Natalia M. Sylvester

The writing software I use makes you press a button labeled “quit” whenever you exit a file. I was reading through some chapters of my novel in progress last night, and I felt like I was reading it through some muddy glasses through which everything looked terrible. I started to feel embarrassed for myself (you know that feeling when you watch a comedian onstage, but he’s really not funny? It’s the uncomfortable embarrassment that’s the worst). I could see strings of weak sentences, clumps of imagery that were just trying too hard. And I began to feel really, really discouraged. It was my “What the hell am I thinking?” moment, the one where you wonder if you’re the only person in the world crazy enough to have faith in yourself, or if you should just join the skeptics and not risk the disappointment of having tried but gotten nowhere.

I decided to step away from the computer, and when I went to close the file, there was the option staring me in the face: Quit. And I thought, “Okay, so I’m being challenged, but I won’t go down that easy.” I clicked the button, knowing I’d reopen it the very next day, and took the rest of the evening (and I admit, some of this morning) to mope and feel sorry for myself (it’s a process, after all). Read the rest of this entry »

The key to giving a great writing critique isn’t pointing out the problems in the work–it’s trying to figure out why they’re happening. Unfortunately, this is easier said than done when you’re dealing with something as fluid as writing.

It’s not like a math problem where you can trace a person’s steps and see where they put in the wrong number. If a character has no character, there’s usually no easy fix. And if the story is just coming off as boring, there’s no easy way to tell a writer that. So can there really be a formula for giving constructive criticism? Read the rest of this entry »

I often hear writers compare their book-in-progress to a baby, to a child they’ve conceived, carried and birthed after months (or years) of labor. They’ve suffered the sleepless nights of typing away at their computer or lying awake wondering what their character will do next, and by the time the first draft is complete they feel an attachment only a parent could for his child, full of unconditional love and pride.

This is where the book/baby metaphor can either go really wrong or really right. Because any parent knows that after you’ve given birth to a child comes the really hard part: raising it right. And after you’ve written that first draft of your novel you need to do the same: revise it right. Read the rest of this entry »