New writers are targets. Eager, hopeful, and unsure who to trust is exactly the profile a bad actor looks for. This checklist from the Critters Workshop site is worth keeping handy: 1 - Yog's Law: Money flows to the author. Legitimate publishers pay you, not the other way around. 2 - Verify track records: Check an outfit's authors, sales rankings, and reputation. 3 - Price shop: Identical services can vary wildly in cost. 4 - If there's a lot of money on the line, try to start small and have milestones. 5 - Get it in writing. 6 - Beware "hybrid" publishers: If the author pays, the publisher has less reason to sell the book. 7 - Remember there are scammers out there, hoping to part fools from their money. Why #2 and #6 deserve the most attention The whole article is worthwhile (and a quick read), but of the seven, #2 and #6 come up most in the writing forums and Facebook groups I visit. They're the easiest to skip when you're excited and have an email or direct message from what you think is a legitimate publisher. A friendly phone call, a warm email, and a promise of "we'll take care of everything" feel like enough. They aren't. Before you pay anyone for editing, cover design, marketing, or publishing, get a concrete, signed, written agreement. It should spell out: - What each side will deliver - When it will be delivered - What you'll pay, and when - How either side can end the deal, and what happens to refunds All of that should come only after you've done a good job digging around and asking whether that particular publisher is a valid one. The article's author adds a useful test: watch how the other party reacts when you ask for specifics. A reputable provider will gladly put it on paper. If they dodge, get vague, or push you to "just trust us," treat that as a red flag. Clear terms protect them too, so honest businesses have no reason to resist. Full article: Critters Workshop publishing tips Discussion: Have you ever been asked to pay for a writing service? What made you hesitate, or what would you ask for in writing next time?

We had a great article given to us this week in the MFA program, one that would have been super useful before I wrote my first novel. It's about the essence of a scene and how to make sure each one does its job. When I was working on my first novel, The Stone Harvest, I was guilty of most of the scene problems listed here. It took, and I'm not kidding, YEARS for me to work through the problems with self-education and a very patient, wise developmental editor. As I work on my thesis manuscript, I'll certainly keep these tips from K.M. Weiland in mind. Moving forward, I'm keeping an eye out for scenes that just sit there. There may be nothing technically wrong with it, but it's just blah. Weiland offers a simple first test: Am I having fun writing this? If you're not, odds are one of a few structural problems is hiding underneath. Eight things that can go wrong: - The scene is one-dimensional (all dialogue, or all action) - It lacks forward momentum (the character has no clear goal) - It proceeds unimpeded (nothing stands in the way) - It lacks a resolution (the character ends where they began) - It's too busy (chasing several goals at once) - It lacks complexity (no subtext or subplot underneath) - It's too on the nose (so formulaic it feels mechanical) - It's too familiar (a rerun of an earlier scene) Five ways to fix it: - Change the setting - Add a character who brings conflict - Treat other characters' goals as obstacles - Deepen the protagonist's emotional arc - Decide what happens in the next scene, so this one has a direction Notice how the problems pair up with the fixes. Most weak scenes come down to the same few questions: What does my character want here? What's in the way? How are they different when it ends? If you can answer all three in one sentence each, the scene usually has a pulse. If you can't, you've found your starting point. Here's a way to use this. Pick one scene you've been avoiding in your draft and run it through the eight problems. Don't try to fix everything. Find the one that fits best and try only the matching fix. Most scenes need one good adjustment, not a rewrite.

This week in the MFA program, we had a great discussion about creating and using secondary characters in a novel. While I did have interesting side characters in my two previous novels, The Stone Harvest and Deadlined, I can see how I could have used them to better contrast or highlight the protagonist. I hope this new information helps you build a fuller world around your main character. New writers tend to pour all their energy into the protagonist, treating everyone else as background noise. That's a missed opportunity. Secondary characters have real jobs to do, and when you build them with intention, they make your whole story feel richer. Give them a reason to exist. Every secondary character should do something for your story: reveal key details, motivate the protagonist, contrast with them, or help establish your setting. If a character doesn't serve one of those purposes in a given scene, ask yourself whether they need to be there at all. Build them out, even if readers never see them. It helps to develop a mini character bible for each important secondary character: backstory, personality, maybe even an arc of their own, even if most of it never makes it onto the page. Characters who feel real to you as the writer tend to feel real to the reader too, even in small doses. Let them live in the gray. One-dimensional secondary characters (the purely helpful friend, the purely evil rival) are easy to write and easy to forget. Give your supporting cast virtues and flaws, the same complexity you'd give your protagonist. That contradiction is what makes them memorable. Don't overcrowd your story. A large cast of secondary characters can overwhelm readers fast. Keep the cast manageable, make sure each character is distinct, and if two characters serve similar functions, consider combining them into one stronger character. One tool worth knowing: the foil. A foil is a specific kind of secondary character built to highlight another character's traits through contrast, not necessarily through conflict. Foils aren't villains. They can be best friends, rivals, or simple side characters whose differences sharpen the protagonist's strengths and flaws. For instance, pair a stubborn, controlling protagonist with a flexible, collaborative foil, and both characters become clearer by comparison. The differences should be distinct enough to notice, but not so extreme that they feel like a gimmick.

I recall using adverbs liberally when I started writing. They helped me bridge action beats or emotional gaps, and I assumed that was a good thing. As I read more about the craft of writing, I saw that the "adverbs are bad" crowd was really loud and vocal. One time, I searched my manuscript for all -ly words and was shocked to discover how many I used. A culling of the words followed, and it forced me to rewrite great portions of my work, setting me back in my progress. Moving forward, I told myself that I'd be more judicious in my use of them. I moved forward without a clear rule for their use and have used them only when no other options exist. I've gotten better at crafting a sentence that reveals deeper emotion or paints a picture of the action without using them, but I couldn't shake the feeling that sometimes they're the best option. Well—then I read The Language of Fiction. Writing handbooks agree on almost nothing—except that adverbs are bad. Stephen King compares them to the road to hell. Elmore Leonard calls them a mortal sin. So many new writers go through their drafts and cut every -ly word they can find. In The Language of Fiction, Brian Shawver argues this goes too far, and his reasoning is worth a look. The usual argument is that adverbs are redundant: pick a stronger verb, and you won’t need one. That works for “the radio blared loudly,” but it breaks down quickly after that. Try to find one verb that means “boiled an egg quickly” or “gutted the fish angrily.” Most English verbs say nothing about speed, mood, or intensity, so the adverb is often the only way to say what you mean. Shawver also questions the idea that “fewer words is always better.” It’s a fairly recent taste, mostly inherited from Hemingway and the minimalists who followed. “Omit needless words” sounds wise until you notice that almost every word in a story is grammatically needless. And “she spoke quietly” doesn’t mean the same thing as “she whispered.”

I'm working through a part of my thesis manuscript where I'm developing a few subplots. One of them is a romantic complication the MC has: though he's in love with another woman, one he dated and voluntarily broke up with, he's seeing another woman on the side. My challenge is to bring together his views of his personal worth during the main portion of the plot so he can finally be the person he needs to be and reunite with his true love. It's a delicate dance, and I know that I'm not quite there yet in piecing the two together. On that note .... Subplots! Subplots often get treated as filler, the B story you throw in to pad out a manuscript. Done well, they're the opposite. A strong subplot deepens your main story, raises the stakes, and gives your reader something extra to care about along the way. Think in threads, not side stories. One useful reframe is to stop calling them subplots and start thinking of them as story threads woven into your larger tapestry. A thread that gets introduced and then dropped feels unfinished, and readers notice. Threads can meet your main plot head-on, run in parallel for most of the book before merging, or slowly converge over time, like two cars changing lanes to end up going the same direction. Whichever path you choose, the thread needs to connect back to the whole eventually. Give your subplot its own shape. A subplot isn't just a scene here and there scattered through your manuscript. It needs its own beginning, middle, and end, with characters and events that could almost stand on their own. If it can't hold together as a mini-story in its own right, it probably isn't developed enough yet. Know what job it's doing. Subplots tend to fall into a few categories: mirroring your main plot's themes, contrasting against them, complicating your protagonist's path, delivering information the reader needs, or developing a romance. Knowing what your subplot does helps you decide what belongs in it and what doesn't. Connect it to someone who matters.