City of Scars, Part 7

Welcome to a brand spanking new serial fiction series, CITY OF SCARS, a dark fantasy tale set in a world plagued by war.  Surprisingly, this series has no connection with my BLOOD SKIES novels, save for a few shared inspirations.  It’s also going to be long as hell, so take a seat and strap in: the war is on!

CITY OF SCARS

Part 7

“I want to go home,” Corgan said to Judah, and he regretted it almost instantly.  That wasn’t something to be said in front of his men.  “She has to die,” he said.  “Otherwise, it will just start all over again.  Sooner or later, she’ll win.”  He poured some water out of his flask and splashed it onto his face.  Even his canteen water smelled foul and old, but at least it kept him awake.

“You’re doing the right thing,” Judah said stoically.  His voice almost sounded approving.  Almost.  “The men will do their best.  They’re tired, they’re afraid, and they have their doubts, but they’re only human.  And that’s what this is all about.”

Judah quickened his pace, and left Corgan alone.

Corgan dreamed while he walked.  Images flashed before his raw and crusted eyes and stood side by side with the mind-numbing monotony of the Heartfang Wastes, where he marched towards certain doom.

He saw Ral Tanneth, much more splendid and perfect in his mind than it had ever had been in real life.  The waters of the Gray Sea made soft collisions on the shore beneath the veil of mists, and gossamer birds floated up, straight as arrows sent into the sky.  The city’s domed rooftops and arched bridges, many of which ran between the tower-like buildings, were pristine, free of any cracks or tears.  People wound their way through the clear streets, robed and quiet and content, and Corgan even smelled the blackberries and heard the music of strings and felt the warm hand of the sun on his face.  In his mind, that was how Ral Tanneth had been, before the War.

Corgan had been different, too.  He saw a younger version of himself walking there in the stygian wastes.  This younger Corgan had a full head of black hair, a strong and proud posture, and his face was chiseled and clean-shaven.  What a sight he must have been now.  Corgan hadn’t shaved in months, and he bore several ugly scars.  Though he’d not looked in a mirror since well before the Company had departed Savan Karosh, Corgan felt the difference in himself.  He saw it in the others, as well, especially Merrick, who’d once shone so bright he might have been chiseled from the sun, but who now held the look of someone who tried not to see what lay directly ahead, whose eyes always reached out to something that wasn’t there.

Corgan had been in love once, to Tyrene, a girl from a small village somewhere north of Tulan Lei.  At least it felt like love, but they’d never really said the words.  They’d just spent whatever time they could together, which was difficult with Corgan’s constant duties, but they made what time they had count: they sat by the stream, made love in inns or by the river, walked long walks and talked of little things.  Goddess, he missed her.  He’d not seen Tyrene since the war began, and that had been nearly a decade ago.

Corgan silently damned the Blood Queen, with her cabals and her armies and her monsters.  Jlantria and Den’nar might have won only a temporary victory over her demonic brood, but it was a victory nonetheless.

He just prayed he’d live long enough to see her die.

City of Scars, Part 6

Welcome to a brand spanking new serial fiction series, CITY OF SCARS, a dark fantasy tale set in a world plagued by war.  Surprisingly, this series has no connection with my BLOOD SKIES novels, save for a few shared inspirations.  It’s also going to be long as hell, so take a seat and strap in: the war is on!

CITY OF SCARS

Part 6

Merrick looked ahead.  He didn’t speak for some time.

“I don’t think we’ll be much use at Chul Gaerog, Sir,” he said, almost in a whisper.  “I don’t want to go back, no more than anyone else, but…”  Merrick stared back at the ground again, and marched.

Corgan knew the lad was right about them being useless, but who wasn’t useless now?  Granted, Corgan hoped the other Companies hadn’t suffered the casualties his had.  His men had been ambushed, cut off and separated from the rest of the White Dragon Army, and they were all but stranded there in the Wastes.  There was little help for Silver Company now.  And yet he never considered turning back: to do so would be treason, not to mention blasphemy.  The Empress wouldn’t take kindly to her orders being disobeyed, but Corgan could never bring himself to disobey her in the first place.  She was the avatar of the One Goddess, deific power made flesh.

What horrors he’d seen.  Men who shot fire from their eyes; heads ripped from their bodies with little more than a whispered curse from a black warlock; war machines fueled by dark magic.  Everyone had heard tales of foul Arkan sorcery that swallowed up towns, Tuscar war beasts that were bigger than sea galleons, and cruel Drujian siege fortresses constructed in secret beneath human cities.  Corgan believed every one of those tales as surely as he believed in the One Goddess herself, for he had seen proof of many of them, and things much worse.  Somehow, the united forces of Jlantria and Den’nar had held their ground against the Blood Queen’s invading hordes out of the west while they also contended with her Sethian allies to the east.  After nearly a decade of fighting, they’d finally managed to drive the Blood Queen’s forces back into the Heartfang Wastes.  There was still hope.

It’s just hard to believe it when you’re walking through this.

“Our options are limited,” Corgan said, his eyes held straight ahead.  “It’s almost over.  There’s no way to know how anyone will fare at Chul Gaerog.”

I just know that we have to try.

A low howl rang out from the horizon.  Dripping clouds hung low in the sky.  They waited, walked in silence.  Another howl came, and then another.

Silver Company marched on, their eyes glazed, their feet as heavy as stones.  After a while, Corgan quickened his pace and distanced himself from his men.  His back was stiff, and his legs ached.  Every fiber of muscle and tissue in his body begged for rest.  He watched the muddy and ebon landscape.  A throbbing red sky.  Dark patches of cloud that followed them like malevolent ravens.  The smell of old meat.  The aching sun.  The need for sleep.  The sight of his men, shuffling along, holding their blades like they didn’t know how to use them.  Corgan moved through the nightmare with grim resolve.  There was, after all, no way to wake up.

Judah came up beside him.  Corgan hadn’t seen him approach, but he rarely did.  Judah’s face betrayed no emotion, and of all of the men of Silver Company he showed the least signs of pain or fatigue.  He seemed a bit thinner than when he’d first joined Corgan’s force, but aside from that he appeared no worse for wear.  The Den’nari were like that.  Their soft words and mystic ways concealed what hard people they truly were.

“We don’t have anywhere else to go,” Corgan said, so quiet he wasn’t sure if Judah heard him, but the man nodded.  “We won’t make it out of the Wastes.  We’re too far in.  I was hoping we’d run into some of the other Companies by now…”  Corgan ran his gloved hand over his face.  He had to stay awake, stay alert.  “Maybe we’re the only ones left,” he laughed.

“I doubt that,” Judah said.

“It was a joke,” Corgan sighed.

“It wasn’t funny.”

That almost made Corgan laugh.

Exploring Critiques

Let’s face it. Going onto an online writing workshop (AKA critiquing site) is a little like walking across a minefield. There is a chance you can walk through it unscathed, but in reality, the likelihood of losing life or limb to an explosion is pretty high.

However, when it comes to writing, it isn’t the physical damage that will get you, but the emotional damage.

People talk about growing ‘thick skin’ when it comes to writing. That you need to somehow, magically, without any training whatsoever, learn how to handle constructive (or not!!) criticism.

This post will be a long one. If you’re interested in learning how I give a serious, honest critique, I implore you to pull up a chair and grab a drink. If you’re looking for instant gratification or you think you’re above improvement, you might find one of the other blogger’s posts to be more interesting.

I am going to start at the beginning. Once, long ago, there was a girl who didn’t like to read or write. Playing outside in the grass, running through the trees, and playing american football was much more interesting. One day, a clever teacher got the idea to not force literature books on an unsuspecting fourth grader, but rather a fantasy novel. (Well, more science fiction, but I digress.)

Madeline L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time created a monster. Me, to be exact. Sports and playing outside in the woods quickly made way for books. Lots, and lots of books. At one point, I was bringing home 16 or so different titles from the library every week and devouring them all. If the local used bookstore had stock, I should have bought it, because my book exchanges were done by the sports bag load.

Reading played a critical role in my writing. But, I was reading for pleasure. Writers need to read. A good foundation of writing is based off of reading. You can’t learn to write well unless you’re reading a lot of material. Not all writers read while they’re actively writing, but the foundation of having read a lot of books should be in place.

But, that could be another post all on its own, so I’m going to go back to the story of how I started getting into critiquing.

I don’t think I started to actually trying writing anything until I was in 6th grade or so. I drew picture books as my imagination ran wild. By this, I mean, I drew pictures and thought up stories in my head to go with them. I never wrote down the text, but the process was happening in my skull.

I received my first critique in high school. I thought I was all that and a cup of coffee, so I went to a writing workshop for genre fiction. I uploaded my piece, and started trolling for people to read it.

My mine field was fully armed, activated, and my first step had explosive results. While I don’t remember the exact specifics,  it went something like this:

You write with passive voice. There is no action, the characters are boring. You use nothing but run on sentences, there are more spelling errors than I’m going to be bothered with mentioning. Everything you do is telling…

… it went on from there. I can’t quote the exact words, since I lost the original critique due to time, changed computers, and a move from the United States to Canada, but I’m pretty sure the stench of burned tail feathers wafted up and down the East Coast for at least a week.

My reactions were childish. I threw a temper tantrum. Granted, I did, somehow, manage to do it in private. Somehow. I was brought up well by my mother, so I even managed to thank the person.

I sure didn’t mean it back then, but I did thank them anyway.

That was about the same time I fell into a pretty common trap. Obviously, my genius was misunderstood. How could this person not recognize how awesome I was?!

I didn’t make for a good flamer. I don’t think I managed to write a single mean critique. I’m too honest. Back then, I was too kind. My first few critiques were several lines each, stating some mumbled jumble about how I liked their book, but I thought this might be improved. Good luck. You know, the usual.

The lofty goal of the lengthy critique was far, far away.

One of my problems was I was just too kind. I didn’t want to say anything that would upset someone like I had been upset. I remember all too well the feeling of self-loathing I endured as I realized my writing wasn’t ready for publication. I remember too well acknowledging that my dream of entertaining people wasn’t right around the corner.

I didn’t want to shatter that for anyone else. But, from that one, flaming critique that left me singed and burned, I also (eventually) found that I wanted — really wanted — to move forward.

It wasn’t until after I graduated high school that I was able to start writing serious critiques. There were two mindsets that I went through, with the haphazard place between.

The first mindset was to critique in order to be critiqued. All I wanted was the return feedback.

The second mindset was how can I improve my writing from critiquing others?

The middle ground between the two was a very confusing place because I wanted both and had no idea how to get there. In a way, I still want both. I want to improve my writing and I want to know how others think I can improve my writing.

I want to step on those landmines.

The shift was a subtle thing. I don’t remember the exact moment I started putting so much effort into my critiques. However, I do remember the moment where I realized that my own writing was improving. I couldn’t figure it out. I wasn’t writing any differently. I sat down, put my fingers to the keyboard (or on the pen) and I wrote. I didn’t do anything special. I was just writing.

Just like always.

But, the critiques I was receiving started to change. There were more things that people liked than they didn’t like. The lengthy line-edit critiques coupled with grammar lessons started to decrease. Instead, I was getting plot comments, characterization comments, comments that only come up when the writing has improved but the other underlying skills still need work.

I am convinced it wasn’t practicing writing that helped me improve.

It was the critiquing. It started with receiving an honest, brutal critique. By brutal, I mean ‘no consideration to the personal feelings of the author’. My book wasn’t me. The critiquer knew that, and kept it all on the book. It hurt me because it was my pride that was being critiqued, but that didn’t matter to the person who wrote it.

It was never about me anyway. Your book is not you.

Once I accepted that, I was able to take a big step forward. I was able to start looking at the writing of others in a new light. I was able to tear into a book, and be honest about the problems I perceived. I was able to try to be objective. By this, I mean that I considered things like writing style, but I also considered how I felt when I was reading. If the writing style hurt my ability to enjoy the story, I had no problems with poking at it.

But, the biggest thing that helped me improve was that I didn’t just point out what I felt could need improvement, I recommended ways to correct the problem.

The issue I had was that original first critique only pointed out the problems. They didn’t offer any solutions to the problems. I was expected (and rightly so!!) to figure it out on my own.

I’m not really all that clever like that. This was hard for me. So, once I was determined to improve myself, I wanted to give others the chance to endure the same sort of thing I did… but this time, I didn’t want to leave them in the dark. I wanted to be able to offer suggestions on how it could be improved.

This is speculation on my part, but I think it worked out for me because I did this. By making suggestions on how to improve others, I started to see how these suggestions applied to my own writing. I started to unconsciously implement these changes in my own books.

I learned through critiquing, by being critical and viewing the book as though I were an editor or a teacher working with a student. However, I was teaching myself at the same time. It is like doing math homework. You might understand the concept in class, but until you work through the problems, you can’t figure out how to apply the formulas you’ve been taught.

At first, there were things I was better at doing. I always had an easier time with plot issues, so I focused on that. Over time, I got braver, and started commenting on things like grammar. (Confirming the rules and making sure I could write examples that were better than the one I was trying to improve!)

This took time and it was tedious, but it worked. My writing kept improving.

It keeps improving.

This wasn’t a short process. I’m still doing it. If you want to learn to critique, you need to be critical. Here are a few tips I can think of off of the top of my head to help with improving your critiquing skills.

1. Your critique is your opinion, not fact. Treat it accordingly. When you present issues, use ‘in my opinion’ or ‘I feel’. It really does help lessen the blows a little.
2. Be thorough. If something bothers you, say what it is. Make a suggestion to improve it. Give an example if appropriate.
3. If you start to skim, mark down where you caught yourself doing it. See #2.
4. if you can’t think of something nice to say, you’re the problem. That’s right, I went there. If you can’t think of something nice to say, you’re riding a high horse. No story is not without something good about it. If you can’t find the strengths, you aren’t looking hard enough. Always include the strengths of a writer, even if they’re fledgling. It gives them something to focus on. Don’t be afraid to go ‘You’re really good at this, if you manage to improve $this, $that, or $this, I think you’ll be able to make this a good foundation of your writing. You can present strengths while still suggesting ways to improve those strengths.
5. Take your words to heart. Never make a suggestion you aren’t willing to use yourself. Even if you’re struggling on something yourself, there is no reason you can’t make suggestions to others to improve it… if it makes you feel better, admit it is a weakness you also have. I know I’ve admitted my flaws during critiques often enough. Why would I do this? It is because I know I feel better when I know that others are struggling with the same problems I am struggling with.
6. Be patient. If you leave a thorough critique, don’t be surprised if the person comes back and asks if you’d take a look again in the future after revisions. I’ve done this several times, and it is very rewarding. It is a little like watching a rose bloom right in front of you. If the writer really wants to improve, you’ll see the difference immediately.
7. I struggle with this one, but try not to defend yourself or your critique. If they don’t like it, it isn’t like their refusal to accept your critique actually hurts you. Its hardest to do this when on the receiving end of the critique. If in doubt, say thank you and tell them you’ll consider their thoughts during edits. It’s true and it’s safe. It is also a polite way to acknowledge the hard work someone put in. Sometimes I will clarify things with the quantifier that I’ll be working the edits in but I wanted to answer a question (or questions) they had.

That is pretty much how I handle critiquing and how I got to this point. I hope that this is of use to you!

 

Plagiarism Isn’t Cool. Tell Your Kids.

Plagiarism. Even the word feels evil.

Today we’ll be taking a look at plagiarism, largely in part to the debacle involving The Story Siren.

We’ve all learned about plagiarism in school, so I won’t bother defining it for you. We all know it’s wrong and on many different levels. When you plagiarize, you not only hurt the person you stole from, you hurt the people who trusted you. You hurt yourself. Why, then, is plagiarism so prevalent?

Laziness is one reason. It’s easier to lift someone else’s work than it is to create your own. When you have something to say on a topic, but someone else has already said what you wanted to say, possibly done so in a more coherent fashion than you feel yourself capable of doing, then it’s a strong temptation to just copy and paste. Then you can roll around in the adoration of others as they marvel at your content, never knowing their compliments should be directed elsewhere.

This leads into the second reason: I-Won’t-Get-Caught Syndrome. A lot of people have this thought cross their mind. Theft is theft though, and sooner or later, misdeeds do catch up with you. I’m not sure why people believe they can get away with anything in this day and age. It might take a few days, weeks, or even months, but eventually you’ll get caught. Haven’t you ever watched CSI? Geez.

If I’ve plagiarized, how do I address this massive fuck-up, you ask?

Apologize. Do not make up excuses for what you did. “I’m sorry, but…” is not the way to apologize to the people you plagiarized, to the people you’ve inevitably hurt by breaking their trust, and to yourself.

It’s hard to admit when you’ve made a mistake, and it’s even harder to apologize. It’s something that has to be done if you have any shred of self-respect, and want to show everyone that you truly lament your actions.

People may not forgive you. You know what? Don’t expect them to. They’ve been hurt and they feel betrayed. It’s not something that’s easy to rebound back from. Apologizing isn’t about being forgiven and feeling better about what you did. It’s about making amends.

And please. If you apologize and people don’t instantly fall all over themselves to forgive you, don’t insult them. It was never about you, don’t try and turn it into that. Apologizing is about trying to heal the harm you did. Remember that.

False accusations are almost as bad as the act of plagiarism itself.

While this doesn’t directly relate to the reason behind today’s topic, I thought it deserved mention. Just as plagiarism happens, so do false accusations. How do I know? Its happened to me.

There are unstable people in the world. Whether they have conditions that have yet to be diagnosed, or they just genuinely hate your guts, people do cruel things with the intent of slandering your name and harming you.

Once upon a time I ran a play-by-post roleplay forum that I had created. For those people who don’t know much about the world of roleplay, it basically means I created a fantasy world where writers congregated and collaboratively told stories together. There was a person I knew from another forum because she was one of the moderators. She wasn’t a very nice person, and even kept a blog on the site itself where she publicly bashed members on a regular basis.

This didn’t set well with me, and after contacting the administrators and bringing this to their attention, she was eventually removed from her position. She went on to create her own site, where her and her friends could write together and go on being unpleasant.

A few months later, it is brought to my attention that both me and my site are being publicly bashed for plagiarism. Against her. Whose site was created two years after mine. Are you doing the math? It doesn’t add up, does it? Unless I had suddenly developed the power to see into the future and read minds, me plagiarizing her was impossible.

It hurt though. I was being called nasty things and the people reading her blog gobbled it up without fact-checking. They didn’t bother to go discover whether what she was saying was true or not. They trusted her and that was good enough for them. So suddenly I was an evil person, without ever having done anything.

I wish I could give you a happy ending to this story, but I can’t. I can give you a moral of this story type deal, however: don’t point fingers and slander other people in an attempt to cover your own tracks.

It’s almost as bad as the act of plagiarizing itself.

Do you have any thoughts on plagiarism? Do you have any horror stories of your own? Have you ever plagiarized, and if so, how did you address your wrongdoing? Hop into the comments section. We love hearing from you. As always, if you found this topic interesting or useful, please give it a retweet!

City of Scars, Part 5

Welcome to a brand spanking new serial fiction series, CITY OF SCARS, a dark fantasy tale set in a world plagued by war.  Surprisingly, this series has no connection with my BLOOD SKIES novels, save for a few shared inspirations.  It’s also going to be long as hell, so take a seat and strap in: the war is on!

CITY OF SCARS

Part 5

Even after the rain stopped, Corgan felt its touch.  It had pierced to his core like slivers of blood ice.

Goddess, I miss home.

Even though the Company made haste to escape the Vampire Mists, several of Corgan’s men were still infected by its blighted touch. Four soldiers died by midday, and two more were too weak from the Mist’s blood-draining sickness to continue on foot.  There was no one to properly care for the dying men, since the Company surgeon, Mavalth, had died several days before, and the Mists had just killed Krage, the only other man with medical expertise. The Company had only a handful of horses left, which they used to transport their meager supplies.  Regardless, Corgan ordered that two of the mounts be used to carry the weakened soldiers, Carak and Turvan, both from the city of Grath.  Everyone continued on foot.  No one complained.  They knew the loss of the horses was only temporary.

The landscape of the Heartfang Wastes never changed. It was almost impossible to even determine the time of day.  The sun was a stain in a wounded sky.  The rain had stopped, and the land the Company trod upon was as dry as parchment.  Without the rain, the rot stench grew stronger. It didn’t remind Corgan of bodies anymore, but bad eggs.

Four more soldiers were dead, then, and two more would follow shortly.  They were down to fifty-one men from over nine hundred, and they still had an eternity to travel.

“Sir?” Apart from the monotonous crunch of hard boots on cracked earth, Merrick’s voice was the first sound Corgan heard in over an hour.  Merrick looked pale.  They all did – Corgan certainly had no desire to see his own reflection.  He probably looked worse than any of his men.  “Sir,” Merrick said again, “I hate to ask this, but…where are we going?”

Something like dread crept up Corgan’s spine.

“Chul Gaerog.”

“Sir…” Merrick said, hesitant.  He was a big man, but he spoke softly, and he often stammered his way through sentences rather than speaking them.  “Do we have enough men to do that?  We lost most of the Company back at The Throat, and since then…”  It was actually strange, Corgan realized, for Merrick to talk this much.

“We’re going to Chul Gaerog,” Corgan said plainly.

“Sir…”

“Enough ‘Sir’, all right? Call me Drage.  Or Corgan.”  Corgan noticed a few of the other men slow their pace to look in his and Merrick’s direction, but they carried on nervously when he fixed them with a stare.

“Drage…Sir…”  Merrick took a deep, angry breath, and when he looked up at Corgan his expression had changed from uncertain to determined.  “You know we’ll be slaughtered at Chul Gaerog… we can’t even get across the Wastes without losing most of our men.  And Judag said the Vampire Mists disease might spread…”

“Are you suggesting we go back?” Corgan asked, his voice quiet.  “Let me illuminate a certain reality to you, son: we won’t make it back.  We’re a week’s march from the edge of the Wastes, no matter what direction we travel in, and we’re only two or three days travel from Chul Gaerog.  Chul Gaerog is where everyone else in this Goddess-forsaken war is going.”  We go back and die slowly, or press on and die quickly.  “I’m not required to explain things to you, and it isn’t your place to ask.  But know this: we don’t have the food or the strength to get back to Sovan Karosh, or even Urag Kesh.  And we can’t wait things out.  We just can’t.”

R.I.P. Jean Craighead George

I feel like I should be writing about, well, writing, but today, I thought I would take the time to talk about the people who write books that change lives and leave cherished memories.

Today is my birthday. Yesterday, Jean Craighead George died.

It made me think about beginnings and endings.

For those of you who are not aware of who she is, George wrote My Side of the Mountain and Julie of the Wolves. My Side of the Mountain, in particular, was one of my quiet favorites. I can’t remember just how many times I’ve read the book, but it was one I enjoyed. It wasn’t a book I talked often about, which is why I refer to it as quiet. Perhaps it didn’t always stand out in my mind like Madeline L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time, but it was one I always did cherish.

This year has been rough for the lovers of books. Here is a list of authors who should be remembered for books that changed lives.

Particularly the lives of children.

These are only a few of the authors. There are many more. A shocking number, actually. I counted at least 30 novelists, journalists, and authors who died in 2012 so far, but these were names I recognized.

• May 15, 2012: Jean Craighead George
• May 8, 2012: Maurice Sendak
• April 18, 2012: K.D. Wentworth
• April 17, 2012: Leila Berg
• March 16, 2012: M.A.R. Barker
• February 3, 2012: Sam Youd

One of my personal favorites, Anne McCaffrey, also died recently.

If you want the legacy of your favorite authors who are no longer living to live on, buy one of their books and give it to someone.

That way, their legacy will never truly disappear.

Organizing That Mess Of Post-It Notes You Call Research

We writers are a wild and varied bunch. From the crooning call of the Poeticus, to the mad snarls of the Novelistraptus, everyone has their own way of approaching the chaos that is writing.

I’m not here to judge you, but you should know that sticking post-it notes all over the shower curtain (what? you don’t write while in the bathroom?) may not be working in your favor. Aside from running the risk of washing away all of your uber awesome plots you’ve been brainstorming, there really does need to be some rhyme and reason to what you’re doing.

This is certainly not a plotter vs. pantser argument. This is about organizing the information relevant to your work. Have you ever read a book where a character’s eyes are blue in chapter one, and then in chapter ten they’re magically green–and not because of jealousy! This is a byproduct of poor organization.

Keeping every bit of information classified and tidily tucked away can be a daunting task. Especially if you didn’t start doing it from Day One. Trust me when I say it is in your own best interest that you have documents set up for characters, locations, religions, governments and organizations, etc. The more you catalog about the setting you’re writing in, the more you’ll have to fall back on when you’re halfway through your novel and inevitably forget an important detail.

While I can’t tell you how to go about organizing the information relevant to your present WIP, I can give you a glimpse into just how I do. First, I create a folder on my desktop that is named the title of the WIP. Next, I create a sub-folder titled Characters. This is where I stow away all my character sheets. Click here for an example of one of my character sheets!

From there I create another sub-folder titled Setting Information. Within this folder I group all documents relevant to the setting, such as Magic, Locations, Religion, Society, and so on forth. While it isn’t very nice to the trees, I print out all of this as well, and store it inside a three-ring binder that is completely dedicated to that WIP. I find it easier at times to leaf through pages to find what I want to know, rather than opening up a million different documents on my laptop and dealing with lag.

Otherwise, within the main folder, all of my chapters for the WIP go. Yes, I have a separate document for each chapter (I have critique partners that I send chapters off to each week, so it’s sort of a necessary thing). I also have a separate document that gives a one or two sentence summary of each chapter. I use this Outline, which I map out as I go, to help me find a specific chapter I’m thinking of to go back and edit in or out a scene. Also, this Outline will be remarkably useful in crafting a synopsis and query letter once the novel is finished.

It may be more work along the way, but putting all this extra effort will pay off in the end. Trust me.

How do you organize your notes for your WIP? Tell us! We love hearing from you. If you found this article useful or interesting, please give it a RT. Thanks for stopping by!