Writers in the Storm

by James R. Preston

When you’re in the hospital you have a lot of time to think.

In my case it was, in part, what do I want to say to the WITS audience if I get a chance to write to them again?

The answer was clear.

We’re going to touch a lot of bases. We’ll examine what makes a story different from real life; we’ll look at the end of one of Robert A. Heinlein’s novels and you’ll have a chance to rewrite it, and then a chance to see what the majority of readers think. I’ll critique a movie I just saw, and we’ll have a few words about a constellation, a little astronomy bonus at no extra charge. And I’ll share the answer I came up with to a question I wasn’t aware I was asking.

In “Peter Pan” Tinkerbelle dies. The audience is asked to clap to show that they believe in fairies and bring her back to life, changing the end.

Orion’s Belt

If you have a chance, go outside some fall evening and look for Orion. It’s one of the most easily-recognized constellations. To find it if you are in the northern hemisphere, look south on a fall night. Find three bright stars in a row. That’s his belt. Hold that thought.

Podkayne of Mars

Spoiler alert! I’m going to tell you the end, and then I’ll tell you the other end. (Huh? What? Yeah, there’re two ends, sort of like the Director’s Cut of a movie.) When Heinlein first published Podkayne of Mars, the publisher didn’t like the way it ended. Still with me? Ok, here’s the spoiler: in the first end, the way Heinlein wrote it, Podkayne dies. Yep. Heinlein kills the main character.

He kills the lead character in a story that is mostly first-person, which is a pretty neat trick. Yow! What gives? It was not what I would have expected, but that’s not what I read because he was made to change it. When first published, Podkayne is seriously injured but she lives and that’s what I first read when I was in Junior High. Years later, Baen Books came out with a paperback edition in which they added Heinlein’s original end. And they asked readers which one they liked best.

Ok, let’s talk about what makes a story satisfying. It doesn’t have to be a “Happy End,” it just has to be the right end. The characters in your stories are, by definition, going to have problems. The essence of a story is a character who wants something and another something is keeping them from getting it. The conflict in the story, whether external or internal, and its resolution are what make a satisfying end.

Story and Reality

Ok, “real life” doesn’t always have neat, happy endings. So what? If your novel was a mirror of real life you could just write down everything that happened to you for a day (see James Joyce’s Ulysses) and it would be a story. It worked for Joyce, but I can’t do it. If you can, more power to you. Meanwhile, you know and I know that it doesn’t work like that for us.

As a writer, you make a story, supplying structure to life’s randomness. Pattern recognition. Pattern making. It goes back at least to hunter-gatherers looking at the sky and seeing animals and people and even Orion and recording those stories in caves for us to find 50,000 years later.

Let Your characters Have Some Fun

Robert B. Parker’s Spenser finds joy in cooking and in his relationship with Susan Silverman. Matt Helm (from the books, not the silly Dean Martin movies) enjoys being outdoors fishing and camping. Stephanie Plum loves her family despite the fact that they make her want to scream. Let your characters experience some joy. In my case, my protagonist in the Surf City Mysteries revels in early morning at the Huntington Pier when the air is still and the waves are glassy.

Iron Lung

I recently saw a science fiction movie where a convict is welded into a submarine and sent off to find something. “Iron Lung” made me think about this essay in a new way. There is not a moment of relief in that whole two hours. And the end is “ripped from the headlines of realism”—the viewer is not sure whether the hero succeeded or not, or if it mattered. It just ends.

I found it unsatisfying, totally unsatisfying. There are many good things about the film, but it’s as if we looked at the sky, at Orion, and saw—nothing. Random spots of light. “But, life is like that.” “Right! Art is not life. Art is making sense of the world around us.” It’s our job as writers to look at the sky and say, “Hey that looks like Orion. See those three stars? That’s his belt.”

Which leads us back to Podkayne of Mars.

Podkayne Again

Like I said, I believe the author has the responsibility to pick an end. That’s their job. I don’t mean tying everything up with a big pink bow, but a conclusion of some sort. The ending RAH picked was, to say the least, a downer. Podkayne is killed in a bomb explosion. The publisher didn’t like it; one reason being that the book was aimed at a young market, readers who would not see the point of the death. Reluctantly, Heinlein wrote a new end in which she lives. And the end of the story? In the new edition, when Baen asked readers which they preferred, by a 2-to-1 margin they voted for—wait for it—Podkayne dying.

How do I feel about that?

I have to go with Podkayne living. I think the publisher was right and Heinlein was right to make the change. With Poddy dead, buried in radioactive mud, what’s the point? I think most modern interpretations are reading into the story things that are not there. However, it’s Heinlein’s story and he should get to pick the end. The fact that I think he is wrong is immaterial. The comments on the web indicate that I’ve got a lot of company.

I was privileged to study writing under the great Harlan Ellison. I will never forget how he drummed into us, “What’s the point?” What’s the story about? What’s the point of an ambiguous end? That life is ambiguous? Tell me something I don’t know.

Lest you think I am devoted to only “And they lived happily ever after” ends, stream The Outer Limits, “Demon with a Glass Hand” by Harlan Ellison, which I think is one of the best stories ever to appear on the small screen, and which does not have that kind of end. This time: no spoiler. If you haven’t seen it, you’re in for a treat.

I stand by the last line of James Clavell’s Noble House: It’s good to be alive.

One More Time

Orion doesn’t really have a belt. We give him one when we look at the sky and see the constellation. Pattern creation. That’s what we do.

Has there ever been a performance of Peter Pan where the audience doesn’t clap and the director says, “Well, that’s it, folks. Tinkerbelle bit the tuna. The end.” I don’t think so.

Let your work reflect a little joy and supply a bit of structure to a chaotic universe.

It’s good to be alive.

—James Clavell, Noble House and
William Faulkner, the Long Hot Summer

Now, since Writers in the Storm is an active community of writers, it’s your turn. What’s your take on endings? Have you read a novel with two ends and if so, what did you think? Did you get a chance to Google Podkayne and read about the two ends? Am I behind the times when I say Iron Lung is unsatisfying? What kind of end do you like to write or read?

About James

James R. Preston is the author of the award-winning Surf City Mysteries. He is currently at work on Roachclip, the third of his short novels set at Cal State Long Beach in 1969, Kirkus Reviews called the first of the series, Buzzkill, “A historical thriller enriched by characters who sparkle and refuse to be forgotten.” His work has been selected for inclusion in the University Of Berkeley collection California Detective Fiction.

Find out more about James at his website.

Top image from Pixabay.

When Jenny Hansen suggested we do these showcase posts, I was excited. And if I’m honest, a little terrified. The doubts crept in like they always do. What do I really have to offer? But, I pulled my big girl panties up, took a deep look at who I truly was, and realized I had more to offer than I thought.

So, while this post might not be what Jenny expected, it is one million percent me in every way.

Who am I?

I’m Jenn Windrow. Author. Editor. Illustrator.
Professionally, I write vampire urban fantasy and romantasy. I'm a developmental editor. And when I need a break from those two, I am a hand-lettering artist. Personally, I’m a mom, a wife, and a lover of all things fuzzy.

I’m not a shout-it-from-the-rooftops kind of person. I’m the "sit quietly at my desk and disappear into a world of fantasy" kind. Writing has always been my passion. At times, my obsession.

Until it wasn’t.

My Journey to Editing

A few years ago, something shifted, and the words that had always come easily suddenly didn’t. I still showed up to the page, but something was missing. And I felt that loss deeply, profoundly. It gutted me. It was like I lost an important part of myself, and in all honesty, I thought about quitting writing more times than I could count.

But, I read this quote once that has stuck with me during the toughest of times...

Even though the very thought of putting pretty words on the page frustrated and angered me, I never stopped thinking about it. I may have had doubts, but I knew that I wasn't ready to throw in the towel. So I pivoted, turned to another love that allowed me to stay in the author world, but also allowed me to take the pressure off my own writing.

I started helping other writers shape their stories.

How editing showed me how I could make a difference.

What began as a way to stay connected to storytelling became something more. I dug into structure. Into character arcs. Into pacing and plot and that elusive saggy middle. I discovered I love the puzzle of a novel. The way a story can almost work, but not quite. And how a few structural shifts can transform everything.

At first, I undercharged for my services because I underestimated myself. That changed quickly.

Authors started coming back. They referred their friends. They thanked me for helping them see the blind spots in their manuscripts. I joined a small press as a developmental editor. I listed my services on Margie Lawson's site. I even started teaching some classes.

My client list grew, and it never really slowed down.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped questioning whether I was “playing” editor and realized I am one. I will admit, I still have imposter syndrome to this day, but it happens less often now.

What my writing/editing world looks like today.

In 2025 I found a way to balance my own personal writing and developmental editing for clients. I have split my day into two parts:

• The first half is all about me, my writing, my words, my worlds.
• The second half is fully devoted to my clients.

Lately, I have found my way back to writing. Not with the same obsession I had before, not yet at least. But I am making great strides on my latest manuscript, and digging deep into editing. I still struggle with the words from time to time, but it is getting easier, and I find myself being less frustrated.

I also ended up creating my own editing company, Redline Editing.

I work with four to five clients a month, and I haven’t had a quiet season in over a year. I specialize in developmental editing because that’s where transformation happens.

• Big picture.
• Structural integrity.
• Emotional payoff.
• The bones of the story.

The stuff that makes me excited to dig into a story.

But what I’ve come to love most is collaboration. I love getting on a call with an author, screen sharing a manuscript, and working through the problem in real time. Brainstorming. Pulling threads. Finding the fix together.

One-hour Strategy Sessions.

I created one-hour strategy sessions for authors who don’t necessarily need a full edit but do need clarity.

Whether it’s a tangled plot, a character who won’t behave, or a middle that refuses to hold tension, we solve it together. I have even found myself on a call with clients early in the morning working through plot holes on the fly.

Because at the end of the day, stories matter. And it turns out I’m really good at helping them become the version they’re meant to be.

Authors don’t just need feedback. They need clear direction on how to make their story stronger. My developmental critiques focus on story structure, character arcs, pacing, and the elements that turn a good manuscript into a book readers can’t put down.

“Working with Jennifer Windrow was an absolute game-changer. She spotted structural issues even previous editors missed, and thanks to her insights my latest book is receiving incredible feedback from readers.”

I charge 150.00 per hour for an on the fly developmental edit. And in that time you get one-on-one time, where we work through whatever part of the book you think you need help with. In the end, you will get a fully marked up manuscript, a brainstorming session to help you move forward, and the insight into what an editor thinks your weak spots are and how to fix them.

You can email me at jennifer.windrow@gmail.com if you are interested in scheduling your session here.

But today, I do have a special offer...

My offer to the loyal WITS readers.

And since I love helping authors straighten out their crooked plots or make that first paragraph dazzle, I decided to open up 3 - 1-hour slots, exclusive to you, the loyal readers of Writers In The Storm. I'll pick three readers from the comment section at random on Monday morning to work one-on-one with.

From Lost to Found

That's it. That's my journey from writer to editor. From losing myself to finding myself again. And stepping out of my comfort zone (something I hate doing), to expanding my small business into something sustainable, while I find my path back to my words and worlds.

I hope this shows that sometimes stepping out of your comfort zone, is exactly what you need to move foward.

Write "I want to edit" in the comment section for a chance to work with me one-on-one. And let's have some fun!

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.

Why Creative Discipline Requires Structured Exploration

by Susan Watts

Many writers sometimes hesitate when they hear the word play.

It sounds light. It sounds loose. It sounds like the opposite of everything required to finish a book. If you pride yourself on showing up when you do not feel inspired, working through resistance instead of waiting for it to disappear, and finishing what you start, the idea of play can feel like a retreat from seriousness.

But play is not the opposite of discipline.

Rigidity is.

There is a subtle but important distinction between the two, especially for writers trying to overcome writer’s block or fix a stalled draft.

When Discipline Becomes Rigidity

In martial arts training, students who tighten the most are often the most committed. They want precision and control. When they step into sparring, they want to execute each technique exactly as the instructor taught them. And something shifts. Their movements become rigid as they try to control the exchange instead of responding to it. Their discipline has hardened into tension.

Tension reduces adaptability, slows reaction time, and restricts perception. The solution is not to abandon training but to loosen within it. When students understand that practice is a place to experiment rather than prove themselves, their movements become cleaner. They stop forcing their techniques and begin to adapt and react automatically. The discipline remains, but the rigidity dissolves.

The writing process follows the same pattern. Writing discipline brings you back to the desk when motivation fades. It carries you through the middle of a manuscript when novelty disappears. It keeps you revising when the draft resists. Without discipline, most creative work never reaches completion. But discipline alone does not build creative flexibility.

When every writing session feels like a performance review, the imagination contracts. The mind monitors instead of exploring. The mind judges sentences before it allows them to develop. Risk feels unsafe. Over time, this tightening can resemble writer’s block. The issue is rarely a lack of effort. It is misapplied pressure.

Why Pressure Can Stall the Writing Process

Pressure narrows perspective. When perspective narrows, structural problems feel personal. A scene that refuses to move forward can feel like evidence of inadequacy. A chapter that drags becomes proof that you lack control of your story. This is how normal drafting friction escalates into self-doubt.

Many writers try to overcome writer’s block by increasing intensity. They push longer and demand more output. Sometimes this works temporarily. Often it creates exhaustion and reinforces the feeling of being stuck. The problem is not that they lack discipline. The problem is that discipline has lost flexibility.

Creative work requires both steadiness and adaptability. When you approach every page as a test of worth, the nervous system braces. Braced writing becomes tight writing. Tight writing becomes fragile writing. Fragile writing collapses under revision.

Structured play interrupts that spiral.

How Structured Play Strengthens Creative Discipline

Play, when used strategically, does not weaken writing discipline. It strengthens it.

This does not mean abandoning standards or indulging in distractions. It means creating a defined space for exploration inside structure and shifting briefly from performance mode to assessment mode. Play helps with externalizing the problem so you can evaluate it instead of internalizing it.

Think about shadowboxing in martial arts training. To an outsider, it may appear casual. Yet within that movement, the martial artist refines timing, understands distance, and rehearses reactions. The body is learning to adapt under pressure before full contact occurs.

Writers need that same rehearsal. If every writing session carries the weight of judgment, creativity tightens. When you introduce structured exploration, you widen perception. Patterns emerge in your draft. You recognize where your story is resisting structural alignment rather than sentence-level polish.

Practical Ways to Apply Strategic Play

If a scene refuses to move forward, instead of rewriting it again, you might rewrite it as if it were happening in a completely different setting. Move it outdoors. Move it into a confined space. Change the physical environment and see what new tensions emerge. You may never keep that version, but the shift might reveal what the original scene lacked.

If dialogue feels flat, you might temporarily remove every line of speech and write only what the characters are thinking but not saying. This quiet exercise often exposes the emotional current beneath the conversation and gives you sharper subtext when you return to the spoken lines.

If your plot feels tangled, you might sketch the story as a path across a page, marking where momentum rises and where it dips. When you see the arc visually, you may notice that two major conflicts are competing for attention or that a turning point arrives too late to sustain tension.

If a character feels distant, you might write a brief monologue in their voice about something unrelated to the current plot. Let them describe a childhood memory or a private fear. This is not for publication. It is for understanding. Often, a character who seemed flat gains dimension once you allow yourself to explore without pressure.

Even small exercises can have a significant impact. Set a timer for ten minutes and give yourself permission to write the most exaggerated version of a scene, pushing the stakes far beyond what you would normally allow. Shift the point of view temporarily to see how events look through another character’s lens. Outline the chapter backward, starting from the end and tracing what must logically precede it.

The Balance Between Discipline and Flexibility

None of these practices replace discipline. They strengthen it. Play builds creative flexibility. Flexibility builds resilience. Resilience builds completion. That progression matters because many serious writers believe finishing requires constant intensity. They assume that any deviation from strict forward motion is weakness. In reality, flexibility keeps long projects alive.

Discipline without flexibility becomes brittle, and flexibility without discipline becomes unfocused. The strength of your writing process lies in the balance between the two.

If you find yourself tightening at the desk, pause before pushing harder. Ask if what you need is not more intensity but more range. Give yourself a contained space to explore the structure of your draft without demanding immediate perfection. Notice what becomes visible when you stop forcing the sentence and start assessing the direction.

Play is not the opposite of writing discipline.

Play is how disciplined writers regain clarity when craft knowledge alone is not enough. And when you combine structure with experimentation, you do not simply fix a stalled scene. You build a writing process that can carry you through the entire manuscript.

Serious writers do not become stronger by eliminating play. They become stronger by integrating it into their creative discipline.

If you are interested in learning more about using play in your writing process, consider joining a two‑day, fantasy‑themed creativity seminar where writers bond with a dragon, navigate a mythic journey, and learn self‑care tools that ignite imagination and protect creative well‑being.

Creating Creativity: Dragon Edition is an immersive, game‑based seminar for writers who want to reconnect with their imagination. Through dragon personas, courtroom roleplay, story disruption, creative mapping, and self‑care rituals, participants explore their inner world with play, courage, and curiosity. They leave with a personalized card deck, an animated affirmation movie, a Creativity Passport, and a renewed sense of creative fire.

Before your next writing session, consider this question:

What kind of structured play might unlock your next breakthrough?

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. 

You can connect with Susan on social media or her website.

Featured image from Pixabay.