure or the snowflake method, all of which will allow you to create an overall ‘shape’ for your story before you start writing. However you choose to plan, doing so will effectively stress-test your novel idea, helping you work out whether it will extend into a narrative that’s tens of thousands of words long.  

On the Novel Writing Course, students spend their first month focused on planning their novels, and I’d suggest devoting a similar chunk of time – weeks, rather than days – to interrogating your story arc independently. Imagine the events, twists and turns you’ll include in your plot and work out how they’ll affect the journey your characters go on. Rushing through this stage tends to be a false economy: fail to answer key questions now, and they’ll come back to bite you later.  

2. Consider your novel's characters, point of view and setting

Who are you writing about? What problems do they have, and how does your protagonist – or their situation – need to change in order for your story to be satisfying? Remember, a novel isn’t really about what happens: it’s about how what happens affects characters readers care about.  

Are you going to write in first person, third person, past or present tense? (You might have to experiment a bit with points of view in order to find out what’s most effective.)  

Where will the action of your story take place? Is there research you need to do, or worldbuilding you need to undertake, before you can start drafting in earnest?  

These questions need consideration both before you begin writing, but also as your story unfolds. Again, the Novel Writing Course offers tutorials and one-to-one support with all this. Meanwhile, if you’re a Premium Member, you’ll find there are multiple masterclasses available to help you.

3. Develop a novel writing routine

If you want to draft a novel in eight months, you’ll need to commit to writing regularly. Establishing a routine you can stick to (at least most of the time) is key, so ask yourself: when do you work best? How many hours per day, or per week, do you think you can spend on your manuscript?  

You might want to think in terms of word count milestones, rather than time spent at your desk – though this can be demotivating on days when the sentences won’t flow! That said, you’ll definitely need to set an overall wordcount goal that makes sense for the genre you’re writing in. If your book is commercial fiction, for example, you shouldn’t be aiming to write a 1000-page tome.  

You might want to put together a novel writing timeline that takes your final goal, plus any holidays or days off writing you’re going to need, into account. This will ensure you stay on track, but also that you keep your workload realistic. 

Whichever way you do it, create a plan that will make showing up to your work-in-progress something that feels natural: automatic. Being enrolled on a course did this job for me. I didn’t want to be the classmate who hadn’t done her homework, so I made sure to show up with fresh words every time I was supposed to! 

Finally, why not incentivise yourself a little? If you’re planning to write first thing in the morning, pair your early start with an extra-swish coffee. Alternatively, if your book work needs to wait until after the kids are in bed, make settling down with it feel like a treat: grab a cuppa, light a candle and settle in.  

4. Don't be afraid to deviate...

Having a plot plan shouldn’t stifle your creativity. See it as a roadmap for your adventure in story-telling – not a tunnel that offers only one way through.  

It’s not unusual for events to play out slightly differently on the page than they did in your head, or for a minor character’s voice to end up louder than you’d anticipated. Exploring opportunities when they arise – indulging these moments of inspiration – is where much of the true joy of writing is found.  

So, allow for deviations on the road to finishing your story – so long as they don’t take you to a completely random destination! 

5. Push perfectionism aside

If you’re writing to a deadline, you can’t afford to edit every single sentence as you go.  

Resist the urge to perfect each paragraph you produce in favour of pushing forward with your plot. If you must, highlight chunks of text you’re not convinced about so you don’t forget to examine them later – but focus on finishing your book before you worry about making every word beautiful.  

6. Write with authenticity

‘Sticky patches’ in writing often occur because getting the words out feels like pulling teeth. In those moments, I ask myself: am I trying to write something that doesn’t feel true, or in a style that’s not natural to me? 

Finding your own voice is a process, and it’s something we cover in detail on the Novel Writing Course.  

If you’re feeling blocked, try stepping back. Approach the plot point or scene you’re working on afresh. Write it honestly, with no spin – in the way you might if your only aim was entertaining a good friend. See what happens.  

7. Think about sharing your story

Different people choose to use buddies or beta readers at different stages of their writing journey – but constructive criticism can be helpful during, as well as after, drafting.  

As I worked on my first book, I found my friends’ and mentor’s feedback helped me avoid making mistakes that might have tripped me up – but their encouragement also kept me going when writing felt too hard and I lost confidence in myself.  

One of the best things about the Novel Writing Course is the incredible level of one-to-one support every student gets from their personal tutor: more individual guidance than is offered on any alternative out there.  

8. Power through your novel - then pause

The difference between people who write whole novels and those who don’t is almost always that the first group simply refused to give up. There are plenty of talented writers out there who’ll never complete a full manuscript – not because they lack the ability, but because they aren’t tenacious enough.  

With a plan and a writing routine in place, your job is actually pretty simple: keep showing up.  

If you do, in eight months (or within a realistic timeframe that works for you), you’ll have a full draft – a truly incredible achievement.  

When you get there, have a rest. Give yourself a little distance from your draft before diving back in to edit it.  

If they feel ready, students on our Novel Writing Course have the option to upgrade to the Ultimate Novel Writing Programme after spending eight months on their drafts. This involves extra tutoring on self-editing, the different routes into publishing and how to get a literary agent. For Premium Members, there’s Debi Alper’s fantastic Introduction to Self-Editing Your Novel course: the perfect, self-guided route into refining your own work.  

Whatever kind of support you seek with your writing – whether it’s through a course, Premium Membership or engagement with our Townhouse community – I wish you all the best with getting your novel written.  

You really can do it – and in eight months, too!

Hello again! Welcome back to my series of blogs on what it’s really like to be a student on the Ultimate Novel Writing Programme.  

Month three focuses in on the topic of Setting. So, place and time, essentially. We’re talking descriptions of the immediate environment, descriptions of fashion, technology and social norms relevant to the point(s) in time when the story unfolds. It means descriptions of weather too, of the creatures, plants and other people who inhabit the same environment. But the most enjoyable aspect of Setting is the symbolism it enables. This feels really important. Delivering layers of symbolism feels like constructing a secret language between the reader and I. Huge fun. 

My stories are limited only by the stretch of my imagination. My characters can be put anywhere in space and time within the known universe, and if I was writing fantasy or science-fiction, even beyond these. So, it stands to reason that, out of the infinite possibilities, the setting I plump for must have significance. I chose it – I must have reasons. Why select it, otherwise? That’s true of the macro decisions on setting, and the micro. Why 2001 as the time-setting for the story? Why July? Why 6 o'clock in the evening? Why that rainbow in the sky? Why that country and county? Why that town? Why that café? Why that seat?  

This is how I get to perform magic. Via linguistic sleight of hand, the setting can make things apparent in flashy or subtle moments as the story requires. I can lay down a new and unexpected symbolism, with a ‘Did you see that?’ ambition for how the reader will experience it. Obviously (because I am writing books, not performing card-tricks in front of a live-audience) I have to hope the symbolism works in the way I intend – like seeds intended to flower in the imagination. For me, the fun is the idea that one day someone will smile whilst making a connection to their humanity, and murmur: ‘Yes, that’s right. I get that.’ 

In the story that I’m writing while studying on the Ultimate Novel Writing Programme, the main setting is a Suffolk village commune in a grand manor house. The house has been both a Nunnery and Friar Monks Seminary before it was purchased by the commune. It’s inspired by a real-life commune I often go past on long dog walks. The buildings alone are fascinating. But the real reason it is the main setting for my two main characters is that I can play with its meaning - how that relates to and foreshadows the emotional arcs my characters will experience. How they both hide from certain aspects of themselves, shutting themselves off from emotions, but also their definition of what family is, relative to community, relative to society. 

My previous manuscript (currently out querying literary agents – nine rejections so far, thanks for asking) features a woman held unknowingly between life and death. So, I placed her on a Suffolk beach next to the sea-ruined wreck of her ancestral farmhouse, also inspired by real-life events. What metaphor could be better than to sit between land and sea, between life and death, between the choice to carry on or give up? A liminal setting for a liminal story. I had a lot of fun stitching in descriptions of the beach, choosing specific colloquial plant names – Dead Man’s Bells is a real plant name, for instance. I used the rhythm of waves and how they move the land, and worked in the unknowable depths and power of sea and storm. Uncontrollable forces extinguished a whole village practically overnight, so I linked that to the choices my character made – and the emotional storms which had the capacity to ruin her life.  

Is it clear how much I love wielding the craft skill of setting in my writing? I hope so. When I began writing seriously again, it was setting I began with – big, wide-angled shots of the environment my characters moved through. Long passages with all the words! Yes! As tutor Anna Vaught says, I wanted *all* the words! Creating setting is how I came back to writing. I have a theory many new writers begin in this way, describing the world of their story before considering depth of character or even plot. 

I’ve learnt to be more judicious in my deployment of setting. The Ultimate Novel Writing Programme is helping me understand how it grounds the reader, how swiftly the description of a highly-specific setting can connect the reader’s imagination to the story.  

I now know how being selective in what I highlight, using vivid nouns and active verbs, can more effectively deliver meaning, conjuring the how and what the character does and experiences more successfully in the reader’s mind. Setting was a foundational stone of my writing, and this month is definitely underpinning why I still love it so.  

Happy writing, until next time!  
 
Rachel 

Rachel Davidson is a long-term Premium Member of Jericho Writers prior to joining our Writer Support Team, Rachel loves helping hopeful writers, such as herself, to solve their problems and take a step or two closer to achieving their writing dreams. Rachel has previously self-published a trilogy, the first of which achieved bestseller status in fourteen Amazon categories in the UK, US, Australia and Canada and is now seeking her traditional publishing debut with her latest manuscript. You can find out more about Rachel via her Instagram @RachelDavidsonAuthor.

Mostly, as you know (you know, you know), 

These emails are long (too long! too long!), 

But then again (and again and again), 

At least they’re fresh (So fresh! So fresh!) 

But this one isn’t. It’s a reprint of something I wrote five years back. I came across it at random, and I liked it, and I thought you might too. It goes – with some teeny-weeny adjustments – like as follows. 

(Well, almost. I just wanted to call your attention to the ABSURDLY low price we’ve put on our Ultimate Novel Writing Programme mentoring taster sessions. In a nutshell, for £20 you get to have a twenty-minute mentoring session with one of the tutors from the Programme. If you’re halfway interested in doing the UNWP, then this is a brilliant option for you to explain where you are in your writing journey, what you want next - and to ask any questions you may have. But the offer isn’t restricted to UNWP-ers, so if the idea of chatting with a book expert is interesting to you, then jump on it. More info here.) 

OK. Here’s the email proper...

***

Into my inbox, crept this little beauty from Cameron: 

Hi Harry,

Inspired by your own recent releases, I thought it would be a fruitful exercise to compile a list of things I wish I had known before embarking on a writing journey. 

It has been quite liberating and given me great perspective on how far I've truly come as a writer. 

But I am curious: Of the many hard-fought lessons you've learned throughout your career, could you identify one as the single most important? Or, phrased another way, which one do you wish you would have learned first? 

The short answer, of course, is that I don’t know and can’t quite engage with the question.

Most writing wisdom is born of experience and interlocks with every other piece of wisdom. So a question of characterisation is also one of plotting which is also one of theme which is also to do with sense of place, and so forth. 

So mostly I come out with some stupid line that gets me away from the question and we move onto the next thing. 

Only – 

Actually – 

It did occur to me that there is one big piece of writing wisdom that I don’t talk about as much as I ought to. It’s simply this: 

You are many writers. You aren’t just one. 

I started out writing books in the same broad vein as Sidney Sheldon and Jeffrey Archer. I hope there was a little more to my books than those comparisons suggest, but they were big, old-fashioned, non-violent romps, with plenty of family drama. They were fun to write. 

My first two books were contemporary dramas, but then, for no especial reason, I turned to a historical theme. The books were still in the same broad mould, but they had an extra richness because of the early twentieth century backgrounds. 

And then –  

Well, fashions changed and sales dwindled. My publisher would have been happy for more of the same, but not at the kind of advances I wanted. So I moved on again. 

I wrote popular non-fiction. 

I wrote niche non-fiction. 

I did some ghostwriting work. One of those projects was a really lovely one which hit the hardback and paperback bestseller lists. Another one sold in plenty of territories, made me a big fat bundle of money, and was just a joy to work on. 

And then, I changed again. I came back to fiction, to crime fiction this time, and found a character and niche I loved. 

I do still love that niche, but (as you may have noticed) I’ve also had time to update some old how-to books and republish those. And I’ve turned a bundle of these emails into a whole new book. Oh yes, and I have a mad-as-a-box-of-snakes literary project on the back-burner. And I get a glitter in my eye when I think of some new non-fiction work I’d love to write. 

I’ve also been traditionally published, self-published and am half-minded to flirt with digital-first publishing via a specialist firm.

Almost none of that was in the game plan when I started out, and I’m not unusual. 

Yes, you have a few careers like John Grisham’s. His first book did OK. His second book (published in 1991) spent almost a year on the NYT bestseller list and sold a bazillion copies. After that, he’s bashed out a book a year, pretty much. His name has become almost synonymous with legal thrillers. 

And even so – Grisham has written non-legal novels. He’s written kids’ books. He’s written non-fiction. He’s written short stories. 

All those things are side dishes to the main thrust of his work – the raita to the tikka marsala – but I bet when he was writing those other things, he was fully engaged by them too. Even when you’re a hugely productive author who dominates your particular genre, it turns out you are multiple writers too. More than you ever imagined at the outset. 

So my answer to Cameron is simply: 

Be multiple. 

Find other stories, other genres, other wings. 

You can’t know yet what will work for you and what won’t. Life, it turns out, is not that interested in game plans. 

And look, I don’t know your exact position. But I do sometimes see writers working for seven years, ten years, some huge stretch of time, in order to bring one piece of work to publication. 

And sometimes that’ll be the right thing to do. But mostly it won’t. Mostly you try one thing – learn lots – see if it works – and if it doesn’t, put it down. Try a new thing. Something else in the same broad genre or something totally unrelated. 

Your passions are like a pack of monkeys. They want to skip chattering across the jungle. 

So let them. Chase them with your notebook. Catch the fruit they fling down from the trees. Watch them in the rain and in their nests at night. 

You may not be the writer you think you have to be. That a frightening thought, but it’s also a liberating one. It liberated me, not once, but repeatedly. 

My guess? My guess is, that if your writing career has any longevity, you’ll find the same is true of you too. 

***

There you go. Not quite that fresh-baked smell, that warm-from-the-oven, butter-me-now, golden-flakes-on-the-chin sort of freshness that you’re used to. But still toothsome, no?

I mean – if you had a choice between that email and being thumped with a very small ruler, or having a bad-tempered copy-editor repetitively criticise your use of semi-colons, you’d take the email every time, right? 

Me too, old buddy, me too. 

***

FEEDBACK FRIDAY

Go on. Tell me. What monkeys chatter in your jungle? What book are you writing now? What others have you written or have started? What other books are in contemplation?

This isn’t quite a feedback-type exercise, I guess, except that there’s something about putting these things out into public that changes you a bit. So: put it out there - by which I mean, log into Townhouse and share it in this forum.

And that idea that you’re not yet really to mention to anyone? Tell us about that too. Let’s enlarge ourselves. Let’s multiply. 

Til soon. 

Harry 

As thrilling as it is to share what I’ve learned in my 20+ years as an editor, one of my favorite experiences as an instructor on Jericho’s Novel Writing Course and Ultimate Novel Writing Programme is watching students learn from each other. 

As the course progresses, and as they get to know and trust each other, they go from suggesting what an author could do to improve their project to what they should do to fiercely protect whatever it is that sparked a story to begin with. Over time, they begin enthusiastically coaxing one another to fan those sparks into something astonishing. 

Whether you’ve written a chapter or a complete draft of a novel, chances are, at some stage, you’re going to feel like you’ve gone as far as you can go on your own. When that moment arrives, it’s time to get some feedback. 

For some writers, it comes when they’ve been over (and over, and over…) a draft and have hit the point where it’s all trees, no forest. It’s time to get some perspective, see what’s resonating with readers, and find out what still needs improvement. Other writers find themselves at a crossroads with their project: a story could go this way or that way, and the implications of choosing either route are huge. In this scenario, an outside reader is a brainstorming partner to help them think through the options.

In either case, sharing your work with others can be a little scary. It’s a vulnerable moment, and having a plan for how to request, receive, and implement feedback can help you make the most of it.

1. Choose wisely

Many writers reach out to those closest to them—friends and family—for feedback, and while that can yield constructive criticism, don’t be surprised if you get a resounding “I love it! It’s perfect! Don’t change a thing!” from dear Aunt Bernice. While that’s lovely to hear, it’s not especially helpful. 

Cherish those champions—that note from your aunt will help you power through your umpteenth revision—but choose readers who are ready to help you improve, too. 

2. Give your readers some direction

Don’t be afraid to guide your readers about what kind of feedback you’re looking for, and avoid asking them yes or no questions. “Do you think the novel is working?” is going to yield less helpful feedback than “What can I do to improve the pacing in the last thirty pages?” 

A list of 5-10 questions can help ensure readers give you feedback you can actually use – and invite them to share anything else they want to with you, too. Whatever you do, please don’t instruct your readers, “Just tell me if I should never write again!” 

Everyone — yes, you included — can improve.

We’ve talked about editing for five weeks now. Those of you following Debi Alper’s superb online Introduction to Self-Editing Your Novel course are reaching its end. (The course is free to members. Interested? Learn more.) And there’s one big topic we haven’t yet broached.

What about third-party help? Do you need it? And when do you need it? And what does an external editor do that a keen self-editor cannot? Today we’ll crack open that can of worms – or rather, we’ll use the handy little ring-pull which enables easy no-crack access.

And let me start by saying two things.

Number one, you don’t get better than a Jericho Writers editor. We use absolutely first class people and we scrutinise their work and if they don’t meet our standards – consistently – they will stop being a Jericho Writers editor.

The quality of editing is not something you can easily tell from a resumé. We have some spectacular editors who have not written bestsellers, or commissioned Hilary Mantel and Dan Brown and the entire Where’s Wally series. But those people are spectacularly good at editing, which is why we use them. So: if you do choose to get third-party editing, you’re in very safe hands with us.

Number two: you don’t need third-party editing. You may want it. You would certainly draw value from it. But you don’t need it. My first book never got third-party editing before I went out to agents. (I wanted it, but couldn’t afford it). But I secured an agent without too much fuss, then had a multi-publisher bidding war for the book, and it became a bestseller. So: good results can happen with no early third-party involvement.

And yes, it’s true that more and more writers are using external editors early on in their journey, and yes, it’s true that that does somewhat alter an agent’s perceptions of what to expect. But that doesn’t amount to me saying that you need an editor. You may not. I got an agent because I wrote a 180,000 word manuscript and I got an agent sitting up till 2.00 in the morning because she couldn’t go to bed until she’d finished it. That’s the basic outcome that you need to achieve. There is no single way to achieve it.

So – I’ve plugged our services (honestly) and I’ve told you (also honestly) that you may not need them. But now let’s dig into the ins and outs of all this. Here are some guidelines to hold onto.

Know the craft

You probably won’t get a novel to a truly publishable standard unless you know your craft. I don’t care how you acquire that knowledge – books and blogs, festivals and feedback groups, courses and classes: they’re all good. But know your craft. You won’t be properly attuned to the countless errors you can make until you’ve done that groundwork.

Edit hard – harder than you think

My first novel was 180,000 words long. When I got to the end of it, I realised I’d got better as I’d gone on. So I deleted the first 60,000 words and rewrote them.

I edited so many times that (going slightly crazy and getting close to the finish line) I went through the whole damn book just to delete surplus commas. (A copy-editor later put them all back, but she put a nice curl on them and settled them just so.)

As a very rough rule of thumb, half your time should be spent writing and another half editing. If one half is going to be bigger, I’d make it the editing half.

I stress this, because you will get vastly more value from a JW editor if you’ve done the work yourself first. Sometimes we get people who send us their manuscripts, and we come back with a report that says Character X is missing this, and Plot Point Y is awry because of that and so on. And the writer tells us, in effect, “Yes, I know all that, but if I fix those things, then what?”

And … well, we’re not magicians. We can only read what’s on the page. Ideally, you would only come to us for editing help if (i) you find yourself going round in circles or (ii) you just don’t know what to do next. But put in the hard yards yourself first. We can be much more productive if you do.

Nothing wrong with testing the water first

Approaching agents is free. Getting editing help from us costs. So a perfectly sensible strategy is this:

1. Write a book
2. Edit the heck out of it
3. Send it to around 10 agents; see what they say
4. If they take you on, then yippedee-doo-dah. Happy days. If they don’t, then …
5. Either:
   1. Re-edit the work if something an agent has said gives you a flash of insight. You can send it out again if you genuinely feel that flash has been transformative. or
   1. Come to us for a manuscript assessment.

I wouldn’t go crazy with the agent submissions. I think it’s just disrespectful to bombard agents. But sending out material to 10-12 agents? Nowt wrong with that.

How to use advice

Because I’ve just spoken about agents and any feedback you may get from them, let me just say now that editorial advice is only ever advice. It’s not a command. It’s not a stone tablet, ablaze with light, brought wonderingly down the slopes of Mount Sinai.

If a particular comment gives you a moment of insight, of recognition, of YES, then work with it. If a comment just doesn’t quite make sense to you, then leave it. Or, to be more accurate: consider it. Very often, an editor may feel a discomfort around X, but their practical suggestion as to what to do doesn’t feel right. In which case, figure out if you feel the editor was right to have that discomfort (they usually are), then consider what you want to do about it.

You are the boss of your own words, always. You should never write text at someone else’s bidding if it doesn’t feel right to you. As a very rough guide, about 60% of the time, you’ll feel that an editor is spot on. A further 20% of the time, you’ll think, “right issue, wrong solution” and go your own way on the topic. And there’s a good chunk of the time where (especially if you’re a stubborn sod, like me) you just think, “No, I like what I wrote” and take no action at all.

When you really, really should come to us for help

Mostly, I think it’s totally up to you when and whether you want to use our editorial help. There’s just one category, where I think you’re pretty much nuts if you don’t use us. I’m thinking here of writers who have had a lot of “almost but not quite” type rejections from agents. If you keep coming close to the prize, then – sweet Lord – get yourself over the line. There’s nothing more powerful than third-party editorial advice in improving a manuscript. It won’t always work to get you over that line, but there ain’t nothing better.

What help to get when?

The default for almost everyone should be a full manuscript assessment. With that, you get a pro editor to read every darn page of your work and give you a detailed, detailed report on what’s working and (especially) what isn’t working and how to fix it. This, in effect, is the backbone of any big publisher’s editorial process. Every manuscript I’ve ever written has gone through that process. Every single one has been improved (except maybe for one, where I had a terrible editor who butchered the book, then published it badly, and lost a ton of money on it. But that really is a rare exception.)

If you’ve already had a manuscript assessment and you think you’re close to the finish line, then you could think about getting a development edit. With that, you get the detailed report AND on-page text commentary and correction. I don’t really like that as a starter service though for anyone. If your book has some fundamental issues (and most books that come to us do), then the on-page correction is effectively swatted aside by some of the more structural edits that are needed. It makes no sense to wallpaper a room, if some of the walls are in the wrong place. But if your manuscript is close to the finish line, then, for sure, a development edit has its place. Our office team won’t let you do a dev edit before you’re ready, so feel free to have an open discussion with them about options.

And finally, there’s the whole area of copy-editing with lighter (proofreading) and heavier (line-editing) flavours available.

Most writers won’t need those services at all. If you get traditionally published, your publisher will pay for all that stuff. You can just sit back and admire those handsomely placed commas.

The group that will certainly need copy-editing is anyone heading for self-publishing: these days, you just can’t hope to win with a shoddily presented manuscript. A scattered group that may think copy-editing is wise includes anyone with sensible reason to doubt their presentation (eg: English as a second language, or dyslexia.)

Either way though. The “edit hard yourself” rule still applies. Sometimes we get a really poorly presented manuscript and the writer is assuming that our copy-editor will just work a kind of magic with it. Not so, old buddy, not so. Your job here is the same: bring the editor the cleanest manuscript you possibly can. I guess a copy-editor picks up 95% or maybe even 99% of issues, but if you have hundreds and thousands of errors and problems scattered through the text, no editor will pick them all up.

The sorrow and the joy

Don’t expect editorial feedback to be an all-joyous thing. It isn’t. You bring us your precious baby hoping for us to dart her off to some Festival of Glorious Infants … but instead, we’re much more likely to tell you that your lovely babe has some terrible problems and will need immediate surgery.

I honestly want to tell our editorial clients to wait 48 hours before emailing us after an MS assessment. You’re likely to have some shock and/or upset, before that gives way to a kind of relieved euphoria. The euphoria, were it to speak, would say (in ancient Greek of course, but I’ll translate), “Wise editor, you have found what is worthy in my book and what is to be cast out. I venerate all that you have done and know that my feet are now set on the path of Righteous Endeavour.”

You will feel relieved (to have the issues made clear to you) and energised (because you know just what to do and how to do it.) You should also feel the book rebuilding itself as you work on it. You should feel it becoming steadily and predictably better as you go through your to do list.

For some writers, this is a one-off process. For others, it isn’t. There’s no right or wrong; only what’s right for you.

If you want to know more, contact our office team (you can just hit reply). They won’t try to sell you anything that’s not right for you. Our only real instruction to them is “honesty, always.”

That’s it from me. Debi’s Last Assignment follows …

Til soon, 

Harry 

FEEDBACK FRIDAY:

This week, it’s Assignment Six from Debi Alper's Introduction to Self-Editing course.

Revise a scene from your novel, applying the techniques you’ve learned from this course. Share in the forum. Make sure to add feedback on others.

(This fantastic, self-directed video course is FREE to Premium Members. If you’re not one yet, you know what to do: join us here!Alternatively, you can buy the course as a one-off for £99.)

When you're ready, log in to the forum and share your work. Make sure to add feedback on other people's work, too!

Til soon.

Harry

Before I wrote Flat 401, I worked for over a decade as a clinical psychologist. I spent years learning to understand the human mind and people’s experiences, and training to be able to help people overcome emotional challenges. At the time, I didn’t think of it as ‘preparation for novel-writing,’ but it turned out to come in handy!

Below are five ways my clinical background has informed how I write; I hope you might use these ideas too.

1. Tension: threat, not just action

In Compassion-Focused Therapy, we talk about the threat system - the part of the brain that activates when something feels dangerous. Importantly, it doesn’t distinguish between actual threat and perceived threat. The same group of physiological responses can be triggered by a near car crash or by a passive-aggressive text from your partner.

In fiction, this means tension doesn’t require a gun or a chase scene. It can be built on what a character believes might happen: being found out, losing face, hurting someone they love. If your character feels threatened - socially, emotionally, psychologically - the reader will too.

Tip: Identify what your character is afraid of losing (status, safety, love, control), put it in jeopardy – and make sure the reader can see and understand this.

2. Complex characters often don’t act in their own best interests

In the therapy room, people rarely show up with clear motivations. Or, they might express a motivation (‘I don’t want to be depressed or anxious’) but have understandable difficulty getting on board with the path towards that goal – because it’s hard.

Characters don’t need to be likeable (it’s often said), but the more memorable ones do need to be layered. Often, the richest characters are the ones whose behaviour is coherent, but not always free of contradictions.

Tip: Ask yourself, what does this character do that inadvertently sabotages themself? Put some of that into action by showing the unintended negative consequences of them pursuing (or avoiding pursuing) their goals.