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We just spent a couple of weeks with Kurt Vonnegut and an irascible Elmore Leonard. I was going to keep the series going with lists of rules from other writers, but I couldn't quite find a list that had enough grit to feel substantial.

So instead of a one-author list, here are some suggested rules or bits of advice from a Hotch-Potch of Writing Genius.

Before that:

DON'T FORGET!

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Raymond Chandler: "When in doubt, have a man come through the door with a gun in his hand."

I admire RC hugely: I think he’s one of the great American writers who (as I like to point out) was also a great English one – he was educated at the same public school as PG Wodehouse.

Now, on the one hand, Chandler wasn’t being serious. He was talking about the pulp fiction industry in America, where he cut his teeth, and which did not greatly concern itself with seriousness of purpose.

That said, action matters. Decisive plot twists matter. They propel a story. That’s obviously true of genre, but it’s true of decent literary fiction, too (though a plot twist here may be less obviously material than a man with a gun.) And if a story is stalling, then throwing in a major plot development? Good advice, always.

Michael Moorcock: "My first rule was given to me by T.H. White, author of The Sword in the Stone and other Arthurian fantasies, and was: Read. Read everything you can lay hands on. I always advise people who want to write a fantasy or science fiction or romance to stop reading everything in those genres and start reading everything else, from Bunyan to Byatt."

I think this is really good advice. I do think that authors need to know the terrain of their genre pretty well, but I think that limiting yourself to that genre is a mistake. The more widely you read – across genres, across time and across nations – the more your head will fill with possibility.

That also says that it’s more important to read lots of authors than it is to read lots of books. If you read one Patricia Cornwell novel, you’ll probably learn almost as much from it as if you read 20. Read twenty different authors instead, and make sure that one is French, and one Japanese, and one Egyptian, and one has been dead for 200 years, and so on.

P.D. James: "Increase your word power. Words are the raw material of our craft. The greater your vocabulary, the more effective your writing. We who write in English are fortunate to have the richest and most versatile language in the world. Respect it."

That sounds like a good wholemeal-loaf type rule. Not exciting, but you know it’s good for you. But – I don’t really agree with it. I think you know enough words. But do you use them?

When did you last use any of the following words in your writing?

Honeysuckle | friable | acolyte | steeple | vertiginous | ammonite | curio | trepidation

You know all of those words. But it’s easy when talking about lovely summer scented flowers to say just “lovely summer scented flowers”, or perhaps to get as far as thinking about roses and lavender. It’s easy when thinking about something with a flat spiral structure to use the term “a flat spiral”. But wouldn’t those thoughts be better extended by using the terms honeysuckle and ammonite? Not every time, of course, but sometimes?

So: you don’t need to add to your word hoard. Just use the damn hoard.

Zadie Smith: "Don't romanticise your 'vocation'. You can either write good sentences or you can't. There is no 'writer's lifestyle'. All that matters is what you leave on the page."

Damn right. Don’t be precious.

You don’t need to write with a fountain pen in a notebook covered in black silk. You don’t need to wear a kimono. It doesn’t matter if your upstairs neighbour plays horrible music. I don’t care if you don’t have the table you wanted in your local coffee shop.

Write.

Put down sentences, as mediocre as you like, then shape them up so they work. Then move on to the next one. Make sure your book holds the reader’s interest. Then go again.

Billy Wilder (screenwriter): "A tip from Lubitsch: Let the audience add up two plus two. They'll love you forever." And another rule: "In doing voice-overs, be careful not to describe what the audience already sees. Add to what they're seeing."

Yes! Let the audience do the work. If you do summarise something, do so after the reader has already figured it out, so you’re consolidating an understanding, not creating it.

And obviously, we don’t have voice-overs exactly in novels, but we do sort of, when an interior monologue comments on the action just described. So be additive always.

The real point here is that nothing engages the reader as much as the detective work of figuring out implication from sub-text. Why would so and so say that to thingamajig? Why use that word? Why actually did that coffee cup get broken? It’s those tiny questions that keep a reader glued to your book. Character and plot and setting and dialogue are all just tools to create a really strong adhesion.

Feedback Friday / Your rules

Go on then: your rules of writing. Maximum of ten. And fewer than three? Bah, you aren’t trying. What works for you? What have you learned? You’re welcome to include rules that apply to editing, agents, publishing and all that. When you're ready, log in to our shiny new Townhouse and post yours here.

Til soon.

Harry

Last week, we sat down with Kurt Vonnegut and talked rules for writing. He smoked a lot and cracked pistachios, and there was a little green pistachio chip stuck in his moustache during our discussion of rules 4-7, but we had a good time. My hangover the next day … not so good.

Today, I report on my chat with Elmore Leonard who, to my surprise, spent much of our dialogue wandering around in the costume of an 1812-era naval commander and roaring things like, “Make it so, Mr Webb” and growling about an ill-set mainsail. I had no hangover after that, but my hands did smell of burned gunpowder for some days after.

El’s rules of writing are:

1. Never open a book with weather

Phooey. That’s silly. Open a book with weather if you want to. I did once, just to annoy him. Take a look at the email subject line if you want to guess what I wrote.

But – purposeful. Writing about weather can’t be just a way to write yourself into the book. There has to be purpose to it. Purpose to everything always.

2. Avoid prologues

Well, yes–ish.

I think there are roughly two kinds of prologue. One is just an apology for a boring opening. So you have a battle scene by way of prologue that basically says to the reader, “Please stick with me over the next 50 pages, because there will be something exciting to follow, I promise.” I have once written a prologue rather like this and for roughly that reason. Big El thundered at me for that one, and promised a ‘carronade of grapeshot’ if I should do it again.

But the other sort of prologue is one that changes the meaning of the text the reader is about to read. A classic example here is from Donna Tartt’s A Secret History, where the narrator reveals a murder that hasn’t yet taken place. That means the next 100-odd pages are spent thinking, ‘How does this group of friends collapse to the point at which it murders one of its number?” The book became a Whydunnit, not a Whodunnit.

Even Big El let that one go without a threat of being fired on.

3. Never use a verb other than "said" to carry dialogue

El, honestly? I mean, yes, mostly use ‘said’, I agree. But ‘never’? That’s absurd. So, here’s a bit of Fiona dialogue where I twice use words other than say:

‘Tea for two,’ I tell the waitress.

She asks if we want anything to eat.

‘What do you want, sweetheart?’ I ask my companion, but don’t expect, or get, an answer. ‘A bacon roll, maybe,’ I say to the waitress. ‘That’d be good.’

It’s ridiculous to suggest either of those verbs feels wrong or wordy or out of place.

4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb "said"…he admonished gravely.

And OK, now this is silly. I just checked one of my books and – well, I hardly ever use an adverb, but I did find this:

Aaron removes my hotel from Caernarfon. ‘You can’t put a hotel there,’ he says, with an edge of impatience. ‘You’ve got to get the property first.’

And this:

Coad’s face undergoes another change or two. Shadows chasing over ocean.

He says softly, ‘Because they’re not crazy. And I am. You want to know what I think.’

Now, to be fair, I searched the word “says”, and I started at the beginning, and these were the first examples I found, and the second of them (the first true breach of EL’s rule) was 44,000 words in.

So do I breach that rule often? No. Is it fine to breach it occasionally? Of course.

5. Keep your exclamation points under control. You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose

Ha! I thought I was going to agree with that one, but I don’t, or not quite the way Elmore’s telling it here.

In the same 109,000 word novel I’ve been checking, I found 15 exclamation points. All of those were in dialogue – things like “Duh!” or “Fuck’s sake!” Those things would I think have been just plain mispunctuated without an exclamation point. But outside dialogue? I essentially never use an exclamation point. Two or three per 100K words sounds excessive to me. But inside dialogue? And if the punctuation is there simply to note a manner of speaking rather than as a way to ‘create’ drama? Well, just use them. No one dies.

6. Never use the words "suddenly" or "all hell broke loose."

I have definitely never used the phrase ‘all hell broke’ loose in one of my books. I don’t need to check them to know that.

But suddenly? Poor old suddenly? What’s wrong with it. Here’s an example from the same book that involves (sorry) Crime Scene Investigators trying to get an internal body temperature from a heavily frozen corpse:

In the end, the CSIs got a power-drill with a 10-mil bit and drove it through Rheon’s frozen back. By the look of it, they had to push through about an inch of frozen crust before getting to the tissue below. When the bit suddenly slid into the soft viscera, a splatter of blood and bowel contents spurted out, hitting the CSI across goggles and paper suit. He swore. I laughed. Watkins looked angry and impatient, which is probably just her way of laughing.

Now that’s not a way to add fake drama to a scene. It’s just a way to explain the movement of a drill bit that moved first slow, then fast. The word is perfectly OK.

That’s now four rules which are basically silly and the two before that were dubious. What does that teach us? Well, that a genuinely great writer may end up saying some slightly silly things when paid to write a column for the New York Times. That doesn’t make him less of a writer, though.

7. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.

This is true. There’s a modern tact here, which works well. Accents shouldn’t be denoted phonetically (So “Eet ees ’orrible, no?” sounds, today, like an incredibly patronising and diminishing way to write French-accented speech, for example.) But that’s about the phonetic transcription of an accent.

But if you have a character who uses regional dialect – then what is that character meant to speak other than that dialect? I had a character, Caff, a sailor who was born and bred on the Orkney Isles. I had him speak Orcadian, which is like a deep Scottish mixed with Viking and left to simmer for 1000 years. So we had chunks of speech like this:

That [turning the ship] sounds straightforward enough but Caff, who explains all this, is clearly anxious about the manoeuvre. ‘Thoo dohnt wahnt tae be skelp while turning,’ he says, as his hands show a big wave hitting the ship side-on as it turns. ‘If tha’ happens, we’ll hae oor bahookie in th’ sky in twa shakes o’ a hoor’s fud.’

I’m not going to translate that because there’s language there to make a matron’s ears blush rosy pink, but if you want a regional dialect, then use a damn regional dialect. Just honour it, and don’t patronise it.

8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters

Hmm. Well, I think that’s a little evasive, isn’t it? Any worthwhile description of anything finds its substance in the detail. So if I say, “She was five foot six, with dark shoulder length hair, and looked to be in her thirties,” I’ve given you three data points that amount to almost nothing.

But if I mention her “whatever-you-want smile” and say nothing about height or hair colour, you already have something – because of the detail. So maybe Leonard is saying, “Don’t just yammer on forever about how someone looks”, and OK, that’s true – but you shouldn’t yammer on forever about anything.

Here’s a wee passage with two ultra-brief character descriptions that do use details but don’t yammer on. Both micro-descriptions are just fine:

[Julie-Ann says,] “Then, I wasn’t sure, did you want to see Mr Coad?’

Mr Coad.

War hero. Nutjob. Prisoner.

No, I do not want to see Mr Coad. I want to get the fuck out of here and to never come back.

I don’t say anything.

Julie-Ann hovers, a whatever-you-want smile fixed in place.

I don’t even know how people like that maintain those smiles, those attitudes. I mean, I’m perfectly able to make nice with people, but if I offer them something – coffee or tea? do you want to see Jared Coad, yes or no? – I sort of expect them to make up their minds. I won’t just offer that wide, bland, take-as-long-as-you-want smile and keep it there.

I stare. Keep staring. And, when even J-A’s confidence starts to wobble, say, ‘Yes. Please. Jared Coad. Great.’

Julie-Ann shows me a place to make tea. Takes me down to the hospital kitchen, where a youth, late teens or very early twenties, finds me a sachet of porridge. The guy has a chest broad enough to fit a Lowland ox and the sachet is tiny in his hands.

When I presented that passage to Elmore Leonard, he read intently, then looked away, then roared at a Captain of Marines to attend to his station.

9. Don't go into great detail describing places and things.

Well, c’mon, El! We’ve basically just had that rule and we didn’t think a lot of it. Just don’t yammer on. Yes, OK. We’ve got the point. Move on.

10. Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.

This is the one rule that people tend to remember, as much for how it’s phrased as for what it says. And it’s a good one. But how that rule applies will vary vastly from author to author. A Sally Rooney book looks very not like an Elmore Leonard book and neither of them looks anything like a Gillian Flynn book or, come to that, like one of mine. So yes, write in a way that holds the reader, your alpha and omega, the same for El as it was for Kurt, and as it is for me, and as it is – I’m sure – for you.

FEEDBACK FRIDAY / Rain, full stop, new paragraph

OK – I want any passage that you like which breaks at least one of Elmore’s rules. The more you break, the more points you get. But, if Elmore is right and the passage would be better with the rule unbroken, then you lose. You LOSE, d’you hear me? Mr Leonard will give you a full broadside, with marines shooting at you from the rigging. Please post in this Townhouse forum. 

Til soon.

Harry

As tutor of Jericho’s Simply Self-Publish course and the author of nine self-published novels and many other books, you would expect me to be a passionate advocate of self-publishing. It’s worked for me!

But is the indie route right for you and your books?  Here are six important points to consider, to help you make an informed choice.

1. Ease of access

Thanks to digital technology, anyone may now self-publish a book and launch it on the global market from their own home computer or laptop. It’s probably easier than you think. All you have to do is assemble and format the component parts – the interior, the exterior cover file, and the metadata to position the book correctly in your target stores – and press the “publish” button.

Freelance specialists can be hired at affordable rates to help you create those pieces of the self-publishing jigsaw.

2. It's an author-centric process

As an indie author, you are at the heart of your publishing business – not the profit motive of a big publishing company with expensive offices to pay for and demanding shareholders to satisfy.

Instead of being the “talent” that is the starting point of a huge production line, you are the publisher, and you are your sole client. You have all the rights and responsibilities of a big publishing company – just at micro level. Thus, your needs and your book’s needs come first.

3. Speed

Traditional publishing typically takes 18 months from contract to launch – and that’s excluding the months or years it may have taken you to be offered a contract. As an indie, you are not bogged down by a big company’s slow machinations. You work at your own speed.

Once you’ve assembled the component parts (see point 1, above), your book is just one click away from going live. Then, once you’ve hit “publish” on your chosen distribution platforms, it is a matter of hours or days, not weeks or months, before your book goes on sale to your target readers around the globe.

4. Versatility

No matter how commercial or how niche your book is, self-publishing can handle it. While it’s easier to create and market books in popular genres, you can also use the indie route to publish niche books with a smaller market.

Indies even create completely new genres. Adult colouring books were an indie innovation, as was the global festive phenomenon for children that is The Elf on the Shelf.

5. Profitability

As an indie author, you’re not contributing to big publishing companies’ profits. Once you’ve covered your set-up costs, all the royalties are yours.

Indie authors earn up to 70% of the cover price of an ebook on Amazon, whereas those with traditional contracts are likely to earn no more than 25% - or, for the big sellers, if they’re really lucky, 50%. For print, indies can earn 10-20% of the cover price compared to a typical 5% for those traditionally published. 

6. Career opportunities

Once upon a time, traditional publishers would not have entertained recruiting self-published authors to their lists. These days, the best indie books are so well done, and so commercially successful, that traditional publishers actively headhunt them. This is particularly true of the new breed of digital-first publishing companies, who focus on online sales of digital formats.

That’s what happened to me: I self-published nine successful novels before Boldwood Books contracted me to write for them and licensed the rights to my backlist novels. Self-publishing is no longer binary: you can go from indie to trad or back again (if you self-publish reverted rights).

You can also be a bit of both, as I am now – I still self-publish short fiction. Thus, self-publishing doesn’t restrict your options for the future, should you wish to change track.

So what's the catch?

To be a successful indie author, you have to learn to do all of necessary parts of the process to professional standards - and avoid pitfalls and obstacles along the way. Believe me, there are plenty of sharks and charlatans out there trading off aspiring writers’ ignorance and innocence.

But the good news is: once you’ve learned how to self-publish, you’re equipped for a lasting and sustainable venture as an indie author.

Bonus benefit: you’re in great company, with thousands of authors around the world who are embracing the indie approach, including bestsellers such as LJ Ross, JD Kirk, Clare Lydon, and Hannah Lynn – all of whom were once as the same stage as you are now. As indeed was I!

So next question: how do you learn how to self-publish well? Of course, there’s a ton of information – and misinformation – available online, but how do you know what to believe? Trawling through the wheat and the chaff can be overwhelming and dispiriting – and wastes valuable writing time.

That’s why Jericho Writers asked me four years ago to launch the Simply Self Publish course – to equip aspiring writers with the skills, knowledge and confidence they need to self-publish well. You’ll finish the course with a clear plan and goals specific to YOUR books. Many of the course alumni are now published authors, some with multiple books to their names.

The Simply Self Publish course runs twice a year, from October to December and April to June. Applications are now open for this October.

If you have any questions about whether it’s right for you, why not book a 1-2-1 mentoring taster session with me for just £20? I’ll be happy to help!

Eight workshops in one week – and a whole lot of breakthroughs along the way. The Write That Draft Bootcamp has recently wrapped up, and if you were there, you’ll know it was equal parts motivating, eye-opening, and (yes) occasionally tough. If you missed it, don’t worry – grab a coffee, and I’ll walk you through the highlights.

Writer’s block: not just laziness (who knew?)

We kicked off with Becca Day, who shared the science behind why writers so often get stuck. It’s not laziness – more often, it’s our brains reacting to fear, pressure, or self-doubt. Becca opened with a quiz to help us pinpoint the root of our own blocks – whether that’s perfectionism, fear of failure or judgement, burnout and overwhelm, decision fatigue, or simply lack of clarity.

Her tips were really helpful, diving into the core issues and what we actually need. She also spoke about somatic rest before you write – just a few minutes of breathing or stretching to calm your nervous system. Don’t use it as an excuse to procrastinate! Keep it short (set a timer) and make sure it works anywhere – for example, if you have writing time in the car while picking up the kids from club on Mondays, your somatic rest could be a quick walk around the car rather than two hours of yoga.

Build your writing “emergency kit”

Next up was Lindsey Alexander, who got us thinking about what we actually need when the words won’t come. She framed it as a personal survival kit – not just the physical stuff, but what works emotionally and functionally for you.

Some of her tips included:

• Make two lists: one for what you’re saying yes to (writing, feedback, creative time) and one for what you’re saying no to (endless scrolling, extra chores, things that drain your energy).
• Keep a writing log: track when you’re productive, when you struggle, and what patterns pop up – this helps you fix blocks before they grow.
• Schedule time and breaks: block out focused writing sessions, but also build in rest. Naps, walks, or even five minutes away from the screen count.
• Rituals matter: use sensory cues to signal “writing time” to your brain – music, a candle, or yes, that “serious writer jumper” – whatever works for you.

The key takeaway? Your kit should support you emotionally (so you feel ready to write) and functionally (so you actually get the words down). Once you’ve got this in place, you’re less likely to get derailed by distractions or doubt – and more likely to keep moving forward.

Habits that don’t make you want to cry

Adrienne Dines was next, and she was all about building routines that actually… stick. She had us ask the big questions (What’s your story about? Why does it happen?), then she went practical: set tiny daily goals, get rid of distractions (your phone will survive in another room, promise), and celebrate the wins.

She even suggested mapping where you’ve got to in your story if you hit a wall. Genius, right? It’s like holding up a map when you’ve been driving in circles muttering, “but I swear the petrol station was round here somewhere…”

The Enneagram and your writing routine

Then Becca was back with a bit of fun – discovering how our Enneagram types shape the way we write. Cue lots of “oh my god, that’s so me” moments in the chat. Honestly, who knew a personality quiz could reveal why I write in frenzied bursts while someone else is scheduling neat two-hour morning slots? Weirdly accurate.

Imposter syndrome: you’re not a fraud (promise)

Rosie Fiore hit us right in the feels with her talk on creative anxiety. That voice in your head that whispers “you’re rubbish”? She basically said: everybody has it. And also: stop waiting for a permission slip to call yourself a writer. You already are one. (Cue collective sniffles and a lot of nodding emojis.)

Fast drafting vs. burnout (the tag-team duo)

Philip Womack stormed in midweek with his rallying cry:

Last week, someone suggested an email commenting on Kurt Vonnegut’s rules for writing. That seemed like a Bloody Good Idea to me, so here goes.

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.

That rule, I think, is bomb-proof. And, in fact, I’d make it a little stricter. I think that even high-end literary fiction has to entertain. It can’t be enough that I have a sense of having done my duty by the Gods of Literature. I need to have had fun – or have been moved – or basically just liked my experience with the book. I think entertainment is core. I’ve never knowingly broken that rule, not even writing non-fiction.

2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.

I’ve never broken that rule either, but I think it’s probably possible to break it effectively. American Psycho is a yukky book, but it’s a work of proper genius … and its genius isn’t because  its protagonist likes home-baking, cat rescue and volunteering at church-run soup kitchens. That said, it’s not even 1% of books that can break that rule effectively. So as a general guide, I’m with you, Kurt.

3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.

Every character? I don’t know. If your protagonist has a momentary interaction with a receptionist, say, then does the receptionist need obvious motivation? On the one hand, no: truly minor characters can simply fall off the table of things you have to think about. On the other hand, here’s a snippet where Fiona does in fact interact extremely briefly with a receptionist – at a modern, ultra-secure, psychiatric institution for very violent, very dangerous offenders.

The driver takes us in. Hands us over to a neat, blue-suited receptionist – Alys, to go by her fabric badge. She is almost blushingly young, a late teenager at a guess. She wears a tri-coloured scarf, like a seriously out-of-place air stewardess.

‘Inspector Rogers? Miss Griffiths? Etta is expecting you.’

The ‘Etta’ in question is, I assume Dr. Etta Gulleford, the hospital director, and the woman we’re here to see.

No badges, I think because the metal clips could make a weapon. Instead, plastic cards, like the key-cards they use in hotels.

‘Upstairs. Right on to the end. Julie-Ann will find you there.’

She does a crinkle-eyed smile at us, the sort you’d get at an upmarket spa.

There’s no obvious sense of desire there, of wanting something … but on the other hand, I think there probably IS something. She’s blushingly young. She wears a scarf like an out-of-place stewardess. And she offers Fiona a spa-quality, crinkle-eyed smile.

What does all that amount to? I think it amounts to the Alys very much wanting Fiona not to make a fuss. Not to do something that breaks the spell. And the spell is, effectively, that this place can be considered like a nice, posh, modern spa rather than a quasi-prison full of extremely dangerous men. It’s like Alys is saying – pleading – don’t call this out for what it really is.

So, OK, I’m going to go with Vonnegut on this one. Even extremely minor characters should have some kind of want, even if it’s undeclared, even if it’s trivial.

4. Every sentence must do one of two things—reveal character or advance the action.

That’s probably mostly true, but it can’t be quite literally true. I think that, in the passage I just quoted, every sentence does do one of those two things. But what about this:

We watch for a while. The gulls. The waves. The rolling print of the wind on the water. Stippling squalls that turn the sea’s smooth watercolour into something jumpy and agitated, like the surface has been rubbed with gorse.

That’s not really advancing any action and it doesn’t really tell us much about Fiona, except I suppose glancingly, in the sense that the way she expresses what she sees would be different from yours or mine. But really, the point about those lines is that they describe something – they reveal the character of a place, not a person. That’s fine with me. I expect Kurt wouldn’t have a fight with me over lines like that. I like description. It’s fine.

5. Start as close to the end as possible.

Vonnegut thought a lot about short stories and I think this rule applies both to short stories and to scenes. Enter late. It’s really easy to write 200 words of intro before you get to the meat of a scene. It’s often better to start with the meat, then use just 20-30 words a few paragraphs in to explain to the reader how they got to where they now are.

But does this rule make sense for novels? Don’t think so – or at least, I don’t think that it’s especially useful. Most of my Fiona novels start with a corpse discovery. Yes, that’s as close to the end “as possible”, but really: it’s right at the start. So: useful rule for scenes. Silly rule for books.

6. Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them—in order that the reader may see what they are made of.

Oh yes. Definitely. No quibbles here.

Here at Jericho, we occasionally get books that tell a story such as: middle aged woman divorces cheating husband, feels a lack of purpose, gets diagnosed with cancer, takes up pottery, makes great ceramics, meets dashing ceramicist, gets the cancer all clear.

And, yeah, OK. I mean: in an actual person’s life, that’s all bad (to start with) then heartwarming (to end with.) But we all know people with stories like that. And – readers don’t care. They want really bad stuff to happen to characters. They’re sadists. So you have to be too. That’s just how it is.

7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.

Yes. I agree with that. (It’s also, by the way, an exceptionally good rule for marketing books too. Sell hard to your ideal reader. Bore the rest. Ignore the rest.)

But I think it’s not clear enough. Who is that person? In the end, there’s only one person who matters and that’s you. Every line you write, every word choice you make, you’re just asking the question: do I like this? Or that? Which pleases me more?

So your task as a writer is to develop your tastes as far and as finely as possible. You can’t  do that in isolation from the broad sweep of contemporary writing. You have to develop your own taste with reference to what others read. But still – write to please just one person. And make it you.

8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

Uh, Kurt? This is just BS, and he surely knew it.

I mean the cockroaches / pages thing: OK, yes, at that point, I think there is often a kind of solid inevitability in play … but not always. In one of my Fiona books, Fiona ends up clapping handcuffs on the dastardly people who tried to imprison her (in a very weird way.) That part plays out as the reader should by then expect.

But then, a Ukrainian millionaire tries to bribe her … and she (in a Fiona-y way) semi-accepts the offer.

And a girl who went missing needs to be reunited with her father, and Fiona does just that.

Both of those things make sense from what went before, but I don’t think any reader could plausibly have mapped out either scene. So, sorry, Kurt, no way. I think you were having a laugh.

Vonnegut, also said:

The greatest American short story writer of my generation was Flannery O'Connor (1925-1964). She broke practically every one of my rules but the first. Great writers tend to do that.

And yes, that’s true too. If you grip the reader and entertain the reader, all the other guidance is just a means to that end.

FEEDBACK FRIDAY / a tri-colour scarf

I think Kurt has given us the theme for this week. What I want is an interaction between your protagonist and a really minor character – someone who has maybe a line or two of dialogue in the entire book. Let’s take a look at whether that minor character expresses some kind of want – not directly, necessarily, but in some way.

My snippet above was about 100 words in total. You can either give me a 200-ish snippet or 2x 100-worders. The ideal response will have one or two ultra short snippets, each involving a really minor character, and we'll feel some pressure of desire from that minor character, even if they say nothing about it. Please post in this Townhouse forum.

Til soon.

Harry

Last week, I wrote an email on the approximate topic of Be Proper English. I’m sure there was a writing-related theme in there somewhere, but I remember encouraging you to play football with a fractured tibia and smash home some penalties at near enough the speed of light. 

If there was a lesson in there about writing (there must have been, no?), it had to do with resilience – the single most necessary characteristic to have in an industry that is brutally hard on the people who underpin it. 

By most authorial standards, I’ve had a successful career. I’ve written bestsellers, signed movie option deals, seen a book televised, been on some significant prize shortlists, had some great reviews, sold books to a lot of countries and in a lot of languages – and given a lot of readers pleasure. But? Well, I’ve seen books fail. I’ve had to switch genres. I’ve had to wrestle with publishers. I’ve seen really promising starts collapse for reasons that essentially had nothing to do with me. 

So, resilience? Yes. It’s lesson one. (Closely allied: mastering some self-pub ju-jitsu, a great fallback if a trad career swerves off-track, as mine did in the US.) 

But also: friends. 

People always say that writing is a lonely profession, and it is / isn’t. 

It is, yes, because you don’t write in company – and you don’t want to – and that isn’t being lonely, it’s having precious creative time to yourself. 

But no, it isn’t. It’s the opposite. Authors – writers – are the most joyfully supportive bunch of humans on the planet. 

Part of the joy of writering is that sense of fellowship. I’ve been at literary festivals where my job was theoretically to mix with readers and promote my books. I used to try to do that too, except then I realised it was way more fun just to hang with authors: those I knew and those I didn’t yet know. Those weekends were always joyful. 

And online groups too. Talk to any vaguely engaged contemporary author and they’ll be part of a community that vastly matters to them. For wisdom, for laughter, for support, for advice, for just sharing moments of pain. Honestly? I love ‘n’ adore my wife, of course I do, but for that particular kind of support, those online groups have a kind of magic that nothing else can replace. 

All this because we – Jericho – haven’t done enough in the past to create a community for you. The will has been there, and the intention, but the software we were using to deliver has just not been good enough. 

All that changes, this week. 

Our community site is now fast, friendly, un-glitchy and easy to navigate. It’s a place to make friends and find beta readers, get feedback and seek advice. 

There’s a ton of free resources from us, too - no extra sign up needed. If you’re part of the community, you get all that automatically. 

If you are already signed up, then explore, explore, explore. This refreshed community could easily be one of the most important parts of your writing life. I’ve known writers for whom communities of this sort have been absolutely central to their development as writers.  

And if you’re not yet signed up? Well, duh, it’s free? What’s the worst that could happen? Probably that you get annoyed because you have to think of a password. (But you’re a writer, yes? You can think of three words, no? Egg-noose-possum. There you go. Maybe change the words, though, we can’t have everyone with possum-based passwords.) 

And what’s the best? The best is that you find one of the most joyous and most supportive groups that you’ll ever have in your life. The whole damn thing is free, y’know. 

That’s it from me. 

Feedback Friday is a celebration of you and the things you love. Come one, come all. Let’s make it a big one.

FEEDBACK FRIDAY / Your darlings

Give me your darlings: 200-300 words from your work in progress that you just love.

Give us the title / genre / and a 1-2 line intro to your piece. Then just show us your joy. On a beautiful new community site. 

Til soon. 

Harry 

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

No sooner had I cogitated on the aspects of character last month, when along came month five with its deeply intricate topic: emotions and senses. Never let it be said that the Ultimate Novel Writing Programme doesn’t deliver on detailed information, techniques and tips, and ‘Ah! I hadn’t thought about it like that…’ moments. My brain is full, straining at its zips, like an overstuffed holiday suitcase. And, just like a packed suitcase, I’m off on yet another happy writing adventure. 

From a certain angle, however, this topic feels like home. I’m writing in literary genre, so my stories are quiet in terms of dramatic plot action, but tend to go deep into character. I’m interested in all the questions about why people feel and behave the way they do. And I’m trying really hard to get better at seeing the emotional signs, the expected reactions, the unexpected reactions and the detail of what the situational experience involves. 

In martial arts, boxing and self-defence, students are taught to watch out for micro-movements: ‘tells’ or ‘tags’ like dropping a shoulder before a punch, shifting weight before a kick – even as tiny a ‘read’ as their eyes focussing on a point on your body. All of these can telegraph what the attack might be and help to quicken your response and choice of defensive move. The work authors have to do, to portray realistic, plausible emotion and sensations, isn’t too far off what a karate practitioner needs to do (less being thrown around, obviously!) My family are used to me constantly people-watching and being asked out-of-the-blue, random questions that begin with “How would you feel if…?” or “What’s your first thought if…?”  

All of us are so normal, average and ‘everyman’ on the surface. But we’re also, all of us, having a deeply existential experience on a massive spinning rock travelling at thousands and thousands of miles per hour, whilst hurtling towards an unknowable destination. Some of that internal truth – the marvel, the passion, the love, sadness, anger, resentment, the frustration, the happiness, the joy – it leaks outwards onto our surface, in tiny tells. It is this that a writer must become adept at seeing and noting. Then, ‘all’ we have to do is write it down with precision and brevity, as judicious as a scavenging crow, as shrewd and wily as a fox. Probably the best compliment I, as an author, could ever receive would be something like: “her writing is so observant, her storytelling beautifully astute.” I’m looking forward to seeing that in print one day in one of the big-name newspapers (big hairy audacious dreams are the best sort to have!) 

With this month’s topic, I’ve been thinking about the emotions and senses of the act of writing itself, of being a writer and trying to achieve big writing goals, and I realise how fractal this topic is. It is as if I am folding in on myself when I consider how to portray characters’ emotions and senses. The whole magical alchemy of it, the macro and the micro existing on the same pin-head. Or, as the legendary figure, Hermes Trismegistus put it: as above, so below, as within, so without. I find myself writing stories of emotion and sensation in order to describe the experience of learning the skills to write stories with emotion and sensation.  

I’m attempting something in my work-in-progress that is really technically challenging for me. I’m playing against certain conventions of narrative tension and introducing slippery point-of-view perspectives – issues that may trip me up if I’m not careful. Frankly, I’ve been questioning why I’m being so reckless. The answer comes to me in the form of a story. A memory. I am aged nineteen and I’m galloping across the stubble of a harvested corn field on my chestnut gelding. There’s a big oxer of a hedge ahead of us, a wide, dark ditch at its base, and that horse of mine was infamous for dropping a shoulder half a stride out from fences and throwing me. Regardless, I gallop him towards it, pressing my heels into his sides, standing up in the stirrups, encouraging him to go, go, go. I’m counting down the strides with the thunder of his hooves as my metronome, my fingers entangled in his mane, wiry as twine against my knuckles; an attempt to fool myself I’ll be able to hold on, be safe, if something goes wrong. And the moment comes. I’m out of strides. I’ve either asked him for the right take-off point and he’ll obey, lifting, leaping, flying up and across, into the summer blue... Or I’ve misjudged it and he’ll duck out on me, throwing me down there into that black ditch of brambles.  

Did I make it to the other side of that long-ago leap? Yes, I did. 

Will I succeed with this W-i-P and the portrayal of character I’m attempting? To be decided.  

One thing’s for sure, the structure and accountability that the Ultimate Novel Writing Programme demands of me – and the ongoing support of my tutor group and my tutor, Andrew Miller (longlisted for this year’s Booker Prize with his latest book, The Land in Winter – again, huge congratulations, Teach!) – is definitely giving me the courage to kick on.  

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.

If you’ve ever tried writing a novel completely solo, you’ll know it can feel a bit like hiking up Ben Nevis in flip-flops, in thick fog. You're fuelled by blind optimism and a cereal bar, convinced the summit’s just over the next ridge—only to realise you’ve been walking in circles for three chapters. Somewhere around Chapter Five, the plot fog descends. You lose sight of where you’re going, your characters start behaving strangely, and you begin to wonder if you’d be better off running a sweet little candle shop in the Lake District.

That’s where writing friends come in.

At Jericho Writers, we speak to lots and lots of writers every year—from total beginners to published authors—and one thing comes up again and again:

“I wouldn’t have kept going without my writing friends.”

Why community matters

Writing might be a solitary act, but it’s rarely a solo journey. It takes grit, imagination, stamina… and, more often than not, a friendly nudge (or let’s be honest, a full-on shove) from someone who understands what you’re trying to do.

At our last Open Event, Q&A: The Journey to Publication, we asked course alumni of the Ultimate Novel Writing Programme what they valued most. The answer? “My cohort.” The people they wrote alongside. The ones who were there for the wobbles, the rewrites, the “I’ve had a terrible idea at 3am and now I’m replotting the whole thing” moments. The late-night pep talks. The shared wins.

Because when you’re surrounded by people who get it—not just technically, but emotionally—it changes everything. The doubt, the hope, the awkwardness of calling yourself “a writer” out loud. A writing community helps you feel less alone. It keeps you going. It reminds you this odd little dream of yours? It’s worth it.

My writing friend (and how she saved my writing life)

I joined my first writing course back in 2020—mid-lockdown, when everything felt a bit upside down—and one of the best things to come out of it (aside from finally making progress on my novel) was finding a proper writing friend.

We started exchanging work during the course and just… kept going. We started swapping work. Tuesday check-ins became a thing:
“Write anything over the weekend?”
“Want to set a goal for this week?”
“This bit’s brilliant, by the way—keep going.”

Even now, years later, we still email regularly. We cheer each other on, send little nudges when one of us is stuck, and celebrate the wins—however small. Between us, we’ve juggled wedding planning, renovation chaos, job changes, life generally doing its thing… but that writing thread has always stayed.

That one friendship turned writing from something private and slightly terrifying into something shared. Something doable. I’ve never looked back.

You don’t need a massive gang. One person who gets it can be enough to change everything.

Not doing a course? You still deserve that support

Of course, not everyone’s up for a writing course right now. Maybe the timing’s not right. Maybe money’s tight. Maybe you just want to dip your toes in before diving in fully.

Which is exactly why we’ve been working behind the scenes to create something a bit special. A fresh new version of Townhouse—our free online community for writers. Think of it as your cosy corner, where you can find fellow scribblers, cheer each other on, and feel like you belong—even when you’re still figuring it all out.

The new Townhouse will give you:

• A cleaner, easier-to-use space (goodbye clunky tech)
• Faster loading and smoother navigation
• Better access to courses, resources, and events
• Dedicated spaces for feedback, accountability, genre chats, and more

Whether you’re still flirting with Chapter One or knee-deep in edits, Townhouse is the place to meet writing friends, stay motivated, and remind yourself that you’re not the only one trying to wrestle a book into being.

Fancy joining us?

We go live later on this week. In the meantime, maybe have a think: who’s in your writing circle right now? Could you be the person someone else is waiting to meet?

Because honestly? You don’t need a perfect routine, a finished draft, or a publishing deal to be part of a writing community. You just need to show up.