Writers in the Storm

By Jenn Windrow

When it comes to writing, what counts as being productive?

The act of writing involves a lot of numbers. Word count. Page count. Chapter count. Hours logged. We track the above because they are definitive proof that we wrote. Five hundred words feels productive. Two thousand words feels impressive. Zero words feels like failure.

Lately, as I am finishing up a novel, I find myself spending more time on research or staring out the window searching for the right word. I know I sat at my desk all day. I know that my MS has been open in front of me, but on those days that I don’t add as many words as I would like, I do feel like a failure.

But I have to remind myself that some of the most important work I do on a story happens when I’m not typing at all.

It happens when I’m driving, walking through the house, folding laundry, staring at the ceiling, or doing something completely unrelated while one stubborn part of my brain refuses to stop picking at a problem.

The words may not be appearing on the page, but I’m still thinking about my plot, characters, structure, and plot holes. That kind of progress is harder to measure, so, we usually don’t count it.

The Problem With Word Counts

There is nothing wrong with tracking word counts. It can be motivating, create consistency, and help a writer see momentum over time. And honestly, it is how most books are measured, so it is important.

But for me, it can also be paralyzing.

When I know my end goal word count, and I am getting close to typing every writer’s favorite words “the end,” and I am shy 10k words, I start to panic. I worry about how I am going to make up the deficit. And then I spiral and lose focus and freeze up. Then I am not adding any words, and I spiral even more.

That is the world I have been living in the past couple of weeks.

I could just add words to my MS to make myself feel productive, but throwing words at the page doesn’t fix structure or cadence or character motivation. Sometimes we write around the issue because producing words feels better than admitting the story is not working.

I have had days when I wrote pages that later had to be removed because I was forcing the story forward instead of stopping to understand what had gone wrong.

I have also had days when I wrote almost nothing but finally understood why a scene felt flat.

Guess which day helped the book more.

Not All Writing Leaves Words Behind

A character’s motivation finally clicks. A plot problem solves itself while you are making dinner. You realize the argument in Chapter Twelve is not about what the characters are saying. It is about what neither of them is willing to admit. You decide two scenes should become one. You recognize that the side character you created for one chapter is carrying the emotional heart of the book. You discover the ending you planned no longer belongs to the story you wrote.

Instead of adding more words that day, you sit and work through the questions, find the answers, and strengthen your story. None of that adds to your word count. But all of it is writing.

We often treat these moments like happy accidents, but they are part of the process. Our brains continue working on story problems long after we step away from the keyboard. All of this is productive, even if you are not adding words to the page.

Sometimes distance is not avoidance. Sometimes distance is where the answer lives.

Deleting Can Be Productive

One of the strangest things about writing is that progress can look like subtraction. You can spend three days writing a chapter and one hour realizing the book is better without it.

The tracker says you lost words. I'll admit it. I hate deleting words. Even after years as an author and developmental editor, watching my word count drop makes my stomach knot. It's irrational. I know the story is better. But it still feels like I've lost something. It causes a kind of anxiety that is hard for me to explain, because if I am being honest, it is not rational to mourn the loss of words in a novel.

But deleting is not always a setback. Rewriting is not always wasted time. Starting over is not proof that you failed. Sometimes the work did exactly what it needed to do. It showed you the wrong road.

Writers often talk about killing their darlings, but we rarely talk about the guilt that follows. We see the lower word count. We see the empty space. We see the hours that no longer exist on the page.

And we feel defeated.

But all my time as a developmental editor, countless hours spent reading through MS’s that are not mine, have taught me that not all words belong in the story. There are times I suggest pulling out pages of words, and I feel guilty when I do because I know how hard it is to hit delete.

Thinking Is Part of the Job

Writers are not very good at giving ourselves credit for thinking. Thinking looks suspiciously like doing nothing. There is no document to save. No box to check. No daily total to post. You can spend an hour staring at one scene and feel less productive than someone who wrote two thousand words.

But creative work is not linear.

Sometimes a fast-drafting day is possible because of three slow days that came before it. Sometimes the chapter pours out because your brain has already been writing it quietly in the background.

The visible work gets the credit. The invisible work made it possible.

But I have learned that hours of research, to make sure that the story is accurate is a much better use of my time than writing without the research and having to change it all later.

The Days That Look Unproductive

I have had writing days where I barely touched the manuscript. Instead, I asked questions. Why would this character make that choice? What is she afraid will happen if she tells the truth? Why does this scene exist? What changes because of it? What am I avoiding?

Those questions do not always produce immediate answers. They do, however, expose weak foundations. That matters.

A writer can generate a lot of words on top of a bad decision. The pages may look productive while the story becomes harder to fix. In the end the words need to be changed or deleted, and there goes your word count again.

Stopping can be the smarter choice.

Productive Does Not Always Mean Comfortable

Sometimes the least satisfying writing day is the one that moves the story forward the most. There is no thrill in realizing your opening chapter is wrong. There is no dopamine rush in cutting a scene you love. There is no impressive number attached to discovering that your protagonist has been making choices for the convenience of the plot.

But those realizations are valuable. They require honesty. They also require a different definition of progress. That kind of progress makes it easier to have a fantastic, word-adding writing day after because you have spent the time to figure out the foundation before you build it.

A Better Question

At the end of a writing day, I am trying to stop asking only one question: How many words did I write?

Instead, I want to ask:

• Did I understand the story better?
• Did I solve something?
• Did I recognize what was not working?
• Did I make a decision that will strengthen the next chapter?
• Did I move closer to the book I am actually trying to write?

Some days the answer will come with two thousand new words. Some days it will come with fifty. Some days it will come with a deleted chapter, a page of notes, or one sentence scribbled in the middle of the night.

That still counts.

Because words are evidence of writing. They are not the only form of it. So, before you call it a bad writing day, look beyond the number. You may have done more work than you think. And I am sure most of it was productive.

And while I finish this novel, I am going to try and practice what I preach.

What is the most productive writing day you have had that produced almost no words?

About Jenn Windrow

Jenn Windrow once attempted to write a “normal” book—and promptly bored herself into a coma. So now she sticks to what she does best: writing snarky, kick-butt heroines, broody supernatural men, and more sexual tension than a vampire in a blood bank.

She’s the award-winning author of the Alexis Black novels and the Redeeming Cupid series, where the undead never sparkle and the drama is always delicious. Jenn moonlights as a developmental editor, helping other writers wrangle their wild plots and tangle-free prose.

When not arguing with her characters or muttering about Oxford commas, she can be found binge-watching trash TV, wrangling the slew of animals that live in her house (husband and teenagers included), or telling herself she’ll only have one more cookie.

You can find her at jennwindrow.com or lurking on social media where she pretends to be an extrovert.

Photo by Linus Belanger on Unsplash

Zooming in on Zones 2 & 3 of Story Structure: Plenty of Antagonists and Action

by Lisa Miller

The beginning and ending of stories are essential to enticing readers into our stories and making them want to seek out more from that author.

But I love playing with the middle two zones of a story. They do so much work and provide plenty of entertainment.

What Causes the Response in Zone 2?

Something had to have happened at the end of a story’s Zone 1 for our protagonist to have a response in Zone 2.

That something is the 1^st Plot Point.

One of the most famous 1^st Plot Points comes in The Wizard of Oz movie.

Dorothy’s house has crashed down in Oz and killed the Wicked Witch of the East. The original film literally goes from a black and white Zone 1 into a brightly colored Zone 2.

As a kid, I was mesmerized when Dorothy opens the door to this beautiful, strange world of good and bad witches and Munchkins.

A Second Powerful Shift Takes a Very Different Story Into Zone 3

Ballard is a spin-off from Michael Connelly’s Bosch books and TV series.

In the Ballard TV series, Renee Ballard is an LAPD Robbery Homicide Detective now heading up the RHD Cold Case unit.

I was just loving the show, not thinking about story structure or Landmarks. Then the end of episode 5 came and BAMM. The obvious Midpoint of the story had just been revealed.

The cold case team opens a storage unit to find 14 shoe boxes on metal shelves. Each box has a trophy from the victim of a serial killer they are looking for. One is a bracelet with a cold case victim’s name that they know about. But now there are 13 other victims they must identify.

It was also a visual parallel to the Cold Case unit itself. All those metal shelves with boxes of unsolved murders.

This Midpoint Landmark shifts the Zone 2 Reaction portion of Ballard’s story into the Action of Zone 3. With all this new evidence the team is energized to identify the clues and victims. It’s possible the killer is still active, so there’s no time to waste. Action!

It was so powerful; I knew I had to take a deeper dive into the series.

That’s one way you know the story structure and the Landmarks are effective.

What Ballard’s Story is About?

To make sure my students and I have a clear picture of what their story is, they must create a Story Plotline.

Your one sentence Safari Plotline is going to include:

• PROTAGONIST (Who)
• STORY GOAL (What)
• MOTIVATION (Why)
• KEY CONFLICT (Why not)
• ACTION (How)

The protagonist has a goal, because something is personally at stake if she doesn’t achieve it, but something blocks her path, and so she’s forced to take action.

Ballard Plotline:

Protagonist (Who): Detective Renee Ballard

Story Goal (What): Needs to make a success of the new LAPD Cold Case unit she’s been put in charge of.

Motivation (Why): Because if she doesn’t, she will have to leave the LAPD disgraced.

Key Conflict: (Why not): But her dismissed sexual assault complaint against popular Detective Robert Olivas leaves her few allies and little support within the LAPD. Also, a group of dirty cops don’t want past bad deeds uncovered as any of those cold cases are being worked on.

Action (How): And So, Ballard must mold her new unit, made up of volunteers and reserve officers, into a cohesive team. They must learn how to work together to identify a serial killer/rapist while solving other crimes.

Ballard’s Zone 2: Reaction

The 1^st Plot Point, which takes us into Zone 2, happens at the end of episode 2.

Cold Case member Samira Parker, a former LAPD cop who originally worked on the John Doe cold case and comes into the unit, discovers that the bullet that killed the victim is missing from evidence. Likely a cover up within the police.

So, Zone 2 begins with an awareness that dirty cops are likely working against the Cold Cast unit’s success. Any of the team’s discoveries threaten to expose members of the dirty cop ring.  It’s that twist that drives the rest of the story’s Zones. Not only must Ballard and her team be careful of the bad guys, but they also must keep looking over their shoulder for cops who may be working against them.

The 1^st Pinch-Point is around the middle of Zone 2.

The 1^st Pinch Point is a place in the story where the antagonist(s) are more visible and gaining power. It usually occurs around the middle of Zone 2. In a police procedural, it’s important to get those bad guys woven into the story early.

One of the main functions of Zone 2 is to challenge the protagonist, lower their resistance to change.

Dirty ex-cop Driscoll has arranged for one of his allies, Manny, a handsome, young cop, to get close to Martina. She’s the youngest and likely most susceptible to divulging sensitive information from the work they are doing.

Manny shows up at Martina’s favorite bar and flirts with her. This puts not only Martina but the entire unit in danger if information is leaked to the bad guys.

The 2^nd Pinch Point in Zone 3

Zone 3 is another place for the Antagonist, Antagonistic Force and Obstacles to challenge Ballard and her team.

Ballard wakes up to an assailant strangling her. She fights back and, in the struggle, Ballard crushes his windpipe. She survives. But this attack on her causes her superiors to doubt the unit can continue working on the two important cases they’ve been assigned. These cases are taken away to the Robbery Homicide unit. So not only has the bad guy seriously injured Ballard, their bosses, in the LAPD, have taken away the work they valued.

This moves the story towards its lowest All Is Lost Moment. The team feels defeated and so must find a new purpose and another case to work on.

This is the work of Zone 4 Resolution.

Zones 2 and 3 Challenge the Protagonist

The job of Zone 2 is to wear down and exhaust the Protagonist so their resistance to change is at its lowest point. They are no longer reacting but now willing to act. Take that Leap of Faith into action in Zone 3.

The purpose of Zone 3 is to challenge the Protagonist with a stronger Antagonist and making the Protagonist again resistant to the changes they must make.

Those experiences bring the Protagonist to Zone 4 and finding a Resolution.

Look at Your Own Work, Pick up a novel, or Watch a Favorite Movie or Show
Have you seen or used a Plot Point, Pinch Point, or Midpoint that you think was powerful or effective?

Want to learn more? Story Structure Safari will be live at No Stress Writing Academy in September.

About Lisa

Lisa taught middle-school science and was a certified counselor in Texas for 30 years. Her passion for teaching met her love of writing. After not finding the writing classes she needed, Lisa spent several years on a deep study of story structure. That led her to create a powerful and well-loved online course Story Structure Safari.

She has joined the staff at Deleyna Marr’s No Stress Writing Academy  where she is developing new classes. Her Creating A Constellation of Characters is available there January and June 2027. Story Structure Safari runs every September and April. The next Safari is September 2026.

Top image from Unsplash.

by Susan Watts

In my last few Writers in the Storm articles, I’ve shared several discoveries that completely changed the way I revise emotional scenes. It didn’t happen all at once. It happened while revising chapter after chapter of my current novel.

First, I realized I was leaning too heavily on visceral reactions. Every important moment seemed to come with a pounding heart, trembling hands, or a tight chest. Those reactions belonged in the story, but they weren’t carrying the emotional weight I wanted.

Then I uncovered another mistake. I had become so focused on deep POV that I was explaining every emotion through long stretches of interiority.

My most recent article discussed my discovery of emotional movement and how readers don’t simply want emotion on the page (click here to go to the article). They want to feel a character change because of what happened.

I thought I had finally solved the problem.

Then I kept revising.

As I worked through scene after scene, I noticed that even after improving the visceral reactions, strengthening the interiority, and making sure each scene contained emotional movement, there were still moments that felt…flat.

The scene should have worked. Yet somehow it still felt as though I was describing the emotion instead of inviting readers to experience it. That’s when I realized the problem wasn’t that my scenes were missing emotion.

They were leaving readers with nothing to discover.

The More I Explained, the Less Readers Could Discover

When I looked closer, I found a pattern.

Whenever I worried readers might miss the emotion, I added another paragraph explaining it.

Sometimes I wasn’t showing the same emotion twice.

I was showing it three times.

First, through a visceral reaction. Then through interiority. Finally, through narrative explanation that interpreted everything the reader had already seen.

Ironically, the harder I worked to make the emotion clear, the less room I left for the reader to experience it themselves. That realization sent me back through dozens of scenes with a completely different question.

Instead of asking,

“How can I better explain this emotion?”

I asked,

“What would this character notice because they feel this way?”

Emotion Changes What We Notice

I started noticing this in everyday life. I'd walk into my office on a morning when everything was going well and see sunlight, books, and coffee. On a difficult day, I'd walk into that same room and somehow the silence was the first thing I noticed.

Nothing physical changed. My emotional state changed what my mind considered important.

Our characters work exactly the same way.

A frightened character doesn’t simply think about being afraid. She notices every shadow that seems darker than it should be.

Someone carrying guilt may struggle to meet another person’s eyes but find themselves staring at the scuff marks on the floor instead.

A father worried about his daughter may walk into a room full of people and immediately notice the one empty chair.

Those observations aren’t random details.

They reveal emotion without the author having to explain it.

My Characters Started Showing Me What Mattered

One unexpected thing happened as I revised my novel. The less I explained, the stronger the scenes became.

I found myself deleting paragraphs I had spent a long time writing, not because I had written them poorly, but because they had become unnecessary. Once I started paying attention to what my characters noticed, those details began carrying the emotional weight on their own.

In one scene, my main character walks through an area devastated by an earthquake.  I originally included too much explanation about how the destruction left her feeling hopeless. During a recent revision, I took out much of the over-explaining and added additional details about what she saw, including a child’s broken toy lying on the ground. This minor detail helped deepen the emotion in the scene, letting the reader imagine how they might feel upon seeing that same thing.    

In another scene, I discovered that a frightened child didn’t need a paragraph explaining he felt unsafe. As the group prepared to enter another dangerous place, he instinctively reached for an older character’s hand. That single action communicated vulnerability more than any explanation I could have written.

Additionally, I had originally written long descriptions of an abandoned town because I wanted readers to feel uneasy. Instead of describing every empty storefront and deserted street, I focused on what caught the character’s attention. Curtains shifting behind dusty windows. Shadows resembling misshapen figures. Unseen eyes seeming to follow him. Using those descriptions, I didn’t have to provide a long explanation about how he felt.

Another character walking through the same town might have noticed entirely different things. That's what makes deep POV so immersive. The setting hasn't changed. The character's emotional experience has, and readers experience the scene through that lens.

Readers Love Connecting the Dots

For years I believed that stronger emotional writing meant getting closer to the character’s thoughts. Sometimes it does. But I’ve realized that readers often connect more deeply when I step back just enough to let them discover the emotion for themselves.

When we explain every emotion, we solve the puzzle before readers ever have the chance.

When a character notices a wedding ring that’s no longer on their spouse’s hand, readers don’t need a paragraph explaining why that matters.

If a child who has lost a parent avoids looking at an empty bedroom, readers already understand what he is feeling.

These moments invite readers to become active participants rather than observers listening to an explanation. When we choose details that naturally grow out of a character’s emotional state, readers begin connecting those dots themselves and become part of the storytelling.

For me, that's become one of the most rewarding parts of writing in deep POV. Instead of explaining every emotion, I can trust readers to discover it through the same details my character notices.

That doesn’t mean we abandon interiority or stop using visceral reactions. Both remain essential parts of writing emotional scenes.

It simply means they don’t have to carry the entire scene by themselves.

One Question Changed My Revision Process

The next time you revise an emotional scene, resist the temptation to add another paragraph explaining what your character feels. Instead, pause for a moment and ask yourself one question.

What would this character notice right now that they never would have noticed before this moment changed them?

You may discover that one slight change creates a deeper emotional experience because readers aren’t simply being told what the character feels.

They’re discovering it for themselves.

Have you ever revised a scene by changing what your character noticed instead of adding more emotional explanation? What happened?

About Susan:

Under the pen name Michelle Allums, Susan Watts has authored a young adult urban fantasy titled, The Jade Amulet and is currently writing the sequel. Her short stories are also included in the anthologies Christmas Roses and Forever and Always.

Susan has dedicated over four decades to training in multiple martial arts styles and holds the impressive title of a five-time US Karate Alliance world black belt fighting grand champion. Through her karate school, she is able to impart martial arts and life skills. Susan also incorporates her martial arts knowledge into her writing.

An avid triathlete, she keeps in shape by running, biking, and swimming. She lives in the country with her husband, where they raise animals and enjoy being outdoors. Susan also has three grown children and numerous grandchildren. In addition, she is a CPA and VP of finance for a company in her hometown. 

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