Community Articles:
Writing How-To’s 

Seated beside a window in a climate-controlled airliner, I examined the sapphire September sky, the lumpy clouds, and the changing topography from 35,000 feet. My crossing of the wide middle of the United States took less than four hours. It took Lucinda, my great-great-great grandmother, four months—weighed down by her fifth or sixth pregnancy—to make the same trip.

She left the west bank of Nebraska’s Missouri River, traveling on foot and in a covered wagon built by her husband, 175 years before I boarded a plane in Atlanta. The aircraft carried me over the Wasatch Mountains at the end of my journey. The jolting wagon carried her through those same mountains, while she cradled the son born in an early mountain snowstorm. We were headed for the same place—the Salt Lake Valley.

My 2024 novel research trip to Utah traced back to a single question—one I had asked my last uncle, my mother’s oldest brother. “Why weren’t the Lees Mormon?”

Both sides of my mother’s family were descendants of Utah Pioneers, people who followed Brigham Young across the country and settled the Deseret Territory.

But my grandfather’s side of the family had parted ways with the dominant religion somewhere along the line. When I was a child, my family belonged to the Episcopal church. My brothers and I attended Catholic school. We didn’t quite fit in our coal-mining town. But I didn’t discover why until I was in my mid-sixties.

“Because of polygamy,” my uncle had responded. His three-word answer prompted many more questions, ones he couldn’t answer. If I wanted answers, I’d have to seek them out.

In the years since asking my uncle the question, I’ve discovered a trove of family history through internet searches of genealogical libraries and newspaper archives. I’ve learned things that broke my heart and made me so angry they set me on a path to writing an historical novel about some of my ancestors. But I needed to go to Utah, back to my childhood home, to “The Place,” as Brigham Young called it.

I sensed I would discover things that mattered to me and the story I am telling. One discovery mattered most to my mother. In the library’s archives I discovered original maps of Salt Lake City. And I found the city lot originally owned by my third great-grandfather. Years later, it became the property of his first wife—in a divorce settlement—when she could no longer tolerate the polygamous marriage forced on her just two months after they arrived in Salt Lake.

On that lot, where a log cabin had been, I studied the solid golden mountains facing the long-gone front door.

Slowly I turned in a circle, trying to picture this city block when Lucinda lived here. Just a quarter way around my circle, I stopped. Half a block in front of me stood my mother’s high school.

From the high school’s parking lot, I called Mom, now 91. She had no idea her family’s land had been so close to her day-to-day world. She had no idea her great-grandmother, who died when she was a baby, her great-great grandmother, Lucinda, and she had walked the same street, over and over, day after day, decades apart.

And that is just part of why I went to Utah.

Capi Cloud Cohen attended Scriptoria 2023 and 2024 and received Hugh Cook’s Editing Award (2023) and is grateful for his patience in waiting for her to finish her manuscript.

Revision is rethinking; editing is refining.

They overlap, of course, but treating them as separate stages strengthens both the process and the product. Revision asks big questions about meaning and effectiveness; editing polishes the mechanics. Too often, we were taught only the latter. Proofreading was easy to grade, so that’s what our teachers emphasized, and some current teachers have also adopted that limited focus. Revision? We were told to “read and see if anything should change.” No guidance, no tools. No wonder it felt vague.

That’s one reason why I lean on checklists. They turn an abstract process into focused and intentional thinking and action. Instead of hoping insight strikes, I have questions to ask, features to check, weaknesses to spot. I first built these tools for the Writer’s Stylus Instructional Writing program, but I quickly found them indispensable for my own work.

The checklists also remind me that revision works at different levels.

Macro-level revisions target the whole piece: Do the ideas and their presentation communicate effectively? Or, for fiction: Do the characters, events, and choices serve the story? Here I’m looking at large aspects such as structure, tone, and coherence.

Micro-level revisions, on the other hand, zoom in: Can the details be improved to make the writing more vivid, believable, and engaging? This is where word choice, imagery, and rhythm matter. Tiny changes can produce outsized results—turning flat sentences into ones that sing, or making a plodding passage suddenly alive and powerful.

This approach to revising also uncovered my bad habits. Certain checklists took me forever, even with short drafts. Prepositional phrases, for example—I never met one I didn’t like. They piled up like a silent snowfall until the sentences sagged under their weight. Once I saw the pattern, I couldn’t unsee it. Now I push myself to restructure, even in early drafts, and my writing is lighter from the start.

What surprised me most was this: with tools and a clear process, I started to enjoy revising. I used to dread it. Now it’s my favorite part of writing—part puzzle, part workout, part art. Each round of revision, like another week at the gym, leaves the writing stronger.

The more I work with other writers, the more convinced I am that revision is what separates serious writers from dabblers. Anyone can write a draft; few are willing to keep reshaping it until it works. Experienced writers know that first drafts are raw material, not finished products. They return to their words again and again, shaping them with patience and purpose. That persistence is what readers feel on the page. The polished essay, the gripping story, the clear argument—they all owe their strength to hours of unseen revision.

Revision is where I admit my draft isn’t genius; editing is where I pretend it almost is. Embrace both, and you’ll discover the power hidden in your own words.

Kevin D. Washburn, Ed.D., is an author, educator, and coach whose work—most recently Uprise: Building Resilience in Ourselves & Others—explores how mindset, motivation, and learning fuel growth in classrooms, workplaces, relationships, and even on the marathon course.

It is a rare and wonderful thing when a book doesn’t merely tell a story but creates a world—one with weather and texture, with strange currencies and stranger creatures, and above all, with a human pulse. The most enduring works of fantasy, indeed of all fiction, don’t shout at us to suspend disbelief—they quietly seduce us into belief by making that belief
unnecessary. We are not so much convinced as converted.

What are the tools of such literary enchantment? Worldbuilding, such an unfashionable and overused word, isn’t just the domain of epic sagas and sprawling trilogies. It is the craft of orchestrating a reality so resonant that we know what a character might dream, or even how a pine branch might snap underfoot. It begins, always, with character.

Consider Philip Pullman’s The Golden Compass, a novel of theological daring that introduces us to Lyra Belacqua, as recalcitrant and vivid a heroine as literature has known. Lyra is not merely a protagonist—she is a cosmology. Her slang, her swagger, her intelligence—each aspect fleshes out the rules of her universe. The daemons, those intimate animal companions, are not mere window dressing. They are psychological truths made of fur and feather. Pullman doesn’t ask us to imagine another world. He insists we’re already in it.

But character alone cannot hold the scaffolding. A world must smell of smoke and stone, must have a horizon and a season. Ursula K. LeGuin’s Earthsea novels are a master class in atmosphere. She sketches islands with an anthropologist’s eye and a poet’s restraint. Ogion’s hut smells of herbs and silence. The language of magic is Old Speech, not simply to exoticize, but to remind us that names have weight and that language is power. Her archipelago is as sensuous as it is symbolic—each tide and shadow metabolized into meaning.

And what ties these elements together, what makes them not a quilt but a living organism, is dialogue. No one understood this better than Terry Pratchett, especially in the Tiffany Aching novels. His characters speak as real people do—shrewd and often funny in a way that exposes as much as it conceals. Dialogue here is not just talk—it’s traction.
It moves us through the story while rooting us in the soil of the narrative world. Granny Weatherwax doesn’t explain magic; she talks about its effects. She says, “The thing about [learning} witchcraft is that it’s not like school at all. First, you get the test, and then you spend years findin’ out if you passed it.” And in those few words we see power, wit, and affection.

These three—character, setting, and dialogue—are not separate tools but more like tuning forks. When struck together, they resonate, creating a whole greater than the sum of its parts. Worldbuilding, then, is not about creating things. It is about inventing truth. And the best writers remind us that immersive worlds are not just escape hatches, but mirrors held at just the right slant.

Noel Seif, a former writing instructor and an avid reader, has published several short stories, most notably in The Awakenings Review and Cicada Magazine. She is currently at work on a novel. She lives with her husband and cat in Lowell, Michigan.

If you have a book coming out, congratulations! You’ll probably be doing some DIY bookselling. My favorite method for this is book events, because they’re a wonderful way to connect with readers. 

Finding Opportunities:

Book events, unfortunately, aren’t usually well attended except by people who know the author. Bookstores probably won’t be interested in hosting your event unless you can promise a good turnout. So, look for locations where people know you. 

Chances of a good audience are better when you connect with groups already meeting regularly. Reach out to organizations, including churches, that are seeking speakers. Contact clubs and museums related to your book’s topic. For example, my historical novels are set in Hungary, so some of my best events have been with Hungarian groups. 

Advertising:

The business or organization hosting your event will do some advertising, but it may not be much. Use your own social media to augment this. Invite people personally whenever possible. Have your friends invite others, too. I’ve found that individual invitations—in person, on the phone, or in notes—often work better than social media announcements. I have postcards about my books, and I write the event’s when-and-where information on these and use them as invitations. It’s a personal touch, and it works well. 

Teaming Up with Other Authors:

It’s fun to share an event with other authors whose books appeal to the same readership. Besides the potential of a larger audience, you can interview each other or set up a panel discussion. Attendees often enjoy the back-and-forth between authors. 

Shaping Your Presentation: 

Your presentation should be 45 minutes or shorter. If you’re teaming up with other authors, you’ll need to divide the time. Don’t just read; share the “story behind the story.” The following format can serve an audience well: 

• Welcome everyone, thank the venue, introduce yourself, and briefly introduce the book. 

• Share some interesting background, perhaps about the challenges of writing the book, or maybe what compelled you to write it. I like to give the historical context of my books, which is fascinating and not commonly known. When possible, I include photographs. 

• Do a five-minute reading, perhaps of the opening scene. 

• Read one or two other short passages, perhaps three minutes each, that highlight different aspects of the book. 

• Make final comments, whatever you’d like to add. 

• Invite questions. 

Afterward:

A few refreshments are nice after the event if the venue allows this. Keep it simple like cookies or other finger foods. 

Often, bookstores will sell your books on consignment and mail you the check. If you are selling books, though, you’ll need a Square card reader or something like Venmo, since few people carry cash. If possible, ask a friend to handle payments while you sign books. Having a sign-up sheet for email addresses can build your mailing list. 

Then enjoy talking with the people who came. They may want to tell you about their experiences or ask you for writing advice. Perhaps you inspired them more than you know. 

Connie Hampton Connally writes historical fiction and authored The Songs We Hide and Fire Music, which won the Scriptoria Award for Literary Fiction. 

We all know the symptoms: a lack of inspiration, restlessness, anxiety. Experimenting with a new font. Researching the science of why cats knead our stomachs and other soft surfaces. An expert-level urge to clean.

Yes, we’ve all had writer’s block.

Writer’s block—that despised nemesis—has many causes (trust me; I’ve researched them when I was supposed to be writing). One common cause is overthinking, which happens when the prefrontal cortex goes into overdrive and launches us into repetitive, unhelpful thought cycles. But creative sensory activities can shift neural activity away from this analysis paralysis and spark the default mode network, a network of brain regions associated with imagination, daydreaming, and idea association—just what writers need!

So, how can we fan our creative sparks? 

1. Soundscaping: Close your eyes and listen to ambient sounds—in real life or via YouTube. Listen to the waves, or the band warming up, or the traffic, or children shouting, and then let your mind wander to a scene, emotion, or character based on what you hear.

2. Doodling: Create gesture drawing in five-minute doodles: quick sketches of imagined characters, places, or abstract shapes. Don’t worry about the finished product; the focus is untethering your creative instincts.

3. Creatively moving: Move your body to embody a mood or a character. Try an angry march, a sneaky creep, a joyful bounce, an exhausted stagger, a surreptitious skulk. 

4. Talking: Deliver a one-minute monologue. Choose a random emotion or situation and speak as though you were a character experiencing it. No pressure to be polished; simply talk for 60 seconds about aversion or astonishment or delight or loathing or tenderness—or about realizing too late that your tour guide is your ex, or trying to sneak out of a meeting unnoticed, or showing up at what you thought was a costume party but really is just a regular party, or encountering your long-lost childhood friend while on vacation.

5. Smelling: Prepare a bag of fragrances (spices, essential oil, new crayons, cat food, mint, rubbing alcohol, etc.). Breathe in each scent, and imagine a location associated with each.

6. Touching: Prepare a bag of different textures (cotton, burlap, sandpaper, gummy worms, etc.). Feel each texture and imagine who or what is associated with each.

7. Repurposing: Choose an object—a pencil, for example, or a flipflop—and come up with ten other identities for that object. For example, the pencil is a walking stick for a bunny or a pole vault for an action figure. The flipflop is a mouse raft or the world’s smallest trampoline. This exercise works well individually or with a partner.

The next time overthinking hampers your progress, try one of these creative exercises—or invent your own. Not only are they more fun than succumbing to the expert-level urge to clean, but they’re much more likely to uncork your creativity. So, grab a drawing pad or a pinch of lavender or a scrap of sandpaper, and write on!

Laura Reinders Stormo was winner of the 2023 Scriptoria Fiction Award. She lives in Grand Rapids with her husband, two teenage sons, and chubby orange pandemic cat. She is the testing coordinator at Calvin University and loves to read, write, paint, do crafts, garden, attend Scriptoria, and spend time with friends.

I returned home from Scriptoria 2024 traumatized.

Oh, I loved what I learned about writing as I rubbed elbows with fellow writers and writing experts and dancing in the tents of language with people who love words and stories as much as I do.

But what I learned from editors and agents crushed me. My book concept fell short. Its potential readers—conservative Christians grieving the death of a loved one who didn’t fit the standard criteria for entering heaven—was a small and difficult-to-reach market.

I also concluded I did not qualify for a traditional book contract. For that I needed either fame or thousands of social media followers.

I could boast neither.

I especially grieved the need for preexisting fame. I didn’t blame publishing companies. They contracted my earlier books during their golden years with less competition and easier sales. In a now-crowded world of fewer sales, online competition, and self-published books, many conventional publishers can no longer gamble on a nobody. Their writers must carry much of the marketing load. Since those golden years, I have self-published several books to local acclaim but limited sales. This time I had a greater goal — reach more readers. But I didn’t know how to market in the electronic age. 

Could I actually learn that skill?

Despite my slough of despond, I doggedly continued a weekly Substack column, “Notes from the Prairie.” I began freewriting 1,000 words each morning as both therapy and writing discipline. I resisted learning to grow my platform or researching online marketing. 

One fall morning, a Facebook ad for a free PDF about book marketing sparked my interest. For the first time, I acknowledged that regardless of how I eventually publish my next book, I need to learn online marketing skills. I clicked, provided my email address, and received the free guide. I didn’t immediately take action, but I tucked it in an electronic folder, “Free Facebook Author Help.”

Facebook’s algorithms instantly clicked in, and soon I was inundated dozens of offers for free PDFs about online book marketing and for free online seminars. I attended a dozen free seminars, and my author-help folder is now stuffed with 70+ freebies.

So far, I have heeded some of the advice by:

• Creating an author website using a template from an online company

• Launching a private Facebook group, “Growing After 50”

• Researching the felt needs of 50-year-olds as they face the coming decades

• Creating a Free PDF “Strengthen Your Memory” for people over 50 who provide me their email address

• Shifting the focus of my weekly Substack column toward aging

• Trading guest posts with other writers who have older readers

Still waiting in that folder are 60 additional PDFs which include instructions for:

• Creating reader demand before launching a book

• Writing a book title, subtitle, description, and author biography

• Building a launch team to click into action on publication day

• Snagging podcast bookings—and more

My brain and folder overflowing, I have now returned to my first love: research, organizing, interviewing, and writing, but for each stage I am better prepared to attract readers.

If that’s your writing goal, perhaps my experience can provide a first step for you.

Carol Van Klompenburg has played and worked with words ever since her first-grade poem won a blue ribbon. In adulthood she has published nonfiction books, articles, and a few poems. Her attempt at writing sparkling fiction fizzled to death in its first chapter.