The words “down” and “up” are often unnecessary and can be edited out of your writing. More often than not, their meaning is implied in the words they’re attached to.

Before:

I sat down on the couch.

After:

I sat on the couch.

Down is implied in the verb “sit,” so it’s unneeded. Same thing goes for “up” in many cases:

Before:

I stood up.

After:

I stood.

Unless you’re a soldier, you probably aren’t going to “stand down,” so you can safely omit the “up.”

Of course, there are times when the words “down” or “up” are necessary. A quick test to see if they’re needed is just to delete them. If the sentence still makes sense without them, you’re good to go. If not, put them back in.

Here’s a scenario that’s never, ever happened: I return a client’s manuscript with the note, “Love the through-line, but you could really use a few more subplots!”

Alas, it’s the opposite. I see manuscript after manuscript with way too many subplots. While sparing, well-chosen subplots can add depth and insight to a story, too many subplots will have one or more of the following ill effects:

Numerous subplots can compete with and draw attention away from the throughline, making the story feel shallow.

A subplot that’s not strongly connected to the throughline can feel like a random tangent or sidenote.

Too many subplots leaves the reader wondering what the character’s priorities actually are. Without knowing what the character wants, the reader can’t evaluate or make meaning from the events.

Too many subplots can make the novel ridiculously long—turning an otherwise sensible book into a 600 page tome.

Solution: It’s brutal, but you’ll need to decide which story is the story and condense, rewrite, or sacrifice the others upon on its altar. Consider Lisa Cron’s explanation of the subplot’s raison d’etre:

Subplots invite the reader to leave the recent conflict behind for a moment and venture down a side road that, he believes, will lead back to the story in the near future. The reader is willing to take this jaunt because he trusts that when the subplot returns to the main storyline, he’ll have more insight with which to interpret what’s happening… All subplots must eventually merge into—and affect—the main story line, either literally or metaphorically, or else the reader is going to be mighty disappointed.

Or, to quote John Gardner, “A story is like a machine with numerous gears: it should contain no gear that doesn’t turn something.”

So your first task is to determine whether your subplots have anything at all to do with your main storyline. If Prince Abernathy’s one true desire is to usurp the throne from his uncle, his unworldly love of cribbage had better intersect with his mutinous plan. Otherwise, truly, it has no reason to be there.

You can use the but/therefore method to track down a connection between your main plot and your subplots. As in,

Prince Abernathy challenges his uncle to a game of cribbage in the hopes of proving him unworthy to rule, but his uncle bests him, therefore Abernathy tosses the game out the tower window, renounces his membership to the Medieval Cribbage Society, and vows to find another way to dethrone his uncle once and for all.

If you cannot find such a connection, you can either create one in your revision, or remove the subplot.

In all likelihood, if you have too many subplots to begin with, at least a few are disconnected from your main plot—except perhaps by a few tenuous threads of narrative summary (e.g. In Chapter One you write “Abernathy absolutely lived to play cribbage,” but there’s not a single scene that actually involves cribbage until Chapter 15).

Other times, you’ve diligently woven all your subplots in the main story… but there are so many of them they’re crowding out the main storyline. Your scenes are almost impossible to write—you feel like you’re constantly juggling 27 balls in the air—and your novel just keeps getting longer and longer.

In that case, it’s time to play favorites, choosing a few subplots you can’t live without and removing or simplifying the rest.

Hey friends. I just wanted to throw this out there because I see a lot of posts from writers lamenting that they’re starting new WIPs without finishing the old ones. Some of this is in the form of memes and jokes, some of it is in the form of updates or confessionals, but there’s always this implication that writers are doing something wrong by starting something new before the old thing is finished, hopping from project to project, or working on multiple WIPs at once. So I just want to say this:

The writing process is not linear.

Bouncing between multiple WIPs is totally okay.

Abandoning old WIPs that you’re no longer interested in is totally okay.

Starting 10 or 20 or 30 stories for every 1 story that you finish is totally okay.

Only wanting to work on something that’s exciting to you (a new thing) and not something you’ve burned out on (an old thing) is totally okay.

I get that feeling like you’re always starting and never finishing anything is a big bummer. But it may help to remember that despite years of capitalist indoctrination, the creative process is not an assembly line.

Sometimes it takes writing 100 pages to realize that your idea is untenable, or that you’re not actually that interested in it, or that you want to take things in a completely different direction with a totally new story.

I’m a published writer and I average at least 10-15 WIPs for each one that I actually finish. It may take me two sentences to abandon it, or 200 pages. And sometimes I come back to them and finish them in the future. But after 20 years of writing my computer is full of barely-started stories that were destined, for whatever reason, to die.

You know that book or story or poem you have a secret, burning desire to write but are scared as hell to start or finish or look at or even think about?

Go do it.

Here’s the thing: We need you to write what you want and need to write way more than we need you to write what you think you should write.

So put down that WIP you’ve been spinning your wheels on—you know, the one you’re white-knuckling out of some misguided sense of duty—and go chase your fire. Start the story you’ve been dreaming about. The one that scares the poop out of you. The one you get all twitterpated when you think about. The one you keep making excuses to avoid working on: “But I can’t write that because [insert really convincing sounding reason here]…”

Or, alternatively, turn your current WIP into the story you actually want to write. A lot of times we start our dream project… then steer it in an uninspiring direction because we’re trying to follow some bullshit writing “rule.” Go back to the last place it actually turned you on and work from there.

Hi! Thanks for writing, and your English seems totally fine to me!

Slowing Down the Pace of Your Story Without Boring Your Reader

Firstly, I think that due to Hollywood movies we’re all a bit brainwashed that a novel needs to be a fast-paced nonstop action ride… or we risk boring the ever loving fuck out of our readers. But here’s the truth:

What holds a reader’s attention is not constant action but doubt and unanswered questions.

Let me repeat that.

Suspense is not about action (”something’s happening!”), it’s about doubt (”what’s going to happen?”).

So, how do you keep your readers from getting bored when your story’s pace slows down? Make them uncertain. Give them something to wonder about. Foreshadow the next major plot point. Sow the seeds of doubt. If you sprinkle in enough “clues,” readers will stay engaged even when the pace slows down because they don’t want to miss any important information. 

Also, you can show that although the pace may be slowed, your characters are not out of the woods. Use interior thought and emotion to reveal that even if things seem fine right now, your protagonist has concerns about the future.

If done well, these “slow” times can actually be very engaging to a sensitive reader who knows (because you’re guiding them toward this belief) that things can’t stay like this forever.

If you have a difficult time plotting, try writing or outlining your story backwards—from the end to the beginning. Writers who have a difficult time outlining, plotting, and planning their stories often benefit from this technique. You’ll need a general idea of what your story is about for this to work, and of course you need to know the ending, but you might be amazed how helpful this trick can be.

Why is writing backwards easier? Basically, instead of answering the question “this happened… now what comes next?,” you’ll be answering the question “this happened… so what would come right before that?” which narrows the possibilities for your next move and can help keep your story on track. (Incidentally, it’s also the way Joseph Gordan-Levitt’s character comes out on top in the film The Lookout.)

Writing backwards can also help you more tightly weave together your subplots, themes, and character relationships, and keep you from going too far down any irrelevant rabbit holes.

If you don’t want to write or outline completely backwards, remember that you’re free to jump around! If you’re feeling stuck in your story or novel, jump to the middle or end and write a few scenes. Many writers get stuck because they feel they have to write their story linearly from beginning to end, which results in an overdeveloped (and often irrelevant) beginning and an underdeveloped ending.

Hear me out on this one. There’s a lot of advice out there (I’ve given it myself) about being okay with writing a shitty first draft, and I basically agree with the premise. Too many new writers get paralyzed with the expectation that they should be able to sit down and barf out a flawless masterpiece, when in actuality good stuff usually requires a TON of editing in the post-first-draft stages.

However. As someone who has been writing and editing my shit for 20 years now, I must say that, more and more, when I get lost in the weeds in a writing project, when I get so far down a theoretical rabbit hole I can’t remember what the fuck my story is even supposed to be about, when I get to that point where I feel like the more I write the worse it gets… it’s the first draft I return to for clues about the real essence of what it is I’m trying to write. And it never, ever lets me down.

Your first draft has magic in it.

That initial spark, that thread of a story, that excitement you had that made you want to start this project… it’s living somewhere inside your first draft, and it’s precious as fuck. And it’s a sad truth that, sometimes, the more you edit, the more that spark gets lost. So you may need to return to your first draft to find it again.

I’m not saying don’t edit. I’m not saying that your first draft is a genius work of art that’s ready to publish. I’m saying there’s SOMETHING in there which is true and magical and important, and in the long run it may do you a disservice to think of it as “shitty,” crappy, useless, garbage, etc. You may miss out on what it has to offer you.

Things you might discover in your first draft that can get your project back on track (and/or get you excited again about a piece that’s started to make you cranky):

A particular character you love who you decided “wasn’t important” and cut from your story

An important emotion that’s being conveyed

A unique rhythm or style that got lost after too much editing

A fun story thread

An atmosphere, place, or description that excites you

A general feeling in the writing or the story

A sense of why you wanted to write this in the first place 

I’m working on a new class for writers, and I want to make sure it’s on a topic that actually helps. So tell me: what’s your biggest problem right now?

Got more to say or another problem I haven't listed here? Let me know in a reblog, comment, or message. I really want to make sure that my first class touches on a helpful issue.