Hiya, welcome to The Forever Workshop.

First time? Read this first »

Back again? Here’s what we’ve got for you today:

A workshop for:

Writers who struggle with starting a new idea and need some surefire methods of jumping right in.

Your instructor:

Erin Karbuczky — writer, workshop facilitator, and creative process expert

Takeaways:

• Explore the question at the heart of your story

• Discover how conflict creates structure

• Use your protagonist’s “authority” to shape their character arc

• Create tension and surprise with cleverly placed details

• Set the mood with atmosphere and tone

• Layer up meaning with symbols and motifs

By the end of this workshop, you’ll have six new clever hacks to help unlock your story, build your plot, and develop your characters, until you’re ready to write!

Find A New Way into Your Story

When it comes to writing prose, I’ve always had an affinity for beautiful sentences and an intuition for voice. That all lent itself well to writing poetry, which is where I got my start, but when I decided I wanted to be a novelist, I had a bit of catching up to do in terms of things like structure, conflict, and characterization.

Always a good student, I spent my time reading a lot of craft books and tried my best to internalize the advice. But the more I read, the more I noticed that many craft books teach the various components of fiction and writing entirely separately from one another, with a chapter or so on each component.

This confused the heck out of my brain, because while I understood what they were saying about each part, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to get the parts working together — as a whole body, like a piece of writing should — until I developed my series of “story equation” hacks, which put corresponding elements together from the start, taking out the guesswork. I hope they can help someone else out there who also needs to see it presented differently.

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Hiya, welcome to The Forever Workshop.

First time? Read this first »

Back again? Here’s what we’ve got for you today:

A workshop for:

Any writer who wants to make their characters’ first encounters feel memorable, engaging, and full of possibility.

Your instructor:

Steve Chang (fiction editor at Okay Donkey) in conversation with Autumn Watts (former editor at Guernica) — co-founders of Lit Match Collective

Takeaways:

• A guide to basic 4-phase scene construction

• The essentials of pre-meet setups

• How to converting passive readers into participants

• And what every writer should know about tension and consequence

In this workshop, fiction editors Steve and Autumn explore the fundamental elements of a successful meet-cute and break down a real life story excerpt to show you how it all works in real time. By the end, you’ll know how to craft a character encounter that hooks the reader and leaves them feeling invested — earning tension rather than announcing it.

The Art of the “Meet-Cute”

Today you’re getting a masterclass in making character encounters matter as we explore the components of a successful “meet-cute”.

For those not familiar, the meet-cute is the first encounter between potential romantic partners under conditions that are adorable, unusual, or awkward. Basically: they meet. And it’s cute.

The meet-cute is a staple of romance and rom-coms, but can be applied to all genres and make any first encounter more impactful and interesting.

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Welcome to The Forever Workshop’s MFA Newsletter. Today, enjoy an interview with Elizabeth DeMeo, former Tin House editor, about entering the publishing world post-MFA.

Everything published here is free to enjoy, courtesy of our partnered universities. (Not interested? Turn off emails from this column here.)

Justine: I remember when I was interviewing for the Tin House editorial internship, you expressed that you felt your MFA was invaluable in helping you step into the roles you wanted to professionally. Can you first share a bit about your decision to pursue an MFA, including why you chose the University of Arkansas?

Elizabeth: My path to an MFA program was unconventional. I didn’t realize until several years after college that I had an interest in writing, so it was a big change involving a steep learning curve to pursue an MFA. I was pretty into theater and film at that time, so I initially considered studying screenwriting, but ultimately went with fiction because I wanted to learn a broader set of craft techniques.

I chose the University of Arkansas because it was a fully funded program and (at least according to the list I was following at the time) the highest ranked program that admitted me. I’m not sure I chose it for this reason, but it was also helpful that the Arkansas MFA is four years long. Since I had very little experience with creative writing, I needed every minute of instruction I could get.

I was initially waitlisted at Arkansas, which I mention because I want to reduce stigma around this subject. In my opinion, admissions results don’t indicate much about your potential as a writer. Your willingness to learn, to work hard, and to commit to your craft is what’s most important.

Justine: What experiences did you have during your MFA that helped you feel prepared to step into an editorial role at a publishing entity like Tin House?

Elizabeth: The reading I did (both in and outside of class) formed the bedrock of my editorial sensibilities. I learned a lot about what I like in contemporary nonfiction by reading work from Wendy S. Walters, Amy Fusselman, Maggie Nelson, Jeannie Vanasco, Angela Pelster, Elissa Washuta, Jenn Shapland, and Elena Passarello, among others. I believe there is a clear line from writing by these authors to Shze-Hui Tjoa’s The Story Game, a wonderful memoir I acquired and edited at Tin House.

In fiction, my professor Padma Viswanathan assigned us Barbara Gowdy’s The White Bone, which made me fall in love with writing from animal perspectives. Again, there’s a clear line from this assigned book to another book I acquired and edited at Tin House: Talia Lakshmi Kolluri’s amazing story collection What We Fed to the Manticore.

During my first summer in Fayetteville, I met my partner, Anthony Blake, a poet who was a year ahead of me in the MFA program. He had some indie press experience because he’d previously worked at Sarabande Books, and he began to share what he knew with me. Those conversations were my introduction to the publishing world, and then I learned more while working in various capacities for the Arkansas International, our MFA program’s literary magazine. Writing book reviews and interviewing authors, as I did for Ark Int, is something I’d encourage any MFA student to do.

The final experience that really prepared me to work in publishing was an editorial internship with Tin House itself. Through the internship, I learned quite a bit about what an editor does and how I could hone my skills to that end, and also became more familiar with the Tin House list. Having a clear understanding of the press’s mission and the types of books they publish was essential when I began working there full-time during the last semester of my MFA program.

Justine: Many people pursue an MFA in creative writing because they want to be a published, successful author, but of course that’s not a guaranteed outcome for everyone. How do you think students can maximize their experience in an MFA program, not just for improving their writing but to develop themselves for professional opportunities as well?

Elizabeth: If your MFA program has a literary magazine, join the staff. Try to gain not only editorial experience but also hard skills like copyediting, proofreading, layout, and design. Publishing reviews and author interviews, as I mentioned above, is immensely helpful, whether you do so in your MFA’s lit mag or elsewhere.

Additionally, use summers or any semester where you have the bandwidth to intern in the publishing industry. Don’t feel limited to just working at a press; an internship at an agency or literary arts organization can be incredibly valuable. If you can’t find those kinds of positions, working at a local bookstore is a great first step toward a job in publishing.

Once you begin publishing your own work, make a website so agents and editors can find you. Ask your MFA faculty about scheduling agent and editor visits if your program doesn’t already offer those.

Justine: You’re now teaching creative writing at Towson University. Do you feel like your MFA experience remains relevant in this role?

Elizabeth: Yes, absolutely. I taught composition classes for the first two years of my MFA, and during the first semester everyone in my cohort took a pedagogy class. Though not directly related to creative writing, these experiences helped me understand who I am as a teacher and what’s important to me in the classroom.

Later on in the MFA, I was the director of a program called Arkansas WITS (Writers in the Schools), which was my first experience teaching poetry. As a WITS instructor, you learn a few simple, straightforward rules to share with students as they write poems, and though I have some other tricks up my sleeve now, I still often think about the wisdom of the WITS maxims.

I also learned so much from my MFA professors Padma Viswanathan and Toni Jensen that I try to pass on to my students: specific ways of thinking and speaking about craft, exercises for improving your writing, and best practices during a workshop, among other lessons. Padma and Toni also, of course, introduced me to many of my favorite books and authors, and it’s a joy now to be able to teach some of those same books and authors to my students. This semester, for instance, I taught Rachel Cusk’s Outline, a book I read and loved deeply in a class with Padma.

Justine: For MFA hopefuls—what advice would you offer them, whether related to their goals of being an author or a publishing professional?

Elizabeth: I believe that what I said above is the best advice I can offer: MFA admissions results don’t indicate much about your potential as a writer. Your willingness to learn, to work hard, and to commit to your craft is what’s most important.

More concretely, I read MFA vs NYC before deciding to attend an MFA program and remember finding it useful. I’d also ask to have a call with a current student (or do a campus visit, if possible) to learn more about an MFA program before accepting their offer of admission. Unless you’re independently wealthy, make sure there’s stable funding for your program.

To learn more about the publishing industry in the United States, specifically from the mid-20th century onward, I’d suggest reading Dan Sinykin’s Big Fiction. To learn more about contemporary independent presses, I’d study their online catalogs. The Authors Guild has information on subjects like contracts and copyright if you want to better understand them as a publishing professional or an author yourself.

If you want to learn more about literary magazines, I’d spend some time looking through the curated Chill Subs lists. I’ve been recommending these lately to students who are just starting to send out work for publication, and I don’t know of a better way to broaden your horizons in the lit mag world.

Elizabeth DeMeo is a writer and a former editor at Tin House, where she acquired and edited books of fiction and literary nonfiction. Originally from New Hampshire, she holds an MFA in fiction from the University of Arkansas, where she was Managing Editor of the Arkansas International and Director of the Arkansas Writers in the Schools program. She currently teaches creative writing at Towson University in Maryland.

Entering the “real world” can be scary! Share this with your MFA friends to help them prep for post-grad life.

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Hiya, welcome to The Forever Workshop.

First time? Read this first »

Back again? Here’s what we’ve got for you today:

A workshop for:

Writers who are ready to embrace the constraints of micro memoir and unlock their life story.

Your instructor:

Darien Gee — bestselling author, memoirist, and founder of Writer-ish and Deals, Drafts and Detours

Takeaways:

• Three essential elements of micro memoir and how to put them into practice

• Why writing in micro can break the curse of the blank page

• The snapshot method: focusing on moments to make your life story less overwhelming

• The never-ending bank of micro ideas you can draw from memories, objects, and details

• Turn a collection of micro memoirs into a chapbook — or the seeds of a full memoir.

By the end of this workshop you’ll have a solid grounding in how to use the micro form to create concise, unique, and deeply personal creative non-fiction — one tiny memoir at a time.

Ready to write small but think big? Let’s go!

Why Write Micro Memoir?

We all have stories to tell, but how? Maybe you find yourself paralyzed when staring at the blank page, unsure of where to begin. Maybe you’re overwhelmed at the thought of trying to capture an entire life in a piece of prose. Maybe you have notebooks full of moments that would make good writing, but have no idea how to shape them. Or maybe you’ve started countless memoirs that peter out after the first fifty pages.

After two decades of helping writers tell their stories, here’s what I’ve discovered: the problem isn’t a lack of material but trying to tell too much at once. I’m Darien Gee, and today we’re diving into one of my favorite short forms: the micro memoir.

Our most powerful stories often emerge from small moments and careful attention. Micro prose (300 words or less) is a form that helped me transform a 90k+ novel into an award-winning chapbook of 36 prose poems (Other Small Histories). I’ve also used it to create short vignettes between full-length chapters in my novels, as well as writing and editing micro prose anthologies, including my own collection of micro memoirs, Allegiance.

If you’re new to the micro form in general, you can find my Micro 101 workshop here, but here’s all you really need to know to get started:

“I define micro as 300 words or fewer, not including the title — a simple constraint that changes everything about how you approach your story.

Think of micro as a snapshot, not a movie. You’re capturing one perfect frame that suggests an entire story rather than telling it. Here are a few more elements of micro:

1. Brief but complete: There’s a beginning, middle, and end.

2. Focused on one moment or idea: There’s no room for tangents or multiple stories.

3. Precise in language: Every word must earn its place.

4. Emotionally resonant: It lingers with the reader long after they’ve finished reading.”

Micro is about crafting tiny stories that pack enormous emotional punch — which is what makes it such an impactful form to apply to memoir. It helps with all those stumbling blocks that stop you telling your stories:

Note: You’ll see me use the terms micro memoir, micro essay, and micro prose interchangeably. Much depends on your initial intention and, later, your final draft. What stays constant is honoring the word count constraint and sharing the stories of your life.

Three Essential Elements of Micro Memoir

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Heya, welcome to The Forever Workshop. First time? Read this. Back again? Here’s what we’ve got for you today:

A workshop for:

Poets who want to learn a variety of ways to craft an effective, meaningful (and sometimes unexpected) poetic ‘turn’.

Your instructor:

Kelly Grace Thomas — poet, writer, educator, and founder of The Poetry Coach

Takeaways:

• Understand how an effective poetic turn creates movement, tension, and depth

• Identify different types of turns in published poems and your own work

• Practice crafting intentional turns with practical prompts and revision strategies

• Strengthen your poetic craft by using turns to add nuance, surprise, and deeper emotional resonance

By the end of this workshop, you'll have a draft poem built around an intentional poetic turn and feel confident in applying a range of turn techniques to your writing

The Importance of a Poetic Turn

The poetic turn — often called the volta — is the moment a poem shifts direction, deepens, or reveals something unexpected. It’s the hinge that moves a poem from simply describing an experience to transforming it.

A poetic turn reshapes how a reader understands a poem. It introduces a shift that expands meaning, often creating one (or more) of three primary effects:

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Hiya, welcome to The Forever Workshop.

First time? Read this first »

Back again? Here’s what we’ve got for you today:

A workshop for:

Writers applying to residencies, fellowships, grants, and workshops who want their artist statement to actually stand out.

Your instructor:

Kayla Kumari Upadhyaya — author, essayist, and editor who spent a year reading residency and workshop applications at Tin House.

Takeaways:

• How to tailor your statement to opportunities (and why the copy-paste approach is costing you)

• The four things to cut from your statement — and what to write instead

• A guide to mixing and matching past statements without starting from scratch

• How to define your work confidently (even if it means inventing your own genre)

• A set of prompts to help you write about your work like the artist you actually are

By the end of this workshop, you'll have a set of practical application prompts, a feel for what readers respond to, and the confidence to write about your work without cringing.

Why Your Artist Statement Matters

If you’ve been in the trenches of Submittable trying to apply for writing opportunities and support — from residencies to fellowships to workshops — then you might have a visceral reaction to the words artist statement. Sometimes referred to as a statement of purpose, the artist statement is an opportunity for the writer to advocate for themselves and their work.

I’ve heard all sorts of complaints about writing artist statements through the years: that it feels cringe or superfluous to write about one’s work and ambitions; or that it feels redundant or repetitive; or as if you’re just stabbing in the dark trying to figure out what it is the application review panel actually wants to hear.

But the artist statement is where you get to showcase who you really are and potentially stand out from other applicants.

I spent a year consistently reading application materials for residency and workshop programs at the literary institution formerly known as Tin House (now known as the McCormack Writing Center). Reading application materials is a much different experience than reading slush. You’re not just looking at the writing itself but at the potential of the project, the full breadth of the writer’s career and goals. Reading the artist statement portion was where I really felt I could get to know the writer as a real person. And after reading so many of them over the course of a year, I felt my practices for writing my own artist statements strengthen.

Does that strengthening mean I get 100% of the opportunities I apply to? Of course not! But beyond helping myself stand out with a strong artist statement, honing my craft (yes, it is a craft!) for these parts of applications has also just made the entire application process so much less daunting and tiresome. I don’t experience application fatigue like I used to, and I feel way less overwhelmed.

And so, with all that in mind, I’m going to be a little blunt and brutal here in my breakdown of what makes a compelling artist statement — and what to avoid including in your application:

Artist Statement Dos and Don’ts

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Hey friends,

Welcome to another edition of Tell Us Something We Don’t Know… where we source a panel of literary experts and ask them questions about whatever the heck. Today, the heck is sample pages and our instructors are a trio of publishing mavens:

The Experts:

• Jane Friedman — Decodes the publishing industry for writers who'd rather not learn the hard way. Featured in The New York Times, The Atlantic, and the BBC.

• Karin Gillespie — Simon & Schuster novelist, Substack bestseller, and a working writer who tracks the industry at Pitch Your Novel. 20+ years in the trenches.

• Erin C. Niumata — A literary agent at Folio who's been reading queries for decades and representing NYT bestsellers when she finds the good ones.

The Takeaways:

• Why dramatic openings sometimes don’t work

• The line-level test that separates strong writers from polished ones

• The synopsis tell that gives away an unfinished manuscript

• Why overpolished sample pages can backfire

• How to know if you’re querying agents too early

By the end of this workshop, you'll spot the same red flags agents do (before your manuscript hits their inbox).

What agents wish writers knew about sample pages

Sample pages are an important part of your submissions package when sending your novel to agents, along with a query letter and synopsis.

Your sample pages are there to showcase the opening of your story, your fascinating protagonist, your intriguing plot, and the quality of your writing, along with demonstrating you understand structure, pacing, tone, voice etc.

If you get them right, your first few chapters should entice agents to read on, request the full manuscript, and hopefully offer representation. A lot of pressure to put on just a few thousand words, huh?

“As agents, we read so many submissions that certain patterns jump out quickly.” — Erin C. Niumata

So, here’s what agents are actually looking for in sample pages — and the red flags that make them say, “no, thank you.”

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Welcome to The Forever Workshop’s MFA Newsletter, a monthly column about career advancement in the literary space. Everything published here is free to enjoy, courtesy of our partnered universities. (Not interested? Turn off emails from this column here.)

The writing world is full of applications. Applications for MFA programs, for residencies, for conferences, for positions with literary magazines and presses, for fellowships and grants—even querying agents can feel a bit like an application! Yet all of these applications have one thing in common: the writing sample.

Talk to anyone who is on the side of saying “yes” or “no” to your application, and they’ll tell you that the writing sample is what carries the most weight. If you nail it, you have a good chance of a “yes.” And we all like getting that “yes.”

So how do you choose your best writing sample? What even makes a good writing sample? We’ll get into it below, but I want to add the caveat that the literary world is an incredibly subjective place. What reads as the “best” to one person may not read the same way for another. Everyone has their own personal tastes and preferences, and that factors into the “yeses” we may or may not receive. It’s silly to think that we, as artists, exist in an objective space. Still, there are things we can keep in mind when applying to help select our own “best” writing sample to send in.

How to Choose Your Best Writing Sample in Five Steps

(Note: Hopefully you have a number of pieces to choose from—if you don’t, it might mean that you need to keep writing before you’re ready to actually apply to one of these opportunities.)

1. Read the application guidelines. This sounds simple, but it’s the easiest way to begin narrowing down what pieces might be a good fit. Is there a word count or page limitation? Do they want a complete story, or is an excerpt OK? Do they want multiple pieces or just one? Are they looking for anything in particular, thematically or otherwise? Can your sample have been published before? The easiest way to get a “no” is to not follow the guidelines, so check this first and curate your list of potential writing samples accordingly.
   

2. Choose a sample that feels unique to you. The literary world is competitive, and that means many people applying for the same things all the time. Your best writing sample is going to be the one that speaks to you as an artist, that feels unique to your existence in the world and your vision of what art means and is intended to do. For example, my nonfiction tends to have an ecofeminist bent, and I often choose to submit work in alignment with that as it best represents my vision for my writing. Long story short: don’t choose a sample that feels generic or safe. You want to stand out.
   

3. Show your creativity. Choose a writing sample that feels bold and creative, that bends expectations and genre. If the writing sample allows for more than one piece (or if you’re a poet and can send in a packet of poems), lean into the diversity of artistic expression. Maybe you submit a combination of a lyric flash piece and a researched nonfiction essay. Maybe you submit a free verse poem, a ghazal, and a prose poem. Maybe one piece is in the second-person, and another is from the omniscient third. Showing your versatility as a writer can make your work shine through the slush pile. But a word of caution—don’t confuse creativity with accessibility. Make sure that the readers of your work can still understand and be moved by the writing you create.
   

4. Dig into the details (with a few trusted friends). While writing is largely subjective, there are some objective aspects that make a piece of writing good. These can be hard to notice in your own work, so here’s where bringing in some outside, editorial eyes can really help. Ask your trusted readers/friends for insight on the following questions: What piece (or pieces) has the strongest line-level writing? What piece has the most compelling narrative elements? What piece evokes the most emotion? Listen to any insights you receive—the readers of our work will often see things that we can’t.
   

5. Trust your gut. At the end of the day, your best writing sample is the one you feel the most proud of and confident in. What piece of your writing do you want to read over and over again? What makes you feel moved? There have been times where I’ve written something and known it was really good—that it was one of my best pieces of writing yet—and that instinct was rewarded with publication. Some of my writing friends have told me they’ve felt the same in their own work. These are the kinds of pieces you want to submit in your sample, the writing that makes you feel alive and excited.

There’s nothing easy about putting your writing out there for others to read, especially when that reading of your work comes with acceptance or rejection. But it’s an inevitable part of the writing world, and the best opportunities often come with the hurdle of a lengthy application.

So here’s the deal: Don’t rush the writing sample. Make it the best it can be (i.e. revise, revise, revise!), and try to trust that, even if at first you don’t succeed, there will eventually be a perfect reader for your work who will give you a “yes.”

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Hiya, welcome to The Forever Workshop.

First time? Read this first »

Back again? Here’s what we’ve got for you today:

A workshop for:

Any writer who wants to bring a little ritual to their creative process and manifest the heck out of their writing goals.

Your instructor:

Erin Karbuczky — writer and educator who teaches craft and the creative process with a touch of the mystical. She also writes about pop culture and tech through a queer/feminist lens.

Takeaways:

• Build a practical toolkit of spiritual, ritualistic, and meditative practices for your writing routine

• Draw inspiration from ancient, everyday cycles (ever wonder why poets have a thing about the moon...?)

• Manifest your writing goals with affirmations, scripting, and inspired action, just like Octavia Butler.

• Play with prompts, exercises, and magical practices designed to stretch your creativity

By the end of this workshop you’ll have seven new ways to add a little witchery into your writing process — because, as we all know deep down, words are full of magic…

How to Use Manifestation, Ritual & Spirituality to Enhance Your Creative Process

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Hiya, welcome to The Forever Workshop.

First time? Read this first »

Back again? Here’s what we’ve got for you today:

A workshop for:

Short fiction writers looking for insights, guidance and practical tips on putting together a collection of their work.

Your instructor:

Shome Dasgupta — author of 13 books and former Wigleaf Top 50 series editor

Takeaways:

• Explore four approaches to building a collection — and how each suits your work

• Navigate the logistics: word count, story order, and landing on the perfect title

• Understand the publishing process, from finding the right home to handling setbacks

• Learn from Shome’s transformative experiences with four very different collections

By the end of this workshop you’ll have a clearer idea of what to expect from creating a short story collection, with prompts and exercises to help you shape your own.

Four Ways to Put Together a Short Fiction Collection

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Hiya, welcome to The Forever Workshop.

First time? Read this first »

Back again? Here’s what we’ve got for you today:

A workshop for:

Fiction writers who want to craft three-dimensional, relatable characters that readers, agents and editors will love

Your instructor:

Maurice Carlos Ruffin — award-winning author of national bestseller The American Daughters

Takeaways:

• Five practical methods to elevate and upgrade your characterization

• How to make your protagonist feel distinct and three-dimensional

• How to use your character’s complex inner world to prompt them into action

• How to pile on the challenges and conflict to test your protagonist’s mettle

• An exercise to help you create (or develop) a character with depth and nuance

By the end of this workshop you’ll have a handful of easy ways to deepen your understanding of your protagonist, and be full of brand new character ideas…

Five No-Fail Ways to Create an Amazing Protagonist

Do you find that your protagonist is plain, boring, and uninteresting? Does she refuse to do anything memorable? Is your book petering out as a result?

Today’s workshop will explore different approaches for upgrading your characterization. Because an amazing protagonist is a protagonist that agents, editors, and readers will want to meet.

Here are five failsafe techniques to build a wonderfully engaging main character:

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Hiya, welcome to The Forever Workshop.

First time? Read this first »

Back again? Here’s what we’ve got for you today:

A workshop for:

Writers who want to learn how sentences work (and why sometimes they don’t) so they can self-edit with confidence.

Your instructor:

Helene Kiser — editor, writing teacher and book coach, specializing in personal essays, narrative non-fiction and memoir.

Takeaways:

• Identify the eight common weaknesses that drain your sentences of power

• A 6 step self-editing framework you can use on any piece of writing

• Recognize when breaking the rules might strengthen your work

• Edit your sentences without losing what makes your writing sound like you

• Diagnose whether a sentence problem is about clarity, rhythm, or voice — and fix it accordingly

By the end of this workshop you’ll have learned how to transform barely functional sentences into lines that sparkle with hands-on exercises to sharpen your editorial eye across poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.

Self-editing — Sentence by Sentence

Why self-editing is the most important skill to learn as a writer

The cold truth is that readers don’t owe us their time. We have to earn it, sentence by sentence.

But here’s the thing about sentences: they’re sneaky little devils. When we’re drafting, we’re focused on getting the story down, the argument made, the image captured. But sometimes when we go back and read, something feels... off. Sentences that felt perfectly fine while we were writing them now sound flat. Or muddy. Or like they’re trying to run a marathon while wearing concrete shoes.

But that moment when you reread your work and think “why isn’t this working?” isn’t failure. It’s the beginning of real craft. And improving our editorial eye really is the key to producing good (or great!) writing.

The problem is, well, self-editing can be hard.

As writers, our noggins autocorrect mistakes and fill in gaps before we even notice they’re there.

Or maybe we’re too close to our work to be truly objective. What structural problems? Plot hole where? No logical flaw in that! Whaddya mean I haven’t clarified Aunt Suzie’s obsession with button collecting?

Or we’re just too attached, Gollum-style: My precious, precious, precious words!

The good news? Self-editing at the sentence level stands as one of the soft AND hard skills you can continually improve with practice. And today we’re going to learn some quick, easy strategies to get you started…

The 8 Enemies of Strong Sentences

Before we talk about what makes sentences work, let’s identify what makes them stumble. This is of course not an exhaustive list but a round-up of the usual suspects — the patterns that sneak into our drafts and sap our prose of energy.

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Heya, welcome to The Forever Workshop. First time? Read this. Back again? Here’s what we’ve got for you today:

A workshop for:

Memoir writers who want to write truthfully about their experiences but are worried how people in their life might react

Your instructor:

Lilly Dancyger — essayist and author of the memoir Negative Space and essay collection First Love, which was a LAMBDA Literary Award finalist.

Takeaways:

• Common concerns for memoir writers during writing and revision

• Important questions to ask when writing about sensitive topics in non-fiction

• How to navigate telling your truth with fairness and nuance

• Advice on representing real people in a multidimensional way within memoir

Today’s workshop is free for all subscribers. By the end of it, you’ll know what to consider as you write and revise your creative non-fiction, and feel more confident about approaching difficult subjects in memoir.

How to Write About Real People in Memoir

The fact that the characters in our stories are real people (some of whom might actually read what we write!) is one of the most challenging aspects of writing memoir. The fear of getting it wrong—of representing people in our lives unfairly, or of representing them perfectly fairly but still pissing them off in the process—is enough to keep tons of would-be memoirists from writing a word; and enough to keep those brave enough to write anyway up at night.

Through the process of publishing two very personal books of nonfiction (and writing a third, which will be out next year), I’ve learned something that has made this minefield a little easier to navigate: the challenges of writing about real people fall into two distinct categories—writing problems, and publishing problems—and keeping them separate can make them much easier to manage. Letting these very different concerns get tangled up in your mind is a surefire way to get overwhelmed and stuck: worrying about publishing problems before you’ve even begun writing, editing yourself for public reception when you should be focused on craft and getting to a version of the story that feels true to your own experience.

Determining whether a story is yours to tell or if you’re veering too far into other people’s privacy, making sure the story is true and fair and that every character (even those who have harmed you) comes across as a multidimensional human instead of a stock villain, implicating yourself in descriptions of conflict as much as you implicate others—these are all writing problems.

How people in your life will react to what you’ve written is a publishing problem.

Like most big challenges, in writing as in life, this jumble of writing and publishing concerns becomes much easier to manage when you break it down into smaller challenges to deal with one at a time, in order.

Here’s a loose breakdown of when in the process to ask yourself these big questions:

Before you start writing:

Whose story is this to tell? (writing question)

When you first have an idea of what you want to write about, it’s always good to start with a gut check on whether the story is yours to tell in the first place. Memoir inevitably includes other people—pretty much every experience we write about is a shared experience in some way. But where’s the line between what’s yours and what’s theirs?

I think of it like this:

• Anything that happened primarily to me is fair game to write about, even if other people were involved.

• Anything that was an equally shared experience is also fair game, but might require a little more tact in making sure I’m representing only my perspective and not speaking for anyone else.

• And anything that primarily happened to someone else and impacted me in a second-hand way requires the full informed and freely-given consent of that someone else.

This is the loose rubric I start with, at least. There are exceptions that have to do with power dynamics—for example, children and my students get more protection and anonymity than my peers. (There’s a whole long-ranging debate with various strongly-held beliefs about whether it’s ever ok for parents to write about their children. Like pretty much every writing “rule,” I tend to think there’s no one size fits all right answer, but that the power dynamic should absolutely be taken into account, and writing about children and anyone else the writer has any kind of power over requires even more care than writing about people with whom they’re on a level playing field.)

While writing & revising:

Am I representing everyone as accurately as possible? (writing questions)

While writing (and revising), ask yourself:

• Have I portrayed everyone in this story as a multidimensional human being rather than a stock character or villain?

• Have I implicated myself in conflicts rather than putting all the blame on others?

• Have I represented the people in this story in a way that feels fair and complete and true from my perspective?

These are all difficult questions to answer and difficult things to achieve in writing, but they’re much easier—or at least, they’re possible—when you think of them as craft questions, completely separate from how the people you’re writing about will react to the finished work.

To the best of your ability, work through these questions without thinking at all about how your writing will be received. Try to write as if nobody will ever read what you’re writing! (This is easier to do if you can reassure yourself that the time will come to address concerns about how people will react; it’s just that now, while writing, is not that time.)

These are also things to ask for feedback on from other writers who don’t know the people you’ve written about—people who can judge the complexity and vividness of your characters as characters.

Later in revision:

How would it feel to read this as one of the people in the story? (revision question, starting to prepare for publication)

Only after you’ve written the story to your satisfaction, gotten it to a point where it feels true and conveys what you want it to convey, is it time to start thinking about how it might be received by the people you’ve written about.

For me, this is a revision step all its own: a full read through of the manuscript where I finally acknowledge to myself that some or all of the people I’ve written about will eventually read what I’ve written. And after blocking it out of my mind during the whole writing process up until this point, I let myself consider how it might come across to them.

During the read-through itself, I generally just mark every line or passage or section that I want to take a closer look at—basically every spot where I describe another person, or their actions, or our relationship. Then I go back through and make decisions about what I might want to omit or soften out of consideration for their feelings.

Importantly, by this point in the process, I’m generally pretty confident that I’ve done my due diligence to write a fair and true story, so I’m not as timid as I might have been if I’d done this step earlier in the process. But still, sometimes a description is harsher than it needs to be, or sometimes in the interest of making a character feel well-rounded I’ve included details about their life or experience that aren’t really mine to share.

This is the stage at which I make decisions about what’s really necessary to the story, and what I’d feel ok with letting go for the sake of people’s feelings and my ongoing relationships with them

Before publication:

Should I share what I’ve written with anyone represented in my story before it’s published, while there’s still time to make changes? (publishing question)

This is a question that comes up all the time—whether or not, and when, to share drafts with people in your life. When, I think, is the easier question to answer: Only when it’s close to final, polished and revised, so you’re sharing the most complete and considered version.

But that only applies if you’ve decided to share a draft at all. That has less of a clear answer, and really depends on each individual relationship.

Personally, I tend to err on the side of sharing drafts with more people than not. If people are going to read the work eventually, I’d rather deal with their potential reactions early, rather than letting them be another thing to worry about in the already anxiety-laden publication process. And, I’ve learned, making small changes is often a small price to pay to maintain a relationship.

I also learned from publishing my first book, Negative Space, that you can never predict what details will upset someone, and that often they’ll be small things that wouldn’t be that big of a deal to change. Of all the fraught and difficult things I wrote in that book about my mother, her relationship with my father and their shared heroin addiction, and my complicated relationship with her, the detail she brought up that had particularly upset her was that I described my loft bed in the studio apartment we shared when I was a teenager as being “above the kitchen.” It was next to the kitchen, she insisted; I made it sound worse than it was. When I looked down from that loft bed, I looked down into the kitchen, yes, but I also had a desk and clothing rack in the space directly under it. From my perspective, either above or next to would suffice. It would not have been a big deal for me to make that change, but it would have made a big difference to her.

But I didn’t share a draft of the book with my mother before it was published, so by the time she read it and objected to that word choice, it was too late.

I carried that experience with me into the publication process for my second book, First Love, sharing drafts with just about everyone I wrote about—including an ex-friend I hadn’t spoken to in years.

Just because I shared drafts with everyone, doesn’t mean that everyone’s opinion got equal weight. An important thing to remember is that sharing a draft doesn’t mean you have to change everything someone wants you to. At this stage, you have to balance your relationship with the person against the story you want to tell. For some friends, I would have cut entire essays if they asked me to, because no essay was more important than those relationships. (They didn’t ask me to cut any full essays, but a few did ask for very small changes, on the level of “above” vs. “next to” that I was more than happy to make.) For others, I was sharing the drafts more to get their reactions out of the way before publication. In those cases, there were some changes I declined to make.

But the choices about which changes to make and which to decline were so, so much easier to make at this stage—once the book was written and revised and I’d wrestled with my own craft and ethical concerns first, without anyone looking over my shoulder. Once they were separated into a stage of the publishing process, rather than something I let get in my way while I was writing, or god forbid, stop me from writing in the first place

More memoir & non-fiction resources:

For more on this topic, and to come up with your own ethical rubric and publication plan, join Lilly Dancyger on April 18 for a virtual session, Telling Shared Stories: Writing About Real People in Memoir.

(P.S. Forever Workshop readers get 15% off with discount code FOREVER)

And for more guidance on writing memoir and personal essays, explore these masterclass to help you generate ideas, find your voice, and craft honest, authentic creative non-fiction:

An 8-part comprehensive guide to writing a personal essay from start to finish, including lessons on structure, point-of-view, and revising your work.

A 4-part workshop on finding meaning in the ‘quiet’ moments of daily life — including how to write about difficult subjects with subtlety and nuance.

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I have a photo from 2013, the three of us standing in bright sun on the back deck—my daughter, my son, and me—each of us wearing a t-shirt announcing the university that we’d head off to at summer ‘s ends. My daughter went to Boston, my son to Southern California, and I stayed put to attend the small, liberal arts college, Saint Mary’s College of California, in our hometown in San Francisco’s East Bay. My kids, twins and 18, were moving into the next phase of their education and their lives, a new independence. And me, at 50, I was pursuing an MFA in Creative Nonfiction Writing, moving on with an empty nest and a dream to fulfill.

I’d seriously considered applying to graduate school when we moved to our tiny town eight years earlier. Getting an MFA in writing was something I’d thought about for years, since my late twenties. But marriage, career, kids, money, and probably a lack of confidence, had diverted me from that path. Now the idea was palpably within reach. Saint Mary’s MFA program had a good reputation, and it was right there, a five-minute walk from the house. From our backyard, I could see the white stucco walls and red clay tile roofs of the Mission-styled buildings on campus. I could hear the bells chime in the chapel tower on the hour throughout the day. But when we arrived in northern California in 2005—a big move from Chicago where I’d lived for 20 years—with two ten-year-olds, two cats, two birds, a new puppy, and a husband with a busy job—I felt we all needed time to settle in. The family’s needs resonated louder than the church bells that were calling to me.

I’d been working as medical writer and editor, which paid decently well at the time, but it was solitary, slow-paced work. I felt the creative hole in my writing life deepening. So, I went to work writing for a local newspaper and then moved on to magazines. Although I was late to journalism, I figured it out. I’m curious by nature. Reporting and interviewing came easily. I liked meeting people and exploring my new surroundings through their stories. Along the way, I wandered down to Saint Mary’s College every chance I got to listen to readings by visiting writers, which were often open to the public.

Before I applied to SMC, I met with the Director of the CNF Program, the wonderful writer Marilyn Abildskov. She could sense my excitement, my desire. She knew I could write—I had loads of clips. I’d been edited and edited others—I understood that cycle. I knew not to be precious about my writing. But Marilyn also knew what I didn’t know: that an MFA in Creative Writing would push me into unfamiliar and sometimes scary territory and challenge me to write more authentically, work in new forms, and take risks. The truth is, back then, I didn’t really know what I’d be getting into.

Although I’d worked as a writer and journalist for many years, I’d never been in a writing workshop.

Although I had a basket filled with hand-written journals, I’d never shared a draft of a first-person piece, let alone had one published.

Although I had ideas, most of which defaulted to writing about other people and things, I didn’t yet know what I wanted to write in an MFA program.

As we wrapped up our meeting, Marilyn gave me a knowing smile and said, “Coming here, getting an MFA, will change your life.” I smiled back, and it felt like I floated out the door.

One of the first courses I took in the MFA Program was called Foundations, a requirement for all writers across genres. We met, 24 of us, twice a week, to analyze and discuss poetry, short stories, novels, and essays. The poets sat clustered together, erudite and articulate, they were well read and sounded worldly in a way that didn’t require travel. The fiction writers sat side by side in a row. Affable and aware, they questioned the motivations of characters, picked apart plots, and waxed on about worldbuilding. And the nonfiction writers, the truth tellers, where were they? It was though I couldn’t recognize my people. I didn’t know where to sit

Although I’d always been an avid reader, with a Bachelors of Science degree, I hadn’t been exposed to classic literature like the many English majors in the room. We started off with John Keats’ “Ode to a Grecian Urn”—I had no idea what it meant. We read James Joyce’s short stories, old fiction that made me sleepy. I felt behind, out of place, like everyone—most of whom were twenty years younger than I was—knew much more about writing than I did.

And then came workshop, and things got worse. I had the less than good fortune to be in the first group to be workshopped by our cohort of 15, which included writers in both the first and second years of the CNF program. What would I write about? How did it work? I stumbled on.

I wrote about a foster brother who had disappeared from my life. My memories were vague. The word count was low. The writing was weak. I struggled with the point of view. Too much summary. Too little scene. It lacked interiority. The professor and fellow writers were supportive and provided valuable feedback, but I knew my writing had fallen short. The experience was humbling.

At the end of the workshop, a twenty-something young man in his second year turned and gave me a withering look that seemed to say, “Why am I sitting next to this old woman?” I can’t recall what he said exactly—and maybe I’m projecting—but this is what I heard: “I’m not sure you belong here. You better up your game.”

By the end of the first week I said to my husband, “I can’t do this. I’m not good enough.” Imposter syndrome had taken hold.

Weakened, I muscled on to week two. What saved me was the craft class, Marilyn’s fine teaching, and the readings. Bernard Cooper, Bia Lowe, Nick Flynn, Elizabeth McCracken, Vladimir Nabokov. I devoured them. I learned how to read as a writer and quickly picked up the craft. It was like putting on 3D glasses. I could see how the writing worked. I knew I’d never read the same way again.

I remember when it hit me, when I knew what I wanted to write. We read Jo Ann Beard’s essay, “The Fourth State of Matter,” and I was blown away by the writing. The braided structure, the personal narrative mixed with the public tragedy (her failing marriage, the aging dog, the invading squirrels, the school shooting), the emotional restraint of the voice, the scenes, the details, the tension, the metaphor. I thought right then—that’s what I want to write, that kind of essay.

In time workshop improved. The second-year writers were great role models in that setting. I watched them closely and mirrored what they did. As I developed a writing craft vocabulary, I found editing and giving feedback were strengths of mine. And I knew how to be kind and supportive—I’m a mother, I’d already had 18 years of training for that.

By the end of the first year, I’d made some friends and figured out where to sit in Foundations. I learned how to unearth lost memories, stay in scene, get comfortable with the pronoun I, tap into the voice in my head, and push my imposter persona to the side. I wrote essays that were braids, lists, hermit crabs, researched, lyric, reflective, and place-based. I upped my game. I didn’t feel like the old woman in the room anymore.

Do I think you need an MFA to become a writer? No. There are many excellent writing courses available online today and plenty of ways to build a writing community virtually. At 50, I was fortunate to have the time and financial resources to devote to a fulltime, residential writing program. Getting my MFA from Saint Mary’s was a privilege that gave me a wonderful way to pivot to creative writing.

Do I wish I’d gone back for my MFA sooner? Yes but No. At 50, I brought a lot of life experience to the page, and I felt like my “I” had something to say. Plus, I think I needed to experience the discomfort of the early weeks in the MFA program—to feel off-kilter and vulnerable, to have to push myself to a new place in my writing and my life.

That was my timing. That was my path.

I still have that Saint Mary’s College of California t-shirt, washed out gray with fading red letters, that I put on most mornings, like a second skin, when I head out to swim.

Yes, the MFA journey changed my life. Better late than never.

Andrea A. Firth is a writer, editor and educator living in the San Francisco Bay Area. She is an Editor at Brevity Blog. Andrea was a finalist for The Missouri Review's 2021 Perkoff Prize in nonfiction, and her work has appeared in Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, Allium, Please See Me, Motherwell, The Coachella Review among others. You can read more of her writing on her Substack newsletter Everything Essay! Andrea is teaching a 1.5 hour Zoom class Writing About Writing—and Get Published! on March 30, details and register here.

Self-Paced Workshops by Andrea

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Hey friends, welcome to The Forever Workshop. First time? Read this. Back again? Here’s what we’ve got for you today…

A workshop for:

Poets who want to explore the connection between the natural world and the human experience in their work.

Your instructor:

Madeleine Bazil — poet, writer, filmmaker, and author of Field Guide, an ecopoetics newsletter.

Key takeaways:

• Why most poets describe the world on autopilot (and how to stop)

• Using observation to gather unique details for our poetry

• Weaving time, nature, memory, and emotion into layered work

• How to balance societal and environmental issues with our own personal experiences

You will walk away from this workshop with a foundational understanding of how to craft deeply meaningful poetry using embodied observation.

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It’s a new Wednesday which means a new workshop, and this weeks is special because we’re trying out a video format! #brave. (And if video isn’t your thing, Jo has lovingly created a cheat sheet of key takeaways below.)

This is a workshop for:

Non-fiction writers who want to get their articles and personal essays published in top tier places like The New York Times, HuffPost, Business Insider, Washington Post and Wall Street Journal.

Your instructor:

Amber Petty — LA-based writer and marketing coach who’s written for NY Times, Parade, Bustle, IFC, and helped hundreds of clients get their first bylines.

Key takeaways:

• Step-by-step instructions on exactly what to put in your pitch

• Pitching angles proven to grab editorial attention

• Top tips to help you fine-tune your pitches and avoid common mistakes

• What editors don’t want to see

• Why you shouldn’t be scared to approach the Big Names

By the end of the workshop, you’ll have everything you need to brainstorm new ideas, draft a bunch of killer pitches, and get your stories out there!

Pitching 101 — A Certified Guide

“Editors don’t really care about your background, your history, or your education. They care about your story. And this is how we present that story in the best possible way…”

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Hey friends,

Welcome to another round of Tell Us Something We Don’t Know — where we source a panel of literary experts and ask them questions about whatever the heck. Today, the heck is pacing and our instructors are experienced editors from three top-tier literary magazines:

The Experts:

• Derek Askey — senior editor at The Sun

• Rachel Dillon — award-winning poet, teacher, and managing editor of Ploughshares

• Steve Chang — co-founder of Lit Match Collective and fiction editor at Okay Donkey

The Takeaways:

• Effective pacing techniques to keep moving your story forward

• How to draw out your unique voice through detail and observation

• Common pacing issues editors see in submissions and how to fix them!

• How important is a strong opening or a killer ending? And what about all that stuff in the middle?

By the end of this workshop, you’ll know how to capture the attention of editors, develop your stories with depth and nuance, and keep readers hanging on every word.

Let’s Begin at the Beginning…

Opening lines, exposition, pacing, and living up to the promise of your premise

Don’t set expectations you can’t keep!

Derek Askey, The Sun: It’s not particularly difficult to tell when a submission’s opening has been labored over more than the pages that follow: A compelling beginning might give way to rote, unimaginative prose, or a voice that had been clearly and memorably established in the first few paragraphs fades into blow-by-blow descriptions or stilted dialog. It’s often such a shame: Why couldn’t the author keep up that level of writing? Where did they lose their way?

It’s a natural impulse, of course. You know your piece is being read alongside thousands of other submissions, and you want to impress right out of the gate. There’s no way they’ll stop reading after an opening sentence like this — it’s perfect! But in truth, the pieces where such high-quality writing is spread across the whole submission: Those are the ones that get passed along to our editorial staff for further consideration. Even the most gripping opening can fade — and quickly! — in a reader’s mind if what follows doesn’t live up to its promise.

Keep exposition to a minimum

Steve Chang, Okay Donkey: At Okay Donkey we love “off kilter” work that’s not quite normal, and what that means in terms of submissions is that we get a ton of pieces that start with great premises… but then they tread water.

Why?

One reason is that, often, these pieces get bogged down in exposition. We get a great situation with potential but then the story feels compelled to explain all the ‘what’ of it, the history of everything and everyone involved, the rules of the world, the ‘how and why’ of getting into such a situation, etc.

I think writers would be surprised by how little exposition is actually needed for a piece to do its job. Yes, context is great (and necessary) but it should serve the forward momentum of a piece. It offers a deeper understanding of what’s happening, sure, but that understanding should also heighten the reader’s anticipation of what might come NEXT.

It’s not just idle looking back. It can do so much more.

And, yes, the act of looking back can generate great forward momentum if handled correctly, like in Rina Olsen’s Skeletons in the Closet or Brittany Ackerman’s Boy Crazy, but these stories are also driven by other factors, such as character agenda and cause and effect.

All I’m saying is: it’s not necessary to overwrite expo dumps. So why do we get so many submissions that do?

I think it’s a symptom of the draft. The writer is figuring things out on the page. Then forgetting to clean up the mess of construction. Or they think the mess IS the construction.

The solution, for me, is to maaaaybe differentiate between drafting and revising as modes, and keeping different questions in mind when doing one or the other.

Developing Your Story…

So many writers get stuck in the middle of a story — so how do you keep the momentum going, escalate the plot and develop your character arcs to keep readers hooked?

Go further & deeper

Derek: One of the best pieces of advice I’ve been given on pacing is from my mentor when I was in graduate school, Steven Schwartz, who often reiterated that stories, as they advance, need to go both further and deeper.

He was referring specifically to fiction, but I think the rule applies to nonfiction as well, and it’s one of the things that’s often in my mind when I read submissions for The Sun:

1. Is this plot merely advancing, or am I actually becoming more invested in the people (or characters) being described as this piece goes on?

2. If something’s happening on the page, is it something that matters?

3. Is this particular exchange of dialog so important that it needs to be in quotation marks and conveyed in full, or would it be better to summarize it and get to something more important? (And, if it’s the latter, does the reader really even need to see it at all?)

4. Are the characters, or people in the essay, the same as they were when the piece started? Have things gotten more difficult for them? Better? How are they handling that?

I’ve found that, so long as you’re accomplishing at least some of these things, concerns with pacing kind of take care of themselves. I’ll add that nothing kills pacing quite so much as a character or a narrator spending too much time in their head, or walking around aimlessly, or otherwise squandering their precious time on the page.

Does every paragraph need to take the piece further and deeper? Does every sentence? Well, probably not, but it isn’t a bad idea to take a look at maybe every page (and no less than every scene) and make sure it’s doing just that. Does every paragraph in your piece deserve a place in it—does it justify its presence? Or, perhaps more to the point, would you feel the same way about that paragraph if it had to stand up to the scrutiny of being the very first one in your piece?

By and large I just want to know I’m in good hands with an author: that, if I’m spending a lot of time in a particular scene, or with a particular character, the author has a good reason for me to be there. Once you start feeling like the author’s lost hold of that authority, things can go off the rails pretty swiftly.

What now? So what?

Steve: Once we have a draft on the page, maybe our guiding questions are no longer ‘what’ and ‘how and why’ etc, but ‘what NOW?’ and ‘so what?’

‘What now?’ is what the reader should be thinking, periodically. They should be looking ahead in anticipation, not just passively receptive. Have we shaped our draft to help them do so?

‘So what’ can guide us when considering how much exposition we need. Whenever something transpires on the page, we have to ensure that the reader understands the ‘so what’ of it. And by doing so, we also get into the consideration of motivations, stakes, and consequences and whether all of that is on the page yet.

Simple, right?

Use observation & detail to propel your story forward

Rachel Dillon, Ploughshares: Whether a submission reaches the maximum word count or is only a couple hundred words, I am most interested in consistent, confident, surprising work; work with a clear, trustworthy voice. By “trustworthy,” I don’t mean that the characters or speaker need to be reliable or likeable — rather, I want to feel like I am in good hands. I want to trust the writer to carry me through the rooms of their piece, whatever those rooms may hold.

It’s important to note that, though I used it above, I’m often wary of the word “voice” when describing the writing and writers I love. It calls to mind the nebulous, overused advice sometimes given to emerging writers: to “find your voice.” Locating yourself among the chorus of writers you read, write alongside, and admire can feel like an insurmountable task — but when I think about a writer’s voice, I’m not only thinking about the syntax, lexicon, and formal experimentation at work in their piece. I’m considering the writer’s ability to observe. These observations might come from their daily environment, their personality, their literary lineage.

While reading, I ask: What sensory details stand out to a character or narrator? How might the way they see their world enrich my understanding of my world and, in the words of Naomi Shihab Nye and Vievee Francis, build our “shared world”? These questions complicate how we might define “voice,” and makes room for the strangeness and mystery that comes from deep, daily observation.

Devon Walker-Figueroa’s story Hold Harmless, published in our Fall 2025 Longform issue, exemplifies how close attention to language and hyperspecific characterization can propel longform prose forward. In one particularly memorable scene, a character named Alma eats a cruller. Alma describes the cruller’s taste as “sweet and awfully wonderful, the smallest hint of lemon in the dough.” Walker-Figueroa’s story is over 40 pages long, but that detail — that hint of lemon — sticks with me; in part thanks to its specificity, in part because I love a hint of lemon in all baked goods, and in part due to the rhythm of the sentence itself, and the way it’s rendered so perfectly in Alma’s speech (the quick clause-comma-clause structure, plus “awfully wonderful” — a phrase I can hear every time I read it). As a reader, I trust Walker-Figueroa to both carry me and surprise me — her observations are consistently compelling and strange. She paints a world that I am sad to leave when the story ends.

Endings: Nailing the Landing

Finding the right ending for your story can be a huge challenge, and can make or break a submission — whether it’s too on the nose or leaves us unsatisfied — so how do we wrap things up in short fiction?

Take the reader on a journey

Steve: The other issue with pacing I see a lot is when a writer heads directly for the ending — the solution to the problem posed by the premise — and a compulsory ‘beautiful’ moment.

So what we get is an A → B flip.

For example:

‘My mother hates how I have extra tentacles’ → ‘Starting today, I will love myself.’

or

‘I get bullied at school’ → ‘But today I fight back.’

What I might be talking about is the concept of ‘earning’ an ending vs. a protagonist solving a problem without doing any work. A story that involves the latter is like… a pre-solved problem. The solution just hasn’t been announced yet.

This might be more of an issue for shorter pieces. At Okay Donkey we publish up to 1200 words for prose. So, when working within the confines of flash, writers might feel rushed to deliver the goods.

Maybe?

But how we get where we’re going is important too. And there’s room, even in flash, for journeys. What I recommend for writers who head straight for their endings is simply: Learn to turn.

(Or escalate. Like in this piece by Skyler Melnick.)

What do I mean by turn? Change course. Compound or alter the problem. Get knocked off-path by a reveal or some combo of action-reaction.

Example:

This piece by Chris Scott appears to be about a strange door in the woods but what is it actually about? Where’s the turn here?

Of course, a straight shot from A → B can work fine if done well — that’s a whole other topic — and a turn doesn’t necessarily have to occur via plot.

Example:

This piece by Didi Wood appears to be a straight shot from A → B in terms of plot but how does it ‘earn’ its ending?

Derek: Finally, I’ll leave you with the words of The Sun’s founder and editor emeritus, Sy Safransky, whose thoughts on submissions are more eloquent than I’ll ever manage:

“I’m looking for a writer who doesn’t know where the sentence is leading her; a writer who starts with her obsessions and whose heart is bursting with love; a writer sly enough to give the slip to her secret police, the ones who know her so well, the ones with the power to accuse and condemn in the blink of an eye. It’s all right that she doesn’t know what she’s thinking until she writes it, as if the words already exist somewhere and draw her to them. She may not know how she got there, but she knows when she’s arrived.”

Inspired to write? Heck yeah.

Find even more tips on developing your short fiction, writing exercises, and editorial insights right here:

Bosh out your next short (short!) fiction draft in just 10 minutes with micro-expert Darien Gee:

A comprehensive guide to flash fiction — from initial idea to final draft — with award-winning short fic author Jo Gatford:

Go even deeper into the editorial and revision process with Steve Chang in this four-part workshop:

The only resource you’ll ever need on submitting your writing to lit mags, from the co-founder of Chill Subs:

Plenty more gems to be found in our Short Fiction, Editing & Submissions workshop catalogues, too…

And shout out to our friends at Lit Match Collective — a writers’ community led by editors (co-founded by Steve Chang!) offering tons of literary events, activities, 1-to-1 consultations and conversations to help us all grow and connect.

Hey, welcome to The Forever Workshop.

First time? Read this. Back again? Here’s what we’ve got for you today…

A workshop for:

Novelists who want to create a solid (but flexible) plot outline to take them through the first draft and beyond!

Your instructor:

Nina Schuyler — award-winning novelist, creative writing teacher at Stanford, and expert on

Key takeaways:

• What plot is, isn’t, and why it matters

• Techniques for crafting a ‘causation’ plot full of momentum

• Why change is the single most important factor in your character’s journey

• A step-by-step guide to formulating your novel outline

By the end of this workshop, you’ll have a step-by-step outline for a story that you can’t wait to write!

How to Plot Your Novel (Without Sobbing in the Middle)

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Hey friends,

Welcome to the first (possibly last — we’ll see how it goes) very best digest. If you like it, we’ll do more. If you hate it, we probably wont.

What’s inside:

• A tool from each workshop that we found exceptionally useful

• A calendar of the upcoming workshops and live events in March

• 12 publications our instructors think you should know about (and submit to)

• The Free Workshop of the Month

Okay, let’s go!

A No Bullsh*t Tip from Each February Workshop That Will Genuinely Advance Your Writing Career

Top Tip From:

“So many queries become overwrought because writers contort themselves when trying to adhere to all the conflicting rules they hear from a bunch of advice givers like myself. But every agent knows you can break the rules of query writing and still have a successful query. Having confidence means achieving self-awareness of your own work and hopefully where it fits in the market. It also means you can probably mention any flaws or weaknesses in a way that’s helpful or humorous rather than depressing or overly self-critical.”

— Jane Friedman

Top Tip From:

“As far as selling the collaboration to others, the collab itself should always be mutually beneficial. At first, of course, it’s a lot of favors, but once you start to work up a reputation, social media following and portfolio, people will start reaching out in droves hoping to work with you. Not just because it seems cool or fun, but because it adds something substantial to their life too: gives them a community, a creative opportunity, and something new to add to their resume.”

— Daphne Bryant

Top Tip From:

“If titles stress you out, just adapt the prompt (if the prompt was ‘write about a keychain,’ call your piece ‘Keychain’), look inside the micro for a word or phrase, or go with an emotion that feels adjacent. Treat it as a ‘working title’ for now — the piece may change during revision and demand a new name. But until then, call it something.”

— Darien Gee

Top Tip From:

“Line breaks are one of poetry’s most powerful tools—and one of its most anxiety-inducing decisions. Where you cut a line shapes rhythm, emphasis, breath, and meaning. And sometimes, the answer isn’t to break the line at all, but to let it run free and wild (as in a prose poem)! […] Think about it this way: if punctuation tells us how to read sentences, line breaks tell us how to feel the poem. In a way, they choreograph the reading experience.”

— Shannan Mann

The Workshop Line-up for March 2026

One-Shot Workshops

Everything you need to plan literary world domination in a bite-sized workshop…

How to Plot Your Novel (Without Sobbing in the Middle) — March 4

A brilliantly accessible and practical roadmap to help you create a professional outline for your novel from award-winning writer and Substack bestseller Nina Schuyler

Editorial Experts on Pacing in Short Fiction — March 11

Learn from prestigious lit mag editors Derek Askey (The Sun), Rachel Dillon (Ploughshares) and Steve Chang (Okay Donkey) and discover how to craft and structure short fic

Non-Fiction Pitching 101— March 18

Everything you need to know about writing and pitching essays and articles from freelancing expert and marketing queen Amber Petty

Not Just a Nature Poem: An intro to Ecopoetics — March 25

Explore the delicate and complex web that connects time, nature, humanity and art with this guide to eco-poetry by artist, writer and researcher Madeleine Bazil

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Live Events

Join in with live webinars, submitting sessions and Q&As with publishing experts over at big daddy Chill Subs:

Visibility and Book Sales: Marketing Your Book — March 11

Learn the necessary tools, money-saving techniques, and networking skills to market your book with maximum effectiveness — hosted by John Sibley Williams, editor, author of nine poetry collections, and 35-times Pushcart nominee

Simplify Submitting with Chill Subs — March 18

New to Chill Subs? Join this live tutorial and get to grips with all its fancy features, including how to make a profile, browse journal and contests, track your submissions, and much more — with editor, author and columnist Svetlana Litvinchuk

AMA: Carolyn Kuebler, Editor of New England Review — March 25

Bring your burning questions about the lit mags and getting published to this live Q&A with editor, novelist and essayist Carolyn Kuebler and find out how to make the submission process work for you

Join live events

Free Workshop of The Month

We have an unholy amount of invaluable writing advice in our Forever Archive, so we thought we’d showcase some of our favorites each month and make them available to everyone.

To kick us off, here’s a little author platform wisdom from our in-house marketing genius Shelby:

12 Publications Our Instructors Think You Should Be Reading (and Submitting To)

Publishers Weekly for the best source for publishing news

The New York Times Review of Books for great features, and lists of upcoming books you don’t want to miss

Writers Magazine for excellent writing advice

(Recommended by Erin C. Niumata, Senior Vice President & literary agent at Folio Literary Management)

Poets & Writers for great personal essays

(Recommended by Karin Gillespie, Simon & Schuster published novelist and Substack bestseller)

Ebony Tomatoes Collective: a lit mag for black women and non-binary creatives that pays their contributors and hosts powerful community events

Runt Magazine: a lit mag based in LA with an amazing visual aesthetic and identity, bold topics and conversations

Jardin Zine: a lit mag based in Boston with calming graphics, kind staff and great work

(Recommended by Daphne Bryant, Founder of multimedia publication Dreamworldgirl Zine)

ZYZZYVA: a robust and eclectic selection of beloved and new writers, covering all genres

CALYX Magazine: featuring women writers and diverse voices

Delmarva Review: an attentive editor who works closely with contributors (which is such a rarity these days)

Short Reads: an editorial team (formerly with Creative Nonfiction magazine) that celebrates writers and writing short

Tupelo Quarterly: championing new writers and established contributors to offer a balance of work that’s fresh and relevant

(Recommended by Darien Gee, 5x Penguin Random House published author, translated into 11 languages)

Okey-poke, that’s a lot of stuff for one little month! See you on the blank page…

Jo & Shel

For our first post, our University Partnership Director JustiLet’s be real: Writing a resume is never fun. It can even be kind of stressful. How do you condense years of experience into a few pages? What do you include, and what do you leave out? And what even is the difference between a CV and a resume, anyway? For writers, it can feel particularly daunting to communicate your creative endeavors in such a dry, uncompromising format. And yet almost anything you apply for—whether it be an MFA program, a residency, a fellowship, or a job in the literary world—requires a resume or CV. So today we’re going to dive into how you can make the most of this tricky little document as a writer, increasing your chances of your resume being an asset to your application.

To cover some basics first:

What is the difference between a CV and a resume? If you’re application-savvy you may already know this, but a resume is a concise, 1-2 page document that is very focused on what you are specifically applying for. In contrast, a CV (curriculum vitae) is a more extensive, all-encompassing document that tracks your academic, professional, and creative history (2+ pages). Most applications will specify whether they want you to submit a resume or a CV, so it’s generally a good idea to have a template for both handy!

What does the difference between a CV and a resume mean for you as a writer? When it comes to differentiating between a CV and a resume as a writer, the biggest difference is in what you can include. To be honest, I find CVs way easier (and that’s why we are focusing on resumes here!) as you can literally list everything. A CV can include your education history (including any awards or scholarships you might’ve won), your teaching experience (including specific courses), your list of publications, and your job experience. CV’s are incredibly comprehensive, and there generally isn’t a page limit. In contrast, resumes are restrictive—1-2 pages max, which inevitably limits what you can include and makes them harder to write.

Does my resume really matter?

Absolutely yes. It is the most succinct, skimmable aspect of your application, meaning that there is a high likelihood of the people receiving your application looking at this document first before anything else. They are reviewing it for key words and experiences that flag for them you are a good fit for whatever it is you are applying for. While it can be tempting, don’t slack off on the resume part of your application—trust me, it matters.

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How to Develop Your Writer’s Resume in 5 Steps

1. Read the application details for whatever it is you are applying for. OK, I realize this sounds simplistic, but it’s truly the most important first step. One resume does not fit all, so it’s essential to tailor your resume to the specific application you are submitting. If it’s a job, what are they looking for in terms of experience and skills? What are the expectations of the role? If you are applying for an MFA or a residency or fellowship, what are the eligibility requirements? What are the expectations should you be accepted? And, for any application, make sure to take note if they are asking you to be specific about something—your publication record, your teaching experience, your work experience.
   

   Hot tip: As you’re reviewing the application, take notes and start writing down your relevant experiences, skills, publications, etc. This will make developing your resume so much easier.

2. Determine what are the most important and relevant qualifications. Resumes should ideally be organized in order of importance—whatever is most relevant to the application should be at the top of your resume, with the least important information included at the end. This looks different for different applications, so I’ll give you some examples:

   1. For MFA applications and residency applications, I listed my notable publications at the top of my resume, followed by my experiences in the literary world—from conferences I was accepted into and attended, to workshop groups that I participated in, to literary magazines I worked for. The rest of the space I used for my academic experience (showing that yes, I can be a good student!) and job experience (I am a professional, and I know how to act like one). For an MFA program or residency, your writing and your literary citizenship are incredibly important, making them a natural fit for the top of your resume.

   2. For applications to publishing internships and editorial roles, I started with my experiences in the literary world as a reader and editor for literary magazines, followed by my job experience. It was important to show that 1) I was not new to the literary world and was already building my skills in that area, and 2) I knew how to operate in professional environments, with skills such as software know-how, communication, organization, etc. I followed this with my academic experience, and ended with a few of my more prestigious publications because while you don’t have to be a writer to be a publishing professional, it doesn’t hurt to show that you are an active part of the literary landscape.

   3. For applications to writing jobs (as a ghost writer, content strategist, etc.), I started with my job experience, followed by my writing-relevant academic experience and notable publications. For these roles, my professionalism and skills were most important—closely followed by the fact that I was a writer, with the official credentials to be acknowledged as such.

      Hot tip: Whatever you are applying for, note what feels most emphasized in the application and prioritize that at the top of your resume. Is it writing? Is it certain skills? Is it engagement in the literary world?

3. Overwrite, then cut back. As writers, this should be a natural revision process for you! Chances are that as you draft your resume you will quickly surpass that 1-2 page mark. But don’t worry—this is normal. Once you have everything written down and in order of importance, go through each item you’ve listed carefully, cutting back and revising along the way. For example:

   1. For publications—Have you included every single thing you’ve ever published, or only the most noteworthy? Prioritize publications with well-known literary magazines or presses.

   2. For job experience—Have you listed every single thing you did while working a job, or only the things that match the role of what you are applying for? Have you included every single job you’ve ever had, or only the most recent/relevant ones? Prioritize recent jobs that relate to the role you are applying for, and skills/experience that speak the same language as the role you are applying for.

   3. For extracurriculars (engagement in the literary community, etc)—Have you listed everything going back to middle school? Do you list out all of the writers and mentors you’ve met? Prioritize high-level information, as for these items the most important aspect to reveal is that you are an engaged and active part of the community.

      Hot tip: If you are struggling to hit the 1-2 page mark, check every single line against the application. Does what you’ve written match something on

      there? If not, consider cutting it.

4. Steal their language. Are they looking for someone creative and collaborative? Use those words in your resume. Does the role require management? Emphasize your management experience. Do they need you to be proficient in Word, Outlook, or some other software? Make sure to include that as well (assuming you are proficient). You don’t want to lie and claim something that isn’t true, but resume-building is in part a matter of spinning your experiences in a way that fits what they are looking for—and stealing their language is a great place to start.

   Hot tip: Synonyms work too! They want cooperative? You’re a team player. They want creative? You’re innovative. They want management? You’ve acted as a project lead.

5. Format and edit (and edit again). The way your resume looks is also incredibly important, and you definitely want it to be error-free. Use a standard font (12 pt. Times New Roman is a great go-to), make sure it is well-organized with clearly outlined sections (i.e. Relevant Work Experience; Notable Publications; Education; etc.), and make sure there are no grammatical or spelling errors. Everything should look clean and polished, and fit within their requirements (1-2 pages). An error in a resume can indicate to those reading your application that you don’t pay attention to details—not generally a great quality in a candidate.
   

   Hot tip: Ask a friend or colleague with a good eye to read over your resume and flag any errors they see. We are not always our own best editors, so an extra set of eyes (or a few) can help.

Once you have a resume written, it is easy to use it as a template by rearranging and adding/cutting things as needed to tailor the document for each unique application. And in the event that you are applying for similar roles (i.e. applying to multiple MFA programs, editorial jobs, etc.), you can often reuse the same resume with only a few small tweaks!

It’s not the most riveting writing pursuit, but for those looking to step into the professional world as a writer, knowing how to create a resume that maximizes impact and your capability is essential. So find those opportunities and get drafting—trust me, it’ll be worth it.