As of September 7, 2021, I have officially signed with a literary agent! Kaitlyn Johnson of Belcastro agency will represent me in getting my latest novel published!
Kaitlyn has a lot of experience in submitting to the Big 4 publishers, and I have no doubt she and I will be a successful partnership!
More details to come.
A couple weeks ago, I shared the good news about being offered lit agent representation for my jinn necromancer novel.
A second agent reached out to me to offer representation!
This may seem like a dream, and for about one second, it was. But it’s rather stressful choosing between two amazing agents, who are both so driven and intelligent. It comes down to small (big) things and what I end up wanting in an agent. And even then, I have no guarantee I’ve made the right decision. It feels like, in gaining one kilo of gold, I’m losing another kilo of gold.
Ultimately, it comes down to who will push your career farther, in less time. Or so I’ve determined.
I’ve been writing short, folkloric-feeling or fairy-tale-ish stories for a book I’m working on. The stories are Arab-inspired, people-centered, and hopefully, tell their own tale, even within the context of the larger story.
Here’s one story I wrote. Only problem is, I know I wrote it, but it reminds me of a story I heard or read growing up. But I CAN’T FIND THE STORY. I’m hoping it’s deja vu only, and I’m not stealing someone else’s work. It may be an old Persian fairy tale.
TELL ME IN THE COMMENTS IF YOU RECOGNIZE THIS STORY.
If you don’t recognize it, tell me what you think of it.
THE OLD MAN AND THE PEARL TREE
The pearl tree stood alone in the center of a poor man’s garden.
It dropped iridescent pearls every morning, but if the man got too close, branches whipped out to slap him. Pearls at his feet, and not one to sell in the markets.
Still, the man tried every so often to snatch just one pearl. But each effort left him with a welt across the face and a gash on his arm.
One day, the man grew so angry he decided to cut down the tree. He took an axe to its roots, dashed them into pieces, and gathered the pearls. One basket, two, then three were filled with the pearls.
The tree lay in ruin, however, its once proud trunk a stump in the garden. Its branches lay scattered about, hacked into pieces.
The man smiled to himself, thinking of all the riches he would buy. New teeth to replace the ones he sold for a bit of coin to buy his food. New shoes to protect his rough bare feet from being cut on stones along the road. A new house, with a roof that didn’t leak. And, most of all, a wife. A beautiful one, to be dressed in jewels and dresses fit for a rani.
But when the man checked on his baskets later in the day, he found nothing but ash. He pulled at his thin hair, ripping it out in clumps.
And in the midst of his bawling, a knock sounded at his door.
He snatched the door open, finding the kingdom’s prince standing at his door.
“I have heard tales of a magic tree that drops pearls instead of leaves. Do you know of this tree?”
“Why do you ask”, said the man.
“I wish to plant it in my own gardens. I will pay handsomely for it.”
The old man glanced behind the prince, at the severed pieces of the pearl tree.
“You did this?” the prince said, following the man’s gaze.
The man nodded, tears welling up in his eyes.
“Stupid, stupid man,” the prince said. “Do you know what you’ve done? That tree, those pearls, they are the dead. The souls of our dead. Without that tree, the dead cannot pass to the next life. They will become ghouls, wandering the earth, wreaking havoc on it.”
And just as the man hacked at the tree, the prince’s soldiers cut down the man. They gathered the pieces of the tree, hoping upon hope that there was some magic in the world that could heal it.
Copyright (C) 2020 by Rania Hanna
I’ve been writing short, folkloric-feeling or fairy-tale-ish stories for a book I’m working on. The stories are Arab-inspired, people-centered, and hopefully, tell their own tale, even within the context of the larger story.
This one is called Breekh and features a wife stolen by a jinn from right under her husband’s nose.
Tell me in the comments what you think!
BREEKH
There was a man and a woman, married for years who were wise to believe in the evil eye. They knew spirits that were made of smoke, not flesh, roamed the earth, looking for ways to cause mischief.
The man’s name was Pot, and the woman’s name was Kettle. They both wore small blue beads on their clothes to protect them from the evil eye, which was the magic of the spirits, but could be cast by unwitting humans with ill, or at least, unkind, intention.
One day, the man grew tired of his wife’s talking, and wished her to stay silent. The woman was hurt her husband did not want to listen to her, and felt lonely as she drew water from their deep well.
A jinn by the name of Breekh was passing by the well, invisible to the human eye.
After a while of silence, the woman continued her story, trying to get her husband’s attention. But the husband, who wanted nothing but silence, cursed out at his wife, “Ya nan al Breekh!” he said, “Damn you, Breekh!” And in that moment, the man cast the evil eye on his wife without knowing it. Breekh, the jinn, heard this, and thus he was summoned.
The man did not know why he called out Breekh instead of his wife’s name, but he ignored the thought and sat brooding on why he married this woman in the first place.“It was her beauty,” he thought, “Her beautiful mouth blinded me to the tongue inside it. If I had known I would know no silence, I’d have never married her. What I wouldn’t do for silence.”
What the man and woman didn’t know, though, was that in the jinn language, Breekh meant Kettle.
The jinn stole the wife away from the man, forcing her into a world made of fire and smoke and ash. A world where the earth erupted in plumes of flames, and spewed molten rock on the cities below the fiery mountain.
The jinn locked the woman in the belly of the mountain, leaving her to sweat and her body to shrivel in the heat.
The man cursed himself for his foolishness, and he called upon the old sheikhs, who drew on their powers against the evil eye. And though the woman noticed the blue bead she wore glowing, the spell would not break. Breekh held her captive for years, until Kettle became the molten earth itself. She became the fiery mountain, and that is why the great mountain in the distance is called the Kettle of Fire.
The man lived his days in solitude, but it was not a peaceful one. He was lonely, and missed the sound of his wife’s voice. He cursed himself until his dying breath for giving up the one person who loved him enough to want to talk to him.
Copyright (C) 2020 by Rania Hanna
The novel I’ve been working on the last 3 years, about a necromantic jinn and her daughter, has been offered representation!
I started querying in June/July, and sent my queries to 80+ agents, with 5-6 requests for partials and fulls. But yesterday, glorious yesterday, an agent Zoomed me to offer representation!
Nothing’s official yet, but this is the best news I’ve had all year!
She did offer revisions, but she said my manuscript is clean enough that it won’t need that much work before she can sub it to publishers.
One step closer to becoming a published author!
The beast bit me and I sat down to start a gothic novel. I started about a week ago, and I’m about 19 chapters, and 92 pages in. Needless to say, I’ve been swallowed by the premise and I feel as if, if I were the reader, not the writer, I’d read this book. And that’s always a good sign.
The inspiration is a mix of Jane Eyre and The Fall of the House of Usher. It’s about a college student, Jade, who drops out of college after she finds another student murdered near campus. At first, the police suspect her, but they quickly decide she’s innocent. The rest of the students, and the town, however, have their reservations, though. So Jade decides to take a job at a creepy old house 4 hours away from home.
Here’s an excerpt from first chapter. Let me know what you think in the comments!
“Storyteller for hire. Must be good with adults. Pays well. Call 439-7920.” The newspaper ad is short and simple, and it strikes me as off, but I ignore everything except the “Pays well.”
I’m at $39.79 in my bank account, and I’m desperate for a job. Any job. This college thing isn’t working out. Who needs physics, and calculus, anyway, no matter what my mother says about what she calls “femininst power jobs.” Show the man the woman can.
I cross the street to the payphone and pull out a quarter before dumping it into the phone’s slot with a clank. The sky is a pale blue, light gray really, and there’s a smoky black cloud in the distance strangling half the sky.
4-3-9-7-9-2-0.
I hear the line ring, once, twice, then a gruff, “Sever House.”
“Uh, yes, hi, hello,” I stammer. “I saw an–your ad, in the paper?”
I pause, but all I hear is breathing on the other end.
“Um, well, the storyteller–”
“Yes,” the voice interrupts. I can’t tell if it’s a woman or a man, but I think it’s a woman who smoked ten too many cigarettes.
“I, uh, yeah, I’m interested.”
“Can you tell stories? Good ones? To adults? Nothing too bloody, though.”
“I–I’ve babysat–”
“I’m asking about adults. Not children. Children’s stories are easy. Adults, well, that’s a different beast.”
“Uh, well, I can interview? Maybe?”
I hate how I sound, unsure, uncomfortable. I need to run with the wolves more.
I clear my throat and stand up a bit straighter, even though the voice on the other line can’t see me. I spot my reflection in the payphone’s metal paneling, though, and I force myself to smile.
There, that’s better. A smile goes the extra mile. Another one of mom’s “self-improvement” quotes.
“I can come in and interview and–”
“Do you have samples?”
“I-actually, yes. I do. I won a local writing contest, and I can send you the newspaper clipping.”
“Do you have an email account?”
“Uh, yes, I–”
“Fax the clipping, I’ll take a look. I will send you an email with the contract if the writing is up to our standards.”
“Oh ok, yes, thank you. Uh, and where’s the House, exactly?”
“I can send you the address via email and a contract to look over. I’ll want a signed copy of the contract before you come. The position is for an in-house storyteller. You will live at the house for the duration of fall and winter, and then you may leave. The Master of the house prefers his stories with tea and digestives, sometimes with a little brandy in the tea.”
“I–yes.”
There’s a pause and then, “Your email?”
“Ah, right, yes, uh, m-a-l-a-e-k-a-2-1 underscore 2-1@AOL.com.”
“Check tonight for an email. If there is none, you did not get the job,” the woman says. I hear static and a groan, and then she adds, “You may send a fax to 763-3663.”
The line goes dead and I’m left holding a phone. I place it back on the receiver and, with a smile, I cross the street back to the daycare I’ve been working at.
If I can win a short story contest, I can get this job.
I visualize myself giving the daycare my notice, then shake my head of the thought. You don’t even know what the pay is for a storyteller. It’s probably less than the daycare.
Even so, I can’t help but feel a tinge of excitement. I’m getting out of here, I’m getting away from this place.
“I’ve gotten a new opportunity,” I whisper to myself, before I step back inside. “I am giving my notice.”
I take a deep breath.
“I’ve gotten a new opportunity, and this is my notice.”
I shake my head to clear the thought.
“I got an offer for a new job, and I’ll be taking it. Thank you so mu–”
“Jadey?”
I wheel around to find Kirsten staring at me.
“I–wasn’t talking to myself,” I say.
She stares a moment too long then says, “Right. Want to come back inside?”
“Uh, yeah, actually, I wanted to talk to you.”
“Can it wait? Jeremy’s mom is coming in today to talk about his “milestones and development,” Kirsten says, rolling her eyes. “She thinks we should be doing more to ‘develop his young brain,’ she adds, air quoting with her fingers.
“What does she expect?” I say, stepping back into the clangs and noises and gurgles of babies. “I mean, we’re a daycare, not even a preschool.”
“I know,” Kirsten says. “But, the parents pay the monies, and therefore the bills.”
The door opens behind us. A tall woman with mom jeans and t-shirt steps inside. “Candice,” Kirsten says with forced cheerfulness in her voice. “Jermey’s right there with Candice,” she adds, pointing in the center of the room where a short brunette is pressing buttons on a musical book with 9-month-old Jeremy. “Come into my office just around the corner,” I hear Kirsten say as she’s already leading Candice away.
I sigh, and turn back to the stack of paperwork I need to file.
I hear Kirsten’s too-cheery voice again when she opens her office door. Two sets of footsteps walk down the short hall back to the main office and playroom of Kirstie’s Care.
“I’ll be taking Jeremy home today,” I hear Candice say, “But I’m thrilled we’re on the same page.”
Cooing and ahing ensue as Candice moves to pick up Jeremy off the ground. He blows bubbles and Candice snuggles her nose against his. Candice flicks her eyes at me, and recognition registers. I notice she clutches Jermey hard enough that he squirms in her arms, and she shields his body a bit with hers.
“You’re that girl–” she starts. “The one in the papers.”
“I’m sorry, I must look like someone else–”
“No, no, I remember your picture. You’re the one that found that poor girl. How awful.”
“It was,” I say.
She leans in closer to me and drops her voice to a whisper. “You really don’t know anything about who did it?”
I swallow a scream and shake my head. “The authorities are still on the case, last I heard.”
She nods once and pulls back from me, still shielding her son’s body with hers. “I’m surprised they let you work here,” she adds.
“I have no criminal record,” I say.
But her eyes narrow at me. “Strange thing, you being the one to find her so late at night.”
“I’m a night owl.”
“I’m sure you are.”
Candice turns to go, the bell over the door jingling behind her.
Kirsten shambles over to me, apparently not having heard what Candice just said. “Can this day get any worse?”
“It’s just a parent,” I say, “You’re always so good with them.”
“Not just her,” Kirsten says, chucking her thumb in the door’s direction after Candice. “The supervisor’s coming and we’re due for a safety inspection.”
“Oh, well, I mean, we’re safe, right?”
“Of course,” Kirsten says, shooting me a dark look. “We just got checked like six months ago. Anyway, it’s been a stressful day, that’s all.”
“Sine you’re here, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” She chews on her lower lip, and doesn’t quite meet my eyes.
“Oh yeah, what about?”
“You know enrollment has been low recently, and we haven’t been hitting our target numbers.”
I stop shuffling papers and stare at her. “You’re firing me.”
“I’m sorry Jadey. It’s been–well, I can only afford the caretakers right now. You’re a luxury, and a great one, don’t get me wrong, but I just can’t justify the cost anymore. I’m really sorry. As soon as we get our enrollment back up, I’ll hire you right away.”
“And when will that be?” I try to swallow my worry. The other job isn’t a guarantee, and not even Mark’s Market is hiring right now. And I know, because I’ve asked him if he needed an extra cashier, and he said “No.”
“I really don’t know,” she says, frowning. “I wish I knew–”
“It’s fine, I know you’ve been having a tough time.”
“I have been and I hate to drag you into my money woes, but this is where I’m at.”
I smile and hug her. “Thanks for giving me a chance when no one else would.”
“How about you go home,” she adds. “The parents will be here soon, anyway. Sonia, Misha, and I can handle them.”
“You sure?” I say.
Kirsten nods. “You’ve been staying late all week and doing extra. And here,” she adss, going around the desk and unlocking the top drawer. She glances behind her at the other caretakers and hands me an envelope. “Your cash.”
Kirsten’s been paying me cash to help out part-time at the daycare. “Thanks,” I say, and force myself to smile. “Really. I mean it.”
“I know. And,” she says, just as I’m turning to take my coat from the rack, “If you ever need anything–”
“–I’ll ask you.”
She moves to hug me, and I hug her tight back.
“‘Night,” I tell everyone and head home.
Home is just a ten minute walk away, and it’s silent when I open the door.
“Hello?” I call out. “Mom? June?”
Nobody replies as I remember my twin sister Juniper – June – is at the college we go– I went to–, and I lock the door behind me. She was here just last weekend, but left Sunday evening to get back for her classes the next morning. The house is dark and smells like stale incense. I flick on a light switch but even the lamp seems to cast a deep shadow in the hallway.
Outside, it thunders and rain slams against the window.
“Great, a storm,” I say, just as the lights flicker once, twice.
The PC is in dad’s office, the one he used for his architecture work before he died three years ago.
I turn on the computer, listening to it wheeze and whir on until the screen flickers to a blue background, with a picture of the four of us smiling brightly, squinting against the sun, comes up. I try not to make eye contact with any of the faces, even my own. That picture was taken just a month before dad’s car drove off the side of the road in some freak rainstorm when he was coming home from work.
Instead, I move the mouse and double click on the America On Line icon. I wait for the internet to dial up, the whirs and shrieks a bit too loud for the headache that’s come on suddenly.
And so is the fax machine. I quickly pull out the newspaper clipping I keep in his desk drawer.
“Okay, so, it’s this button, right?” I think aloud as I fumble with the fax machine. After some minutes, I figure it out and the fax is on its way.
I wait a few more minutes, puttering away on an internet forum for people who fancies themselves poets. I scroll past the neon colored marquees people have under their names, the ones that trail across the page, with my mouse leaving behind an afterimage of gold stars. The page is bright, using nearly every primary and secondary color, in every hue, especially neon. Everything’s blinking at me, and words keep changing color.
I keep checking my email, waiting for something from the storyteller job, but nothing comes through.
She did say later, didn’t she? Maybe she didn’t get the fax?
I try again, taking the newspaper clipping and sending another fax of it.
The clipping is only a few months ago, but it feels like it comes from another lifetime, maybe even someone else’s life.
There’s a picture of me, with a little blurb of my bio, that I helped write, of course, and there’s a snippet of my story that cuts off before running onto page 4….
The story continues, and at the end, the girl’s stalker kills her and leaves her for dead in a field behind the college the girl attends.
Two days after this article came out, there was a “Special Edition” OpEd on my story. For the rest of the semester, the other students gave me dirty looks, and no one came near me, not even my roommate.
“You think she did it?” I overheard a red-haired girl with a thin braid snaking down her back say. “She knew a lot of the details.”
“They were in the news, though, but maybe she knew the killer? I did hear she found the body.”
“I heard she was covered in her blood…”
I fold the newspaper and slip it back into the desk drawer, ignoring the second clipping with the OpEd tucked inside.
Instead, I go back to the forum I was surfing, reading through the comments about the latest Kurt Cobain song.
But finally, I hear the, “Welcome, you’ve got mail,” and I hold my breath. I double click on the little mailbox icon with the yellow envelope and the email I’m waiting for is right under a *~*ChAiN LeTtEr*~~* email from miss_cleo_sandra_8392. I roll my eyes but make a mental note to open my best friend’s email. She loves sending me those chain emails that say THIS EMAIL HAS BEEN CURSED. IF YOU DON’T SEND IT TO 10 PEOPLE, YOU WILL DIE.
But right under miss_cleo_sandra_8392 is a more severe looking email.
I double click the Job position contract: Please sign and… email and, still holding my breath, wait for it to load. The “contract” reads more like a vintage governess ad from the 1900s than a job contract, but I skim, then read, and then re-read it anyway.
A young woman, with no attachments, university experience in the arts. Quiet, not shy, can talk to people but can be left alone for hours.
This contract hereby commits you to six (6) months of labor as “Storyteller” of Severly House, hereto known as “Sever House” or “the House.”
As “Storyteller,” you will be expected to work Monday through Saturday, with Saturday evenings and Sundays off:
Salary: $13564.66 for duration of six(6) months, to be paid weekly in cash. Lodging and meals provided for. Expected maximum working hours per week at 25 hours, excepting House events, galas, parties, or any such event.
Address:
224 Coven Rd,
Sovereign Hill
Ring on the day you are to arrive, preferably by train, and we will have the Driver meet you at the station. Position is available immediately.
Any questions, please address to Amerly Seymour, Head Caretaker of Severly House.
Printed Name: _____________________________
Signature: _____________________________
Date: _____________________________
I quickly calculate the math on the PC’s calculator.
6 months is 24 weeks, and 12,300 divided by 24 is…$565.19 a week, in cash.
With my $9 an hour, and 20 hours per week at the daycare, making $565.19 compared to $180 is more than tempting; it’s three times more tempting. I’d have more than twelve thousand in my bank account after six months, and I’d have food and no rent, and nothing else to pay. Not that I pay for things like that now, but mom’s been freezing me out after I decided to take the semester off, and Juniper’s been sending me way too many emails, trying to guilt me into coming back after all.
Though mom did threaten to make me start paying half the bills because I “dropped out of school,” as she says.
I keep trying to tell her, I didn’t drop out, I am taking a break. But she’s convinced, “Drop the ball and you lose all.”
But why are they paying so much?
And who is this Master?
I decide I don’t care. I’m bored with this town and my life, and I don’t even like kids.
I turn on dad’s old printer, and a couple minutes later, I have the contract laying stark white against the printer tray.
“Here goes nothing,” I say to myself, and sign my name.
Continue reading chapter 2 here.
Adding emotion to stories can be one of the more difficult aspects of writing. Sure, a writer knows what their characters are feeling, but can they make a reader *feel* the characters’ emotions?
That’s difficult.
I found a great article that was helpful in my own skill-building as I try to better learn how to slow down my writing and make my readers feel my characters.
One thing she says in the article is to “slow it down.”
Counselors tell us that thoughts lead to emotions, and emotions lead to actions. As a writer, you can easily show your character’s thoughts and actions. Readers are smart enough to deduce the emotions based on what the characters think and do. So often it seems writers are in a hurry.
And it’s true. Emotions are processed rapidly, yes, but humans also take time to “study” their emotions, and if not study, certainly to be swallowed by them. So as a writer, it’s important to let your characters feel, and sometimes, drown in their emotions (just not for too long – they do need to surface for air and move on).
Additionally, the article says, “There are two facets of emotion in fiction: conveying what your character is feeling and evoking emotion in your reader.“
Here again, time is king. You need to give your characters the chance to feel and process, and in doing so, you let your reader have the time to imagine themselves as the character.
What do you think is the most effective way to convey emotion? Do you have a favorite book or scene from a book that showcases this skill?
It’s no secret many people would love to make a living writing books. But what makes a $100k author?
WrittenWord Media ran a study in 2016, and again in 2017, to find that out. The analysis wasn’t based on rigorous data, but rather on inferences drawn from self-reported surveys from their author base. Their two study groups were emerging authors (earn <$500/month in book sales) and financially successful authors (earn >$5000/month in book sales for the 2016 study, and >$100k per year for the 2017 study).
This is what they found.
Financially successful authors wrote more, with an average of 13.5 books published, and an average of 31 hours writing per week. Broken down by day, that’s an average of more than 4 hours writing per day. Compare that to the average of 7.4 books published for emerging authors, and an average of 16 hours per week writing, which puts them at less than half the hours spent writing per day than the successful authors. Of those who earn $100k in annual sales, 88% have been writing for more than 3 years, compared to 59% for emerging authors. This gives the successful authors time to gain experience and to build an audience.
Further, successful $100k authors 100kers have on average 30.3 books in their catalog, while emerging authors had around 7 on average. Even further, $100k authors had up to 63 books, and a minimum of 7 in their backlist. Again, writing more lends itself to finishing more books, which can be published.
Financially successful authors have professionally designed covers, with 68% of them having spent >$100 on book design. They typically have professionals design their book cover. Now, I think this relates more to indie authors, but still, even if you plan on going the traditional route, make sure your cover is professional and eye-catching. Think of how a book catches your eye and entices you to buy it. Chances are, it’s not just the cover blurb that draws you in. Here’s what readers want in a cover. Here’s how to use science to create your best cover.
Financially successful authors have their manuscript professionally edited. You may write, and you may write well, but having another set of professional eyes is key. More than half of the successful authors surveys spent $100-$500 on professional editing services, and 32% spent $500 or more.
Financially successful authors write in popular genres. They also believe in free promotion, where they have at least one title that is permafree. That is, one of their books is always available for free. They also handle their own marketing, though some (45%) hire help. For both 100kers and Emerging Authors, over 90% of them report doing their marketing themselves. The only difference is that 100kers can hire some help. Here are some marketing tips.
I have written books before–none published as yet, but I’m working on that.
One thing I’ve learned–you can edit your book literally 20 times, and still not have it the way you want it to be. I have experience in this. I revised a manuscript some years back so many times, I ended up with 20 edits, and still wasn’t happy with the way the story flowed, especially since I have written the book as part of a series, and had finished the series in first-draft mode. Every time I sat down to the books to edit, I cringed. Every. Single. Time.
And each revision brought me to the thought, “Ok, I’m done now. It’s as good as it’s going to be at this point.”
But that’s the thing, it’s as good as it’s going to be “at this point.” Six months from now is not “as this point.” It’s six months from this point. And six months makes a huge difference in your perspective on your manuscript and on how to edit it.
Michael Crichton said:
“Books aren’t written—they’re rewritten. Including your own. It is one of the hardest things to accept, especially after the seventh rewrite hasn’t quite done it.”
He’s right. You can have a wonderful story, but that doesn’t mean it flows well and that the technicalities of writing are what they should be. Books are rarely written in first-draft mode and published as is, and become bestsellers. They have to be rewritten, and rewritten, and rewritten, and rewritten again.
So how do you edit your book? Each author has their own method of madness, but many would agree that these steps are critical:
It’s typically a good idea to let your book sit for a while, at least a week, preferably a few months. This gives you a chance to forget about some details, get a fresher perspective, gain new experiences in the time being, and work on other projects. Resist the urge to set fingers to keyboard and begin the editing process.
Distancing yourself is one of the best things you can do when editing your manuscript.
Give yourself a chance to read through your manuscript, not with the intent of editing it immediately, but to refresh your mind on the story’s details. Sometimes, you’ll find that you wrote something in a scene, but then never used, so it was wasted or irrelevant to your story arc. You can keep a track of details and notes, but don’t worry about editing things right now. You’re a reader here, not a (re)writer.
Write a bunch of short synopses of your book—and write 12 of them. Getting a different perspective on your book each time can help you focus on the story itself, especially if you are writing fiction. The goal here is to acquaint yourself with different perspectives that all include the core components of your story. I usually try to create a few scenarios—trying to examine several facets of the story. It’s helpful to do this after you’ve distanced yourself from your manuscript for a while, and then have re-read it.
Start rewriting. Focus with fixing sentence structure, ripping out paragraphs, and even entire chapters. Do this mindfully, with the intention of tightening your writing, and fixing major structural issues within your plot. You have have left out key items, or added erroneous or irrelevant ones. The goal here is to excise and seal.
5. You spin me ‘round…
You’re probably going to go through no less than 3-4 revisions, and most likely are going to rewrite about 10 times—and that’s no exaggeration.
6. …like a record, baby…
You’re going to go through editing again. Focus now on tightening, because at this point, you should’ve fixed the major structural inadequacies of your plot. Worry about removing excess words, making scenes more descriptive, improving dialogue.
7. Mirror, mirror, on the wall!
Worry now about polishing your manuscript. Go through and make sure that sentences are reflecting what you want them to reflect. Make sure your writing is a mirror that reflects what your mind’s eyes see.
8. Beta me this.
Send it to workshop buddies, writing buddies, and friends/family members. Have others critique. Make sure you find people who can be both nice but harsh; they won’t sugarcoat their criticisms and tell you it’s all fine, but they won’t be cruel to you and bring you down. Find as many beta readers as you can—the more the better. Yes, too many chefs spoil the plot, but if a bunch of people are saying the same thing, you can be assured that they’re probably right.
9. Waterproof it.
Give your manuscript one more look-through. Make sure everything’s as tight as possible.
10. Find an agent or publisher!
Between the editing steps, you should let your manuscript sit, for at least a few weeks, if not a few months. Rushing through the steps will get you nothing except an manuscript that stays rough.
*Note: This article was originally published on January 13, 2016.
I’ve been writing short, folkloric-feeling or fairy-tale-ish stories for a book I’m working on. The stories are Arab-inspired, people-centered, and hopefully, tell their own tale, even within the context of the larger story.
This one is called The King with One Daughter and features a king who loses his only child despite his best efforts.
A powerful king had one daughter. His wife’s birth of their daughter was hard on her slight body, and after giving birth she found she could never conceive again. But the king was wise enough to know that a daughter was the same as a son and could rule just as well as any man. So he trained his daughter to rule, for when he and the queen died, she would take their place.
But the king loved his daughter with his every breath, with his soul, his heart, his blood. And he kept her locked in her room, wanting for nothing of the world’s riches. Guards posted at her door each hour of every day and every night, to keep the girl safe.
No one was allowed in or out of the room without being searched. The room was the highest in the castle, with walls that could not be scales, for they were covered in magical thorned ivy that no man or being could get through.
But there was a hole in the wall, in the corner of the girl’s room, a thin one only a snake could get through. And one day, a snake slithered in through the hole and up the girl’s bed as she slept.
Its fang dripped with poison, and as the girl shifted in her sleep and hit the snake with her arm by accident, the snake grew angry. It bit her, and poison coursed through her veins all through the night as the rest of the castle, save her guards, slept.
When the king and queen awoke, and summoned their day to the morning meal, her maidservants found her blue and cold in her bed.
The king cursed himself for being so foolish. For in trying to keep his child safe from the world, he failed to keep her safe in his own home.
Tell me in the comments what you think!
Copyright (C) 2020 by Rania Hanna
Reading Between the Dunes 