Category Archives: fiction editors

I Am Thankful for Mistakes

by Sherry Wilson

I am Thankful for Mistakes
This week as we give thanks for all of the wonderful things in our lives and celebrate with family and friends, I started to think about my writing life. More particularly about how my writing life might be improved—how all of our careers might be improved—by an attitude of gratitude.

Throughout school we learn to write, so by the time we graduate, we figure we have a pretty good idea of how to write. But do we really? The shift between school and a professional level of writing is like the difference between school band and a professional music career. In both cases, there is room to grow, to learn, to get better.

I think it’s when we forget about this quest that things become more difficult for us as writers. We need to give ourselves permission to relax a little and enjoy the process. I mean, if you decided you wanted to play an instrument and you signed yourself up for piano lessons, you wouldn’t expect to play like Glenn Gould next week—or even next year, for that matter. You would practice. You’d put in your hours. You wouldn’t do it because you thought you’d be able to play like Glenn Gould. You’d do it for the fun of it. Because, while learning a new instrument is work, it’s also fun. That’s why we call it playing an instrument. But we expect much more of ourselves as beginning writers. We expect to write like Hemingway, or Bradbury, or Stephen King. But what we should do is just relax, play around with the words and the ideas, and make mistakes—lots and lots of mistakes. Try writing it one way and if you don’t like the results, then try something else. Make the mistakes. Learn your strengths and your weaknesses. Find your own, unique voice.

We need to give ourselves the gift of allowing ourselves to make mistakes—without judgment. I mean, you don’t judge every wrong note you play when you learn the saxophone. If you put yourself down every time you make a squeak, you’ll never learn to play. Just notice the mistakes and keep going. Next time through, try writing it a different way. What works? What doesn’t? Why? Do you see just how large this gift is? When you are able to separate yourself, the person, from the written work, you’ll learn so much from those precious mistakes. And you can be thankful for the mistakes because they bring you so much closer to the writer you want to be.

In order to be a great writer, of course, or any writer at all, for that matter, we have to put in our time—pay our dues and practice. We have to sit our butts in our chairs and write. Like the cellist who will never get better without taking the time to play, the writer will never improve if he doesn’t do the work. No amount of talking about being a writer or critiquing or reading will get you there. It’s all about the hours in the chair. 

One good side effect of this, though—regular hours in the chair lets the muse know where and when to show up.

Besides spending the time writing, I’ve learned that when gratitude becomes a daily focus, amazing things start to happen. I’ve seen this in my own life over the past couple of years. So now I want to extend this to my writing career. But what do I mean? How do you do it?

  • Make a list of the things you love about writing. Why do you do it? Why did you start writing? What makes you keep going? What parts do you absolutely love about the process?
  • Pick three things that you are most thankful for in your writing life. What are the three best things about the act of writing?
  • Write these three things on a piece of paper and tack it to your monitor where you will see it every day.
  • Get a stone, ring, necklace or some other symbol that you can carry with you throughout the day. Every time you touch this object, think about how grateful you are for your writing career. Close your eyes for a moment and think about what makes you happy. Maybe it’s that feeling when the words just pour out onto the page and you feel like they’re coming from a different place—like you’ve tapped into something bigger than yourself. Imagine yourself writing, the words just flowing through you. Let yourself feel the euphoria. Experience it as if it were real and happening to you whenever you touch the object. Get into the habit of doing this several times a day. At best your writing will flow better. At worst, you will spend several minutes a day feeling truly happy and content with your life.

So what’s it going to be? You can go through your writing journey feeling like you’ll never get anywhere—you’ll never be one of the greats—you’ll never find that one right story when all the planets align and something like Harry Potter will fall into your lap or pop into your head while you’re riding a train. You can count all the reasons you aren’t as good as some famous writer. Or you can spend your time feeling good about all you’ve learned and the progress you’ve made. You can be happy that you had a good session yesterday and confident that you will again tomorrow. You can enjoy the process.

The top three things that I’m grateful for:

  • All of my wonderful writing friends—those who critique my work, those who argue with me for hours over comma usage, and those who just let me vent when I’m having a bad day. Yes, these friends are any writer’s greatest asset and I’m forever grateful for my writing buddies.
  • Unfinished projects—even if my time is limited and I struggle to find time to work on my own projects, I’m so grateful they sit there waiting for me. My characters are so patient. They only occasionally wake me up during the night and prod me to get back to work.
  • Those brief moments of flow when the words just pour out onto the page. It’s as if the story is writing itself right in front of me. I cherish each moment and live for the next one.


Let’s all give gratitude a try and see what happens. I don’t know what will come of it, but what harm could it do? Let’s spend the next year working on improving our attitude of gratitude and see where we are next year.  

The Most Important Sentence

by Charlotte Firbank-King
editor, writer, illustrator
The most important sentence you’ll ever write is the first line of your book or novel. There’s nothing easy about writing that first line—but many times, that line will decide if the reader will continue reading or not. Here’s what that first line must do:
Hook the reader
Here is an example of an opening line—the hook:
The captain stood on the deck of his ship in torpid heat, slowly whipping his wife.
This was an example given to me years ago by a publisher, and I use it all the time. A number of things cause the reader to want to read on—things that hook them.
1) What era is it?
2) Torpid heat? Where is it happening?
3) Why is the captain whipping his wife? More curiously, why is he whipping her slowly?
The reader wants these things answered. They are almost compelled to read on. Hook your reader in one or two sentences. 
Hit the ground running
The first line is the most important part, next the paragraph, then the first page, but having said that, if the first five pages aren’t fantastic you will lose the reader. Most certainly, you will lose the publisher or agent. They’re very busy and can tell in the first paragraph if they want you or not. Then they are more convinced if the first page is great. However, that interest wanes rapidly if the second page doesn’t deliver, but they will probably forge on for another page. After that, if you don’t continue to deliver, it’s all downhill and your manuscript ends up on the slush pile.
The opening paragraph doesn’t have to be a mother throwing her ten children into shark infested water—tempting as the thought might be when your brood is that big—but it does have to grab the reader’s attention and hold it.
Smaller hooks at the ends of chapters.
You want your reader to keep turning pages, so end each chapter with a hook that will drag them to the next one. After a gut-wrenching chapter the protagonist finally makes it to safety. You slow the pace, bring the reader down until they are ready to fall asleep and read another day. But then you drag them right back into the action. They must read on.
Emma sagged to the floor in lifeless air, safe at last. Then a door snicked open and icy fingers caressed her neck. End of chapter. A bit dramatic, but you get the picture. You could drag it out and switch to another character in the next chapter, but you might piss your reader off, so choose your moments with care.
Four examples of opening lines:
The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed. (Stephen King, The Gunslinger.)
It was the best of times, it was the worst of time, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair. (Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.)
They shot the white girl first. (Toni Morrison, Paradise.)
Lolita, the light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. (Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita.)
Examples of first paragraphs/lines from our editors
Our team of editors is immensely versatile and talented. The nature of their job requires them to work in different genres, which they do with amazing ease and skill. Although our editors can work in multiple genres, they can’t work in every genre, which is why IFW needs editors versed in various genres. On a personal level, they each write in their preferred genre.
Sandy Tritt, short story, “Cousin Mary”:
What is the truth? And is the truth always more honest than fabrication? More noble? I don’t know. It makes my head hurt. But here I sit at the Crystal Cafe, waiting for my sisters. Stuffed inside my purse is the truth. The real truth. And I have just a few minutes to decide if I will reveal it.

Jimmy Carl Harris, “I Come to the Garden Alone,” the first story in his short story collection, Wounds that Bind:
 I buried you next to him.

Jessica Murphy, “Nature’s Conscience”:
 I awoke with a sharp pain in my back, sprawled across what felt like cables.
Sandi Rog, Yahshua’s Bridge:
 Alexander held his breath as the man he’d never called Daddy forced him underwater.
Patsy Evans Pittman, Blood Kin & Other Strangers:
Deena stood in the kitchen of the house where she grew up, giving the creamed tomatoes one last stir. It was hot as blazes and the window air-conditioner in the dining room didn’t help much. She blew the fringe of bangs out of her eyes, then swiped at the sweat on her upper lip with the sleeve of her over-sized WVU tee shirt.

Sherry Wilson, Second Beginning:
The cameras flashed as Danielle stepped out of the limo, her sights on the entrance of the Royal Albert Hall. The paparazzi swarmed around her like killer bees and she longed for a cloak of invisibility, if only for the short trip to the doors.

Rhonda White, Good Friends. Read the rest at Steel Toe Review: Contemporary Southern Arts & Literature – http://steeltoereview.com/2013/09/16/good-friends-by-rhonda-browning-white/:
She has a great body, my friend does, I’ll give her that. And I have no problem telling you she’s at least ten years younger than I am, and looks it.

C.F. King, All Things Carnal:
Thomas Gantry wore tolerance like a hair shirt, with grim determination. Daily, he did penance for Man’s sins. Self-flagellation was his redemption, and joy his nemesis.
As you can see, it’s important to start your story with a line that makes people want to read on. If you’re having trouble with this, let us know. We can help.
© 2013. Charlotte Firbank King. All Rights Reserved.