Our Articles

The whole Jericho Writers team agrees that, at this year’s London Festival of Writing, our Friday Night Live competition was a little bit special. For a start, it was on a Saturday – but leaving the misnomer aside, we were bowled over by the stellar standard of the entries we received.

Anyone who was in the dining room that night would surely agree that our finalists – although writing in diverse genres – had one thing in common. Their work was accomplished, affecting and intriguing.

A month on, we wanted to reflect on what made our entrants’ best work so impressive and look at some of the more constructive feedback our judges had to offer.

What we loved

Strong opening lines

Giving your novel a killer first line sounds like an obvious thing to do, but it’s not as simple as it might seem. Opening sentences shoulder immense pressure, often doing multiple things at once. They tell us something about our protagonist and the world they live in, hint at events that will be central to the story and strike a tone that will carry through the novel, setting up its genre and style.

We loved finalist Tori Howe’s arch, amusing line: “Our Christmas tree was definitely dead”, as well as Davina Bhanabhai’s devastating opener: “I spend my forty-fifth birthday identifying the dead body of my only child”.

Want to nail your own novel’s first line? Remember that this doesn’t have to be the bit of your book you write first! Hitting upon the perfect opening sentence is the sort of thing you might find easier to achieve in retrospect, when your draft is well underway and your characters and their world are firmly established.

Voice

What makes a strong narrative voice? It’s a question we get asked frequently, and – slightly annoyingly – the honest answer is you just know it when you read it.

Voice was something our Friday Night Live judges commented on frequently this year, highlighting the individuality and authenticity of many entrants’ writing. Sophie Holme’s entry, which made the live final, was a perfect example. Rich with wry wit, the first 500 words of her memoir are also shot through with a melancholy that hints at the darker themes her work explores – among them, the state of psychiatric care in the UK.

If you’re keen to develop your narrative voice, confidence is key. Know, right down to your bones, who your characters are, what the stakes are for them and how what happens in their world will shape them. Then you can tell their story with the sort of authority that resonates with readers – in a voice that, without needing to shout, demands their attention.

World-building... without info dumping

We had lots of fantastical, spooky and speculative entries to this year’s competition – and the best among them managed to establish the worlds their characters lived in without clumsily offloading key information. In her romantasy extract, finalist Isabel Norris made the smart move of drip-feeding just enough facts to let the reader orient themselves in unfamiliar surroundings, striking the perfect balance between providing details and provoking questions.

Friday Night Live winner Kate den Rooijen, in her speculative YA entry, achieved the same effect – allowing readers to conclude that her main character was dying at the same moment the protagonist realised this herself.

Things to think about

'Writing in'

Many of us do this, and it’s a very normal part of the writing process. For the uninitiated, ‘writing in’ is the act of producing scenes, or even whole chapters of a manuscript, whose (often unconscious) purpose is enabling you, the author, to work out who your characters are and what is going on with them.

The challenge is knowing when you’re writing in, and identifying those scenes or chapters as (gulp) potentially superfluous to the story you’re telling. Starting your novel in the right place is a skill – and to some extent it’s dependent on your ability to gauge how much ‘writing in’ content makes it into your final manuscript.

Our very best Friday Night Live entries this year boasted strong beginnings that took readers straight to the heart of action, setting, stakes and character, rather than explaining them. This is crucial for establishing a sense of pace and hooking your reader upfront.

Structure and style

We saw some Friday Night Live entries where judges praised “beautiful writing” but added that “the sentence structures chosen made it hard to follow”. In other cases, there was switching between tenses and points of view within extracts, which our judges found confusing.

Readers also said they found that, in a few cases, the genre of an entry didn’t quite tally with the style it was written in – often because the voice or narrative point of view felt jarring. It’s worth remembering that, if you’re writing a thriller, it needs to feel like a thriller from the very first page. Likewise, contemporary women’s fiction needs to open with a protagonist we can empathise with, in a setting readers will recognise. As one of today’s teenagers might put it: the vibes have to be right.

Over-writing

Finally, it’s no surprise that a small handful of our entries felt a little over-written. When you’re setting your work up to be judged, the temptation to keep embellishing it can be difficult to resist!

What is over-writing? It’s arguably a subjective concept, but it’s about using more words, more imagery and more bells and whistles than are needed. It can also be about making the same point in multiple ways when stating it simply would be more impactful.

Sometimes avoiding over-writing is about using one perfect word instead of five not-quite-right ones: getting to the heart of a feeling or experience in a way that feels true, rather than dressed up or manufactured.

Our advice? Don’t allow complex prose to obscure the point it’s supposed to be making. Ensure your words are meaningful, not just artfully arranged.

Our sincere thanks to everyone who took the time to enter this year’s competition. It was a privilege to read your work, and we can’t wait to see what you come up with next year.

Hello again! Welcome back to my series of insights into what it’s like to be part of the Ultimate Novel Writing Programme.  

This month feels like a deeply personal and challenging one: we’re spending the month covering character, in all its facets. I have a theory that this aspect of writing is where the maxim, “Write what you feel,” comes most to the fore. I see myself and my experiences in every main character I’ve ever written, to a greater or lesser extent. I hear my values in their dialogue. I recognise the resonance of my soul in theirs and, to be perfectly honest, I can’t actually imagine writing stories in any other way.  

I’m not talking about writing characters that match only my characteristics, my physical attributes, my socio-economic categorisation, my place of birth or the places I’ve chosen to live in. For instance, the two main characters in the manuscript I’m writing on the Ultimate Novel Writing Programme are, respectively, a male, 60-year-old, ex-special forces vagrant with PTSD, and a 20-year-old orphaned woman, living in a Suffolk commune. Both have significant powers of clairvoyancy.  

This, to probably nobody’s surprise, is not my actual life experience. No, what I mean is that I want to populate my stories with people who connect me to the commonality we all share: the frailty, the bravery, the drag of secret shame, the lift of delicate hope, our mortality and the knowing, innate within, that at some point this life will end. Beneath everything, I believe we’re not all that different to one another.  

I have another theory that the characters who arrive for each of us writers are embodiments of a particular, and highly personal, call to romantic adventure. The types of characters that turn up for me are an embodiment of what adventure means to me. They’re configured according to what my next lesson is, my next challenge. Us writers, us artists, us humans – we’re not built for safety. I reckon we’re built for lives of progress and questing! The characters that have gathered in my imagination across the years are not mere chance or some random coincidence – they mean something to me. In pursuing them, getting to know them across the one-hundred-thousand or so words I write, as I carefully observe them, record their actions and reactions, I am changing myself. My hope is that I am skilled enough to render them accurately, such that the spirit of adventure is a shared one – recognised in the hearts and imaginations of readers.  

I asked my writer-friends how their characters came to them. They spoke of their characters becoming great friends, of feeling shy of them at first, of falling in love with them. They even spoke of writing them as a form of magical possession; of being inhabited by a spirit who wishes to be known, sketched and seen. I love that idea. 

Aren’t the best books, the ones that stay with us, comprised of characters who we recognise in some way? There's a relatability to them, their humanity playing out in ways that make it easier to identify ourselves in all our perfection and limitations. It was always a book that enabled me to put words to a particular feeling or emotion. Penny-drop moments of concentrated complexity can be delivered in a sentence or two, like a light going on: “Oh, that’s it!”  

My final theory, therefore, is that it’s only books that can deliver this straight-to-the-point, I-get-it feeling. Paintings can move, sculpture can awe, music can inspire, films can amuse. But the written story is the sharpest, truest, longest-lived art form.  

Why? Because stories feature people in close-up, specific focus (no matter what narrative/psychic distance the author wields) and, being constructed of words on a page, they require complex focus and brainwork to read. Imagination takes effort, or sustained cognitive engagement, as the men in white coats might say. For this reason alone, it behoves us writers to come up with the most compelling, intriguing, daring (in all forms of courageous thought and action) characters we can muster – as a gift to both our own growth, but also to our readers. And where else better to go so wholly into the practical aspects of your story and your characters than right here on the Ultimate Novel Writing Programme?  

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.

Crime readers are a discerning bunch and if you asked a hundred what draws them to the genre, I’d put money on the words “pace” and “tension” topping most lists. You can have a beautifully constructed plot with an exquisitely satisfying ending – but unless you keep the reader promising themselves just one more chapter, your efforts will be wasted. 

Pacy, gripping crime fiction is hard to sustain over 80k plus words. It’s both exhausting and cruel to the reader to try to achieve it by writing fight after car chase after clifftop shootout. Plot and action can’t do all the lifting, so here are three lower-octane aspects of writing that will keep the screws turning… 

Character 

In the words of acclaimed US author Dennis Lehane, ‘You create a bunch of characters and let them bounce into one another. That’s how a good story happens.’  

But how? First, set your protagonist and antagonists up so the reader will care about (not necessarily like) them.  

• What kind of person are they?  

• What do they want most in life?  

• What would they kill / die for?  

• What are their secrets?  

• How do they justify their behaviour to themselves and others? 

• Why are they and their opponents such adversaries?  

• Why does the fight / journey / case mean so much to them?  

• What are their redeeming / damning features? 

Now, use every opportunity to set up conflict between them. That doesn’t mean them brawling every time they meet – but keep ratcheting up the stakes. Make your antagonist dump impossible jeopardy on your protagonist time and again, culminating in the mother of all showdowns. 

Your cast will not only carry the story, they are the story. It’s not the events themselves that matter, but the impact each has on your main characters: both in the moment, and as their arcs, and that of your story, progress. 

Setting 

You don’t even need people to up the ante. One of the most beautiful crime novels I’ve read this year is All the Colours of the Dark by Chris Whitaker.  

In this scene, Saint, a young girl, ventures into the wilderness in a last-ditched effort to rescue her kidnapped friend, Patch. Without once mentioning how she feels, Whitaker lets the setting do all the work:  

She checked her map a dozen times before she found a hard yellow sign. CAUTION MINIMUM MAINTENANCE ROAD LEVEL B SERVICE ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.…A tractor sprayed with mud, its scoop left buried in the dirt. The track fed the mouth of woodland so dense she slowed as possum haw leaves slid to a gulley… Saint splashed through a stream crossing, her sneakers soon filled with the brace of cold. … above ravens watched her like prey. At the first fall of rain she looked through a canopy that stammered light as wind parted it.  

For me this is the gold standard of conjuring terror through setting. Vivid descriptions peppered with metaphors of abandonment – ‘the scoop left buried in the dirt’ – and fear – ‘her sneaker filled with the brace of cold’. These are images to die for, in my humble crime writing opinion. 

Take how Stevenson, in The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, through the rise then fall of the fog, evokes incredible eeriness as Mr Utterson travels to find Hyde, wanted for murder: 

The fog lifted a little and showed him a dingy street, a gin palace, a low French eating house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and twopenny salads, many ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many women of many different nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a morning glass; and the next moment the fog settled down again upon that part, as brown as umber, and cut him off from his blackguardly surroundings. This was the home of Henry Jekyll's favourite; of a man who was heir to a quarter of a million sterling. 

Dialogue 

We all know to ‘show, not tell’ where appropriate, and dialogue is one of the strongest ways of vividly moving a plot on. Without info dumping, by using character traits and speech patterns you can build tension, create conflict and even craft legendary scenes (remember the ‘You can’t handle the truth’ courtroom exchange in A Few Good Men?)  

Some great tips for dramatic dialogue are to: 

• Create and sustain subtext through unspoken thoughts and memorable lines 

• Build conflict, remembering less is more so avoid melodrama 

• Avoid niceties and fillers; make every line count 

• Reveal something new, however small, in each passage 

• Use action to underline meaning and drama 

• End on a dramatic high. 

The key to great dialogue is authenticity and differentiation. If you can hear your characters’ distinct voices, as if they’re people actually speaking and sparking off one another, you have the makings of a thrilling scene with escalating tension that races the story along. 

Throughout the Jericho Writers’ Crime and Thriller Course, we study all these techniques. It’s fascinating how the students adapt to applying the principles and examples we focus on, and how dramatic their stories become as a result.  

Try them for yourself and see how they work for you. 

The internet is practically bursting with content on the writing routines of best-selling authors. But these writers already make a living from the craft. Their schedules often feel completely different from those of aspiring debut authors, who might be juggling a day job and caring for dependents while trying to find any spare moment to write. So, is a writing routine necessary – and if so, how can it be tailored to suit you? 

A novel (or non-fiction book) for adults is roughly 80,000 words long. To complete a draft in a year, you'd need to achieve an output of 6,650 words a month (or 1,500 words a week). Viewed like this, the task doesn’t seem insurmountable. And there’s nobody saying you have to finish that first draft in twelve months, either. This is where establishing a writing routine comes in. 

Below, I’ve looked at the writing routines of some of my aspiring debut clients, alongside those of well-known authors: 

Fawzia (aspiring debut): “I have three hours a week to write. That’s it. I’m a mum to two young children and I tell myself I’ll write in the evenings, but I’m too fried. My three-hour stint (when the kids are in childcare) is gold dust. Although it doesn’t amount to a huge word-count, it’s all I’ve got. Without that time, I’d go mad!” 

The famous author: Haruki Murakami rises early, and runs and swims at intervals to break up his desk time. In his words, “Writing a long novel is like survival training. Physical strength is as necessary as artistic sensitivity.”  

Claudia (aspiring debut): “My kids are at school full-time. I teach part time, so I manage to dedicate one day a week to writing. I start as soon as the house is empty and leave everything, including housework and lesson planning, until after the kids are home. I’m not a slave to wordcount because I can’t be. I just have to ringfence this time, and use it as best I can.” 

The famous author: Jodi Picoult starts her narratives already knowing the conclusion, then works backwards to find out how to get there. Jodi’s approach to writing is that it’s a ‘proper’ job and requires an 8-hour day.   

Andreas (aspiring debut): “I live alone. I’m lucky to be able to write during the day, and schedule my paid work in the evenings. I’ve so far turned out an impressive word-count on a weekly basis, but often it’s sketchy and gets deleted and rewritten. But so long as I’m writing, I’m trying my best, even if it’s a long-term work-in-progress.” 

The famous author: Kate Mosse explains, “For me, the writing comes at the very end of the preparation and planning, which might take four or five years. When I write, I start very early in the day – maybe 4 o’clock – with a cup of strong, sweet black coffee and my tiny laptop… I then write for, say, seven/eight hours a day, before disappearing off for a walk or a swim or anything that keeps the old bones moving. After that, a quiet evening with the family… ready to begin again the next morning.” 

Padraig (aspiring debut): “Now the kids have grown and flown, I reserve Saturdays for writing. I guard my Saturdays jealously (it’s become a bit of a family joke). I don’t care how slowly I write, so long as I can keep working on my book that sacred one day a week.” 

The famous author: David Mitchell notes, “I could probably write for ten hours a day if I had them, but I’ve got two young children, so I can either be a halfway decent dad or I can be a writer who writes all day. I can’t really be both. As things stand, I might clock in three hours on a poor day, and six or seven on a productive day. Sometimes… I forget the time until my long-suffering wife begins to drop noisy hints.”  

The final words must go to Kate Mosse, because her writing routine advice fits any lifestyle or circumstance: “Five minutes a day are better than no minutes. You might not yet have time to write that ‘big’ novel you’ve been planning, but everyone – whatever their responsibilities for working, caring, life – can find five minutes a day. Keep a pad and paper by the kettle… or send text messages to yourself. Look at people in the street and think of how you’d put them on the page with just three words… when you do have time to write, you’ll be match fit and ready to go.” 

Four Tips for Establishing Your Writing Routine: 

• Decide when (and how long) you can write for each week 

• Set a ‘time-aside’ goal, or a wordcount goal – and be realistic!  

• Be kind to yourself – sometimes life gets in the way 

• Give yourself time off, too.