A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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How to Create Complex, Interesting
and Memorable Characters
Also: The difference between
plot-driven and character-driven novels.

Allow me to reiterate: A good novel isn’t about What happens. It’s about What happens to whom. This post is all about the whom. Because if readers can’t identify and empathize with your characters, your plot probably won’t matter much.

The simple truth is this: Every plot imaginable has already been written—many, many times over. Plots written today will seldom, if ever, be truly unique. However, your characters are (or can be) utterly unpredictable, oozing with complexity and charisma. Putting new personalities into established (old) plot lines can create the illusion of originality. If your characters are empathetic, readers won’t mind if the plot feels vaguely familiar—and, hey, they might not even notice. Fully developed characters can be memorable and (imho) the key to a successful novel.

But, first! A preamble.
(Plot Driven vs. Plot Driven Stories)

Fiction typically falls into two major classifications: Plot-driven stories and Character-driven stories. By default, a third also exists, the Hybrid novel—a fairly equal combination of plot-development and character-development. Is the hybrid plot structure better? That potentiality depends upon the writer. And the story. And one’s stylistic approach. And one’s audience. We all have our preferences.

Need examples?

J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye is a character-driven novel. It’s all about a teenaged Holden Caulfield and his various attempts to fit into an uncertain, unrelenting society.

Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park is an example of a plot-driven story. It’s all about the dinosaurs, and their escape from captivity. Crichton’s characters are onlookers, instigators or snacks.

Mario Puzo’s The Godfather is a hybrid novel. The books offers a solid sequence of unfolding plots and sub-plots, yet also features a great, fully-formed ensemble cast. (I consider most sagas and serials to be hybrid efforts.)

Typically, in a character-driven (CD) novel, a story’s focus centers on a character or characters who encounter a plot—or more typically a series of semi-relevant plots or adventures, rather than the singular event that dictates the characters’ roles throughout the story. The author is internalizing much of the story—via thought bubbles (internal monologue) and strong (or unique, or eclectic, or eccentric) POVs. And while a character’s growth arc isn’t absolutely necessary in a CD novel, it’s anticipated. And strongly advised.

In a plot-driven (PD) novel, a singular ‘umbrella’ plot typically takes precedence over a character or characters who are driven or forced into action solely by the plot’s unfolding. One’s inciting incident usually gets the ball rolling. A PD story is often revealed externally (visually) rather than focusing on the personality (or emotional stability or the inner complexities) of a character—or more commonly will contain a group of diverse characters, rather than a single POV. Together, these characters can provide various, disparate, often conflictive, perspectives as the plot unfolds.

As previously stated (See Simple, But Exciting), a novel consists of three main components: 1. Solid plot-momentum; 2. Solid character development, and; 3. Appropriate scene/realm building. When writing a novel, little else matters. Structurally, a PD novel may contain a far greater percentage of plot structure and a relatively smaller amount of character development. Conversely a CD novel will contain a greater percentage of character development—and likely a greater insight into a character’s inner being. Scene/realm building is equally important in both formats.

In Mark Helprin’s character-driven Winter’s Tale, a magically-tinged reality sets an elegant, almost fairy-tale quality to accentuate the mythic qualities of Peter Lake, the story’s MC. It’s difficult to separate the complexity of the book’s grounding (scene-setting) from the personalities who inhabit the story—and only serves to strengthen the bond between author and reader.

In Tom Clancy’s plot-centric techno thriller The Hunt For Red October, the same rules apply, Clancy providing proper grounding for a target (techno-savvy!) reader base. Clancy spends an inordinate amount of time describing the technical details and operational components of a Soviet Tycoon-class submarine—and those fictional sailors aboard the Red October better damn well know those features as well. And although Clancy’s characters remain largely focused on the emerging plot (one will seldom see Jack Ryan at a PTA meeting, for instance) they remain complex enough to keep the drama riveting.

Whether character-driven or a plot-driven, both formats require proper grounding. (See Scene-Setting.) So don’t skimp on building a suitable location or realm that will suspend disbelief. Grounding readers also requires a good deal of continuity (AKA, a character’s choreography from scene to scene). So be sure to update every character’s current environment before continuing forward plot momentum. Has night fallen? Have several hours, days, weeks passed between scenes? Has a character moved from a deep forest wood to a bustling city? Has a character’s mood or emotions changed? Has a bright, sunny morning turned to a gray, rainy afternoon?

How do you acknowledge new characters who first appear in a scene? One suggestion: don’t just throw readers a random name—give each character a bit of personality and/or motivation as well. Just a line or two is sufficient for the moment. If that character is to reappear again in the story, give them sufficient identity for readers to remember them 5 or 10 or 50 pages hence. One not need build an elaborate dossier every time you introduce or re-acquaint readers with a character, but drop a few hints about who this new character might be. Such as:

“Hello,” Richard said. “I’m your new neighbor.“
“Hello, Nice to meet you,” Richard replied.

Might become: “Hello,” the young man said, smiling broadly, holding out a bottle of pino noir. “Welcome to the neighborhood. My name’s Richard. I live next door.”
‘. . . . .” “Nice to meet you,” Phil replied. He couldn’t help notice the ragged scar that sliced across Richard’s cheek. An old war wound, Phil assumed, shaking his new neighbor’s outstretched hand, returning the smile, albeit warily.

That’s all it takes—a snippet of personality, an off-hand comment, a curious presumption. Readers will remember those small touches, if adroitly placed.

Occasionally, an avant-garde or experimental story idea may come along, offering little more than riveting dialogue from unique personalities. Solomon Northup’s Twelve Years a Slave, or example. Or Manuel Puig’s richly intimate, dialogue-heavy The Kiss of the Spider Woman. Or—and these are cinematic examples, BTW—1981’s My Dinner With Andre and 1990’s Mindwalk. These plot-lite stories may only hint at any sort of tangible story line. The unfolding drama stems wholly from dialogue and personality/perspective.

Building the Basic Beast: What to Consider.

When you begin to write a story, you’re introducing characters who are new to you, and also new to readers. However, these paper-people have been (theoretically) living full, complex lives long before they appear on the page. Thus, even if your plot dictates that your characters attempt to save the world—rocket scientists who discover a giant meteor about to obliterate Mankind, for instance—they have presumably led full lives filled with various ups and downs. Some have perhaps endured difficult childhoods, lost (or won) love and probably come into focus with a great deal of emotional baggage. What to omit? What to include? And when? That’s up to you. Do you immediately describe their past lives in great detail to readers? Absolutely not! But it’s important that you know who they are, and who they’ve been, and what makes them tick. And then you begin to parse those personalities/POV’s/motivations slowly to readers.

In other words, if the end of the world is around the proverbial corner, the rent’s still due, or maybe your MC’s getting divorced, or someone’s having mother-in-law issues or has a runaway kid sister. Maybe somebody discovers that the meteor’s actually a giant diamond and thwarts any effort to destroy it before he can scoop up a fortune for himself. The more conflicted or erratic or flawed your characters, the more likely they’ll feel “real” to your audience. Readers love relatable (and yet unpredictable) characters.

So bring your characters into your story fully formed…at least inside your head.

However! I do think it’s important to reveal certain atypical, physical traits ASAP. For instance, if a character stands 7-foot tall, or is wheelchair-bound, or is a pointy-eared, 3-foot tall Orc, readers don’t want to be surprised to discover such visual attributes 100+ pages into the story. Introduce those atypical aspects as soon as you can, to help readers create a reasonable mental image of your cast.

In this age of fractured cultural norms and political correctness, one should be aware of treading carefully if a character is Black in a sea of white faces, (or, a white face in a sea of otherwise Black characters.) So give readers visual clues ASAP. Avoid stereotyping or using outdated clichés as shortcuts.

For instance, if Edward’s lost a leg, long ago in some obscure Afghanistan battle, mention it once and, unless there’s a plot-specific reason, don’t mention it again. So I strongly suggest not mentioning Ed’s a one-legged Afghan vet every time he appears on a page. Give your readers credit for remembering such characteristics and traits.

The same rule applies to atypical emotional traits—PTSD, ADHD, Asperger’s, co-dependency, malevolent narcissism, severe anxiety, insanity. You need not directly reveal these traits upon introduction (or ever, unless relevant to your story) and can hint or imply such neuro-divergency through speech patterns, or dialogue, or other characters’ speculations. Or simply allow readers to deduce such traits for themselves.

A few potentially major stumbles that some writers (and many new writers) make are believing that:

1. Your characters are here only to serve your plot.
2. Your characters must be fully developed immediately upon introduction.
3. Your characters are ‘born’ the moment you introduce them on the page.
4. Dialogue (and linguistic patterns) aren’t that important….

Let’s evaluate each.

1. Your characters are only here to serve your plot.

Not so! It’s probably more accurate to say that your plot’s here to serve your characters. Your characters are your story’s sensual presence. It’s through their fears, or curiosity or humor or warmth or love that readers will respond to the humanistic quality of your story. Without characters present, a giant meteor hurling toward Earth is simply a story about two rocks colliding. But place a handful of likeable astronauts and physicists and that one, young, misunderstood assistant rocket-scientist with a crazy idea of how to save the planet—and now you’re ready to manipulate the emotions and gain the empathy of a bejillion breathless readers.

2. Characters must be fully developed immediately upon introduction.

Nope. Nobody wants to read a dossier on page 1. By gradually revealing fragments of proper scene-setting (your story’s physical realm) and plot momentum (leading readers from here to there), you’re gradually revealing various snippets of a character’s personality as well. You’re basically teasing readers—challenging them to read on and discover more about the people who inhabit your story. Every scene you write should contain all three elements—a little of this, a little of that, and then a bit of the other. Meaning a writer can allude to a physical appearance, a personality (quirks and all) and possible plot-related motivations over several scenes or chapters. It’s okay to tease readers about those paper-people who inhabit your book. Sure—just as IRL—it’s fine to make a memorable first impression, but give readers room to gradually acquaint themselves. Curiosity is a great motivator—and a motivated reader will turn page after page after page….

3. Your characters are ‘born’ the moment you introduce them on the page.

This one’s tricky. You, the writer, have soooo much to reveal about a protagonist, or an antagonist, and/or that crucial, although seldom-scene best friend. However, it’s important to realize that these people existed (existentially, of course) long before you decided to drop them onto the page. Some are going through personal issues—an impending marriage, or divorce, or maybe one has a gambling addiction, or is confronting a recent, tenuous sobriety, or maybe has a kid sister who disappeared 14 years ago—all of which may have little or nothing to do with your primary plot. (…or might they?)

Secondary plot-lines can have tremendous value in character-building. A singular plot, with various characters auto-focused on a single resolution… sorry, but that can get tedious or monotonous. However, give characters additional issue or problems (“What do you mean my check bounced?”) can infuse nuance, rapport, insight and empathy to your characters. I mean imagine that the aforementioned meteor’s going to strike Earth in 23 days. And your MC’s just been evicted from her apartment. Throwing obstacles large and small can humanize your story and make your paper-people feel very, very real.

4. Dialogue isn’t that important.

Dialogue can make a break your story. Good dialogue can transform cardboard characters into real people. Great dialogue can transform well-written characters into literary icons.

“I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.” This infamous line from the lips of author Thomas Harris’s far-from-vegan Hannibal Lecter. Or take George R.R. Martin’s classic, off repeated line; “Hodor!” Because sometimes a single word (even from a minor character!) can reveal an astounding character-trait or plot device that might just become eternally meme-able. Such is the power of dialogue.

Other memorable quotes? How about:

“You know how to whistle, don’t you Steve? You just put your lips together and blow.” Lauren Bacall to Humphrey Bogart in To Have And Have Not.

“It was a pleasure to burn.” Montag in Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451.

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.“ Jaques in Shakespeare’s As You Like It. (Not to mention Hamlet’s “To be, or not to be….” a line that’s almost become a parody of famous literary quotes.)

“After all, tomorrow is another day.” Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind. (As well as Clark Gable’s—as Rhett Butler—“Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”) BTW, In 1939 the Hays-Code era censors went ballistic with this one.

“Time is the longest distance between two places.” Tom Wingfield in Tennesee Williams’ The Glass Menagerie.

“My God. It’s full of stars!” Keir Dullea—as David Bowman—in Arthur C. Clarke’s 2001: A Space Odyssey.

…but I digress!

I suspect that few/none of these memorable quotes are accidental comments. None feel ‘off the cuff.’ Meaning I cannot emphasize enough the importance of well-considered dialogue.

They say that the eyes are windows to the soul. In fiction, dialogue is the window to each character’s soul. (See Dialogue—parts 1-thru-8—for more in-depth info.) However, in the here and now, do realize that for many writers, dialogue adds the necessary depth to produce well-developed characters. For those writing a story in First Person POV, internal monologue (What secret is Emma keeping from me, I wondered. What isn’t she telling me?) is as equally important; absolutely essential for readers to fully understanding the complexity of your solitary MC. I’m aware of some novelists who try to avoid inner monologue (a fear of deep emotional commitment perhaps?) when writing First Person narratives—but I wouldn’t recommend it. IMHO, First Person POV demands that type of soul searching. If plumbing the depths of a character’s soul isn’t as important to you as developing nifty, Adrenalin-packed plot structures, then I suggest sticking to writing in Third Person POV. (…which isn’t a slam, BTW, just an observation. We write what we write best!)

One last word of a advice. A fictional character should (typically, but not always) be larger than life in certain ways. I’m not talking superhero type awesomeness; just that novelists typically emphasize both the good and bad in everyday people. All my protagonists are a bit smarter, better looking, nicer and far more extroverted than I’ll ever be. Everyday people inhabit an everyday world. But in fiction feel rather blasé—so accentuate and embellish whenever possible.

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A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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Confronting criticism is an essential rite of passage that every writer faces along that bumpy road toward publication. Whether you accept or dismiss critical feedback may be crucial to who you are and how you will function as a serious writer.

Okay, so let’s keep this simple. Others may disagree but, for me—as both fiction writer and content editor—only two types of criticism exist. Sooner or later, intentionally or not, most writers will confront either constructive criticism or counter-productive criticism. And knowing the difference could determine our book’s success.

If our intention is publication, sooner or later we will face a professional editor’s dreaded red pen. As writers (hoping to become authors) we must allow ourselves the opportunity to accept criticism that can improve the integrity of our work, or else jettison advice which can obfuscate or derail our story. And seeking credible criticism should not be about collecting accolades or kudos, but rather about improving our work. An easy mistake is to confuse positive criticism as constructive criticism and negative criticism as counter-productive criticism because—nope—that’s not how it works. In fact, the opposite is usually true.

Also, when confronting criticism, a word of advice: Leave your dark and stormy writer’s ego outside the door. A writer who won’t or can’t accept criticism will likely not succeed in this biz. (Yup, it’s that important.)

The Casual Critique.
(See The Professional Critique below.)

Early on, most writers are hungry for feedback. Lacking a legion of professional editors, agents and publishers hanging outside the window to help us along, a writer’s left with friends and family and, if we’re lucky, an intimate little writers group. (More about writers groups below.) Sure, there’s nothing wrong with asking the guy next door, a distant cousin who writes greeting card jingles, or our Great Aunt Isabel, for advice. If we trust their intellect and our own instincts, certainly we can enlist their support. However, I suggest treating any familial feedback with cautious optimism. Be wary of a friend or family member’s beaming critique: “Your book is positively stunning. Your writing is poetic, your voice angelic, and your plot absolutely breathtaking.” Such accolades can be the worst possible feedback a writer receives, should they be spoken to placate or motivate (or politely ditch) you. Pleasant words to hear, sure—but ultimately, if spoken without integrity, the joke’s on the writer.

So what’s the difference between a good and bad critique? The difference can be as simple as selecting a proactive listener vs. an indifferent or apathetic listener.

Let’s say you’re writing a murder mystery. Your protagonist is a disgruntled private investigator. The feedback: “Your protagonist does stupid things” isn’t remotely helpful. However, a thoughtful critique such as; “Your protagonist appears to get by on lucky or coincidental occurrences, but never through logic or cunning or self-reliant sleuthing. I think your protagonist needs to be more proactive in solving the mystery” is pretty good advice. Whether or not you’re able to accept such potentially constructive feedback depends upon your ability to free your mind, silence your ego, and consider creative alternatives to your preconceived notions. And writers must trust their own instincts in determining whether or not solicited criticism is valid and useful.

Oh, and you’ll occasionally come upon a troll. Well-meaning or otherwise. But sooner or later we’re all destined to confront a ghastly critique, something like: “This story sucks. Your characters suck. Your writing sucks. Your life sucks. Give up and go away.” (And this isn’t the worst negativity I’ve ever heard befall a fellow writer.) Should this happen, just smile and walk away. Don’t take it personally, because a critique like that isn’t about you. It’s not even a critique. It’s more of a primal scream by somebody who’s frustrated or in over their heads (probably depressed by their own writing failures) — but it’s also important to realize that this sort of crazy comes with the territory. We need to develop a thick skin to survive. No writer has a 100% approval rate. In a roomful of readers, some will like your stuff. Some will think it okay. And some won’t like it. What we do—we write for those who like what we write. Sure, listen objectively to proffered feedback, but trust yourself, first and foremost. Those who disdain our work, we dismiss their comments with a wave of a hand and a quickly uttered, “Pffffffft!” And then we write some more.

The Professional Critique.

A better choice than relying on friends and family for an honest critique might be an alpha or beta reader—a non- or semi-professional editor. A writer can find a host of professional (paid) and non-professional readers online. And, yes, a well-read friend can serve as a alpha/beta reader but, again, seeking criticism shouldn’t be about collecting accolades or kudos. (Signing a publisher’s contract and aggressive book sales will deliver that particular message.) As writers, we’re looking for helpful criticism that identifies overlooked or illogical flaws that weaken or confuse or obscure our writing and/or our message. We’re seeking ways to improve our efforts, and that occurs through occasionally hard-hitting feedback that identifies flaws and, if we’re lucky, offers potential solutions as well.

Note: Typically an alpha reader (much like a content/developmental editor) will look at incomplete or stalled manuscripts, searching for glaring holes, insufficient character developments or illogical motivations; major inconsistencies, unrealistic coincidences and unsatisfying/incomplete endings. An alpha reader can give you suggestions on possible options and paths to follow.

A beta reader (or line editor) will typically accept only polished or almost-finished manuscripts, and will seek out grammatical errors, typos and garbled/unclear word choice or sentence structure. A beta reader may also suggest possible avenues (certain agents, for instance) to pursue.

If you decide to seek out an alpha or beta reader (or even friends and family) for feedback, here are a few guidelines worth remembering:

• Don’t offer a potential beta reader an incomplete manuscript in rough draft mode. If your novel’s in pieces, unfinished and unwieldy, you’re likely to receive feedback in the same piecemeal, uncertain, unwieldy manner. How can a beta reader give any sort of credible advice if the work is raw, unfinished and merely pending? This sort of symbiotic relationship is ultimately worthless, a waste of time for both you and the reader. If your book’s half done, you’re essentially asking someone to test-drive a new car without wheels or an engine. (Although keep reading…)

• If you’re lost in the middle of a novel and seeking advice on how to continue, look for an alpha reader. Instead of offering a half-baked manuscript riddled with blank patches and unfinished thoughts, consider providing a concise summary of your plot in outline form—as comprehensive and detailed a story-line as you’re able. Provide as much complete prose as you can, of course. You should have at least three or four chapters drafted in some detail (so a reader can ground him/herself in your story before perusing your outline or summary. You’re not looking for polishing or line-editing, you’re seeking basic story options, what might work, what might not—and, technically, not really criticism at all. You’re seeking an alpha reader to help you develop a fictional roadmap from Points A to Z. (Or D to Z, or J to Z, or whatever.) You’re still constructing the puzzle, seeking viable ideas to move forward. But, as my old Granny used to tell me, “Don’t worry about the wedding date if you haven’t found a girl yet.”

• If you’re lost in the beginning of a story—you’ve written 5 or 10 pages of an impending novel and get stuck—stop writing the novel. Seriously. If you like what you’ve written but don’t know how to proceed, change gears! Again, consider outlining before you continue. Or see if you can finish the work as a short story. Give yourself the opportunity to write 10-20 pages with a definitive middle and end in mind. If you find the idea of writing 300-400 pages too daunting, break it down into more manageable pieces. Think of yourself as writing a series of integrated short stories instead of chapters—and worry not about subsequent chapters you intend to write. (See Rule #16: Focus On The Now.) If you find yourself with a complete story, maybe you’re on your way to writing a collection. However, if you find yourself with more to say on the matter—keep writing, one page at a time.

• Conversely, don’t offer friends and/or family—even if it’s your well-intentioned mother!—a complete 300 or 400+ page manuscript and expect an overnight perusal. Or an impartial reading for that matter. Proactive reading (that is, comprehensive understanding and the resulting rational feedback) is a lengthy, intense and often laborious process.

So if you’re looking for erstwhile familial advice, ask for a partial read—perhaps no more than the first 10 or 20 pages of your manuscript. It’s a far less obtrusive, demanding request. Shorter excerpts will prompt more in-depth feedback. If you like the resulting comments, and your reader(s) enjoy the assistance, either ask if they’ll read another 20 (or more!) pages, or wait for them to offer. If you have a friend who’s good at editing and is willing to take on your entire novel, awesome! But consider a bottle of wine or even a cash payment ($100-$200 if you can afford it) in return, or offer an exchange of services if you’re both writers. You can also seek out an outline alpha or beta reader for about the same price. But definitely do some basic research. Some will be well worth the cost — others, not so much.

BTW, I know more than a few writers who are loathe to accept any sort of critical feedback. These writers (some who are struggling with their efforts) abhor suggestions and/or possible solutions to potential problems. They assume—incorrectly—that a novel must be a solitary effort, and that any outside advice somehow diminishes and/or voids the author’s ‘ownership’ of the story. My response is a resounding, “Bogus!” Even if you accept feedback that ultimately dictates that you to rewrite your entire novel—the book is yours and yours alone. Every word that is either axed or that remains resolutely in place (and in what precise order) is ultimately your decision. That’s your call. It’s your book. Period.

Should a literary agent or commercial publisher accept your manuscript, (congrats!) your options are truncated. Both agents and publishers are risking that you (and your manuscript) will be successful and profitable, and once they sign a writer as a client, each will strive to produce the best book possible. With rare exception, that success will be predicated upon your level of assistance.

Do realize that an agents, editors and reputable publishers* won’t have the same visceral connection as you (the writer) to the finished manuscript—and yet each has an invested interest in producing the best possible version of your book. Both an agent and a publisher’s editor have reputations that depend upon assisting you with pristine, professional prose. A publisher has intrinsic knowledge about designing and marketing books, and if you find yourself in that enviable position of being a contracted writer, keep in mind that their opinions count. A legit publisher’s in-house editor has a paycheck to earn. A commercial publisher will drop upwards of $10K simply producing both a printed book (and cover), and an ebook for publication. Mainstream publishers may even risk additional tens of thousands on marketing, PR and in branding you as a viable—meaning capable of producing multiple profit-making or even best-selling books—author.

Agents and publishers who see the value of your work are typically happy to work with you, if rewrites are advised. Your input can be invaluable… but don’t get cocky! As the author, you are no longer in charge. Working with a legit publisher (one who does not charge writers to publisher their work) can be both an exasperating and blissful experience — but the fine art of compromise is essential. If you’re loathe to cut a single word, to rewrite a scene or take erstwhile advice…it’s time for a reality check, because usually their opinions will take precedence. So my best advice? Go with the flow.

A word about writers groups and workshops.

I’m aware that some writers are skeptical (or outright afraid) to join or begin a writers group. For years I was one of those writers. Me? I didn’t need to join no stinkin’ writers group—until, on the advice of a writing friend, I joined one. For several years thereafter, the six (sometimes 7 or 8) of us, all fledgling, earnest but unpublished wannabes, gathered weekly for three grueling hours and learned the fine art of proactive listening.** We also learned to trust one another and, week by week, traded a multitude of often beneficial writing suggestions and solutions.

A writers group can also train you to not only receive, but to offer, constructive criticism. A group/workshop can motivate you to choose words more precisely and write more consistently, and can harden that notoriously fragile, creative psyche—because sooner or later, somebody’s going to hate your book and will delight in telling you so. And when they do, my advice is this: Don’t take it personally. Collecting rejections and weathering disgruntled readers comes with the territory. Just that those of us who’ve already dealt with critical voices are far more immune to the prattle of strangers.

Whenever somebody tells me that they couldn’t get through a story or book of mine, I simply smile and offer my condolences. “I’m sorry to hear that. Hopefully my next effort will be more to your liking.” And, for the more fearless among us: “I’m sorry to hear that. I’d love to know what you found lacking. Would you care to elaborate? Hey, can I buy you a beer?” Because why not turn a close encounter into a learning experience? You’ll seldom receive a more heartfelt critique.

Learning to ignore toxic or misguided criticism—“You’re stupid! You’re ugly! Your mother dresses you funny!” Or, “Your book sucks dog balls!”—really is a valuable life lesson. If and when you eventually learn to shrug off such mindless or insincere criticism—an exquisite, clarifying, joyous occasion, by the way—you’ll find yourself a much happier writer. And certainly a happier person.

But I digress. Personally speaking, I used my experience in a local writers group to eventually attune my brain to hear every criticism about my style, my plot, my characters (good or bad) with an open mind, to evaluate —sometimes for moments, sometimes for weeks—specific bits of feedback that I considered potentially important. I once jettisoned my entire first act—118 pages—because of my group’s near unanimous advice that my story “…really starts on page 119.” Seriously. I gutted one hundred and eighteen pages because my laborious introduction (and way too many secondary characters) did not directly relate to the story that would eventually emerge. I reworked Act I from the ground up and managed to fit my essential introductions into a far more dramatically paced 25 pages, then reworked another dozen or so pages into a feasible segue that blended seamlessly (one could assume) with the remainder of the story. But I spent almost three months pondering the edit before I pulled the trigger and began the rewrites. Still, I don’t regret it for an instant.

One word of advice. If you do find yourself deleting pages, keep a backup copy of your original work. I make constant back-up copies in Dropbox (cloud hosting app), because every once in a while I follow some crazy urge, change or kill a dozen pages, only to realize ‘Nope—stupid move.’ So keep multiple back ups, just in case.

If you’ve been seeking a local writers group and can’t find one, consider starting your own. If you have choices—meaning there are several existing groups in your area—perhaps you can locate other writers in your genre. It’s not necessary of course, just a little icing on the cake. Personally, I think intimate groups of 4-8 can work nicely. Fewer than four opinions and you may find yourself lacking sufficient commentary. With more than 7 or 8 active members, you may discover insufficient reading and critiquing time for each writer. (My weekly group typically ran for 3+ hours. Then tedium begins to creep in. Constructive criticism requires sharp minds and keen observations. So keep it short, keep it sharp.)

With the advent of online forums, writer chats and aggregate communities (such as Reddit’s r/writing) one can find numerous opportunities to meet fellow writers, without even getting out of your ‘jammies. If you can find a few like-minded souls, see if you can branch off into a more exclusive, reliable digital network. The internet—for better or for worse—has negated the need for face-to-face interaction. With the right connections, online interactions can prove just as valuable. Personally, however, I do recommend face-to-face interaction. Writers are hermetic enough. And, like I said, confronting constructive criticism face-to-face builds character.

Writing workshops—those all-day, weekend or weekly events, can provide powerful motivation. Can wield tremendous influence. Can provide a safe haven and a soothing sense of camaraderie. Because, no, you’re not in this alone. But, yes, you’ll pay for the experience, and a week long event (including room and board) can run a thousand bucks or more. Worth the price of admission? Established workshops aren’t for all of us, but for many writers, they can provide a perfect environment to unpack all those tucked away emotions. Because nothing can mess with one’s head more than the isolation of spending three or six or twelve months confronting a manuscript, while everyone else in the world (or so it seems) parties their nights away. Your best revenge is by adding your name to their crowded bookshelves.

I’ve found longer workshops (a week or more) to provide the motivation to keep one writing. You’re ditching reality and jumping down the rabbit hole—spending days in what I consider a sort of cerebral surreality that feels almost psychedelic in it’s intensity, and with the ability to strip the mundanity of everyday existence from your psyche. You’ll eat, sleep and live writing. You’ll bond with other writers, make some nice connections and you’ll even find a few lifelong friends. I found my wife. So, yeah, I highly recommend it.

The bottom line? Sooner or later, every writer can use a good set of alternative eyes. Stephen King had Tabitha. Leo Tolstoy had Sophia, Harper Lee had Truman Capote, and history wonders if Stephen, Leo and Harper would even be published today without the help of some pretty loyal and brilliantly opinionated company.***

Sooner or later, every published writer is expected to expose her/his work, warts and all, to public scrutiny. My suggestion is, the sooner you develop the crucial social skill of accepting criticism, the better. Don’t let your own critical fears (rational or not!) dissuade you from a second opinion. Every writer’s ultimate goal is to be seen by millions. If you can’t imagine your work being exposed to a beta reader or two, I suspect coping with the potentially soul-crushing reality of mass public scrutiny will be far more difficult to endure. (So start small and work your way up!)

Your understanding and acceptance of criticism (both good and bad) is so important, it’s worth repeating. In fact, it’s a new rule. Rule #99: Only two types of criticism exist: constructive and/or counter-productive criticism. Knowing the difference is crucial.
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* What’s reputable? Agents and publishers who charge a service fee or fee-based services, reputable as they might seem (or actually be!), rely on a writer’s money to stay in business. Many such agents and indie publishers (including in-house editors) can indeed improve the quality of your work. But their professional existence (not your book’s success) is largely based on your bank account, and occasionally on your life’s savings. An unwary writer can spend tens of thousands or more, spend years rewriting based on a bevy of ‘professional opinions’—and still be no closer to selling a commercially viable book. Before signing a contract, ensure that you’re not obliged to pay any up-front fees to ‘ensure potential publication.’

If you’re not sure where to even find a list of reputable agents and publishers, check out Publishers Marketplace. It’s the industry standard…and it’s totally worth your time.

** Active listening vs. Proactive listening: Active listening is the fine art of fully engaging (listening or reading) and comprehending without judgement. Proactive listening requires a full measure of active listening and subsequently offering constructive criticism as well. And what is criticism, after all, but judgement? However, constructive criticism should consist of a fair and accurate assessment—a far more complex and difficult social skill.

*** If you’re into films about writing/writers, check out The Last Station (2009, Christopher Plummer, Helen Mirren). A mesmerizing, dramatic late-life biography of Leo and Sophia Tolstoy.

Also, since we’re here, check out Genius (2016, Colin Firth, Jude Law, Nicole Kidman), a worthwhile biopic of Scribner’s book editor Max Perkins, who shredded (for the best) works by Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Thomas Wolfe. Or look HERE. (‘Tis a list of my personal favorite films about writing and writers.)
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