Welcome to the grand finale of this series! I started posting this series at the beginning of March, and now, it’s July. 😅 I hope you’ve enjoyed it, though!
In each post of this series, I’ve talked about different ways you can access your unique abilities as a writer – either in a conceptual way, or in an actionable way.
Today, in this final post of the series, I’m bringing everything together to show you how you can use all the posts I’ve done to help you unlock your unique abilities as a writer.
I posted in an order that allowed me to build each post upon the last one, which let me teach you better; but now, I’ll be showing you how they can all tie into you and your process.
Also… today’s post is going to be formatted a little differently from all previous posts. I’m going to tell it in a little more of a story format – but don’t worry, it’ll make sense pretty quickly. 😉
You put down the book you were reading. It was so good. You’ll definitely have to buy it for your friend for their birthday so as to force them to read it.
Imagine if you could write a book like that, though…
You give a snort. There’s no way you could. You’ve never written, much less as good as this author.
You push up from your chair with a small groan; your legs are asleep from sitting there for so long. You attempt to shake them out as you walk over to your shelf, ready to slip this book onto it to pull out someday in the future to enjoy again.
But just before you slip it into its new place, a though occurs to you, and you pause.
What even about this book made you like it so much?
Was it something that you could even figure out? Or was it some sort of magic that authors just possess?
Taking a step back, you survey your bookshelf, sudden curiosity flooding through you. Over the years, you have collected many books, only buying the ones that you really liked. What was it about these that made you like them so much?
For several moments, you consider your bookshelf, tapping your book against the palm of your hand. The longer you gaze at your books, the more you begin to notice patterns: covers with the same look to them, many of the same genres, and… these books all included amazing, sassy characters.
What’s up with that? Why did those elements attract you so much to the books?
Curious, you begin pulling books off of your shelf, organizing them by reoccurring elements. You’ll regret this later when you have to put them all away, but for now, you just go for it.
By the time you finish, you’re siting cross-legged on the floor and are surrounded by stacks of books. There’s a strange amount of consistencies across all these stories that you love – elements that seem to continually pop up.
As you gaze around you, a whisper of a thought crosses your mind: “I must know these elements really well if I’ve read this many good books with them in them; I wonder if I really could write them?”
The thought is foreign – startling, even – especially after you were just comparing yourself to this author.
But the longer that you sit here, mulling over the idea, the more it appeals to you.
You’ve read so many books; could you possibly write one?
With sudden determination, you scramble to your feet, snatching out paper and a pen from your desk.
By the time you finish writing out the elements you’d noticed repeating, you have a rather long list laying in from of you. Heart pounding with excitement, you tap your pen against the edge of the desk, wondering…
How many of these could you feasibly fit into one book? A couple of them? All of them?
You don’t even know how to write. Maybe you shouldn’t even try.
But a small part of you, for some inexplainable reason, doesn’t want to let this idea go – the idea of writing a book.
“It should be somewhat easy,” you think. “All you have to do is start typing, right?”
What do you do?
Do you give up? Go to section 2.
Or do you start typing? Go to section 3.
Never mind. It’s not nearly as easy as you thought it would be.
Growling in frustration, you jab at the corner X button on your document, closing it without even bothering to save. As soon as you do, however, regret floods through you. It might have been horrible, but it was your’s. Why didn’t you save it?
“It’s not good enough,” you mentally argue, attempting to justify your action. “No one would ever publish it!”
You close your computer, then let your head drop onto your desk with a soft thump.
How can people possibly write entire books when you can’t even get past the first stinking page?
Maybe you’re just not meant to be a writer; being a reader is so much easier.
You really wanted to try and write a sassy character.
Almost against your will, your fingers creep towards your computer, slowly opening it up once again. From your vantage point of your head laying sideways on the table, you navigate your desktop to open up a fresh document.
“It’s not as if I have to publish this or something,” you assure yourself. “This story can be just for me.”
What do you do?
Do you stop writing fOrEvEr? Go to section 4.
Or do you try again (just for you)? Go to section 5.
Or just throw away your writing? Go to section 6.
Two Years Later
You twirl your pencil between your fingers, looking at the list in front of you.
Ever since you created it two years ago, you’ve been adding onto it whenever you notice a new element that you enjoy in books. Being able to pull things from it makes writing so fun, as you get to try out writing these things – although it certainly doesn’t help make things easier. You’ve been tempted to throw in the towel more than once these past two years. (And even did, at some points – but writing just seems to inexplicably draw you back every single time.)
But, now, there is another list in front of you.
Something you’ve noticed more and more over time is how much you love stories with messages; stories where the characters change over time, learning and growing for the better.
However, it’s not exactly easy to think of messages you’d like to put into your own book. You pulled out this piece of paper to write all your ideas down on, but it’s depressingly bare; most likely, it’s just further proof that you’re not that great of a writer and should give up… but a small part of you keeps quietly urging you on, and so here you are.
You try to imagine something that you would tell someone, if you got the chance: if you could change someone’s life with a message, what would you tell them?
“Don’t give up?” your mind suggests in a somewhat mocking tone.
You shove that one aside; you’re hardly qualified to talk about that.
Then again, you’re hardly qualified to write about anything.
What even makes somebody qualified, though?
With a growl of frustration, you shove your hair out of your eyes. What would you be able to talk about? Maybe something you’ve had personal experience with, so that you would be qualified – though you have a feeling that that word is rather relative.
A memory comes to the forefront of your mind: a time when you hit rock bottom, then had to claw your way back to the surface. You’d emerged into the daylight with a new lessos learned; maybe, just maybe, you could talk about thati lessons, and spare others from taking the journey down themselves just to find it out.
You write them down on your list; it’s not that much, but it’s a start.
What story would even be able to work with this message?
Another memory comes to you: the story that you worked on two years ago. Your first book ever.
You stare at the message written down on the piece of paper; that story is poorly written, but… while you’ve never tried to rewrite or edit a story before, you have a feeling that this one could be salvaged. It was the original one that got you going on your journey as a writer, after all. And, even better than that, it actually might have the perfect storyline for this message.
You’re not exactly a noob anymore by this point in your writing journey; you’ve got a couple manuscripts under your belt – most of them still taking place in the same genre you originally gravitated towards writing. Because of this, when you sit down and open up you computer, you have to dig through your file folder to try and find the correct document.
You click it open, waiting for it to load.
The moment it opens up, it feels like coming home. The words – thought insanely cringey – are… your’s. You’ve never taken the time to really look back at your own writing, and the feeling of reading something you wrote is somewhat surreal.
“Yeah, I couple definitely improve this,” you think, nodding to yourself as you scroll through. The characters are familiar – and have the perfect backstory for you to attach this message to.
You pop open a new, blank document. It likely would be easier to just type everything afresh than click and switch things around in the original one; you’d never be able to tell what’s been changed or not.
But, as you hover your cursor over the blank document, you pause.
How are you even going to pull off this message? The character would change from it, but you don’t know how that will happen exactly. You’re more of a pantser than a plotter; it’s just not in your blood to plan anything.
You lean back in your chair, tapping your fingers in a staccato rhythm against the table, as if you’re already typing. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to try planning a little? At least once. After all, this is only the first story your ever wrote; it doesn’t matter that much.
Filled with new determination, you instead hit on the bullet points option to create a list in your document. It might not be fancy, but you’ll make at least some kind of list of what you want to happen.
Do you just pants the whole thing? Go to section 7.
Or do you really follow through and make an… outline?! *le gasp of horror* Go to section 8.
Writing this new version of this book is the most frustrating and yet euphoric experience you’ve ever had while writing.
Frustrating, because your new work schedule seems to be invading your usual writing time at every twist and turn – not to mention your new school course that you’re taking; you definitely didn’t have that to juggle when you last wrote this manuscript.
Euphoric, because adding a message was literally the best decision of your entire life. It has just brought a whole new layer to the story – one you never would have suspected your horrible, cringey first manuscript could possess. It’s truly like that magic touch you used to think authors must possess.
You’re no author. You’re just a writer.
And yet, that seems to be enough to write… good. It’s a surprising revelation, but not an unwelcome one.
With your list by your side, you are able to know exactly where you’re going with this story; even if it’s not the same destination your originally wrote it to have, it’s still going great. In fact, changing up the way you’re writing it is so satisfying. You’ve grown so much since you first wrote that original story, both in your writing abilities and your life. That fact seems to have impacted your writing somehow.
Despite how utterly different everything is while writing this manuscript, compared to previous ones… you’re still enjoying it. Loving it even more, actually, if possible. While you still enjoy pantsing, you seem to have at least some part of a plotter hidden deep down.
Maybe change is a good thing, then?
Wow, this is so cool! Let’s keep going! Go to section 9.
Nah, never mind: change is horrible. Go to section 11.
One Year Later
You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of your room, surrounded by several pages filled with messy handwriting: a collection of your ideas for stories, of elements you love in books, and potential messages you could include.
But, now, a new paper has joined the group. At the top of it, you’ve just written the words My Writing Process.
But now… you’re left staring at the otherwise blank page.
You thought you’d take some time today to try to figure out the best way for you to go about writing a story; after all, there has to be some kind of superior way than all others to go about it, right?
And yet, you feel as lost as the day you did when you first decided to start writing. You don’t know which way to turn, what to do, or where to go next. It’s enough to make you want to quit.
You groan, digging the heels of your hands into your eyes as you try to think. Over the last few years, you’ve researched writing. You’ve learned from many different writers and authors at all different stages in their respective journeys. But, despite learning all these things from them, when you think of attempting to compile all their separate advice into one process…
The idea is overwhelming.
The urge to simply ball the paper up and throw it across the room is hard to resist. But, ever since that first day when you deleted everything you wrote, you’ve never done so again. Even with a mostly blank piece of paper.
You shake your head with a frown, trying to clear it. You just… need to think…
But the longer you try to, the more complicated it seems. After all, how do you even know that these different processes will work for you? Sure, some ideas from them make sense, and you’d love to try them out, but to insert them with confidence into a process you might continue using forever…?
“But why does it have to be for forever?” a small voice in ithe back of your head asks.
You stop to consider this, removing your hands from your eyes to look at your paper; why does it have to be for forever? Some of the stuff other writers do might be above your current writing level; so, what if you just take what works for you and leave the rest? Use something for your process in the now instead of for forever?
“Okay,” you let out a breath, trying to think. “That narrows things down a little.”
But it’s only a little; you’re still left staring at many different options to possibly experiment with. How can you sift through all these and make a decision?
“What would work for me?” the small voice whispers again.
You steeple your fingers, surveying your paper: My Writing Process.
What even is your current writing process?
Following this train of thought, you vaguely begin to write out what writing your last book looked like for you: how you sat down and came up with ideas for it for hours on end, how you made a bullet point list of things you needed to happen, seeing as that worked so well the first time you tried doing it a year ago…
You pause, reconsidering that last point. You had taken something you’d seen work for you before, and reused it.
So… what if you could do that from all your different writing projects? Take the best pieces from all of them, and leave the rest?
A spark of excitement springs up within your chest.
You just might be onto something.
Good idea! I can make an awesome writing process! Continue to section 10.
This is stupid. You can’t just leave pieces behind! Go to section 12.
By the time you finish that day, you have multiple lists lying around you on the floor: lists of which manuscripts were easy to write, difficult to, fun to, not fun, and ones that you love the most… and dislike the most. There are lists of things you notice consistently popping up in your different attempts at writing: lists of what worked, what didn’t, what you liked, and what you did not like.
At long last, you sit back, satisfaction coursing through your veins.
On the original paper in front of you – My Writing Process – you’ve filled in the blank space with something that… might actually work really, really good.
And then, just because you’re obviously and insane writer and can’t resist, you throw in one of the other elements that you heard another writer talk about and that you wanted to test out. Because you are your own boss and can do that sort of thing.
You lean back, surveying all the different processes you have written down. It was interesting to see how different your process has varied over the years with different manuscripts. You’ve changed, flexibly shifting to match where you were in your life and what kind of book you were writing; it’s like your a writing shapeshifter or something.
You smile with satisfaction at the mental comparison, tearing off the corner of a sheet to quickly write it out for future use.
2 Months Later
“But it’s amazing!” you mentally argue with yourself. “This could be big! Huge! Like, bigger-than-Harry-Potter kind of huge! I need to write it!”
But the logical side of you wins out.
Huffing in annoyance, you pull up the Notes app on your laptop, typing out a new idea you had. You’ve been mentally playing around with it all morning, and it obviously has NYT Bestseller potential written all over it.
But you’re in the middle of a different manuscript, the one you’re trying out your new writing process with. You can’t just stop this one and start a new story. You’d never finish a manuscript if you worked like that.
However, you don’t even try to stop yourself from popping onto Pinterest and creating a new Pinterest board for the idea. Maybe you can’t write it, but you definitely can save aesthetic pins about it.
…and create a music playlist for it. It’s not like you’re writing it, after all. Not to mention, you can use this someday when you actually get to write it! You’re helping out your future self!
You grin evilly at your screen.
Yes, you are totally doing this just to help out your future self. For sure.
Time to just get lost on Pinterest instead of writing! Go to section 13.
Awesome plan! Let’s keep writing the manuscript we’re in the middle of! Go to section 14.
No way! I’m just going to start on the new and better idea, you fools! Imma make so much money when this gets published! Go to section 15.
Two (More) Months Later
You pull up your music, Pinterest, and your Notes app on your computer. About one week ago, you finished your last manuscript, the one you were trying out your new process with. Though you had to take a break for a week after banging out the climax, you are now ready to sit down and work on this new manuscript.
Over the last two months, both the Pinterest board and music playlist have slowly accumulated more and more content on them. You now have over a thousand pins on your board and at least four hours of music on the playlist. It’s a ludicrous amount, but you’re more than happy to hit shuffle on the playlist and let it start playing out as you open up to a fresh page in your notebook.
You’re ready to work on this new book.
You pause, taking a moment to make sure you’re mentally present in the moment. Starting a project is always an exciting venture, and you want to make sure you’re ready to enjoy it.
However, before you start, you find yourself reconsidering the project:
The reason you were attracted to it in the first place when you had the idea was because you thought it would sell really well and be enjoyed by readers. But the times you’ve tried to write books for that purpose, you’ve crashed and burned really, really badly.
And you want this book to be good.
The idea is a good one; you can feel that, down to the marrow in your bones. It’s not just to fulfill anyone else’s expectations, and it’s not for fame. You’re excited to work on it, now that it has sat for a while, because of the idea itself. You’re not excited for it to bring you fame or wealth, but joy.
Finally, you actually begin. You start by going through your Notes app, hunting down the inception idea for the story. Just reading over the words makes excitement bubble up inside of you.
The thing is, is there’s no message included in the inception idea. Or, as you discover as you scroll through your notes, anywhere at all; you never decided on one.
“That’s fine,” you mentally wave it off. You came prepared, after all.
You tug out a sheet of paper from your notebook that you’d brought with you to the table just for this reason. After almost a year and a half, the paper has become crinkled and is decently full of ideas: things you’ve learned, quotes that resonate with you, and ideas you’d love to teach people if you got the chance.
You glance back at your computer screen as your music crescendoes, scrolling down through the few notes you’ve written down on the story idea. There’s not too much to work with there.
But you have a whole playlist to set the mood, and a Pinterest board to draw inspiration off of. You could probably try to produce more ideas and see if any make a certain message stand out as the one that this story should have.
One Week Later
Never mind. You give up.
There’s literally no message you can stick into this story! Nothing fits!
You flop onto your back, letting papers float down around you to the floor. You’ve poured out ideas for things that could happen, yet every time you try and figure out a message, you draw a blank.
Having a message in your stories has really taken them to the next level, and given you the incentive to continue writing even when the going gets tough.
This story is really cool as it is. Maybe you could actually write it without a message? You recently read a story that was really cool, and it didn’t have a message in it. You could be like that author.
You slow mull the idea over. It’s… possible. You’ve written stories without messages before. And maybe the plot of this story is cool enough to hold up the whole thing without a message?
Slowly, slowly, you sit up and begin to pick up your scattered papers – including the one with your list of potential messages. As you put them all away, you feel a small twinge in your gut, as if this is the wrong thing to do. You always listen to your gut while planning a story – but, for once, you shove it aside.
You give up. You’ll just write the book without a message.
You know what? I am an overachiever at everything, sO LET’S GIVE UP EVEN MORE! BURN THE WHOLE IDEA. SET IT AFLAME. WE’RE DONE HERE WITH THIS. Go to section 16.
Continue. Go to section 17.
Two Months Later
You can’t do this.
You just… can’t.
Failure after failure after failure has met you with this story. You keep running into roadblocks – and, even when you don’t, you get bored, and you feel like there’s just no point to this book.
Why should you persevere?
Why should you keep working on it?
You’re currently sitting on the couch. Your laptop is all the way across the room on a table, as far away from you as you could make it. Despite your best efforts, however, the light reflecting off of it still makes it feel like its glaring at you. Literally.
You turn your face away from it.
You can’t bear to keep staring failure in the face.
So this is it.
This is how it ends for you.
You worked for years, building your skill, spending all your free time on writing, only for the road to end here.
“But maybe it doesn’t have to.”
You blink, opening your eyes. The thought is a quiet one, barely a whisper in the back of your mind.
“Maybe I could just open the computer up and try again. And again. And again. Every time I think I should quit, maybe I could just
You stare at your couch for a few moments longer – then, slowly, slowly, you twist and look again at the laptop.
Still on the table.
Not glaring; just…waiting for you. To try again.
You slowly sit up, swinging your legs over the edge of the couch, sliding off and padding over to the laptop. Picking it up, you carry it over to the place you always write in, sitting down and opening it up.
As you write, you can feel yourself slowly mellowing out.
How could you be so crazy? Thinking you could possibly give up writing? You’re a writer, not because you’re published, not because you’re like that author whose book you read two months ago, but because you write.
And you’re not about to stop anytime soon.
It’s when you’re about 200 words into writing a new scene that you suddenly freeze.
You know what message you could put into this book.
Put it in! Go to section 18.
Nah, it’s stupid. Go to section 19.
One Day Later
You’ve let the idea sit for a night, sleeping on it to make sure it’s not just some spur-of-the-moment inspiration. It’s always awful when you start working with something, only to find its shimmer fade with time.
But, if anything, this idea has now settled in even more solidly – and you are ready to work on it.
The first thing you do is open up your Pinterest, pull up your playlist, and pull out a fresh sheet of paper.
You’re not even going to try to use the story that you’ve been working on for the past 2 months. You have yet to finish it, but you know that it needs a major overhaul – and with this message in mind, you can fix it.
It’s still a good idea; you can feel that.
But now, it’ll be even better.
Because it will matter.
It will have meaning.
And it could change someone’s life.
Just like it’s changing your’s.
You settle back into your chair, letting the music begin and the ideas flow. Now that you know your message, you can begin to explore the character on a deeper level. They’re going to start off in the story believing the exact opposite of your message, after all; what led them to believe that?
“Time for some tragic backstory,” you think, probably with more satisfaction than is necessary – but, hey, an evil author’s gotta do what an evil author’s gotta do.
The rest of your writing session that day – and for the next few days as well – is filled with questions building off of your message and the character. You now know how the character will see the world when the story begins; but you also have to figure out how to show them that they’re wrong. And where they’ll end their journey. Their life will be drastically changed by knowing this message. (You definitely have fun envisioning that one, which really helps with figuring out the ending.)
You debate for a day over changing the genre from the original one you had in mind; you’re not sure if the message would be better presented through a different genre or not. But, in the end, you think back to your inception idea – and can’t help but keep it the way it is. Changing the genre would mean losing that scene from the original idea, and you’re not willing to do that.
Not to mention, you just want to write in that genre more than the other one, anyway.
You end up pulling some personality traits for your protagonist from your running list of elements you love. This time, they’re going to be a sweet cinnamon roll. Which, of course, leads to you debating for about five minutes with yourself over whether or not you should kill them, since that would make readers cry. In the end, though, you veto the idea, and move on.
Every time you struggle, you find yourself returning to the inception idea for the story. It just comes with the whole package: the vibe, the type of action you wanted in the book, the genre, your character – and the message fits it like a glove. Thinking about it helps ground you again in what you’re shooting for with this book and hone in on the right ideas.
You end up needing quite a bit of that once you get into the middle of the book. You end up coming up with many scenes with some delicious internal conflict – something that was definitely missing from the first version of the book. The beginning bit of the book really helps set it up, introducing all the different facets that you’re now going to exploit. (Cue more evil author laughter)
However, despite your best efforts, you find that there are several blank spots in the story that still need to be filled in. You can see where your character is coming from, and where they’re going – but not what happens between.
You flip back to the first page of the notebook where you began working on this story idea. Scrawled all over it are your original brainstorming ideas, mostly based on Pinterest and music. But there’s still some ideas that jump out at you as something that would be really fun to write.
You smile, and use them to fill in the blank spots. It’s going to be so much fun to write these scenes.
Of course, you have to add in how your main character will enjoy cinnamon rolls – just like you do. You can’t resist the irony of the character you consider to be a cinnamon roll eating cinnamon rolls. It’s too good of an opportunity to pass up.
Honestly, they could be another you. Or, at least, a part of you. They’re not evil the way you are; but they have some of your likes, will learn something that you had to once, and you even have scenes where you’re going to be inserting certain emotions that you yourself have experienced.
Yeah, they definitely are like a part of you.
It’s both fun and excruciating to plan out the story. At points, you want to rush so you can just finish already and get onto the fun part of writing the book. At others, you force yourself to redo ideas you already came up with; there’s just a feeling in your gut that tells you that it could be better.
And this time, you listen to it.
And, unsurprisingly, it’s right without fail every single time. This story will be much better because of the way you’re listening to yourself.
Not to mention, this book includes a lot of music in it, which is something you’ve always wanted to include in a book. The idea of including it makes you both really excited and really, really happy. Joy is pretty much the most addictive thing you’ve ever experienced, and, despite how you wanted to rush at some points, you’re done brainstorming and planning the book before you know it.
You finish your last note, then set down your pen, leaning back in your chair. You don’t even know how long you’ve been working on this story by this point. You’ve been pulling it out every spare moment you’ve had, since you are so excited to work on it. Seriously, this whole thing could be considered a ‘self-indulgent’ write.
Why did you ever consider giving up?
But a small part of you is thankful that you did.
Because now you know your message for this book.
Time to take a break! Let’s rest our overworked mind before we continue. Go to section 20.
OH YEAH! LET’S DO THIS THING! Go to section 21.
One of the first things you do is go shopping.
First, you grab some accessories you are sure your protagonist would wear. Just seeing them inspires you, making you want to write.
Then, you get some pictures printed out – nice, high quality prints – so that you can hang them up in your work area to help inspire you.
And third, you grab the ingredients you’ll need for cinnamon rolls; you’re going to need these at some point soon, you have no doubt.
The first day you finally sit down to write, you’re wearing one of your new accessories, the pictures are up, and you have a cinnamon roll by your side, fresh from the oven – and a mug of coffee, of course.
You open up a blank document – and stare at it, heart stuttering in your chest.
How should you start this story? You tried to, once. Should you reuse that opening? Or rethink everything, because of the message? Focus on what will happen? The character?
How did you even use to start stories? When you would just dive into the writing part of the process without ever brainstorming or planning?
“I would just go for it,” you realize. You would write the same way a child would play: as if you could just do it. As if there wasn’t a wrong way to do it. You would do it with no fear.
You wouldn’t give up.
And so, you set your fingers to the keyboard, and just go for it.
Well this won’t end well. Go to section 22.
I’ve got this. Go to section 23.
You quickly discover a couple of chapters in that you adore flashbacks – which you take note of for future – and absolutely loath having only one point of view. You’re already side-eyeing a character whose point of you think would be really awesome to write from when you revise the story.
It’s not as if this makes the story a failure; you just add your observations to your running lists, and move on, continuing writing. You’ll be able to use your notes in the future to continue honing and refining your process – which, after all, will change, seeing as you are always growing as a writer and a person.
The climax is fighting you.
You shove your hair of your eyes, frustrated. This isn’t going quite as you envisioned it, and you really want this to be good! It’s the climax, for goodness sake!
You could always leave it…
“No,” you say instantly within yourself. “I won’t give up.”
And yet, the idea of doing so is a siren call, an oasis in the middle of a desert. It would be so much easier to just stop, to just give up…
The word in your mind is firm, resolute. The memory of you on the couch in despair flashes through your mind.
You refuse to go back there.
You pause your music, pulling off your headphones and stalking away. You head to the kitchen, grabbing water and replaying the section of the scene you’re in the middle of in your head.
“More internal conflict,” you decide. The climax is where the ultimate struggle happens between the character and their misbelief – the thing that’s the opposite of the message.
You head back to your computer, putting on your headphones and pressing play on your music. You read over the last couple of paragraphs, letting your mind settle back into the flow of the story.
And then, you write.
You don’t give up.
Just like you’re teaching your character to.
You don’t know why you always type the words at the end of a manuscript; you can’t seem to help yourself. On the days you’re being professional, you tell yourself it’s a stylistic choice. On the days you’re not… you know you’re really just a child at heart. A really evil one who seems to enjoy planning to kill off fictional people and then bawls their eyes out when they do, but a child at heart nonetheless.
But you did it.
You finished the book.
And you have a feeling in your gut that it is really, really good. Maybe there’s a few hiccups here and there – like how you need another POV – but you persevered. You finished.
You didn’t give up.
You break into a huge grin as you save your document one last time, and then close your laptop.
You did it.
You should celebrate!
Probably by eating a cinnamon roll.
But also probably you’ll treat yourself to a new book.
Ta da! I hope you enjoyed this post. It’s much different from anything I’ve ever attempted. I’ve never written in second person, for one, but also, I’ve just never written a blog post like this before. 😅 It was really interesting to tackle it like this.
I hope you can see how everything ties together here. In the second to last section, I talk about one of the things you really just need to do to write:
Just show up for yourself and write, my man.
Keep going. Keep writing. Keep trying new things, embracing new ideas, and discovering new ways you can write.
Good luck, my fellow writer – and write on. 😊
If you enjoyed this post, you might also like:
Oh my gosh!! WE DID IT. 😱 WE MADE IT TO THE END OF THIS SERIES!
Congratulations on making this far!! Thank you so much for following this series all the way to the end. 😄 I hope it has helped you to unlock your own unique abilities as a writer.
Don’t worry, though; I still have more cool posts to come. 😉 If you don’t want to miss out on those, make sure to subscribe!
Did you like this style of post?
Are you excited that we finished the series?
What was your biggest takeaway from this series?