NaNoWriMo Recipes

When you’re on a deadline–or doing a big project, like NaNoWriMo–it’s important to keep yourself well-nourished without making a bunch of dirty dishes. You’ll find yourself tempted to order a lot of pizza, but let’s face it, that’s not a good long-term choice. You need power food when you’re creating! Veggies! Fiber-rich grains! Lean proteins!

So here are two of my favorite things to eat when I need quick, healthy food. They’re totally from-scratch, so you can feel virtuous and save money for pizza. :)

Basic One-Dish Lentils

This is non-glamorous, but quite tasty!

Over medium heat, warm about half a tablespoon of olive oil in a heavy pot. Smash a clove or two of garlic, mince it up, and add it to the oil. Wash your cutting board and knife–you won’t be needing that shit again. Then stir in one cup of lentils and one cup of rice (jasmine makes your house smell good; brown takes too long to cook with the lentils). Let the rice and lentils toast for a minute while you ready about 3.75 cups of water and find your salt. I like kosher salt, because it’s more yummy. Stir in about a teaspoon of cumin powder and rejoice in the smell. When you’re done sniffing, add the water and about a teaspoon of salt and bring the whole thing to a boil, stirring occasionally. Then reduce heat to low, cover, and relax (or work!) for about ten minutes. At that point, you want to stir in about half a bag of frozen spinach. Let this simmer for about another five minutes. You’ll want to taste the liquid remaining in the pot to see if it tastes salty. If it doesn’t taste like sea water, add some more salt. (Spinach likes salt!) Cook until the lentils and rice are tender.

David Lynch’s Quinoa

This is super-simple. Quinoa is pretty savory, so you don’t really need any beans or tofu to make this satisfying, but if you want a little more texture, some black beans or cannelini beans are nice in this. This recipe is great because you don’t necessarily need to chop anything, so it generates very little mess.

Simmer a cup of quinoa in two cups of salted water. Let it cook for about eight minutes. Stir in broccoli florets (as much as you like) and let it cook for another eight minutes. The broccoli should be tender and most of the water will have been absorbed by the quinoa. Stir in a drizzle of olive oil and half a vegetable bouillon cube. Serve with hot sauce and Bragg’s aminos.

This was the first quinoa dish I ever made. The recipe is included in the extras for the film Inland Empire, and you can actually watch David cook it on this video. (He uses more bouillon, but I think that’s too salty!)

So–what do you like to eat when life gets crazy?

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Writing in a City That’s Not Your Own

I invited Winnipeg writer Chadwick Ginther, author of the Thunder Road Trilogy to guest blog for us and he came up with some great advice for capturing your setting, even if it’s not in your own city. Be sure to check out his bio at the end of the post.


Establishing setting is one of my favourite aspects of writing. Whether it’s the world-building involved in writing a secondary world or trying to capture the soul of an existing city, setting draws the reader into the story, creates its mood, and when done well, helps that story appear real.

Normally, I write stories set in or near my home, or I just make up a city. But my third novel, Too Far Gone, needed be set in a city where I didn’t live. In this case: Edmonton, Alberta Canada. There’s lots of options to do remote research. Google Street View, travel guides, following Twitter feeds from that city, or talking to friends or family who live there. And I did do some of that, but it also didn’t feel like enough. While it might not be an option for everyone, I love to travel where the book is going to be set, and to walk the ground myself. You not only discover things you otherwise might not have, but you get the sights, sounds, and smells down in a way that is otherwise impossible, you also get to put your own stamp on them, instead of regurgitating other people’s ideas of the city.

I’d previously visited Edmonton on book tour, and attended its convention, Pure Spec a couple of times. I knew by that time I wanted to bring the series to Edmonton, so I had a chance to do some preliminary scouting before my big official research trip. I’m glad things worked out that way, as it gave me a plan for the full trip.

This is hard for me to admit (especially as an avowed pantser) but if you’re going to travel for a research trip, you need to have a plan. Otherwise, you’ll just be wasting time and money, and generally speaking, writers don’t have a surplus of either. Know where you want to go—and how to get there. If you’re counting on a friend to show you around, make sure they’ll be available. If you want to speak to experts or locals that aren’t your friends and family, make an appointment.

Before I left for my trip, I tried to think about a high concept for the story, and for my characters. Where would they be at home? Where would they be fish out of water? Pretty much every city has a slogan which can serve as a starting point for a high concept. Edmonton’s slogan was “City of Champions”, entirely fitting for a story where a last stand against a three hundred foot tall giant intent on consuming the world in flames is taking place. I was finishing up the first draft of Too Far Gone at the time of my trip, so I didn’t have everything locked, but I did know most of what I needed for the story, and found some answers to a few plot quandaries while I was there by talking to locals, visiting the Edmonton Archives, and walking the streets.

If you haven’t sorted out your plot before you travel, look for locations that seem to have their own story or character; locations that have action or conflict built in or tie into the themes and threats of your story. Is it scary to be downtown at night? Is your story about corruption? In the public eye, politicians and corruption often go hand in hand. Check out City Hall. Writing about a vampire? You’re probably going to need a cemetery. A plot can be built from research as easily as good research can bring a plot to life.

Reading a bit about the history of a place will inform you why it is the way it is now. You don’t need to list every event that ever happened there down to the day, month and year. How much detail is too much? You don’t need to catalog every neighbourhood or landmark to bring your city to life. A vibrant setting isn’t about ticking off the top ten tourist sights on travel guide. Just sticking the Empire State Building in your book doesn’t mean you’re writing New York, and neither does mentioning the Oilers mean you’re capturing Edmonton.

It is tempting to want to include everything. My initial draft had a lot more of Alberta than just Edmonton, but it was too much. The character conflicts were in Edmonton, and they were essential. The side trips to the Alberta Badlands and Steffanson House (an early Icelandic settlement in Alberta, and a Provincial Heritage site) proved just that—side trips. They were unnecessary diversions to the story, no matter how cool they were to me. Rather than allowing them to slow down the book, I had to cut the scenes. But hey, there’s always more stories to write, and that research is already done!

If you’re a pantser like me, and you only start your research into after you have your story, you only look for what you need to know, but you won’t necessarily find the things you didn’t know you needed. Which is why I like taking the travel option. If you’re doing your research before you think of your story, there’s a different risk: research is seductive, and it feels like you’re doing work, but the real work of a writer is actually writing the book.

To maximize my trip, I decided to set the book during the time of my stay. If it was happening in Edmonton in the third week of August 2014, it was happening in the background of the book. Would I have thought of including the Fringe Festival as background, or the Perseid meteor shower otherwise? Probably not. Having the hero’s fight with a fire giant looming when the city was under the grips of a heatwave may have been out of my control, but I think it really worked.

While I was in Edmonton, I kept a detailed journal of everything I did, saw, and especially what was happening with the weather (relevant when your hero can control the weather but is trying to rem

ain incognito). I bought the local newspaper every day and saved clippings I thought were relevant to characters or plot to seed in as background. Not all of this made it into the text, of course, but it definitely informed my writing.

I took tons of photos for reference, and used them as a slideshow while I wrote. I framed big battle scenes in areas I thought would be dynamic not only visually, but interesting locales, so that even readers that didn’t know the city would care about what was happening. I kept maps. Fantasy loves maps! Even if your story is set in a real city, and there won’t be a map of it at the beginning of your book, maps can be useful. I plotted out a map of the destruction (Cough, cough. Sorry Edmonton) as it was occurring to keep things consistent.

That was my experience writing in a city not my own, I’ll definitely try it again, but now I just hope Edmonton will welcome me back after they see what I’ve done to the place!



Originally from Morden, Manitoba, Chadwick Ginther was fascinated by Norse mythology at an early age. Today, he spins sagas of his own set in the wild spaces of Canada’s western wilderness where surely monsters must exist. Chadwick is a contributor to Quill & Quire, The Winnipeg Review, and Prairie Books NOW. His short fiction has appeared recently in On SpecBeast Within 4: Gears & Growls, and The Exile Book of New Canadian Noir. His first two novels, Thunder Road, and Tombstone Blues, were nominated for the Prix Aurora Award.




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Guest Post – It’s Supposed to Hurt: Writing Violence that Feels Real

by Mike Buckley

A few years ago, a student of mine asked me to read a novel that she had just finished.  I agreed.  What I knew about my student at the time (Deidre is her name) was that she was a librarian who specialized in collections from the late eighteen hundreds. She struck me as smart, a bit quiet, given to irony and a love for writing about Florence.

Her novel blew my mind right out of my ears.

It didn’t fit with what I knew of Deidre at all.  It was a cold, tactile detective work that took place between Amsterdam and Thatcher’s London, and followed a frighteningly-badass schlub as he tracked down an art thief.  That’s not the part that struck me, of course; it was well-executed, which, knowing Deirdre, I had expected.  But there was a scene in which the detective is cornered near a river and attacked by some corrupt cops.  It was the most honest depiction of violence I had ever encountered.  Just reading it was very much like getting beat up.  It held me and pushed me away in the way that very authentic writing can, and when I finally could put it down, I called Deirdre.

Who the hell are you, anyway? I asked her.

Deirdre laughed it off.  (It turned out that she was a lifelong martial artist, and a year after I read the book she brought a sword to a Science Fiction writing class that I was teaching and showed us all the right way to quickly separate a person from their guts.)

The lesson that stuck with me, though, is that writing about violence is like writing about anything: it’s all context.  Sometimes you need characters to have a quick dust up or you need to toss a side character through a saloon window.  Sometimes you need the violence you’re writing about to be quick and throwaway.

But other times you’ll want to tell the truth.

I remember years and years ago I was reading an interview with Salman Rushdie and he was talking about the difficulty of writing sex scenes.  I was a teenager at the time and completely did not get it.  What’s so hard about writing sex scenes?  They’re all over the place, from movies to billboards.  But as I grew as a writer, I realized that was exactly the problem.  When writing about sex, you’re not just writing about something that completely surrounds us (and most of what is out there is polished and unrealistic and sometimes humiliating) but you’re engaging in a conversation that’s been going on forever.  So the problem with writing sex scenes is to tell the truth with them, to capture the feeling of the whole thing.

Which is exactly the problem when writing about violence.   It’s surrounded by clichés.  We already imagine a square-jawed cowboy cocking an arm back and knocking out a black hat with a single, easy punch.  The black hat is unconscious for just long enough for the hero to kiss the heroine, then ride away on a horse, and when the black hat wakes up, he displays no neurological symptoms of the head trauma he’s just received.  That sort of violence is something that we can pretty easily write. That’s because it isn’t realistic, and it isn’t meant to be.  When you write a bar brawl in such clichéd terms, you’re not putting violence on the page, you’re playing ping pong with familiar signifiers: the punch, the fall, the kiss, the moral victory.

All fine and good, but not honest.

That was the realization I had reading Deirdre’s novel.  The fight scene made me feel overall bad for the detective character as he was desperately stomping toes and biting fingers as the three crooked cops pummeled him, and the scene scared me, and made me feel my mortality a little more closely.  That character got his ass kicked in that scene.  Legitimately.  Not the way it happens in Chandler, and not the way it happens to Bruce Willis in so many of the movies he is in.  Deirdre’s detective lost a fight, and it almost cost him his life.

Since reading that scene, and seeking out others, I’ve put a lot of thought into effective ways to write about violence.  It’s a huge dilemma.  Depictions of violence are often types of arguments that are rooted to the needs of a historical/cultural moment.  (Consider the 2006 film 300.  It seems clear to me that that film was very much about the United States, a nation that was at war on multiple fronts.  It was about our desire to sing songs about the nobility of war, our desire to put a villain like Xerxes in front of a band of Spartans that, for all of the dialogue we hear from them, might as well be Marine Recon.)  But real violence, of course, is an older type of argument.  I’ve spent much of my life studying different types of it.  I’ve wrestled, played Judo, boxed, kickboxed, and practiced Krav Maga and Brazilian Jui Jitsu.

It is unexpected but true that this type of “violence” can be deceptive.  Boxing, kickboxing, jui jitsu—these martial arts are so immersive as to actually be worldviews.  What I mean is that boxers train for a very narrow expression of the larger world of violence.  They fight in a ring, the ropes of which they bounce off of or slide away from; they fight other boxers, who throw only punches (and only punches from the tradition of Western boxing).  When a boxer gets in a street fight, he boxes.  It’s the same for a jui jitsu practitioner.  The craft of this particular combat sports shapes the way the people who practice them see conflict, the way they conceptualize their response to it, and in every sense ends up becoming both their strength and their weakness.  (Krav Maga might be an exception to this, but is definitely a subject for another post.)

Deirdre knew this.  Although she practiced Tai Chi, she picked up a knowledge of street fighting from somewhere (I have no idea where it came from, and it scares me a little) and as she wrote the scene in which the detective meets baddies down by the river she knew that it wouldn’t be a boxing match or a sparring session.  My own very limited knowledge of street fighting comes from the usual places.  School and bars, mostly.  I know that street fights are fast and frantic.  They’re more energy than technique.  They’re a contained riot.

But back to writing.  When we’re writing a short story or a novel, whether it’s set on a spaceship or sidewalk, how can we write violent scenes that feel real?  The key is to stay away from easy.  Stay away from heroic.  If it feels expected, or like you’ve seen it before, stay away from it.

When you have a violent scene to write, stay away from the language of sport.  Don’t let your characters jab or hook, unless they’re actually boxing.  Stay away from easy ways of telling the reader how tough your character is: don’t let her feel teeth crack or nosebones shatter under her punches.  Instead, root the way you describe violence to your character’s frame of mind.  Maybe they’re scared (which they probably would be; it’s pretty much the definition of rationality to not want to be punched by someone), and so instead of jabbing and cracking teeth, they panic, thrusting blindly with their hands, not noticing until their antagonist falls to their knees that they have accidentally poked him in the eye.  Have your character shout or throw something.  Have them bite the antagonist’s nose or grab their genitals, all in total panic or violent glee.

The guiding rule for writing convincing violence should be this: it is never beautiful or elegant or transcendent.  (Violent sport might be, but that’s different.  Ronda Rousey’s grappling is certainly beautiful, but it isn’t violence, it’s violent sport.  Its restrictions—read here as rules—make the beauty possible in the same way that the structure of a sonnet makes the beauty of that form possible.  Her grappling is to violence what sonnets are to words.)   When your character is in a rough spot, achieving the feel of desperation, of high stakes, will make the violence feel real.  And then you’ll have what any writer wants: your readers will buy into the reality of what they’re reading.

The fight scene in Deirdre’s novel ends, I think, with the main character jumping into the river.  It’s the only way he can get away from the corrupt cops who are trying to beat him to death, and it’s the best end for a great scene.  Deirdre doesn’t succumb to the temptation to have her hero use his mighty kung fu to tear the three guys apart.  It’s the reason why that scene has stuck with me while so many others have not.

And also the reason why I’ll never make Deirdre mad.


Mike Buckley‘s short fiction has appeared in The Best American Non-Required Reading 2003, The Southern California Review, and numerous times in The Alaska Quarterly Review, as well as in numerous other anthologies.  He has been nominated for various awards, and his debut short story collection, Miniature Men,was released in 2011.   He is a practicing Creative Futurist, using Science Fiction storytelling to improve corporate and government policy.  His Science Fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld, Abyss and Apex, and Pravic.

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Using open data with Google Earth to visualize your world

We tend to have tunnel vision, seeing only the things directly in front of us. As authors, though, I feel like it’s kind of our duty to break free of that comfort zone and take in everything we can. When we put pen to paper and tell a story, it should be to tell stories that are bigger than ourselves, that are about more than us. And yet, we still fall short, and our readers take notice. 

So, in failure, how do we fail better?

The first step is acknowledging what we don’t know.

We fill in detail the best we can, extrapolating based on our direct experience and filling in the gaps with second-hand, and often inaccurate, information. You’d think, having lived in Chicago, Los Angeles, and New York City, that I’d know those places, the truth is I only know the area immediately around the places I lived and worked. Everything else is a radiating, ever increasing blur of generality and stereotype. Unless you’ve lived in a neighborhood, you really don’t know how it feels.

What we can do, though, is make informed, educated decisions.

I’ve been working on the fictional version of Chicago that exists in the novel I’m writing. I’ve never lived or worked in Englewood or Wicker Park; driving through and stopping for a burger half a decade ago doesn’t qualify me as any sort of expert. I have found something that, in lieu of first hand information, is a step in the right direction.

Google Earth Pro (now free!) + Open Data

The idea of open data isn’t new, but has been gaining popularity through sites such as, and many large cities, such as Chicago and New York, publish their own data as well. These datasets can be anything from a list of points — buildings, intersections, red light cameras, etc — to areas such as neighborhoods and political or school districts. All of that data can be exported and then imported into Google Earth Pro.

Google Earth Pro is like Google Maps on steroids. Zoom in, scroll back and forward through time, or soar over your creation in the built-in flight simulator. I won’t cover the ins and outs of using Google Earth (that would require a follow-up post or three) but there are many tutorials available online and I’m happy to answer specific questions about it in the comments or via email. 

For my novel, there were several pieces of information I was interested in. Crime statistics, police districts, neighborhood demographics (gender, race, income levels), abandoned buildings, public transit, and specific locations I knew I wanted my characters to visit. You can google around to find random maps that have one or two of those things, but not customized the way I wanted it.

The The City of Chicago Data Portal offers more sets of data than I could have imagined. Things like the dominant language by neighborhood, or socioeconomics indicators (crowded housing, households below the poverty line, unemployment rates, high school dropout rates, and per capita income). The names, titles, and salaries of city employees. Energy usage. Homeless shelter utilization.

And it should be noted that all of these datasets, while giving you a better understanding of what someone living and/or working in a particular area might experience, is being filtered through our privilege and shouldn’t be used to paint sweeping generalizations about the people who live there. 

Let’s see some examples of a work-in-progress map:

A high level view of Chicago, with important locations highlighted. At this scale, I can see where public transit runs as well as add directions between points to see just how long it would take someone to get somewhere. The red shades here have higher violent crime rates compared to the more affluent green neighborhoods.


From here, I can zoom in to one of my locations, 603 W 63rd street.

Franklin Park

An overhead view shows an ordinary-looking post office, but in this location once stood the World’s Fair Hotel, owned and operated by the notorious serial killer H.H Holmes. The hotel was torn down, and the post office built in its place, but part of the original basement — where some of Holmes performed some of his most gruesome work — still remains.


And at eye level, a very ordinary looking post office.. Street view makes it easy to see what someone visiting a place would see. Google Maps has made that super easy, but Google Earth takes it to a new level. All of these data points, locations and routes can be collated, explored and perhaps best of all, exported and/or printed easily.

Research is complicated, but it’s work that pays off in the long run. We can do better than the pictures in our head, especially when the places we dwell exist in the real world, populated by real people of all shades and creeds. Make them better, make them realistic, and your readers will have more reasons to keep turning the page.

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It is a story of many, but begins with one

laura's eye

Twin Peaks is a sprawling saga of the weird, the dark, and the wonderful. It smashes teen angst and small town politics up against a spiked wall of supernatural evil and serves it up with a strange sense of humor that even today makes me laugh. Despite its short run and disastrous ending, it stands as one of the biggest blasts of magic to ever grace the small screen. (Apparently I really like this show!)

The sheer size of Twin Peaks makes the success of its pilot particularly noteworthy. It’s a double episode, one hour and thirty-three minutes long, and it manages to introduce the viewer to every major character and every convoluted relationship that will shape the first half of the Twin Peaks saga. It also manages to squeeze in glowing shots of the Cascade range, eerily uncomfortable images of ceiling fans, loving frame-filling shots of Sheryl Lee (in roles as the Homecoming queen, the charming daughter, and the Dead Ice Princess), and the beginning of a long-running gag about donuts. By the time you finish watching it, you know you’ve landed in a dangerous place filled with devilish schemes. The pilot is a master class in structuring material for maximum intensity and tightness.

In that first hour, just what you learn about Laura Palmer, the girl whose murder is the epicenter of the Twin Peaks world, is nearly exhausting. We learn who her parents are, who her best friend is, and that she was beloved by her family, school staff, and community alike. We discover that she’s seeing a psychologist without her parents’ knowledge. We learn she has two boyfriends, one the high school quarterback who’s as perfect on the outside as she herself is, and one a sad biker from a broken home. She also does cocaine, reads illicit skin mags (and probably answers the ads), and somehow has $10,000 in a secret safe deposit box. She’s a Janus of utter mystery, both saint and sinner, virgin and whore. David Lynch and Mark Frost pile on character details that would normally take an entire series to discover.

But they don’t stop there. They set up the illicit relationships between two other couples, a plot to bring down the Packard saw mill, and introduce a small neighborhood’s worth of weirdos and nutjobs. There’s a woman with an eye patch with an obsession with drapes. A lady who carries a stick of firewood the way others would cradle a baby. A psychologist with a tiki addiction and a creepy connection to the dead girl. A wife-beating control freak who drives long haul truck. A trouble-making teen with a penchant for sexy vintage wear. A deputy and his bubble-headed girlfriend. And last, but certainly not least, Special Agent Dale Cooper, a law enforcement officer so odd he puts Fox Mulder to shame.  All of them appear fully developed and completely engaging. It would be nearly impossible to introduce all these characters in a short story: there would simply never be enough time to make any of them feel real or believable. But Lynch and Frost bring them all to life in one extended episode.

So, how do they do it? How do they keep the story on pace while introducing the huge cast without ever losing control of the twisted mystery they set up at the beginning?

  1. No character is introduced on their own. Every character is given someone else in the scene to riff off of. Dale Cooper appears alone in his car, but he is recording a message to his secretary. In the first scene of the episode, Josie Packard sits in her bedroom with no one to talk to, but she can hear the sounds of Pete Martell going about his morning, and her expressive face responds to them. Only Audrey Horne starts her day alone, but she has a chauffeur to ignore and sends sly glances back at the hotel to warn us that she’s planning something no good for the people inside. Every character is introduced in a way that exposes them in action and in relation to someone else. It’s tremendously effective, because it sets up both character and tension right away.
  2. Every character is given a response to Laura Palmer’s death. Even the characters who aren’t suspects or closely tied to the victim are presented in a way that adds dimension to the mystery. Twin Peaks is a small town: everyone has something to say about the situation. This keeps the action focused, even while introducing a really large cast of characters. As the Log Lady warns us, it is a story of many, but it begins with one.
  3. It satisfies the viewer with a constant stream of answers. The writers build the viewers’ trust by introducing a question and then answering it shortly after. Who is the dead girl on the beach? Boom: next scene–it’s Laura Palmer. If Bobby’s not at football practice, where is he? Bang: in a minute we see him at the Double R Diner, prepping Shelley Johnson for a little pre-homeroom loving. Frost and Lynch wind us up with mini-mysteries and comfort us with the answers. There’s no attempt to string the viewer along, and that leaves them plenty of rope to hang us with later on in the series.

That trust is a vital part of the show’s success. Lynch and Frost wind up taking their viewers to some of the weirdest situations ever put on television. They advertised a mystery show and delivered a psychedelic walk through the human psyche and the history of evil, and people went with them and loved it, because from the very beginning, they knew they could trust the writers to scratch the itches the show stirred up.

Anyone can write like that. All you need to do is ground your openings in full-fledged characters that are fully engaged in their world. Give everyone and everything a role to play in the situation you’ve created. And never, ever let your readers down.

It probably won’t hurt to have a few mentions of coffee and cherry pie.


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Sketchpunks: a guest post from Fran Wilde

Fran Wilde is a longtime friend of the Inkpunks and a fellow fountain pen junkie. And she also writes cool books about a  kickass mom! Needless to say, it’s a delight to have her here on the blog.


Last August, I stood in a corner of Westminster Abbey — near Newton’s grave — while my family walked around the tombs. They were following a self-guided tour that snaked through the entire church, listening to the recording tell them where poets and kings rested.

Every once in a while, a tourist would break away from the line and come over to see what I — standing so still in an out-of-the-way corner — was doing. The tourist would peer over my shoulder, make a small sound, and either stand beside me and watch for a few moments, or walk away whispering things like: “that’s not very good.”

Fran's sketch at Westminster Abbey.

Fran’s sketch at Westminster Abbey.

It didn’t matter what they whispered. I was happy, sketching. I didn’t care whether what I’d drawn was good or not. Nor that my fingers were smudged with ink and pencil. The act of capturing one tiny part of Westminster Abbey in shadow and line by looking closely, then translating that with my hands and a pen, left me energized and calm.

Sketching is a lifelong habit. I have dozens of half-finished notebooks with sketches from near and far. When I was younger, I drew something every day, more often than I wrote. I worked on drawings over a period of weeks, much like I write stories now. When I traveled, I brought watercolors and a box of pencils with me. I still do.

I usually stand to draw, because I was taught it was more respectful. I ask permission. I work quickly. I stay out of the way.

Over time, my sketches have become rougher and less practiced. They’re more about the action than the product. Sketching lets me stand still and look. It helps me work out problems. It’s almost the exact opposite of writing. On those days when I’m bashing around a plot problem, I often pull out my pen and sketch. Sometimes drawing lines and hatch marks and focusing on light and shadow gives me an answer no amount of rough drafting could.

A peek at Fran's sketchbook.

Fran’s sketches: windows, arches, borders.

That’s true with several sketches I did while writing Updraft. For those, I sketched from imagination, and at least one was done while on a train to New York. I sketched my version of a knife fight in a wind tunnel. I sketched the city above the clouds for scale.  I drew a rough map. I played with frames and borders.

These days, I’m sketching different things toward the same goal: discovering parts of the whole through line and shadow.

They’re not professional drawings. They don’t have to be. But the sketches are something I made while I was thinking about Updraft.

Beautiful bookplates for pre-orders of UPDRAFT.

A bit ago — and I guess this is the official announcement for this piece of book swag — I made four of my sketches into bookplates. I did it so that I could send something personal to people who pre-order Updraft: a signed and dated sketch, made when I was writing the book.

Meantime, I’m making some more sketches. For later.

Fran Wilde’s first novel, Updraft, debuts from Tor on September 1, 2015. You can find her on Twitter, Facebook, and at, as well as sketching on the train, in the park, and near the entrance of various old buildings.

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I Want to Promote Amazing Authors Who Happen to be Friends

Over the last few years I’ve had the privilege of meeting so many amazing authors, many of whom I’ve also become great friends with. Recently, I’ve been thinking about being a better promotional friend to those published (traditional or indie) author friends because they deserve it, because I want to help them and because we need to stick together.

*Warning: since this post is about promoting other authors there will be plenty of name dropping and lovely pictures of books you might want to consider investigating. Just sayin’.*

Recently I read The Ultra Thin Man by my friend Patrick Swenson. I thoroughly enjoyed it, which is excellent because I thoroughly enjoy the person Patrick Swenson as well. I tweeted while I was reading it that I was enjoying it, and it occurred to me that I should really be doing things like that more often. I have these incredibly talented friends, and while I don’t want to say I take them for granted because I do appreciate each and every one, I also don’t think I do as much to promote them as I could.

As a new mom, it’s difficult for me to pop out to local readings and events. My friend and critique partner Kristi Charish has published her incredible novel, OWL and the Japanese Circus, and I haven’t yet been able to make it to a reading. I feel bad about it, so there must be other things I can do, like, mentioning her book in a blog at the Inkpunks? It’s a start, I suppose.

Now, I realize some author friends might just want me to send them chocolate, buy them a drink or send virtual cheer leading, but we should be doing those things anyway, right?  Or, when we can. I’m talking about promotional things I can do for them and their career.

What can I do, as a friend of these incredibly talented authors? I think most of the time I feel like it’s just little ol’ me and what could I possibly do to help my friends, who likely have more social media connections and a bigger following than I do? Can one person make a difference? Is it even worth it? I’m not sure, but I think there are things I can do.

I can read the books by friends that I’ve bought and are still sitting on my shelf unread. What books can possibly be more important than ones written by people I know, respect and admire? Apparently there have been other books getting in the way and it’s time to prioritize my friends for awhile.

I can continue to introduce books to my book club. So far we’ve read White Trash Zombies by Diana Rowland, I Am Not A Serial Killer by Dan Wells, and Thunder Road by Chadwick Ginther.

I can write reviews. I’ve never written a Goodreads or Amazon review and only occasionally will give a rating on Goodreads, yet I know it can help. It might be a bit time consuming, but even for books I’ve read years ago, I’m going to start giving them reviews. I’m not talking about writing fake complimentary reviews for someone just because I know them. I’m talking about reviewing books I’ve enjoyed and want to help the person who wrote it.

I can take pictures of friends books out in the wild and post them on social media. It’s a great way to show off the books to my followers.

I can blog about the books I love. Fran Wilde has a fantastic book coming out, called Updraft. I know it’s fantastic because I got to read the beginning of it at a workshop, and I can’t wait to get my hands on a copy. I already know how good it is and I know I could easily write a complimentary blog post about it.


I can simply ask friends if there’s anything I can do for them. Maybe they have an event coming up I could help promote, or a campaign they’re working on that needs minions or a book release that could use some hype.

If you’re reading this and you have other ideas of how I (and people in general) could be a better promoter of their author friends, please let me know in the comments, I’d love to hear them.

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Eye Protein and the Furiously Blue Curtains

Mad Max Poster

I am obsessed with Fury Road. My brain keeps returning to small moments of it, revisiting images I liked, chuckling over clever lines. (I can’t stop saying “Oh, what a day! What a lovely day!”) And to feed my obsession, I can not stop reading articles and blog posts and reviews about the movie. One that stood out for me was Chuck Wendig’s post “HOW MAD MAX: FURY ROAD TURNS YOUR WRITING ADVICE INTO ROADKILL.” Go ahead and check it out. I’ll just wait here, re-reading Amazon customer reviews of that silver spray frosting.

Oh man, those are good.

As you saw last week, I am all about breaking writing rules right now, so of course I liked the post. Over the course of my education as a writer, I have read a metric butt-ton of screenwriting books. Like most of you, I have poured over approximately a billion blog posts about story structure and spent no less than forty percent of my life studying writing texts and taking writing classes (the other sixty percent was probably spent reading horror novels and watching movies about monsters and/or explosions). But what Chuck’s post made me think about was a theory I’ve been brewing up for a while, a theory about movies, stories, and little by little, writing. It is this:

Story-telling is not the point of movie-making.

That’s right.

Movies are not about stories. The point of a film is create images that come to life in the viewer’s mind. Story is just a tool to create that life, because the human brain is a story-telling machine. Our brains have evolved to spin an ongoing narrative that creates our own personal identity, and because of that, story is our primary tool for comprehending the world around us. All forms of communication can tap into story as a way to make their points more understandable, meaningful, and affecting.

But it’s important to remember that we understand film differently than we understand the written word. A film can explore different kinds of problems than a novel can. A film can address many different issues and handle them effectively through the careful crafting of images. It is entirely possible Mad Max: Fury Road is primarily about the question “What is the relationship between orange and blue?” When you watch that movie, you will see an amazing amount of orange and blue, and the tension between those colors, highlighted by the blacks and whites of the actors and machinery in motion, is one part of its atmosphere of excitement.

One of the things Chuck points out in his blog post is that Fury Road‘s worldbuilding is barely developed. That’s true, in a way. George Miller chooses not to linger on worldbuilding details or to explore them thoroughly via dialogue or plot elements. What Miller does brilliantly in this film is to create a scaffolding of what Guillermo del Toro calls “eye protein.” These are visual details, small but observable, that provide a framework of meaning in every shot of the film. You, the audience, are expected to build the world from these bits of information. The world becomes more rich because of your inferences and interpretations than it would from having a world laid out for you. As you wonder about how “gasoline” became “guzzoleen,” how scarification became an important part of the Citadel’s culture, how deformity played into class structure, your develop your own themes, your own dictionary of symbols, your own powerful engagements with George Miller’s ideas (and even ideas he never entertained, but which you draw yourself from the visual elements). Your engagement with the images is what the movie is about.

To put it differently, let me bring up a well-known internet meme:


Those blue curtains might have been meaningless to the creator. They might mean nothing to you, beyond a reminder of your grandmother’s kitchen, all tastefully color-coordinated in blues and whites, leaving you with a vague sense of stuffiness, and a feeling that this book is somehow old-fashioned. But just because you don’t see the same meaning as your teacher or the author, doesn’t mean your teacher is wrong. Interpretation is the point of communication.

Maybe you buy what I say about movies. You’ve watched a lot of David Lynch flicks, maybe absorbed some weird documentaries that throw images at your eyes without bothering to include characters or a plot. You can see that yeah, movies do a lot more than just tell stories, and we can enjoy movies for reasons beyond their story-telling. But didn’t I say this all had something to do with writing?

Yes. In fact, I’ll spell it out for you:

Story-telling is not the point of written fiction.

The point of a novel or a short story is to create affecting moments of prose that come to life inside the reader. Story is just one tool we have available to us in the creation process. It is, like character and setting, a surface effect of the prose, the language itself, which moves on a current of ideas, images, and sounds. And it the job of the writer to add details that are worthwhile, details that are more important than blue curtains (unless those blue curtains are important to you, the creator), details that build a scaffolding of meaning for your work. Because art is about meaning and about sharing what is important to you. It is about cutting off a piece of your brain and sending it out to the universe.

None of this is to say that story is not important or not enjoyable. I am just saying that no matter how many screenwriting books you read and how carefully you follow the rules of storytelling, there is more to writing than all those rules. There are blue curtains and chrome paint and boys with their faces stapled together. There is a road, and it is furious.

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Listen to the Mustn’ts

A few years ago, I went to the Rainforest Writers Retreat and started a novel. I’d been thinking about the book for a year or so, and I knew Lake Quinault would be the perfect backdrop for writing it. I got up early, drank a lot of coffee, stared out at the lake or sat roasting my feet in front of my fireplace, and I wrote and wrote and wrote. In the five days at the lake, I produced about 22,000 words, and some of it the finest I’ve ever produced. (And certainly the creepiest!)

Then I went home. Okay, I thought. You’re back to the real world. You don’t get to sit around looking at this all day–

Lake Quinault

–and then use this crazy process you used at the lake. You’ve been doing far too much editing and far too little drafting. All the blog posts I read over the years and all the cheerful “you can win Nanowrimo” pep talks told me that process would never work. So I said, you need to write this properly. You need a real outline. You need to power through and make a first sloppy first draft.

So I made my outline. I pushed onward with that book. And I never, ever finished it.

At some point, I looked at what I’d written and I saw that what I loved about my book stopped the minute I began writing my “sloppy first draft.” At the lake, I’d been writing in a cyclical sort of fashion–I’d write a bit, then go back and re-evaluate large swathes of text. I needed to consult with myself about the character: did the stuff I’d just written fit with what I knew about her character? Was the action in tune with the deeper problem? I wasn’t just messing with commas and adjectives; I was carefully rejiggering the vessel of my story and letting it inform my next steps. It was a slow process, but I enjoyed it, and I felt like I had complete control of my story.

When I plowed through the draft, I somehow lost touch with my story. When I created my outline, I crafted a solid plot, but it didn’t come together inside my characters. They felt like flimsy cutouts clinging to a felt board, held on by the velcro of my will.

I have written three and a half novels since that one. Two were drafted as tie-ins for the Pathfinder role-playing game, and they were rigorously outlined before I started writing them. Perhaps because the main character of these books is tremendously well-defined in my mind–she felt like her own, entire person before I ever started writing the first short story about her–I had no problem writing those stories in a straight through messy first draft style. But a third novel, a YA SF book about pirates, drug dealers, and boxing, never really came together. The action was exciting, the world intriguing, but the characters floated along the surface, never quite connecting to their world. Even a thorough rewrite didn’t help it much.

Having two books fail broke my heart. I didn’t see it happening at the time, but when I looked back at my feelings about writing since the day I gave up on that creepy novel, I saw that I’d been deeply depressed about writing. Even finishing two fun Pathfinder novels didn’t make me feel better. Why? I think because I had found a method of writing that felt deeply and wonderfully satisfying, but I turned my back to it because it wasn’t the “right” way to write a book. If I couldn’t trust my instincts, how could I trust my work?

Now I’m writing a new book, and I am throwing out the advice I’ve gotten from all the big writing advice folks. I am not going to make a messy first draft. I am not going to write as fast as I can without looking back over my work. I will make an outline, but I will keep re-reading and editing my work as I go. If I have to re-write half my scenes and then find I have to cut them after they’ve been polished to the sheen of diamonds, so be it. For me, it’s better to waste some time than to be demoralized by my work.

You know, I have completed seven novels and sold three (one of which was never published because the publisher went under). I’ve sold more than thirty short stories. My first actual novel came out last year. And I still don’t know how to write a book!

Somewhere, Neil Gaiman has a story about finishing American Gods and then telling a writer friend he thought he had finally learned how to write a novel. And the friend told him that no, now he knew how to write that novel. And of course, he’s totally right. Every single thing you write will have its own unique process.

So don’t throw out any advice forever, but don’t take any of it too seriously. Remember, as Shel Silverstein said, to “listen to the MUSTN’TS”–but also remember how he ends the poem: “Anything can happen, child, / ANYTHING can be.”

We’re all learning every day, and with any luck, we’re all getting better at this writing stuff.

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With A Little Help . . . : Guest post from Darusha Wehm

Here’s a big Inkpunk welcome to Darusha Wehm, who is taking time out from promoting her new novel, Children of Arkadia, to shares a little about what it’s like to work with an editor.


Children of Arkadia by Darusha Wehm

I’m a bit of a loner. When I was in school, I don’t know which phrase terrified me more: “team sports” or “group project.” Even as an adult, I’ve preferred to do things my way. I self-published four novels, perfectly content to do it all. My friends often laugh when I express utter shock at their solutions to household problems — call a plumber? Why would you do that when the hardware store is just down the street and you have Google?

So, you might be surprised to learn that I’m here to talk about how great it can be to work with an editor. And I don’t mean talking myself while wearing a funny hat, either.

The problem with pants

I’m a discovery writer. My characters have this habit of doing things I hadn’t expected. For me, drafting at its best is an experience in seeing where the story goes. I’ve set up the scene, put these people in their places, and as I type I watch what they do. They surprise me. Often.

Sometimes, those surprises don’t make sense in the long run, but usually they are what ends up driving the plot. When it comes to editing, I’m often taking out the stuff I planned and leaving in the things that came up on their own. It’s a more interesting way of writing, but it means I sometimes literally don’t know what I’m doing in my stories.

What does the colour blue symbolize, anyway?

Once you’ve written a thing or two, it’s easy to sympathize with your internal high schooler, sitting in Literature class, rolling your eyes, thinking “Really? You really think that blue curtains symbolize the past? Puh-leeze.” We’ve all had readers completely miss the mark with something we’ve written, seeing all kind of things in the text we most certainly did not put in there.

The thing is, though, sometimes they are right and we are wrong. Maybe it’s my subconscious at work when I’m drafting, but subtext, symbolism and subtlety creeps into my work without me noticing. The hardest part about editing is that I’m so close to the material that I see what I expect to see rather than what’s there. Yes, that most often means seeing “from” when I actually typed “form” but there can be even more significant things going on that I just can’t see.

So, that’s what I meant!

My upcoming novel Children of Arkadia is published by Bundoran Press, and my editor Hayden Trenholm worked closely with me on revisions. Our conversations were fascinating, since he saw entire themes in the book that I hadn’t realized were there. I remember reading one of his emails and exclaiming aloud, “So, that’s what I meant!” I know it makes me sound a little odd, but even though I’d never noticed these themes, as soon as they were pointed out, it was obvious that they were what the book was really about.

I completely rewrote the ending of the book, changing the story entirely. The emotional resonance of the ending remained the same, but the events that led there made much more sense in the revised version. Because in the original version, I’d just been seeing what I expected to see, rather than what was really there.

Zaphod Beeblebrox was right: two heads are better than one

As much as I like doing things on my own, sometimes you need a friend. Whether it’s carrying a couch up a flight of stairs or making an unsatisfactory scene come alive, another person can make all the difference. It doesn’t have to be a professional editor — a good critique partner or wise reader can help you see the hidden truths of your work.

Writing is a solitary activity, but editing ideally isn’t. Finding a trustworthy second set of eyes can make all the difference, and you might even see things in your work you’d never noticed.



M. Darusha Wehm is the three-time Parsec Award shortlisted author of the novels Beautiful Red, Self Made, Act of Will andThe Beauty of Our Weapons. Her next novel, Children of Arkadia (Bundoran Press), will be released April 28, 2015. She is the editor of the crime and mystery magazine Plan B.
She is from Canada, but currently lives in Wellington, New Zealand after spending the past several years traveling at sea on her sailboat. For more information, visit


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