Category: Writer

Allowing that little girl’s voice to guide the telling of my story felt like a gift. Who could not love a five-year-old who witnesses her foster sister being dragged out of her home, her mother held at gunpoint, suffers near starvation, and almost loses her life in a mass shooting when celebrating freedom? 

I cried as I wrote her story. She reminded me of the imagination and belief in miracles that helped me survive the darkness––when my father and I imagined that a toy dog could become a wolf, and when a “miracle moon” lit up the icy path along the canals to guide my mother and me home before the Nazi curfew might get us shot. The story named itself. 

When a Toy Dog Became a Wolf and the Moon Broke Curfew ends with my family boarding the immigrant ship that will take us to our new life in Australia. It won many awards. Readers demanded a sequel. And I wrote Open Turns: From Dutch Girl to New Australian. The ship has set sail.

At first, I wondered how a memoir about a teenage immigrant girl in the 1950s could be of interest to readers today. I was 13 years old when I left behind my friends and the swimming club where I belonged. Traumatized by war experiences, but armed with big plans and dreams, my younger teenage self would challenge me as I began to write her story. But I recognized and liked her willful strength and resilience.

As a family therapist, I have witnessed many clients face major life changes. Whether brought on by death, divorce, physical ailments, or loss of home through fire or flood, they needed that same human resilience and courage to hope in their effort to adapt to a new reality. I saw that my story was not just the narrative of an adolescent displaced girl, but the story of each one of us trying to navigate our way in a complex world. What inner hopes and intentions do we draw on as we face the inevitable twists and turns in our life journeys?

The number of weapons carried also determines where each is located. *Remember when we looked at how inconvenient it is to have a gun on the leg? That only applies when that gun is the primary weapon. If the gun is a secondary or tertiary weapon, being on the leg is fine. The idea is that the gun on the leg will be used when the most accessible weapon isn’t available or functional. 

Historically, edged weapons on the body were a bit like mice: If you saw one, there were bound to be more. Swords were not the best weapon for every task. Sometimes a knife or sword of different length was needed. Also, swords could be broken or dropped. In those cases, the warrior needed a back-up weapon. And, sometimes, that back-up weapon might have been on their back.

Now that we know about what impacts where swords were carried, let’s look at when swords were carried on the back. Any time a warrior found the back to the be the most convenient place for their sword, that’s where they carried it. If the sword was especially long or if the warrior would be climbing and moving a lot, carrying the sword on the back might have made the most sense.

Looking back at our two original characters in question, Deadpool and Michonne, the placement of their primary weapons wasn’t ideal. But far greater a sin than where they carried their weapons was how they did so. Each character carries their swords in a scabbard. That is the first problem we will look at.

A scabbard is meant to cover the entire blade of a sword. The length of a katana, which both characters carry, can be anywhere from 24–31 inches. When you draw a sword from a scabbard, you often hold the scabbard in place then pull the sword by the handle separating the two from each other. (By the way, scabbards and sheaths are the same thing. Scabbard is the word generally associated with longer blades like swords.)

Now imagine the scabbard is on your back. You reach back with your left hand and hold the sheath in place so it doesn’t ride up when you pull the sword. You reach up with your right hand for the handle which would be around five or more inches up from the blade. So, even if the blade is on the short side, say 24”, your hand will be around 29” from the tip. When you pull up on the katana, it is highly likely some of the blade will still be sheathed even at the greatest length of your reach. Yes, you will pull down on the sheath. But the way the scabbard is affixed to your back can’t be very mobile or the weight of the weapon will pull the whole thing down, out of your reach.

Put a tape measure at the base of your neck on your back. The scabbard would actually be lower, but let’s make it easy. Pull up on the tape measure with your hand sideways, as if holding the handle of a sword that is pointing down. Your reach won’t be as long as you think. If you are drawing sideways toward the edge of the shoulder, the reach is even shorter.

I have looked at Michonne’s sheath and the length of her weapon. Even standing at 5’7”, ain’t no way she is clearing that sword from the scabbard. If you can find an episode that shows her from the back wielding the weapon, reach out to me. I gotta see that for myself.

If you want your character to carry their primary sword on their back, it would be best to have the sword in a break-away scabbard. This type of scabbard grips the blade on one side and is open on the other side. This means the wielder doesn’t have to clear the length of the scabbard. Unfortunately, break-away scabbards aren’t viable for every type of sword.

Bees have rightly been revered in human culture for centuries. They symbolize dedication, hard work, and the power of community. Good luck and prosperity show up when bees do, and they have long been considered a spiritual link between this world and the next. Their honey, beeswax, and propolis are cherished for their curative powers, and the pollination that occurs as a result of their visiting flowers helps feed the world. The mythology surrounding bees is complex and storied, as are the customs associated with them.

One of the most intriguing apian customs is “telling the bees,” rooted in Celtic tradition. Because humans’ very existence is intertwined with the well-being of their charges, beekeepers understand the importance of nurturing that vital relationship. Bees must be kept up-to-date on family happenings in order to maintain their synchronistic relationship with those who care for them.

The most important news to tell the bees centers around death. When a beekeeper passes, the bees must be told, or they will leave their home, cease honey production, or even die themselves. The long-practiced ritual requires the new keeper to knock three times on the roof of each hive and inform the residents of the death of the old keeper, and then reassure the bees that a new keeper has already taken over their care. Additionally, the hives should then be draped in black cloth or ribbon to allow the bees to mourn properly. If the bees feel confident their care will continue, they will stay with the family and everyone’s continued prosperity is ensured.

I first learned of telling the bees from a 1956 newspaper article in the Danville Bee (yes, really) about a swarm of bees who attended their keeper’s funeral in the Berkshire Mountains. When beekeeper John Zepka passed away, thousands of bees gathered at the cemetery to pay their respects to the man who cared so deeply and well for them.

As I researched this enchanting custom of beekeepers sharing family milestones with their bees, I found a 17th-century beekeeping poem, which reads in part: A swarm of bees in June is worth a silver spoon. On that day, Bees in June was born.

Some people send you their manuscript and believe you will read it … with no proposal.

When querying an agent—or a publisher who accepts un-agented manuscripts—send it with a query letter and, if applicable, a nonfiction book proposal. People in publishing are busy. We do not have all the time in the world to read 60,000 words.

Also, do not follow-up right away. Give us at least two months to get back to you. And do not follow-up for the sake of following up. If you must follow up, only do so when you have something good to share.

Rather than, “Have you read my proposal yet?” write about your recent segment on national news or a comp title that just hit the bestseller list.

Send helpful information that adds to why they should represent or publish your book.

—Brenda Knight is publisher at Books That Save Lives, a division of Jim Dandy Media

After 20 years in the business, I still see strange and woefully unprepared queries. For example, an author who wants a Zoom meeting right away, before she has even told us what the book is about. I find authors who are unfamiliar with the concept of a three-page outline. One even had the gall to ask me not to “share her manuscript publically.” Like I’m going to post it on Reddit or something?

Learn the process and submit a good representation of yourself and your work.

—Victor R. Volkman, is the president of Loving Healing Press and its subsidiary Modern History Press since 2003

Probably number one is an email pitch to every publisher’s “info” email account that someone can find; sometimes BCC’d, sometimes not. When I see a pitch has been sent to Akashic’s “info” email along with numerous other publishers, I typically do not respond. It’s fine, of course, to reuse your pitch over and over, and send it along to many publishers, but please individualize the pitches…don’t do a group blast. For me this comes off as lazy which leads to peeve #3. Usually you can find an editor’s name to address it to, even if you’re sending to an “info” or general email account.

An email that comes into our “info” account addressed to “Dear Sirs” is almost always deleted upon receipt. It’s 2025. At the bare minimum, say Sir or Madam (also sounds super dated, but is less annoying).

Don’t pitch something that is so far afield from what we’ve published for the past 2+ decades. Any time I’m advising authors, I advise (beg?) them to do research on book publishers before pitching. Don’t waste your time—and our time. Akashic has a pretty varied list, but, for example, we don’t publish self-help books. We don’t publish romance novels or romantasy. Take a few minutes to poke around on a publisher’s website to see what they are publishing. Spend time on their social media to see what they are currently promoting, excited about, working on, and then if you think your work fits, reach out.

Also, don’t tell me in your pitch that have the next New York Times #1 bestseller. It doesn’t come off as confident to us, but naive…and pompous.

—Johanna Ingalls is the managing editor and director of foreign rights at Akashic Books, where she has worked for over two decades since being rescued from the music industry by Akashic publisher Johnny Temple

But still, I wrote my MMC Leo Ross holding my breath just a little bit. You see, British people have opinions about how they’re portrayed in American media. Which is fair, given that most of the impressions we get seems to be from Hugh Grant rom-coms or Outlander. Not to mention the travesty that is Dick Van Dyke’s Cockney accent as the chimney sweep in Mary Poppins—British people still resent that one even though it’s 60 years old!

(That said, British stereotype us, too. One of the first people I met when I studied abroad asked me if I owned a gun. I asked him if he owned a bowler hat and a pinstriped suit. We called a truce.)

Fundamentally, I think if you’re going to write a British accent, it’s really worth aiming to be as accurate as you can, simply because you’d hate reading someone butchering an American accent. Also, learning about Britishisms is genuinely really fun, like learning a foreign language where you understand a lot already and don’t have to conjugate verbs or come to grips with the subjunctive.

Here’s what you’ll want to consider as you formulate your British character:

There are no rules in writing—like don’t repeat things. There is only advice. There is only what works for me and what works for you and what doesn’t work for either of us. But there are some truths. Truths like, you can’t write without reading. Or, being a writer means being rejected in some form at some level. But sometimes truth and advice can blur. Take setting, for example.

My advice is to never set a novel in a place where you haven’t spent considerable time. Setting is the lifeblood of my novels and as such I want to ensure I know everything I can about the flora, the fauna, the weather, the soil. I want to have a firm grasp on the people, the way they talk, the things they believe. What is the history of this place? How did it come to be, and how is its origin still visible in its DNA?

On a panel regarding setting, I once said something melodramatic like, “I’ll never write about a piece of earth I haven’t stood on.”

I may still be cringing at the delivery, but the sentiment is true. Yet, how would that “rule” help a sci-fi writer who sets her story on planet Bartemus? Should Tolkein have waited until he traveled to Middle Earth himself before writing the Lord of the Rings?

Writing is such a vast and unharmonious landscape that there can be no real rules (like don’t repeat things), and yet there is a truth in setting that goes beyond my take-it-or-leave-it advice.

I wrote my first novel while living in a travel trailer. I wrote the first lines in a desert in New Mexico. I wrote the last lines in the Badlands of South Dakota. In between were the high country hills and red rock mountains of Arizona, the southern deserts and northern forests of California, and the goddess-touched vistas of Far West Texas.

My most recent novel, Narrow the Road, was written at a cramped kitchen table with two small children crawling on top of me.

Slightly different vibe, no?

Jessica Strawser is a USA Today-bestselling author of six popular book club novels hailed for their irresistible premises. She’s also a Writer’s Digest Editor-at-Large with more than 20 years of experience consulting with writers on their queries, synopses, and opening pages. She can spot a marketable premise at a glance—and knows firsthand what it takes to turn a good premise into a great manuscript.

In this live webinar, you’ll learn how to use your basic story idea to set up a compelling premise and build upon it until you have all the elements of a winning novel. Through examples from the bestseller shelves, you’ll learn tips and techniques that can easily be adapted to your experience level, personal writing style, and the needs of your story.

“Janelle, you’ve written a thriller novel set around the early internet. Tell me the moment the idea clicked. What were you doing when it came together?”

“The seed lived in me for a long time. I’d spent the 90s covering technology, stints at a magazine, at Salon.com during the dot-com boom, then drifted into freelance journalism and fiction. Watching that idealism rise and then warp over time felt like witnessing the skeleton of a story. But for a long time, I couldn’t find the right way into it. I knew the era mattered; I just didn’t know which human heart to hang it on. The spark arrived in small, conversational moments. A friend of mine, Stephanie Danler, was working on a novel set in the 90s and kept pestering me to describe what everyday life felt like then. Telling those scenes aloud, what it sounded like in a newsroom, what people believed, made me realize the internet itself could be a setting, but the book needed to be about people who were pushed and changed by it. Later, listening to a podcast about the Unabomber and thinking about the Luddite reaction framed against Wired-era evangelism, an image popped into my head: a woman raised without technology who later lands inside the tech world. That collision, people vs. ideology, intimacy vs. platforms, gave the story its emotional center. Once I had that, the book started to feel alive.”

“You set a big part of the novel in the 90s. A period setting can risk feeling dated. How did you make it feel contemporary?”

“I was conscious of that risk, so I used a structural trick: I bookended the main story with contemporary time. The heart of the novel lives in the 90s because that’s where certain ideas about progress and goodness crystallized, but the contemporary frame gives readers an immediate reason to care. It signals that what we’re reading isn’t nostalgia for its own sake; it’s a history that still shapes the present. People have called it a historical novel and, in a sense, that’s fair. But by giving readers a present-day vantage point, you allow them to draw the line from then to now. That’s what keeps it feeling relevant.”

“You lived through that moment: Wired, San Francisco, the early web. How did firsthand experience shape the novel?”

“Immensely. There’s no substitute for having been there: the rhythms, the hubris, the sloppiness of early tech culture are hard to conjure authentically without that muscle memory. That said, lived experience is a starting point, not an instruction manual. I leaned on my memories for tone: how we talked, the metaphors people used, the optimism that felt invincible, and then I cross-checked against reporting and archives to avoid romanticizing or misremembering. I also went back to colleagues and interviews. Those conversations reminded me of lines we used, small rituals in the office, the way people justified their faith in the future. Those textures feed the scenes in a way research alone cannot.”

“For writers who can’t live the particular time or place they want to depict, whether it is the 1990s or the 1790s, what’s your research advice without getting lost in rabbit holes?”

“Start with essentials: a handful of well-chosen nonfiction histories, a few contemporary journalistic pieces, and interviews with people who were there. Contemporary journalism is gold because it captures what people thought at the time rather than what we think in hindsight. Don’t try to master everything; focus on what the reader will notice. Ask yourself: What will make this world feel credible? If you can’t visit, talk to those who can. Oral history is as valuable as archives. And set limits: If your prewriting becomes an excuse to avoid drafting, you’re researching as procrastination. Do enough to feel safe, enough to write scenes, and then research more as concrete problems arise in the manuscript.”

“You mentioned the lack of photographs from pre-digital life. How did you handle physical details when Instagram and Google Images let you down?”

“It’s true. There’s a weird gap. A lot of everyday images weren’t digitized, and social media didn’t archive those personal, mundane moments. I leaned on friends’ shoebox photos, old point-and-shoot prints people had scanned, and, importantly, memory. That sounds risky, but memory guided me to the sort of emotional truths that images don’t capture. For concrete details, what a particular library aisle looked like in 1985, or the cadence of a newsroom, I dug into magazines and newspapers from the time. Libraries, microfilm, and archival web captures turned out to be more useful than I expected. When a physical fact mattered to a scene, I chased it; otherwise, plausibility did the heavy lifting.”

“How do you balance factual accuracy with the freedom of fiction?”

“I try to keep the balance pragmatic. Fiction’s job is invention, truths that feel true emotionally, even if every fact is altered. Use real people, places, and events as anchors when it helps readers believe in the world, but don’t feel enslaved to them. If a real detail exists and readers are likely to recognize it, get it right. If not, invent whatever serves the characters and the scene. My research is there to create plausibility, not to produce a museum piece. That said, when real injustices or harms are involved, I err on the side of carefulness. Ethics matter.”

“When should a writer stop researching and start writing?”

“Be brutal. If you’re doing six months of prewriting with nothing drafted, ask whether you’re actually avoiding the work. For most projects, one to two months of focused research is plenty; older historical projects might need more. The key is to research in the service of writing. Start writing when you have a character and a question you care about. Then research fills in dead spots while you draft. I learned that the hard way: Front-loading research can make you an expert in everything except the one thing readers want, your story.”

Format: Film
Coming: September 12, 2025
Synopsis: In a dystopian near-future, America has fallen on hard times. Sixteen-year-old Ray Garraty is about to compete in the annual grueling match of stamina and wits known as the Long Walk. One hundred boys must keep a steady pace of four miles per hour day and night, without ever stopping. The winner gets “The Prize”—anything he wants for the rest of his life. But the rules of the Long Walk are harsh and the stakes could not be higher. There is no finish line—the winner is the last man standing. Contestants cannot receive any outside aid whatsoever. Slow down under the speed limit and you’re given a warning. Three warnings and you’re out of the game—forever
Why I’m Seated:The Long Walk was the first book by Stephen King I ever read. I was a sophomore in high school, and its casual cruelty terrified me and kept me turning the page—and would become a precursor for my love of political and dystopian storytelling.

Firstly, this is a verry slight spoiler, but I wanted to put my own spin on stories like The White Lotus that take place in these lush and extravagant tropical resort settings (I want to say more, but I’ll leave it at that for now). Second, I love reading books about authors, and I was having second-book syndrome as I wrote this book—which, you guessed it, was my second book—so I channeled my anxieties into Poe, and it ended up being a very cathartic process.

I tend to draft really quickly, so I finished the first full draft in a couple of months. Then as always, my brilliant editors gave their brilliant feedback, and we worked together on several more rounds of drafts before the final version was sent off to copy edits. I just checked my calendar, and I handed in the very first draft on December 13, 2023, and it’s being published on August 26, 2025—so overall, from idea to publication took over a year and a half. We made some scene additions—there is an “only one bed” scenario that wasn’t in the initial draft—but the overall story stayed the same. I also added an epilogue that I now love that wasn’t in the first draft.

I was very pleasantly surprised by the fact that basically every author who read an early copy of this book told me that they related to how Poe felt. Most of writing is solitary and it’s easy to see other authors seemingly breeze through finishing book after books, so it was reassuring to know that regardless of if you’re a debut or a bestselling veteran, every new book feels like climbing a new scary mountain.