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More From Moving from Idea to Draft

Photograph of a discarded dolphin toy.
Discovered in San Francisco on morning.
Having finished up the big April projects, one of the main things I want to get accomplished this month is getting the on-demand version of the Moving From Idea to Draft online writing class up along with the existing on-demand classes.

This has proven a somewhat monumental task, because the needs of the on-demand version are very different than those of the live class. In the live workshops, which are limited to eight students, everyone comes in with a two-three sentence description of their idea, and we work from there, adapting the material to what they’ve brought into class.

For the on-demand version, I started by trying to identify all the different ways there are into a story, a number that fluctuates in the realm of two dozen, depending on how finely I want to draw distinctions.

What I’ve done with each possible path is identify what it is, what it gives you as a starting point, things you will want to consider, possible pitfalls, next steps for fleshing it out, and a set of exercises (with basic and overachievers’ versions) to help explore the starting point. I finish, in what I am still worried may be an excessively egotistic move, by providing a story of mine that started in that way and some notes on its development from the starting point.

Here’s a recently finished example from the section on beginning with various fragments, specifically where to go when all you have is a scene and you’re not sure where it goes in the story (as opposed to knowing the beginning or ending of the story, which I cover separately).

What it is:

A scene is usually a moment in time that has come to you. It usually has strong visual elements, and something is usually happening, such as a battle, or has just happened in it (a battlefield after the fighting is done). It is probably something that would appear at a significant moment of a story and not be peripheral to it.

What it gives you:

  • Everything but the plot. But actually, that’s not true. What is the main source of tension in the scene, what is the conflict that is driving things? That is probably a version of the overall plot.
  • A scene gives you a strong slice of the world and all that is implicit in that, including history and culture.
  • If characters are included in your scene, they are usually doing or have just done something more purposeful than just milling about. You have some sense of their occupation, their economic circumstances, and often some nuances of their relationship.

What you need to think about:

  • Why would this scene matter? As noted earlier, it’s something that is significant to the story. Does it appear near the beginning and spark things into motion, or does it appear at the end and sum up the action of the story?
  • What are the circumstances behind the scene? If it’s a visual splendor, there is usually some technology or magic underlying it and creating it.
  • What is the context in which it’s being viewed? Who is seeing it and why are they there?
  • What is striking about the image to you and how can you best convey that to a reader?

photo of a beachPossible pitfalls:

  • Is your scene just some sort of natural vista? That’s going to be hard to develop something from. In that case, think about what might make that vista unusual or unexpected.
  • Make it more than just a pretty picture. Something has to happen in a story and moments where there is just description slow narrative down drastically. If the camera is lingering on something, make it something riveting. Use interesting and lively verbs as well as paying attention to sentence length and paragraphing in order to counteract the slowing of the motion.

Possible next steps:

  • Consider the viewpoint. Who is seeing the scene? What is their relationship to it? What do they know about it and what questions do they have about it?
  • Write the accompanying dialogue. What’s being said in the scene, and why does it matter? Who is speaking and why?
  • The moment may be brief or extended; generally the longer it lasts, the more it gives you. Think about what happens immediately before and after the scene that you have; should some of that be included in the story?

Exercises:

  1. Sometimes it’s helpful to expand the idea of the visual. How might you convey this scene in a graphic novel? Write it out as though it were a script. Overachievers: Write the entire story this way.
  2. Describe same scene with two different moods, preferably ones as different from each other as they can be, such as a joyous description of the scene versus a saddened or enraged one. Overachievers: Expand to 3-4 moods and/or combine several moods in a single description.
  3. Construct a mirror scene, a second scene in which many elements of the first are repeated, but different actions take place. Overachievers: Figure out where in the story your scene takes place and put your scene in a spot that would balance it in the story. For example, if your story is at the beginning, create one at the end, or vice versa. (If it falls in the middle, create something at either the beginning or end, but contemplate making the task even more complicated by doing both.)

Case study: Magnificent Pigs

For me the story “Magnificent Pigs” began with an image of its final scene, with the pigs flying away bearing Jilly’s bed into the night. Once I had that, I knew she was important, but also that she was not the protagonist. That would be whoever was watching her fly away into the night, which turned out to be her brother.

“Magnificent Pigs” is a good example of how, once you have a scene, you can begin to accrete details that flesh the story out. I had read about a recent art project that involved tattooing pigs; this became the way that they acquire their wings. A trip to the tattoo parlor with my friend Kris, who was getting a tattoo, lent some details for verisimilitude, and on the way back as we were discussing the story, she told me the anecdote about her mother telling her Charlotte was always alive in the book in order to console her (and gave me permission to use it in the story). To me, that’s a lovely little note, because of course it has a parallel — Jilly will also always be alive in the story.

This is an early story, which appeared in Strange Horizons, and was one of my SFWA qualifying sales. It appeared in audio form on Podcastle and inspired one of my favorite reviews, in which the reviewer talks about driving along with tears streaming down their face because they were listening to this story. That’s a heady thing for a writer and remains something I cherish.

Later edit: the class is now done and available online! Find it here.


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"(On the writing F&SF workshop) Wanted to crow and say thanks: the first story I wrote after taking your class was my very first sale. Coincidence? nah….thanks so much."

~K. Richardson

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Advice on Writing Mentors

Image of French novelist Colette
Colette's husband used to lock her in an attic to force her to write. Don't assume a mentor is going to go that far. You're the only one who determines how productive (or not) you are.
One of the things that sometimes comes up when talking to new writers is the question, “How do I acquire a mentor?” There’s a glazed and desperate look in the eyes of each querier, and sometimes a bit of professional jealousy, because occasionally we see people in positions where we’re not convinced they really should be, and an easy explanation is that a mentor’s personal pull helped get them there.

Well, maybe. But I don’t know that the kind of mentor people are envisioning really happens that often. They’re thinking of a wise, kindly figure who will guide their career through writing advice, secure them spots in anthologies and magazines, and make sure they appear on award ballots.

That’s pretty goddamn rare, and sometimes what one is attributing to the influence of a mentor is actually the writer’s hard work and talent for networking. And networking helps a lot — but it can’t substitute for enough skill to write at the professional level, at least in my opinion.

I do have people who have helped me along, and they’ve been great. I don’t think of any of them in this light, though. They’re people I can go to for the occasional sanity check or word of encouragement, sure. But are they out there sedulously working away on my behalf? No. They have their own careers to build, their own projects to promote, their own words to write.


You can’t just wait for a mentor to arrive. Or even just mail someone and say, “I want you to be my mentor.” You need to a) be writing and b) be getting yourself out there through publications, participation in social networks and message boards, and working with other people. One of the most valuable things I did for myself was agreeing to help edit Fantasy Magazine. Beside teaching me a ton, it brought me in contact with a number of people. I even got to hold a manuscript from Tanith Lee in my hands and email her how excited I was to be publishing something from her.

And take classes, for Pete’s sake. That’s one of the best ways to not just improve your craft, but do a little networking on the side. I tell my students to let me know when they publish something so I can spread it on social networks, although that’s a somewhat self-serving act – it helps me publicize my classes when I’m able to point to people getting published and take some smidgen of unwonted credit for it. 😉

Let’s say you do find a writer who’s further along in their career path than you are, and who seems to be amenable to providing you some guidance. What then? Well, be a good mentee and help them help you. Here are my suggestions for doing so.

  • Be proactive. Don’t limply wait for a mentor to lift you up. A mentor is not an excuse to stop working on your own behalf. Do shit. Look for opportunities to get your name out there, just as you would without a mentor.
  • Be responsive. Answer e-mails. Let them know what you’re up to. Don’t be one of those flakey writers who vanish for months and then reappear with daisies in their hair, acting as though they had never been gone. Don’t let suggestions slide by without acknowledgement.
  • Be appreciative. Say thank you or acknowledge their efforts in other ways. They don’t have a quota of people they need to help each month. Every minute spent helping you is being taken from their own store of work time, and for all of us, that’s a valuable commodity.
  • Listen. If your mentor suggests something, either do it or tell them why you’re not (and have a good rationale for that). (See also: Be responsive.)
  • Be pleasant to work with. Save the cynical or curmudgeonly attitude for elsewhere, and don’t be a sad sack bemoaning your own lack of talent just so you can evoke reassurances. Positivity, cheerfulness, and good humor make for someone who’s pleasant to help – negativity, gloom, and humorlessness make it a discouraging, uphill battle.
  • Be a good sport. A mentor has their own life. And they may have other people they’re helping. In fact, if they’re helping you, they probably do. Don’t act like a jealous sibling if they’re paying attention to someone else.
  • Be a good citizen. It’s never too early to start paying it forward, to helping other new writers publicize their work. Volunteer to read slush or help staff tables at a convention. One of the best ways to promote yourself is by promoting other people, even though that may seem paradoxical.

Enjoy this advice on writing mentors and want more content like it? Check out the classes Cat gives via the Rambo Academy for Wayward Writers, which offers both on-demand and live online writing classes for fantasy and science fiction writers from Cat and other authors, including Ann Leckie, Seanan McGuire, Fran Wilde and other talents! All classes include three free slots.

Prefer to opt for weekly interaction, advice, opportunities to ask questions, and access to the Chez Rambo Discord community and critique group? Check out Cat’s Patreon. Or sample her writing here.

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From the Fathomless Abyss novella in progress

Cover for Tales From The Fathomless Abyss, stories by Mike Resnick & Brad R. Torgersen, Jay Lake, Mel Odom, J.M. McDermott, Cat Rambo, and Philip Athans.
Cover for Tales From The Fathomless Abyss, stories by Mike Resnick & Brad R. Torgersen, Jay Lake, Mel Odom, J.M. McDermott, Cat Rambo, and Philip Athans.
I’m working on a novella set in the world of The Fathomless Abyss, a shared universe project with authors Mike Resnick, Brad R. Torgersen, Jay Lake, Mel Odom, J.M. McDermott, Philip Athans, and myself. We’ve all done stories set in it, and each of us will be producing novellas set there over the course of this year.

If you’re interested in finding more about the oddities of the Fathomless Abyss world, check out the From the Fathomless Abyss anthology, which contains a story of mine that I like very much called “A Querulous Flute of Bone,” a somewhat odd retelling of O. Henry’s short story, “The Pimaloosa Pancakes.”

This project, which will appear as a stand-alone, is a mash-up of William S. Burrough’s Junky and H.P. Lovecraft’s “Dreams in The Witch House,” a story which terrified me as a child. Here’s how it begins:

His earliest memory was fearing the nightmares. He never slept well, all his life, even in that first moment, so long ago he remembered remembering it more than actually remembering it.

Knowing that if he slept, they’d come crawling out from underneath his cot, or spawn in the cavern shadows outside their hut only to come creeping in.

He didn’t remember what the nightmares were. Were they what they would be later, that room, over and over again? Or were they more childish ones, a ghost chasing him around a table, its breath rot-damp, or a fiery lizard curled in the stove’s belly?
The second earliest memory was the couple. Or rather, first the light on his face. They were going Outside, out to the walls of the world and he could see the light ahead of them.

Then, in the shadows, movement, squirming like a worm in a mushroom box, but much larger. Flesh twined with flesh, limbs sliding together slick and naked against the weed-choked rock.

What was that in the woman’s stringy blonde hair? A tiny rat of shadow. Its face was human, pugnacious jaw slung forward, brow pronounced. It looked at him and he nearly pissed himself.

His mother yanking his hand along so he stumbled, nearly fell. He tried to stop her, tried to ask, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes or acknowledge his tugging hand. Her face red in the light as they went onward towards the market Outside.

Later, she said to his father, when she thought him out of earshot, “Shameful junkers! Rutting there beside the path with their dreams frolicking on them where any passerby could see!”

“There ought to be a law,” his father said in a mechanical tone.

Or was that his mind interpreting the memory, ascribing the tone his father always used, the tenor his mother, a thwarted councilwoman, habitually took?

It was the first time he’d seen a junker.

Not even close to the last.

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