What I mean when I say…

The following is a far-from-exhaustive list of common writing-related terms and abbreviations that either have or likely will appear on this site. They are grouped by category and arranged in a process-oriented, chronological, and conceptual order. For instance, terms related to drafting come before those related to revising, and general terms (like genre or editor) are defined before more specific terms (like sub-genre or copy editor), regardless of alphabetical order. I’ll probably tinker with and add to the list over time.

Photo by Ahmad Ossayli.

Genres and marketing categories

genre (literary)—an artistic category with defined parameters for content and, sometimes, form. Both fiction and non-fiction can be divided into genres. The following are examples of major fiction genres:

contemporary—fiction set in the time it is written.

fantasy—fiction in which magic plays an intrinsic role in the plot and world-building; typically set in the past or containing cultural elements derived from the past.

historical—realistic fiction set in a recognizable culture and period from the past; may include actual historical figures.

horror—fiction designed to scare, disturb, disgust, or cause dread.

literary fiction—character-driven books or stories with a strong emphasis on the quality of the writing.

mystery—fiction with a plot that revolves around a crime or situation that needs to be figured out by the protagonist and reader.

romance—fiction in which the plot revolves around a romantic relationship and ends happily.

sci-fi, science fiction—fiction in which the hard and/or social sciences play an intrinsic role in the plot and world-building; typically set in the future.

subgenre, sub-genre—a specific descriptive genre category that can be included under another, more general genre label. Examples: cosmic horror, cozy mystery, sweet romance, dystopian science fiction.

marketing categories—age-based groupings defined by publishers and booksellers to target specific audiences. Books are typically described by referring to both their marketing category and genre, such as adult mystery or YA fantasy. Many respected sources treat marketing categories as genres; I believe it is clearer and more useful to separate them.

MG, middle grade—marketing category targeting readers aged 8–12 and typically featuring protagonists in their pre-teens and early teens. The Harry Potter books are middle grade fantasy.

YA, young adult—marketing category for books targeted primarily at teen readers, starting with ages 12 or 14 and going up to 18 or early 20s. YA stories feature protagonists in their mid- to late-teens, address the concerns of people in their teens, and use the voice of that targeted age range.

NA, New Adult—this is/was a marketing category for books aimed at people in their early twenties, usually with more explicit sex or violence than that found in YA. However, the classification never fully caught on and, as of the writing of this post, New Adult appears to have dissolved as a category for traditional publishing.

Adult—marketing category dedicated to books written for people over 18. Although most commonly about people over 20, the main protagonists can also be children or teenagers if the perspective is really that of an adult. For instance, My Brilliant Friend, which is written as the reminiscences of an older woman after her childhood friend goes missing, is adult literary fiction that primarily follows two child protagonists. 

Preparation and drafting

ms, manuscript—an unpublished text, usually a book.

Word—Microsoft’s word-processing program; the industry standard.

Pages—Apple’s free word-processing program, similar to Microsoft Word.

Scrivener—word-processing and content management software specifically designed for those writing books.

pantser—someone who drafts without a plan or preparatory materials.

plotter—someone who plans before drafting, usually by outlining the plot and creating other world- and character-building materials.

worldbuilding, world-building—the creation of a new, fictional world or imaginative supplement to the already existing world.

Revising

CP, critique partner—a person with whom one exchanges in-process writing to both receive and provide feedback.

betas, beta readers—unpaid readers who provide general feedback on an unpublished manuscript. More about beta readers here.

editor (freelance)—an independent professional hired by writers to provide extensive, concrete feedback and make corrections to completed, pre-published manuscripts.

editor (traditional publishing)—employee of a publishing house in charge of accepting and revising manuscripts for publication. Editors in traditional publishing are responsible for and have final say over a book’s content.

copy editor—professional who provides the final edits for a manuscript, focusing on the minute details of spelling, punctuation, grammar, and formatting.

Querying and Publishing

literary agent—person who represents an author and serves as an intermediary between the author and publishers or other relevant parties, such as movie studios or theatrical producers. Literary agents are responsible for finding an editor and associated publisher for their client’s work, will negotiate the publishing contract, and may offer manuscript suggestions/edits with an eye to making the prospective book as marketable as possible.

to query—the act of seeking representation for a specific work, usually by emailing a letter and additional related materials.

query (letter)—a cover letter including a brief description of the book (title, word count, genre, marketing category), the main protagonist, and the basic problem driving the plot, usually written as the body of an email. Query letters may also contain brief descriptions of the writers’ relevant qualifications and an explanation for why they are contacting the specific agents to whom the letters are addressed.

pitch (book)—a brief conversation between a writer and agent or editor, in which the writer attempts to interest the agent/editor in her work by providing a short description of the book and its main hook. The content of a pitch is similar to that of a query letter, albeit often in a shorter form.

self publishing—when authors take on the responsibility of editing, publishing, and marketing their own books.

independent publishing—another name for self publishing.

indie author—a self-published author.

traditional publishing—when a publishing house buys the rights to a book in order to edit, publish, and distribute an author’s work.

indie press, independent press—an independently owned publishing house.

ARC—advanced reading copy; provided by publishers or indie authors to reviewers before a book is released.

Community

platform (author’s, personal, writer’s)—the public presentation of oneself as an author to foster greater visibility for oneself and one’s work. A writer’s platform typically includes a personal website or blog, as well as presence on social media sites like Facebook, Twitter, Instragram, or YouTube. Guest writing on other websites or periodicals, joining relevant organizations, public speaking, and participating in media interviews can also be part of a writer’s platform.

critique group—writers who meet regularly to share and review each others’ work.

writing group—authors who meet regularly to write together and/or discuss writing-related matters.

residency (writing)—a live-in program or retreat lasting a predefined period of time in which a single writer or group of writers focus on creating and refining their craft, usually with the support and input of other participants.

BookTube—nickname for the community of people on YouTube with channels dedicated to books and writing advice.

NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month—annual creative writing challenge in which authors all over the world attempt to write 50,000 words (the minimum number of words for a novel) during the month of November. The online event was created and is organized by a non-profit organization of the same name.

Camp NaNoWriMo—an online event held twice a year in which writers sign up for virtual “cabins” with other writers. Unlike regular NaNoWriMo, writers set their own word- or time-based goals for the month.

Reading

DNF—did not finish

TBR—to be read

POV—point of view

MC—main character

Photo by Lacie Slezak.

Tips for mystery writers

Photo by Anders Jildén.

Mystery is by far the genre I edit most and the one I consumed most growing up. Even now, I regularly rewatch episodes of Poirot and Miss Marple with the enthusiasm of visiting dear and much-missed friends. Mystery is also, I firmly believe, one of the most difficult genres to write well. I am perpetually impressed by the authors who attempt to take it on, and awed by those who do so with aplomb.

The Twin Pillars of Plot and Character

While literary fiction often concerns itself primarily with theme and character, and science fiction hooks with its concept and plot, mystery truly is about plot and character. The plot, after all, is quite literally what makes a story a mystery, but consistent, believable characters are what make a mystery work. In the best cases, compelling characters can even draw readers in over and over, long after they understand the plot’s puzzle.

With that in mind, here are my top tips for those intrepid writers endeavoring to take on this daunting genre.

1. Check your timeline

   I mentioned this one back in my “Beyond Typos” post, but a clean, logical timeline is crucial for mystery writers. Because mysteries are about understanding past events, usually by untangling multiple character threads, chronologies can become very complicated very quickly. If everything doesn’t line up logically, your story will fall apart.

   Especially if you’re a pantser (i.e., someone who writes without an outline or other form of plan), perfecting your timeline will mean going back over your finished draft with a fine-tooth comb and finding an editor able and willing to catch the stuff you may have missed. Plotters (those who create a clear plan and preparatory materials before drafting) will have an easier time with this, as they can build and double check their timelines in the outline stage. However, even plotters alter their stories as they go, and thus are not immune to plot discrepancies. The main difference between plotters and pantsers in the self-editing stage, then, is that plotters should have a pre-made timeline to check their manuscript against, while pantsers will create their timelines as they edit.

   Bonus tip: Don’t depend on your beta readers to fix your timeline. Although you may have particularly thorough and sharp-eyed friends able to catch plot inconsistencies as they read, straightening out timelines typically requires multiple passes and an extremely organized, detail-oriented approach, both of which are outside the scope of traditional beta-reading.

2. Keep your characters distinct and (mostly) consistent

   You can have a perfectly logical and clever plot, but if readers don’t find your characters believable, they won’t have confidence in your book. And if they can’t distinguish your characters in a way that allows them to remember who’s who, they won’t be able to follow your plot. Establishing characters with easily distinguishable traits and making their actions consistent with those traits is therefore imperative.

   In part, this means giving your characters clearly distinct names (think Raj, Karen, and Emery, NOT Katie, Karen, and Kai), as well as varied ages, physical features, personalities, social roles, personal philosophies, and histories.

   Naturally, you will have some logical overlap between characters—members of the same family will have physical similarities, for instance, just as people from the same graduating class will be around the same age. In these cases, you have two general choices.

   The first is to lean more heavily on other types of differences to distinguish members of that group. For instance, to individuate two gray-haired widows who now share a house, you might want to make one of them tall, stern, and quiet and the other petite, friendly, and chatty. To make it easy for the reader to remember who is who, you could also give them names that reflect their personalities. In this case, the tougher character might have a consonant-heavy, harder sounding name like Gertrude, while the more approachable character might have a softer or more diminutive name like Aggie or Dot.

   The second choice is to treat the group as a single character, meaning that the group’s members share the same major characteristics and we only (or mostly) see them while together. If you choose this path, you will want to use a single group name or combined name for every mention of the group and the people in it. For our widows, this might mean always describing them as “The Watching Widows” or always referring to them together so that their combined names eventually read as a single moniker. In other words, they aren’t “Gertrude” and “Dot,” but rather “Gertrude and Dot.” This is also a rare case in which you might want to give members of that particular group similar names, because the shared identity of that group’s members matters more than the individuals themselves. The widows might then become “Betty and Letty” or “Aggie and Annie.”

   Of course, people are messy and prone to change over time. Including those discrepancies can make your characters more believable, but only if the reasons for these character inconsistencies are well-grounded. For instance, let’s say you have a suspect who has dedicated her life to non-violent causes. If that’s all your readers know about her, they will not find it plausible if she turns out to be a crazed murderer. On the other hand, if sticking to non-violent means leads to the death of someone close to her, readers might understand if she ultimately loses faith in her once-held beliefs and seeks revenge against her friend’s killer. Or, we might find out that she killed someone many years ago, and has clung to action-through-non-violence as a kind of penance ever since. In either scenario, the murder and the murderer’s primary characteristics are revealed to be intimately linked. Even better, by showing logical growth in response to major life events, the character becomes more textured, deeper, and, thus, more believable.

3. Balance number of suspects with story length

   On a related note, the number of suspects in your story can also have a serious impact on reader enjoyment. Too few and the mystery may become too easy or boring. Too many and you risk bogging down the story’s pace, leaving characters underdeveloped, and overwhelming readers. For short stories, a good rule of thumb is to include three to four suspects, while novels should have at least four, and probably closer to between five and eight.

   Can there be exceptions to this rule? Depending on your approach and goal, sure. If, say, your book is really meant to be an in-depth psychological or philosophical study of two contrasting characters, then you might only have two real suspects. But straying too far from the 3–4/5–8 guideline can make it more difficult to maintain tension and/or coherence throughout your story, and should only be done for carefully considered reasons.

4. Balance clues with red herrings throughout your manuscript

   For mysteries, reader satisfaction comes from endings that are so logical they seem obvious once the story is complete, but only once the story is complete.

   Too often, writers confuse surprise with satisfaction. When this happens, they might hide crucial information until the final reveal. This tactic will increase the likelihood of surprising readers, but at the cost of leaving them feeling cheated.

   Never forget: most mystery readers love a puzzle and expect a fair shot at figuring out that puzzle on their own. No one likes to play a rigged game.

   Mystery writers, therefore, must include clues throughout their stories, but will need to balance these clues with red herrings and/or hide them in plain sight by inserting them into places where the reader’s focus will be elsewhere. The YouTube channel Just Write has a great video on how J.K. Rowling both presents and hides clues in the Harry Potter series by using selective descriptive vagueness, placing the culprit in the background of the story, burying clues in other information, or dropping clues and then immediately redirecting the reader’s attention to something that feels more important. All of these techniques are effective because, when implemented well, they should leave readers feeling satisfied that the game was challenging but, ultimately, fair.

   Again, plotters are at an advantage here. Because they know where their stories are headed, they can add both clues and red herrings as they go. Pantsers will probably need to weave clues and anti-clues into second and third drafts.

The above tips are mainly for those writing traditional mysteries, but are worth keeping in mind for related genres like suspense or thriller. And, as usual, they are meant as (hopefully) helpful guideposts rather than hard and fast rules.

Draft with your gut, revise with your head: tips for approaching dialogue

Photo by Harishan Kobalasingam.

In my experience, writers usually feel strongly about creating dialogue, either loving or hating the challenge of building plot and character through seemingly genuine conversation. And more often than not, those feelings are evident in their subsequent manuscripts. Fortunately, although great dialogue may not be easy to craft, the process doesn’t have to be painful.

Of course, there is no single “correct” approach to writing dialogue. The below advice is meant to help authors decrease some of the anxiety around the process and avoid what I have found to be the most common pitfalls in composing naturalistic conversations, including

• exposition dumps;

• overly formal, complex, or otherwise awkward language;

• unnecessary repetition;

• boring, flat, and extraneous passages; and

• out-of-character statements.

Your usage may vary.

Drafting with your gut

A good first draft of dialogue will be focused and feel natural. To accomplish the former, you need to approach your scene with purpose. To accomplish the latter, you want to write from your gut, allowing your characters’ words to pour out of them rather than being forced upon them by the needs of the story.

Before writing a scene, you should have some idea of what its purpose will be and how it will move your plot along. Doing so will give your characters and their conversation a clear destination and path to follow, but also room to experiment and grow.

Once you have a sense for where you want the scene to go, allow yourself to sink into your characters, feeling the drives that propel them forward as well as the histories that weigh them down.

Now, write.

Revising with your head

When you’re ready to revise, it’s time to hop out of your characters’ skins and review the scene from the outside. Here are some key aspects to consider.

Turn up the tension

There’s what we think, what we want to communicate, and what we actually communicate. These three things rarely line up perfectly, and that fact is a primary source of tension in dialogue.

When you revise, make sure you are playing up to this tension. Not only will it keep your readers interested, but it will clue them in to important facets of your characters’ desires and personalities.

Remember, too, that people communicate at least as much through body language and facial expressions as they do through words. Be sure to use your characters’ physicality to either support or conflict with what they say.

Disparities between the perspectives of your characters is another natural source of tension in dialogue. This doesn’t mean every interaction you write needs to be hostile, but you should keep an eye open for places where misunderstandings or contrasting perspectives might occur—especially in ways that are relevant to the plot—and then lean in to those moments.

Refine the rhythm

Refining the rhythm of your dialogue requires both cutting and expanding in the revision stage, and usually involves bouncing back-and-forth between the two.

Tighten your writing by cutting or summarizing any lines that don’t move the plot forward, build character, or establish setting. Strive for phrases that do at least two of these at once.

Cut unnecessary repetition, flabby phrasing, or other extraneous words.

Look for opportunities to add white space. Unless there are strong character or stylistic reasons to have long, speech-like paragraphs, these should be broken up.

Likewise, most of the time you want to break-up complex sentences and simplify vocabulary. Reading your dialogue aloud will help you hear what works and what doesn’t.

Check your dialogue tags. Words like “said” or “asked” should be sparing; the voices and perspectives of well-written characters can do most of the work of identifying each speaker.

If you find you need tags on every line, this may be a sign that your characterization isn’t strong and you need to tweak the dialogue itself to more clearly evoke the speaker’s personality/point-of-view. (That being said, contemporary readers and editors usually prefer accents and vocal tics to be handled like a strong spice: added sparingly for flavor but not laid on so heavily that they overwhelm the actual meat of the scene.)

Dialogue tags should sometimes be supplemented with, or replaced entirely by, descriptions of body language, facial expressions, or interior thoughts. Adding these moments of description can keep passages of dialogue from feeling too thin and provide your readers with important context regarding your characters’ personalities and states of mind.

Similarly, inserting brief descriptions of the setting or surrounding action—especially when it reflects, conflicts with, interrupts, or otherwise affects your characters’ discussion—is another effective way of adding layers and dynamism to a scene.

Check for character and plot consistency

Drafting from the gut can mean that what comes out sounds more like the author than the character. Or worse, we might have our characters say something that seems to work in the moment, but takes them to a place we really don’t want them to go. For instance, if you have a series-recurrent character who up to this point has always been meek or kind or wise, you don’t want her to suddenly become aggressive or mean or reckless unless you have established a very believable reason for her to do so and are prepared to deal with the repercussions of that conflicting behavior going forward.

When you revise your dialogue, ask yourself whether each statement really makes sense for the speaker. If just a line or two sounds off, you will probably want to change those lines. If, on the other hand, the entire conversation sounds off, you might want to either rethink the character or recast the speaker altogether.

Once the first draft of your entire book is complete, you might also discover a conversation that works on its own doesn’t add much to, or even conflicts with other aspects of, the overall story. Painful as this can be, the scene will have to be trimmed or cut accordingly.

Looking for more?

Whole books can be—and have been—written on the subject of writing dialogue. If you’re searching for more in-depth advice than what I’ve put forward here, you might want to check out Crafting Dynamic Dialogue by the editors of Writer’s Digest.