What I Learned in a Year of Writing

Turns out you can learn a lot by doing something over the course of a year. Here’s what I learned about writing.

Maybe what I learned can help you, too!

This March marks one year of work on my paranormal horror novel, Maryann. Even though I’ve been writing for years, this is the first novel I feel has a decent to good chance of becoming something. That’s exactly why I’ve been pouring so much of my energy into it. 

In this year, I’ve learned so much about how I personally write, as well as general pitfalls a lot of writers make; debut writers, seasoned writers, and everyone in between. This post is a little exploration of the things I’ve learned and the solutions I’ve found. I hope it may bring some help to you, too!

For starters, there’s lots of middling to terrible advice out there.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s also a lot of great resources and aid out there, too. I have no desire to discredit that.

When I began taking my writing seriously, I knew I needed to get active on social media. Since then, I’ve found so many people touting “the correct way” to write a book, or claiming that their methods or advice are the “only way” to successfully write.

Look, sometimes these individuals do have good advice. But a lot of the time they use writers’ insecurities against them in order to garner clicks, likes, and other forms of attention. The worst part is, a lot of their advice is a nothing-burger, if not straight up bad.

The truth of the matter is writing can be hard, and it won’t look the same for everyone. Even people who give really good advice are apt to say, “But I know someone who doesn’t do that at all and they’re an excellent writer.”  

Listen to every suggestion with a grain of salt. If what the person is saying makes sense or intrigues you, give it a try. I urge you to also understand that at least ninety percent of the time, a singular piece of advice is not going to be the thing that makes you successful on its own. 

Overwriting is a thing — and I’m guilty of it.

I didn’t know that overwriting was a problem until this past year. At least, I didn’t recognize that it was a problem with my writing.

I’ve been learning over the course of my work on Maryann that I need to trust the reader more. I’ve learned this from reader feedback, reading/watching book reviews, as well as careful observation of how other, successful authors write their own books. I like to put exactly what I want/imagine onto the page. I think the reader will appreciate knowing everything that I know in my head. In reality, it makes the pacing bad, it reads as boring, and the reader (who already had their preconceived notions) becomes annoyed by being told how to interact with the story instead of being allowed to enjoy it.

Overwriting anything in a book can pull your reader right out of a narrative. Look, you can wager a guess that your reader is already there because something interests them about your story — you don’t have to hammer it into their head that they should like it. When you try too hard to make the reader see what you see, you lose the beauty of reading, which is its collaborative nature between author and reader. 

No more writing our novels like an inventory or lab report, okay?

Figurative language can actually hurt your book.

My husband prefers to employ a different writing style than I. A part of that means he couldn’t care less for most figurative language. I, on the other hand, tend to love rich, floral writing.

Or at least, I thought I did.

Before I handed off Maryann to my husband for his (very honest and very helpful) critiques, I went through my manuscript and added metaphors where I thought they should be. Mind you, this was ADDITIONAL metaphors to what I had already written.

I think it only took a few chapters before my husband looked at me and said, “The amount of figurative language you’re using is pulling me out of the story. It’s too much.”

At first, I was surprised. Then I went through and began cutting metaphors and floral language where it didn’t serve the story. I chose my favorite bits to stay and the rest tried to cull as best as possible.

It made my writing better. 

What’s more, after my husband made that comment about my own writing, I began to understand his point when I read other authors’ books. All of a sudden, I was aware when an author used a metaphor in every sentence of a paragraph. I started counting similes, started taking note of how many times they made the same comparisons. 

It was eye-opening. 

For instance, Ronald Malfi uses sparing but impactful metaphors and similes. However, a fantasy writer I recently read used the same metaphor so many times I rolled my eyes whenever I read it. Another book I’ve been reading seems to have figurative language in nearly every sentence.

Yes, there was a time I probably wouldn’t have noticed these things (well, I probably would have noticed the repetitive metaphors). That said, where I am as a writer now, I do find I get separated from a story when there’s too much figurative language. Like overwriting, it comes across as a controlling desire for the reader to see exactly what the author wants him/her to see. 

As a writer, I understand and commiserate. As a reader, though, I wish the author would trust that I know what broken glass sounds like or what a pang of guilt feels like. 

Adverbs are the enemy and I’ve been converted.

I believe Stephen King at one point said, “the road to Hell is paved with adverbs.” 

I might be paraphrasing, but the sentiment remains the same. 

I used to think this was bunk. I’ll admit it — I thought adverbs were my friends. We were buddies, along with my overuse of figurative language and overwriting of scenes. I thought adverbs made everything I was writing more visually appealing, more relatable, and a better representation of what I wanted the reader to see.

Boy, was I mistaken.

Let me give you an example:

Leena rose slowly to her feet and carefully picked up the cup. She ran a finger gingerly over its lip. A small chip in the porcelain snagged at her fingertip lightly. 

If you are yet unconverted, let me give you a rundown of why I think this is a terrible bit of writing. For one thing, the excessive use of adverbs and the repetitive “ly” sound is annoying to read, even in my head. It’s as if it wants to be a rhyme scheme, or have some sort of rhythm and cadence that isn’t well-executed. 

A second point, and the more salient one at that, is that the overuse of adverbs makes the writing sound wishy-washy. This scene has no tension, no life, no chutzpah. Adverbs, in this context, come across as lazy and unsure. I’d rather the piece read something like this:

 Leena rose to her feet in a hesitant movement and reached for the cup, careful not to knock it over as she did. She ran a finger over the rim, marveling at how delicate the porcelain was. A small chip in the cup snagged at Leena’s fingertip. Not enough to break the skin, though, she noted, examining her finger.

Is the example perfect now? No. However, there is nothing wishy-washy about the writing. We still get the same idea of Leena’s movements — the adverbs occur in our minds because we’ve been given the information to see and ascertain for ourselves what is transpiring in the scene. I daresay this adverb-less example is far more engaging and interesting to read than the original!

Do I still use adverbs? Yes. Will you? Undoubtedly (see? it happens). 

Do I think adverbs are the devil? No. Do I do my darndest to rewrite them out of existence and only keep the ones that seem to have the best impact? Yes. 

Do I believe my writing is all the stronger because of that effort? Again and again, yes.

Adjectives may not be as useful as you think.

Please do not misunderstand me — adjectives are useful and wonderful little pieces of color in writing. 

What I want you to understand is what I myself have come to understand — there’s such a thing as too many adjectives.

Again, I think it stems from overwriting. I’ve found that I have a terrible habit of giving most things two or three adjectives. In my mind, if something is “old,” for instance, I feel the need to pair it with “tired” or “worn” or “decrepit.” 

The thing is, if I feel that way, then a reader probably does, too. I don’t need to spell everything out. Maybe I just say that the crooked house on the hill was old. The reader understands that “old” here may also mean “decrepit,” “musty,” “crooked.” 

In fact, why use both modifiers at all? Chances are good that there are other context clues I can give my reader to understand the house is old and crooked. Maybe I say that the house has beams on the front porch that look as though they haven’t sat at ninety-degree angles in over two decades.

“Wow,” the reader thinks. “That house is old and crooked!”

See what I mean? 

Everything in moderation, including moderation. Sometimes inundating a reader with figurative language (adjectives included here) works to the story’s advantage. The whole piece can’t be written that way, though.

And please, remember that there are times simple adjectives work just as well as fancier ones. It comes down to what the voice of the story calls for at that moment. “Old” can be upscaled to “ancient.” Sometimes, though, “ancient” can be downscaled to “old.”

This one requires a lot of reading, I think, both of your own work and others’. My beginning advice is if you have more than one adjective in a sentence, maybe decide if you need both.

Do I say this because I’m a perfect writer without fault who uses my adjectives effectively? Gosh, no. I say it as someone who’s learning my own faults and trying to find a way to fix them, and hoping my solutions might help you, too.

Crutch words are real but they may not be what you think.

Every writer has crutch words. You’ve heard this, I’m sure. You may even know some/all of yours. If so, I bow down to you! 

When I began seeing the phrase “crutch words” I knew I’d eventually find my own as I began editing.

What I found, though, surprised me.

It wasn’t that I was circling the same word over and over again (which, I did, don’t get me wrong — for some reason everybody was guffawing in my early drafts of Maryann). What I found was that my crutch words were a family of horrible qualifiers. Yes, I repeat that condemnation — horrible qualifiers. 

For some reason, most of my first drafts have a very indecisive tone. My crutch words tend to be, “almost,” “just,” “nearly,” “barely,” “lightly,” “usually,” “generally,” “likely,” “typically…” You get the idea (did you also notice that they’re predominately adverbs? Good! We’re improving together!). 

It’s infuriating to read back what I’ve written to be faced with descriptions that are half-made, characters that are half-acting, and action that is half-occurring. My crutch words show that I need more deliberate, hard-and-fast writing. 

Once I cut those words alone, the piece is much improved.

I encourage you when you reread your writing to take a close look at what types of words, not just which individual words, you reuse on a regular basis. You may be surprised at how quick your editing goes and how great an improvement it makes.

If you need a place to start, you might try November J. Brown's free "100 Words You're Overusing in Your Novel".

Working on multiple projects isn’t always the no-go others want you to believe.

You’ve been writing your story for a while. You enjoy it, but something is gnawing at the back of your brain. A part of you feels like you need to let it out of your mind in order to regain your focus. Ah, but some person or persons have told you that you need to focus on one thing at a time. So you buckle down and try to finish your story while it feels like a hole is being bored through your mind.

Sound familiar?

I’m a big advocate for finishing your work (so long as it makes sense). That said, don’t feel as if you have to live with one project and only one project for as long as you’re writing. The reality is that you might have ideas (gasp!) that want to get on the page. I, personally, give you permission; it’s okay to need to do something else. Heck, it’s probably healthy! Sometimes we need to let the weasels out to play while we fine tune something else in the back of our brains.

I’ve seen comments from writers saying that every new idea they get they end up incorporating into their current project. They follow it up with the reveal that they’ve been (consequently) writing their story for seven years. 

I’m serious — I have witnessed this. 

Not every idea is worth writing, and not every idea that is will/should fit into your main manuscript. That doesn’t mean those ideas should be abandoned. Sometimes we need brain breaks, and if you know you’re capable (heck, maybe you even know you work better with multiple pots simmering, I don’t know!), you can pursue more than one project.

This is most useful when you’ve finished a draft and need to give it space to breathe and live (and begin to die) before you revisit it. At that juncture you have all the permission in the world to divide your thoughts and devote them to other pieces, projects, or activities. 

Alls I’m saying here is: you do you.

I personally have two things going or I get bored with everything and will end up abandoning it all (at least for a long period of time). Any more than two and I’ll have issues. Multiple projects keeps me energized in both places, and it helps my brain feel a little quieter.

At the end of the day…

You will likely need to do some work to discover your own faults. This will require finding good critique partners (in person or online!) who will tell it to you straight! 

That said, I hope what I’ve learned has helped you in some way. Feel free to reach out via email or my newsletter and we can talk books and writing any time!