Writers in the Storm

by Tasha Seegmiller

I just finished my MFA at Pacific University. I had several reasons I went to get this expensive graduate degree, one which is obvious – I wanted to dedicate time to my writing. I wanted to get better. 

But it was expensive. Really expensive. 

And that is a significant reason why many people don’t seriously consider MFA programs. 

While I would never presume to state that that experience can be replicated in whole outside of the dedication that comes from a financial commitment, there are some key things I learned that I will bring into practice throughout my writing career. 

1. Read Well & Critically

If you have any desire to be published, it is essential to keep apprised of the books being published in your genre. That’s one of the first pieces of advice nearly every publishing professional will tell you.

But one of the things I hadn’t thought about before entering my program was the necessity to read adjacent genres as well. For me, that included stories about women in modern society wrestling with similar things but in a different way.

I’m currently writing about a mom of teenagers who is a successful professor and a person of faith, so reading narratives featuring women from different cultures and different faiths proved to really solidify some of the things I wanted to emphasize in my own stories. Some of these included Girl, Woman, Other by Bernardine Evaristo, A Woman is No Man by Etaf Rum, The Book of Longings by Sue Monk Kidd, and The Dearly Beloved by Cara Wall.

I had an advisor who asked what real stories I’d read about people who were similar to my characters. I opted to read Shoot the Damn Dog: A Memoir of Depression by Sally Brampton, and found, for the first time in my life, I was reading many of the same things I’d been feeling as a person who has severe depression and saw the way that language could be used to help explain the unseeable. Since then, I have included works by Anne Lamott, Jenny Lawson, Glennon Doyle, and Emily Nagoski.

Then, I had a couple advisors who suggested a well-informed writer of any genre needs to have experience with some of the foundational books that solidified elements of that genre. It was through this process that I learned my preference in writing leans more literary than I’d originally realized, a funny realization because my love for A Scarlet Letter runs deep and I’ve written a Little Women retelling. This doesn’t mean merely classics either, but if a book has won awards from an entity that you admire, taking the time to read those, to consider why they won is a really valuable use of time.

If you are interested in next-level consideration, I recommend doing a little write-up of books you admire. This isn’t talking about what the book was about, but leaning more into what did the writer do that you admired.

• Where did they lose your interest?
• How did they gain it?
• What passages had language that left you in awe?
• What do you sometimes struggle to craft that they did well?

2. Study Writing

Along with reading good books, there is a necessity to study how people talk about writing. I think there are some pretty solid benefits to studying both craft (the tools of writing) as well as the fulfillment of writing (the art, the meaning, the efforts of creativity).

Everyone is going to have their own balance here, but too much craft talk can make a writer feel like they are merely an assembly line: insert character, add tension, kill your darlings, save the cat. And too much about the art of writing can leave a person feeling all inspired without much to really show for it.

I’ve heard some people say people at different levels are ready for different books, but once upon a time I was a piano teacher and there is no one – NO ONE – who doesn’t need to practice their scales. Returning to basics frequently, especially as our understanding of art improves continues to unlock parts of art to us.

As such, for craft books, I recommend:

• Dreyer's English: An Utterly Correct Guide to Clarity and Style by Benjamin Dreyer
• Story by Robert McKee
• Craft in the Real World by Matthew Salesses
• The Anatomy of Story: 22 Steps to Becoming a Master Storyteller by John Truby
• Story Genius by Lisa Cron

I initially read two of these digitally and have since bought physical copies. They have a lot of depth and intentionality and I needed to mark and underline and ponder.

For inspiration, I recommend Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert, Daring Greatly by Brené Brown (it’s not a book about art, but it is about shame and vulnerability and if an artist hasn’t figured out what to do with that, creation is just going to be harder), and Light the Dark: Writer on Creativity, Inspiration, and the Artistic Process edited by Joe Fassler.

3. Get Eyes on the Work Regularly

If you’ve been hanging around as a creative for much time at all, you have likely heard or seen what others might say about a work. And a lot of people, when I mention this part, wonder if it was all people tearing everything apart.

There was some of that. BUT! But, when someone starts the critique by saying why they are making the recommendations they are, when someone asks you to lean into your sentences to see if you are over-writing, when they are asking how this scene advances the arc of a character, or when they are questioning why you blew through the emotional peak (ahem, because the character needs to be authentic . . . and I feel super vulnerable writing it . . .and we’re back to Brené Brown . . .) there is something that happens within.

Within my program, there were two kinds of feedback we could receive:

1. Feedback from peers and advisors in workshop during residence.
2. Feedback from an advisor who worked with me throughout a semester.

In publishing speak, this could be a critique group and beta readers. Having 3-5 people provide feedback on the same chunk of writing at a time is often hard, and so so valuable. Within my own critique group, we have tried several different methods and found that giving each person a chance to talk without fear of interruption has been the best way. This was also how most of my workshops went.

When reaching out for a beta reader, it is better to start with what you, as the writer, desire for feedback. There are some who think as long as they are saying something, it’s helpful; but if a writer isn’t careful, that feedback requested could derail the whole story.

While there are lots of different reasons people might seek feedback, including sensitivity readers (if you think you might need one, you do), area experts (doctors, police officers, geologists and the like), there is an absolute necessity to also get feedback from people who are writers. They are going to look at your work differently, going to see things other very kind, well-intentioned reader types might gloss over in favor of seeing where the story goes.

The thing to remember about art in general is that you are going to get out of it what you put into it AND (as I like to tell my students) there isn’t a right way to write, but there is a right way to have written. While all of these ideas will enhance the way you are able to think and talk about writing in general, they will also serve as a guide to help you discern what writing methods are going to work for you.

And I think that’s the most valuable thing to learn at all.

Let’s help each other out - what books do you recommend for craft or artful inspiration? And how were you able to find people to give you feedback on your writing?

About Tasha

Tasha Seegmiller believes in the magic of love and hope, which she weaves into every story she creates. She is an MFA candidate in the Writing Program at Pacific University and teaches composition courses at Southern Utah University. Tasha married a guy she’s known since she was seven, is the mom of three teens, and co-owner of a soda shack and cotton candy company. She is represented by Annelise Robey of Jane Rotrosen Agency.

by Laurie Schnebly Campbell

Some people read strictly for information. How to make a catapult or cassoulet. What dinosaurs evolved into. When to get the best deal on a new phone.

They don’t care about emotion in a book. So we don’t care about them, either, by golly.

We care about readers who want to know how these characters feel.

• Readers who might never swear revenge on their mentor’s killer but enjoy knowing what that’d be like.
• Readers who fell in love with their dream man way-back-when and appreciate re-experiencing that thrill.
• Readers who like the tense excitement of meeting dangerous challenges without actually walking dark streets at three in the morning.
• Readers who can’t let themselves cry over a personal sorrow but welcome the relief of letting go when a character suffers deep tragedy.
• Readers who wonder how they’d react to some incredibly dramatic situation even though their daily life doesn’t offer any such thing.

Those are the people we care about. They’re who we want to draw into a story by showing emotion in all its drama, all its dizzying highs and devastating lows, all its fervor, and all its simplicity, complexity and everything in between.

Donald Maas says "Only when a situation has heavy emotional baggage will a reader pick up that baggage and carry it.”

Readers WANT some baggage to carry. That’s one of the reasons they picked up this book.

So for all those readers, the writer needs to make it clear what the character is feeling.

What makes it difficult to show emotion?

That isn’t necessarily a challenge for every writer. But why is it sometimes hard for the rest of us?

Well, there are occasionally times we don’t WANT to feel an emotion if it’s painful. (“Why put myself through that agony?”) Sometimes we don’t want to see what we’re missing if it’s wonderful. (“My heroine gets to enjoy all of this while I can’t?!”) Sometimes there’s an emotion we haven’t personally lived through. (“I have no idea WHAT he’d feel in a situation like that.”) Sometimes we’re faced with a lack of experience. (“I can see it all just fine in my head, but getting it onto a page is tough.”)

And yet, drat it, enough readers seem to want books where emotion comes through clearly that it’s worth pursuing that challenge.

When you think about books that have held YOUR interest over the years, how did they handle emotion?

Was the viewpoint character someone who could be described as relatively detached? Like Sherlock Holmes, or the on-the-spectrum guy from The Rosie Project?

Was it someone who wears their heart on their sleeve? Like the heroine of Bridget Jones’ Diary, or Jamie Fraser in Outlander, or Lou the caregiver in Me Before You?

Was it someone who tried to suppress their emotions until everything comes spilling out, like the narrator in The Book Thief or Eve Dallas in the J.D. Robb series?

We can see characters showing emotions in all kinds of ways.

And yet those ways don’t always come to mind when we’re writing an emotional scene. Which leads to the first step in showing emotion, and that’s recognizing what it IS that this character’s feeling…or trying not to feel.

Identifying an emotion makes it easier to decide how to show it.

You don’t necessarily want to take the first one that comes to mind:

• “Let’s see, somebody shot at her so…she’s scared.”
• “His boss just fired him so…he’s angry.”
• “Her true love just proposed so…she’s happy.”
• “He won the gold medal so…he’s proud.”

There’s nothing WRONG with a character feeling fear, anger, happiness, or pride. But readers will love it when you drill down a bit deeper for exactly what’s going on within this person.

How are they feeling?

Some possibilities might be:

• Abandoned, Accepting, Admiring
• Adoring, Aggressive, Agitated
• Alert, Amazed, Amused
• Angry, Anguished, Annoyed
• Anticipating, Anxious, Apathetic
• Appalled, Appreciative, Apprehensive
• Aroused, Ashamed, Astonished
• Attentive, Awed, Betrayed
• Bewildered, Blissful, Bitter
• Bold, Bored, Brave
• Bullied, Busy, Certain
• Challenged, Concerned, Confident
• Conflicted, Confused, Contemptuous
• Contented, Courageous, Creative
• Critical, Curious, Cynical
• Daring, Defensive, Delighted
• Depressed, Desiring, Disappointed
• Disapproving, Disbelieving, Disenchanted
• Disgusted, Disillusioned, Dismayed
• Dismissive, Disrespected, Disrespectful
• Distant, Distracted, Distressed
• Eager, Ecstatic, Elated
• Embarrassed, Empathetic, Empty
• Enraged, Envious, Euphoric
• Excited, Excluded, Exposed
• Fatigued, Fearful, Fearless
• Flustered, Forlorn, Fragile
• Free, Frightened, Frustrated
• Glad, Gloomy, Glum
• Grateful, Grieving, Grouchy
• Grumpy, Guilty, Happy
• Hateful, Helpless, Hesitant
• Homesick, Hopeful, Horrified
• Hostile, Humble, Humiliated
• Hurt, Impatient, Inadequate
• Indecisive, Indifferent, Indignant
• Inferior, Infuriated, Insecure
• Insignificant, Inspired, Intimate
• Isolated, Jealous, Joyful
• Jubilant, Judgmental, Lonely
• Longing, Lost, Loving
• Mad, Merry, Miserable
• Misunderstood, Moody, Nervous
• Numb, Optimistic, Overjoyed
• Overwhelmed, Panicked, Passionate
• Peaceful, Peeved, Pensive
• Persecuted, Playful, Pleased
• Possessive, Powerful, Powerless
• Pressured, Proud, Provoked
• Raging, Regretful, Rejected
• Relieved, Reluctant, Remorseful
• Repelled, Resentful, Resigned
• Respected, Respectful, Revolted
• Ridiculous, Rushed, Sad
• Satisfied, Scared, Scornful
• Secretive, Selfish, Self-loathing
• Self-pitying, Sensitive, Serene
• Shocked, Shy, Skeptical
• Smug, Sorrowful, Sorry
• Sour, Startled, Stressed
• Strong, Stubborn, Submissive
• Surprised, Suspicious, Sweet
• Tender, Terrified, Thankful
• Thoughtful, Thwarted, Timid
• Tired, Triumphant, Trusting
• Unsupported, Unworthy, Upbeat
• Valued, Victimized, Vigilant
• Vivacious, Vulnerable, Weak
• Weary, Wishy-washy, Withdrawn
• Worried, Worthless, Worthwhile

There are quite a few techniques for making every single one of those feelings come through clearly on the page, which next month’s Showing Emotion class will cover in more detail. And if more than two dozen people leave responses below, one of ‘em will win free registration TO that class!

Here’s the question to respond to:

What scene from any book, your own or someone else’s, sticks in your mind as an example of showing an emotion from the list above?

I love hearing about (and from) writers who do it well! And I’ll announce the winner, if there is one, on Saturday morning. While feeling, let’s see, jubilant. No, excited. No, optimistic. Hmm…

About Laurie

Laurie Schnebly Campbell was honored when a friend observed, “For somebody who tends to be pretty low-key about expressing emotion, you had me crying AND laughing harder than I expected while reading your book.” She’ll present techniques for doing that (and more) from May 10-21 in Showing Emotion, an all-email class at WriterUniv.com.

by Barbara Linn Probst

I worry, sometimes, that we’ve gotten in the habit of thinking of telling as the bad twin and showing as the good one—as if there are only two options and, of those, only one that the skillful writer would choose.

It’s more complex, however. And we have more options. Let’s take a fictitious story-moment and look at...

10 different ways to get a point across

Here’s the scenario:  Evelyn, our imaginary POV character, has just been blindsided and let-down by her friend Kerry. At the last minute, Kerry has reneged on a promise to meet Evelyn for lunch during her layover in Dallas, something that Evelyn was looking forward to. Although it’s hardly a life-or-death matter, Evelyn is angry and hurt. It isn’t the first—or second—time that Kerry has done something like this; Kerry’s casual sorry in response to her just confirming makes Evelyn feel devalued and dismissed, yet she keeps believing Kerry will keep her word because they’ve known each other since adolescence and, she thought, have a deep connection.

The scene takes place at the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport. Evelyn has phoned Kerry, who’s just delivered the bad news. Your goal, as the writer, is to make the reader see, believe, and empathize with Evelyn’s response.

You can sabotage that goal by doing too much—if Evelyn’s reaction feels over-the-top for the situation or is conveyed through a chain of repetitious clichés. You can also undermine your goal by doing too little—if you gloss over the moment and miss the chance to bring Evelyn’s feelings to life before moving on to the next story beat.

Viewing the moment in the context of the entire manuscript, you can also undermine your goal by doing the same thing in every scene, predictably, and to the exclusion of other techniques.

A useful approach—for self-diagnosis and, if needed, for varying your repertoire—is to consider the different ways you can convey a POV character’s response.

Direct telling.

            Evelyn was livid.

            Short and sweet, this can be all you need, or can serve as a lead-in to an action or conversation.

Anthropomorphized or passive-voice telling, through a metaphor or simile

            Anger snatched her up with a swipe of its claw, the way her cat snatched at an unsuspecting mouse.

            Anger surged through her.

            Here, the emotion, not Evelyn, is the subject of the sentence. Used strategically, this can be very effective because it draws the reader right inside the emotion itself.

Interior reflection (talking to self about what just happened, more mental)

            This was exactly the sort of thing that Kerry always did. Why did she always fall for it? She never seemed to learn.

This is the voice of the POV character, talking to herself as if she were another person. This kind of interiority has gotten a bad reputation lately (“in her head”), but there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with it. It will misfire, however, if it goes on too long, is employed too frequently, or is used as an all-too-obvious ploy to convey information that the author wants the reader to know, especially if it refers to backstory. 

Put yourself in Evelyn’s shoes. In the middle of an intense emotional reaction, would you really tell yourself a detailed story about something you already know?  Of course not!

However, if that anecdote has already appeared in the book, then a quick reference to it, in the present scene, can be very effective. In the example above, Evelyn is remembering a pattern. Words like “always fall for it” and “never seemed to learn” will evoke that pattern in the reader too.

Used judiciously, this can also be a place for the POV character to worry about something that might happen in the future.

            This was exactly the sort of thing that Kerry always did. What if she pulled that disappearing stunt again at the meeting with Lionel, when she really needed Kerry to come through for her?

Interior reaction (describing how it feels, more emotional)

            Damn it. That woman made her blood boil. She wanted to reach through the cell phone and grab Kerry by her shoulders, right in the middle of her oh-so-airy shrug, and scream into her smug little face.

This kind of blow-by-blow emotional accompaniment to the narrative is associated with what’s called “close third-person POV.” Explicit rather than evocative, overt rather than subtle, it’s meant to pull the reader deep inside the experience. For me, a little goes a long way. Used endlessly, it feels like I’m being bombarded and told what to feel. It’s most effective, in my view, when saved for climactic moments and interspersed with techniques that give the reader more space. 

Visceral response (sensation)

            Evelyn felt her stomach twist.

            The fist in her stomach twisted another forty-five degrees.

Instead of being named or described, the reaction is evoked through a bodily sensation that readers can recognize. The reader will make the connection; the author doesn’t have to tell her to.

In the first example, Evelyn is the subject of the sentence. In the second, the fist itself is the subject. As with other techniques, the challenge is to use visceral examples that are universal enough to be recognizable, but not trite.

Dialogue, using an evocative verb instead of “said”

            “Actually, it’s not okay,” Evelyn snapped.

The verb “snapped” is economical, conveying a tone of voice and the emotion behind it in a single word. Although used freely in the past, adverbs are now frowned on, so strong verbs can be a good alternative—again, if used strategically.

Dialogue, using a tag that describes how she delivers her comment

            “Actually,” Evelyn said, her voice cold, “it’s not okay.”

            “Actually,” Evelyn said. She dropped the words like chips of ice. “Actually, it’s not okay.”

Here, the generic “said” is accompanied by an extra phrase that tells the reader how the comment is being uttered. It’s another way of doing what adverbs used to do.

Evocative gesture, with or without a comment

            Evelyn sucked in her breath. “Actually,” she said, “it’s not okay.”

            Evelyn lifted a strand of hair from her cheek and placed it carefully behind her ear.

The first example describes what else Evelyn is doing before or as she speaks. Unlike the example above, it doesn’t tell the reader how she is speaking. Rather, it adds to the overall impression by bringing in another sense, beyond the auditory.

In the second example, nothing is said. Instead, gesture is used to show how Evelyn is feeling. Presumably, by this point in the story the reader will know what “adjusting a strand of hair” means for her, especially if it’s a characteristic gesture—if it’s her way of buying time, feeling in control by putting things in their proper places, self-soothing, and so on.

Movement—an external action to convey her internal state

            Evelyn crossed the boarding area in three quick strides and banged her hand against the wall.

This strategy differs from the use of gesture because it puts the POV into interaction with her environment. As a result, something (or someone) outside of herself may be affected, and additional events may be set in motion.

“Pulling away” for an external description, through the lens of the narrator

            The airport corridor was filled with people hurrying to and from the gates, dragging suitcases or holding cups of coffee aloft. Evelyn stopped, the phone still pressed to her cheek, as people stepped around her in surges of color and movement. She was the only person not moving, the only one with nowhere to go.

We’ve pulled back, away from Evelyn’s close POV, and can see her in the airport after Kerry has delivered the unexpected news.  We’re not inside her thoughts or emotions, yet we can “see” very clearly how she feels.

Ten ways to convey the same story moment.

Telling, showing, and everything in-between. Used with intention, all these options are good. The same caution can be applied to all, of course:  Beware of overuse.

A useful exercise is to go through a few chapters of your WIP to see when, and how often, you’ve used each technique, since we all have habits and preferences. There may even be some that you never use!  If you’re working on a laptop, you can highlight instances of each technique in a different color font; on paper, you can circle them with a different colored pen.

If you suspect that you need variety, think about which approach might be most effective at a particular moment.

5 questions to ask yourself:

1. Is this a moment for economy or for lingering? Will economy short-change the reader’s experience? Will lingering interrupt the flow of the story?

2. Is this a moment when we want to see the character and her reaction in a larger context—how it’s part of the chain of her life, or how it’s embedded in a particular time and place?

3. Is this an important turning point in her emotional journey?  If so, it might call for some interior reflection.

4. Is this a shock or a moment of high intensity? If so, how can you pull the reader into the character’s sensations and body, as well as her emotions?

5. Does the reader need some space, a chance to have her own response, after several intense and immersive scenes?

Over to you, now:

As a writer, do you tend to use one or more of the techniques listed? As a reader, is there a style you especially like? Are any of the techniques new ideas for you, that you might want to try? Please share with us in the comments!

About Barbara

BARBARA LINN PROBST is a writer of both fiction and non-fiction, living on a historic dirt road in New York’s Hudson Valley. Her debut novel QUEEN OF THE OWLS (April 2020) is the powerful story of a woman’s search for wholeness, framed around the art and life of iconic American painter Georgia O’Keeffe. QUEEN OF THE OWLS was selected as one of the twenty most anticipated books of the year by Working Mother, a debut novel “too good to ignore” by Bustle, was featured in places like Pop Sugar, Entertainment Weekly, Parade Magazine, and Ms. Magazine. It also won the bronze medal for popular fiction from the Independent Publishers Association, placed first runner-up in general fiction for the Eric Hoffer Award, and was short-listed for the $2500 Grand Prize. Barbara’s second book, THE SOUND BETWEEN THE NOTES, launched April 2021.