Talking Yourself through Drafting

Some of you know that I hate drafting—which is weird for a writer to say, I know, but that's the way it is... or at least the way it was.

I've learned (through time and work and lots of counseling) that it's not drafting I hated. I hated the fear of imperfection and getting it wrong. I hated the pressure that I put on myself to write well or write a lot (or both!). Most of all, I hated that I hated myself for not meeting my own expectations.

Drafting is still hard, but I've been learning how to have compassion on myself—not just the part of me that's writing but also the part that puts so much pressure on me. That part just wants me to achieve my goals! It just wasn't aware that some of the ways it did that were harming me.

I've been easing my way back into writing consistently, and I've found myself approaching it differently. The tips below are some of what I've been learning. Maybe they can help you too.

Focus on the current words/sentence/paragraph. Don't think about everything you have to do—how many words you've written, how much revision you'll have to do, what you need to do later that day... All of that is overwhelming and makes it impossible to write. When those thoughts come, hear them then let them go, and focus on the next words again.

When you feel stuck or scared, take a break. I don't mean a long break like I've suggested before. Take just a minute or two, or maybe even just one long, deep breath. The sentence you're stuck on will look different. The emotion that's sticking you will pass, often much faster than you think.

Trust your past self. You've written before. You've revised before. You can do it again. (Even if this is your first novel, you wrote the paragraphs and sentences that came before. You wrote stories in school. You've told stories about yourself to friends.) Trust that you write for a reason.

Trust your present self. Thoughts will come that what you're writing isn't very good or that it isn't working how you'd like. But your present self can't know what's working and what isn't—not until you see the whole picture together. Trust that what you're writing now is good enough for now.

Trust your future self. Even if what you're writing were bad, trust that you will be able to make it better later. More than that: you can't actually know how to make it better until later. Your future self will handle that, and they'll be just fine.

Give yourself grace. Writing goals are good if they help motivate you, but they can backfire just as easily. When you find yourself afraid of meeting your goals, give yourself permission to turn them off. Whatever you accomplish today is fine. Five words are more than zero. There will always be days that you struggle to write, but there will be days later that you don't as well. Whatever you can do is good.

You write for a reason, and there are people out there who want to know what that reason is. We're rooting for you.

Make sure you root for yourself, too.

Human Editing vs. AI

I have my own issues with generative AI, but it is good at some tasks—tasks that (if it weren't for the copyright theft, plagiarism, labor theft, and climate-destroying energy needs) would actually be worth talking about in terms of how they can improve our lives.

One thing generative AI is genuinely good at is producing English sentences that sound intelligent. Among other things, this means it can be good at basic editing—making your words sound correct and smart—and it can even provide a kind of blind, meaning-agnostic textual analysis and recommendations for improvement.

That's editing, right? You can get it for free?!

Well, sort of. As with most things in our world, you get what you pay for. The Washington Post tested five generative AIs on their ability to perform this kind of editing. None of them did better than a D+, and only one of them didn't "hallucinate."

Free? Yes (for now).

Good?

If you have no money or critique partners, and you have the time and patience to investigate the accuracy of every suggestion, then AI can provide you with a kind of editing. It can make you sound intelligible... but not great or unique—literally the average of what the internet has to offer.

What can a human editor do, then, that the AI can't? Well, at their best, a human editor can provide the following:

• A-level corrections, recommendations, and analysis
• Insightful comments from a human who understands your intention and meaning
• Experience that comes from being an editor, a writer, and a human
• Suggestions that maintain your unique voice and vision as an author
• Harsh truths to help you improve
• Revisions that don't make up facts out of nowhere
• Connection with a human who's rooting for you

That's not to say all human editors are always amazing or do all these things, but an LLM never will. Finding a good editor is hard, but there are many out there who are worth the price.

The danger of generative AI is not that it's bad at things; it's that AI's intelligent-sounding answers fool us into thinking it's good at things, so we trust it with more than we should. We believe it knows more than it actually does.

I'm not gonna say don't use AI, and I'm not gonna say human editors are perfect. But if you choose AI, know what you're settling for, and if you hire a human editor, find one who provides value that's worth it to you.

(Am I one of those editors? Well, you can always try me out and see! A sample edit costs nothing but time.)

World-Building 105: Putting It on the Page

To recap the last few posts, we've talked about the following:

• What world-building is and how to get started
• How to keep your world-building organized
• The helpfulness of maps (yay!)
• How to make a setting compelling

So far, 100% of the info created through these tips is for you, the author—notes, maps, lists, Q&As. These are aids in writing your story, not the information you actually show the reader.

Because the goal of world-building is not to show the reader all the cool stuff you thought up but to immerse them in another place and time, to make them feel like there's more to the world than what they see, to help them believe this is a real place that could exist.

So, how do we do that with *waves hands around* all those notes and maps and junk?

Using World-Building in Your Draft

As you write, you will naturally drop hints about your world. Sometimes you have to explain things for the plot. Other times, you're just describing what's in the scene. Either way, something comes up that you can't assume the reader knows. Like...

The protagonist will be looking at the stars, and you mention the setting's two moons. The protagonist steps on a teleporter and thinks about how the technology works. Or they learn that they are part of an ancient prophecy that you now need to explain to the reader.

Or a thousand other tiny details that come up as you draft. Wherever it happens, you'll want to keep two things in mind:

1. Let the reader believe there is more to the world than what you're telling them.
2. Let the reader experience the world rather than be told about it.

These are guidelines, of course, and you'll have to find a balance. But the goal is to maintain the illusion that there is always more to discover.

"Part of the attraction of the Lord of the Rings is, I think, due to the glimpses of a large history in the background: an attraction like that of viewing a far off an unvisited island, or seeing the towers of a distant city gleaming in a sunlit mist. To go there is to destroy the magic, unless new unattainable vistas are again revealed."

                                                                                           —J. R. R. Tolkien

Right, But... How?

Well, for example, as you describe the setting's two moons, do so through the protagonist's perspective. How do the moons make them feel? Maybe they're lost in a forest but thankful for the light of the two moons to guide them. Maybe they used to look at the moons as a child and felt safe under one and uncomfortable under the other. In this way, we experience what the protagonist is experiencing, and the world-building is deepened at the same time.

Or maybe in your world bible, you know that the moons were set there by the gods or that one of the moons houses a magical prison. Or maybe you know nothing more about them at all—that's fine too! But as you describe them in your draft, you don't say what you know them to be, but you might say what people believe them to be. Like, maybe the protagonist's grandmother used to tell them a story about the moons that they now think is silly (but that maybe has a grain of truth to it—or not!).

Or maybe they're just moons. That's fine too.

What about the teleporter?

You probably don't want to go into the whole history and function of the technology unless that's a thing the protagonist would be thinking about (maybe they built them!). But again, how does the protagonist feel about teleporters? How do they think they work? Maybe they don't know at all, and that worries them every time even though they've used them their entire life. Maybe they heard a story about someone who got messed up by one, and they wonder if it's scientifically accurate. Maybe they have full confidence in them and quietly judge the folks who fear them.

Little extra thoughts like these help us experience the teleporter while also suggesting that there might be more to it than we know—there's more to discover.

And the prophecy? Don't exposit the prophecy like a history textbook. Reveal it through the lens of the character who explains it and of the protagonist themselves. How do these two characters feel about it? What does it mean to them? Do either of them doubt the prophecy? Fear it? Zealously believe it?

Again, now we're experiencing the world-building. It matters to us because it matters to characters that we care about.

And also, we're never getting the whole story (that's in your world bible) but rather what the characters know or believe about it. This way, the world always remains bigger than anything the reader can experience.

Avoiding(?) Infodumps

We're often told to avoid the dreaded infodump. As with most things, this is more what you'd call a guideline than an actual rule, but the reason infodumps are dangerous is because (1) they tend to be telling rather than allowing the reader to experience the world, and (2) they tend to tell everything the author has ever thought.

But that doesn't mean you can't use them. An infodump from an in-world narrator's perspective, that also leaves some things mysterious, can be just as compelling as any bit of action.

Leaving some mystery can help a world feel real and lived in, like there's always more to discover just around the next corner. It's a type of mystery that can pull your reader into the world.

And letting the reader experience the world through your characters keeps them invested. They want to learn about the prophecy because their favorite character's goals depend on it. They want to know how the teleporter works because Captain Dan wants to know (or because he already does know, and who doesn't want to be cool like Captain Dan?).

All those notes you took answering questions and organizing your thoughts give you a deep well to draw from as you guide your protagonist and your reader through the world. You'll think of new things as you draft, and you can add those to your notes, too. Every bit of it makes your world deeper, more immersive, and more real.

Just remember to keep some of those bits for yourself.