I know I’m going to reject a story before I hit the end of the first page. The more slush I read, the more I find that I know by the end of the first sentence. I will often continue reading in order to give personal feedback, but in a lot of cases, that is the only reason I’ve kept reading.

I can’t count the number of times that I’ve heard people say things like, “You only have two paragraphs to impress the editor.”

Or, “The beginning of your story needs to be the best part because that’s the hook.”

Well… not really.

I’m also going to go out on a limb here, and say that I don’t think there’s anything particularly special about The First Line. The reason that editors can confidently say that they usually know whether or not a story is going to be a “No” after the first sentence or paragraph is that in a good story, the first sentence gives an accurate representation of the high quality of the writing in the rest of the story.

The first line of your story does not have to sell the entire story. Sure, sure. The most perfect first line of a story would be the sort of sentence that leaps out of the page and smacks me in the face; that tells me exactly how everything is going to end, but in such a way that I don’t realize it until I’ve finished the story; that also bakes cookies and brings them to me while I’m reading.

Except that all the first sentence must do is convince me that the second sentence is going to be worth my time. The job of the second sentence is to convince me to read the third, and so on. You have the entire story to impress me with, and it’s your job as the writer to convince me to read until the end of it.

How does a first line signal to the editor that the story is a rejection waiting to happen?

Boring – nothing is happening

Sometimes this feels like the author is trying to tell the reader that there is a story happening now. This could either be a tacked on Beginning that needs to be cut or an indicator that you’ve started writing at the wrong place in the story. This would be the first line in which the protagonist walks home. Or opens a door. Or does nothing. Or in which the author basically seems to be stalling for time.

Overwritten

I can tell when you’re trying too hard, honest. Relax. Take some of those adverbs out.

The Return of the Overwritten

The first paragraph of the story promises exciting adventure!!! But then we go back in time ten years to the beginning of the story and are slowly introduced to the main character… yawn.

Extraneous Words

Example: “Joe entered the room, through the door, and…”

Most extraneous words and phrases are not quite that bad, but they do pop up in first lines. They’re a more subtle indicator that I want to reject the story, but they do serve that purpose. If the first line has sloppy phrasing, the rest of the story does too.

Telling me stuff I already know

This is the story opening that is supposed to be a deep insight about human nature, but falls flat. Or it’s something that would fit better in a Wikipedia entry.

So how do you write an amazing first line?

Here’s my advice. Don’t waste too much of your time on the first sentence of your story. You can use the rough guidelines I’ve mentioned above, but those are just a few ways that first lines can go wrong.

The best way to learn how to write great story openings is to read and write stories. That’s such typical advice!

Your Turn

How about you? When you read the beginning of a short story in a magazine, what convinces you to keep reading? Tell us in the comments!

Author Catherynne M. Valente tackles the tricky issue of diversity and how not to be a misogynist douchebag in one’s writing. Our thanks to her for helping keep the writing waters free of debris…

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Over the wreckage, one old sea dog said to the young pup: there are two kinds of sailors, son. Those who have shipwrecked, and those who haven’t shipwrecked yet.

I’m not quite an old internet sea dog yet (I think you have to have been on Usenet to claim that) but I can tell you–it’s only a matter of time, if you sail these uncertain textual seas. You, or someone you love, or both of you at the same time, will behave like a damn fool on the internet and/or in novel form. No one is immune. I’m saying this up front so that you don’t read this essay with the certain satisfaction that I’m talking about those wicked rats over there, and not us, the virtuous mice, over here. No, we’ll all do it sooner or later. We all fuck up. When Shimmer asked me to write this post, about how not to be a douchebag in print, I thought: but most people who read this will already be on my side. No amount of creative profanity or amusing bon mots will win over the people who really are habitual internet/fictional werewolves, prone to howling and screaming and rending flesh when the moon is full–and it’s always full.

But then I thought–and yet. We will all fuck up sooner or later. I am personally convinced I have fucked up every time I finish a novel and about half the time I finish a blog post. Basically right up until I won the Tiptree I was terrified I had not created a feminist novel, but had somewhere along the way fallen into the same old misogynist traps I so love to pick apart in other people’s books. I could have done better. And the next time I sit down at the keyboard, I try to. That’s the cycle. It’s when you’re not really worried about the text you present to the world, when you’re convinced you are always and forever on the side of the good, that trouble rears its lupine head.

So really, there are two types of motley douchery to consider. Those who are knaves in print, and those who are knaves online. Knavery in print usually takes the form of unthinking–worlds where everyone is white and straight and mostly male, where men are active and women are passive, where our own societal dicta are repeated without commentary or consideration. Very few authors deliberately set out to crush women and minorities, tenting their fingers and cackling in joy as they tear apart yet another poor gay soul–and those who are certainly do not read columns by me. It’s more a kind of parroting–our top-level culture says being gay will only end in tears, and we internalize that narrative, and regurgitate it dutifully, sometimes without even noticing what it is that has been perpetuated at our hand. It takes work to conquer those cultural narratives, and don’t let anyone tell you different. Not everyone has, or wants to, do the work. Picking apart one’s own assumptions and personal narratives is uncomfortable, unpleasant, difficult duty–but that’s no excuse. Just like learning where the commas go (and where they don’t), this is simply part of the work of being a writer. It is not optional. It is not an elective.

Now, many would say this is PC nonsense. What, they cry, would you have us do? Keep a spreadsheet of just so many gay characters, characters of color, female characters? Lunacy!

Of course not, say I. Though honestly, if a spreadsheet is the only way you can see through to including anyone not white, straight, and male in your book, then allow me to introduce you to my friend Excel. But it’s not, and has never been about quotas. It’s very, very simply, about writing a good book. Because if your world is so anemic, so thinly drawn and so sadly empty of the diversity that makes this world such an amazing place, then you did not write a good book. If your women exist only as rewards, you missed a chance to write a better book. If your ideal future excludes even the possibility of alternative sexualities and a myriad of cultures, then you fell down on the job.

This is actually a fairly radical thing to say, and I’m quite aware of it. Many of the great classics of SFF commit those sins, and are beloved. Am I saying they are not good books? Of course not. But there really is no excuse these days to repeat the exclusions and uncomfortable politics of the past. They were performing the assumptions of their time–but we have no such convenient shield.

So how is this avoided? How can it possibly be avoided, when there are only two kinds of sailors? I propose a simple test, applicable to any author, anthologist, editor. Look at your work and say to yourself:

Does everyone here look/act/think/fuck/live just like me and/or my friends?

If the answer is yes, then the work could probably be better. This is true, really, for all of us–even those of us who cannot escape the discussion of minorities in literature because we are minorities, and we want stories for us and our friends. We, too, could include more characters who are different, who are radical, who challenge. We, too, internalize ugly narratives and turn them out onto the page without seeing what we’ve done. There are only two kinds of sailors, son. We all fuck up. But breaking out of the creator’s comfort zone, the place where everyone agrees with them and thinks they’re the bees’ lower appendages, always makes for better literature. It’s not PC, it’s not the hounds of feminism at your heels, it’s just good writing. Good writing is diverse, it is full of all kinds of people and all kinds of experience. Good writing is not hampered and hemmed in by political discourses which say this or that group of people are not as deserving of stories or of publication.

As for how not to be a knave online, well, I suppose you could ask yourself if your opinions are predicated on hatred for groups of humans rather than individuals, groups with whom you have little contact but about whom you seem to have plenty of things to say and assumptions to make. But honestly, if that’s your bag, I doubt you make much of a habit of reading things with my byline on it.

And chances are, each and every one of us is going to plow our little wordboats into some kind of iceberg–we are none of us perfect in mind and deed. The act of writing a novel is one of making the internal external, and you know, sometimes ugly things come out when you turn yourself inside out. I’m not saying that’s admirable, but when you do fuck up, you can learn and go on to other books without the same mistakes. In a lifetime of creating worlds, there is very likely room in them for at least one disabled person, a person of color, a lesbian, a transperson, hell, go wild–throw in a woman. We exist in the real world–why not yours?

Your Turn

How do you plan to make your fiction more diverse today? Tell us in the comments!

There has been a lot of discussion these past two weeks about Nanowrimo. Unless you live under a rock, or perhaps even if you do, you will know that’s National Novel Writing Month. Is it good? Is it terrible? The rules of the challenge are simple: on November 1st, begin writing. On November 30th, pause. If you have 50,000 words, you’ve “won.” Personally, I think “victory” goes beyond the final word count.

Victory 1:

Words. No matter what your final word count actually is…if it’s fifty thousand…if it’s twenty-five thousand…if it’s one thousand…you made words. You have a stack of pages full of words…ideas…and perhaps even a plot. And if not, you have something you can form into such a thing. You are forming the Play-Doh from which stars can be extruded.

Victory 2:

Habit. The act of placing fingers to keys; the act of putting butt in chair, or café bench, or wherever you sat down. They say it takes twenty-eight days to form a habit. November has thirty days. Have you formed a habit? Will you continue to make words on a daily basis? Even if not, you know you can. You’re doing it this month. Do it again. November may have given you permission to sit down and bang out the words, but they’re yours to take whenever you like. Keep on.

Victory 3:

You made stuff. Perhaps you finally took all of those scribbled notes on fragments of paper and cocktail napkins and put them in some order (or, like me, put them into a non-linear blender and hit “on”). Perhaps you finally opened a notebook and wrote the words that have been bubbling up inside of you for years. Perhaps you leapt in without any idea of where you were going or where the words would lead. You made stuff.

Victory 4:

You participated in the writerly community. Writing can be such a solitary thing. You, alone with your thoughts and characters. You, talking to yourself as you work out a scene. (Your neighbors locking the doors and drawing the blinds so as to not watch as you pantomime something with great passion.) Connecting with other writers who are also struggling to create…that’s a victory. It’s easy to stay introverted and talk only to your characters. This I know. Interacting with other writers: win.

Victory 5:

It been fun! There were gatherings in cafes and bookstores and clubs and forums to gossip on and…oh yeah, the writing!

Victory 6:

You’re learning stuff! Every time you write, you learn things. Be it through actual research or about your own personal process. How do you work best? Maybe you work best without a daily word count! Or maybe you work best with a group of peers and like the challenge of watching those word counts go up and up and up. Even if you think your project currently sucks, I bet you’ve learned something along the way. (Did you know: Shimmer‘s art director emeritus Mary Robinette Kowall started her novel, Shades of Milk and Honey, as a Nano novel?)

Now…

Leave a comment…what’s YOUR personal victory if you’re working on something for Nanowrimo?…and then, get back to it. The month is only half over! Keep making Play-Doh!

Exposition, what is it? What’s the difference between elegant exposition and an unreadable info dump?

First Off, Let’s Define

Exposition exists in music, plays, or written text. In music, the first part in a sonata or fugue introduces the themes used in the composition. In a play, exposition gives background information on characters and situation. Since you’re here, let’s assume you care about exposition in prose fiction.

The word “exposition” comes from the Latin for “to place.” You want to ground the reader in the details and important information in your story, the writing needs to be concise and easy to understand.

That’s all well and good, but what’s too much? Not enough? How ‎will your reader know the prince is really the son of a poor bagel seller if you don’t tell them? You’re halfway through your epic tale and you haven’t even touched on the implications of the political back-story and the religious sect that worships 70s action figures.

Readers are engaged when they know what the heck is going on. If they don’t know what to worry about they won’t worry, if they don’t know who to care about (and why) they wont care.

But too much information (especially all at once) doesn’t work either. How do you get them grounded in your world without long boring paragraphs of info-dump?

Exposition is always a little tricky, especially because different readers have different tolerances for it. But here are some simple guidelines that can help.

Keep it Interesting, Keep it Short

Don’t tell us more than we need to know, and don’t use too many words to do it.

“My mother was a nun until she met my father. I was born a few months before they married.”

That’s a decent amount of information, all wrapped in some titillating details. It’s short but (hopefully) interesting. Not only is the reader getting vital information about situation and setting, they’re getting hints of things to be curious about. It’s both a hook and exposition.

And about that curiosity: you want them asking questions, but you don’t want them confused or focused on a detail that’s not central to the story. Make sure they’re asking the questions you want them to ask.

Don’t be Coy

What does “coy” mean? Coy means that instead of just saying “The prince was really the son of a poor bagel seller,” you spend pages and pages dancing around the subject and trying to find a way to drop the information in a way that’s not obvious. This is where the infamous “As you know, Bob” dialogue comes from: a writer trying to be subtle and failing.

You don’t want to be blatant all the time, but sometimes you’ll save yourself (and the reader) a lot of time and effort by just telling what’s going on and getting back to the action. If your narrator already knows the information, just say it. A lot of writers withhold crucial information because they think it will pique the reader’s interest and keep them reading, but this tactic is more likely to frustrate your reader and make them put the story down. Don’t do it.

Work It Into the Story’s Present

Have you seen Inception? In the first chunk of the film, there’s someone named Mal. The main character knows her, there’s something weird between them and she’s clearly set on messing up their plans–and yet the audience doesn’t quite know who she is or what she wants. The movie isn’t being coy; all of their dialogue and interactions make sense when you know what her deal is–and at the same time the characters all know what’s going on and don’t need to explain it to each other for the benefit of the audience. We don’t quite get the full picture till a new character comes in and asks who Mal is and what she wants. It feels completely natural to release that information at that point, and it pushes the plot forward. If you’re having trouble working a piece of information into a story, maybe it’s worth seeing if it will fit better into the scene before, or the scene after–or maybe if you need a different scene entirely.

Don’t Put Exposition in an Action Scene

When you have a tiger chasing you, you’re probably not ruminating on how you got into this mess (take my word for it, don’t test this.) You’re too focused on high tree branches and tranq guns and OMGOMGOMG!

Work your exposition into the moments when characters (and readers) have a moment to breathe and think. And while you’re at it, fit it into whatever they’re doing to move the plot forward.

Tell the Reader Everything Pertinent to the Moment, Move On, Rinse, Repeat

In music, exposition hints at the larger musical work, it doesn’t cram the whole thing in. Same in writing, tell the reader what they need to know to be grounded in the immediate action, move them along your story, give them more information they immediately need. Repeat, repeat, repeat till the end.

If you want to practice this stuff, try laying out everything your reader needs to know on a pad of paper, then outline your story’s scenes on another page. See if you can assign where each piece of information needs to show up. Massage that information into dialog and description that’s already moving the plot forward. It might come off unnaturally in your first try, but you’ll start to build an eye for when back-story can be added in.

Your Turn

How do you handle exposition and tiger chase scenes? Any tricks to share? Drop them in the comments!

Picture this.  You’re an author.  You’ve spent a very long time dreaming up and typing a fantastic story.  You’ve found the perfect market for it, and you (following the guidelines, of course) send it out.

Goodbye, little story!  Goodbye!  I hope you do well and I hear from you soon….

But you don’t.  A week passes.  And then another. And then a month!

OH MY GOSH!  What happened to my story?  Did I accidentally send it to Great Aunt Ruth instead of the market?  What if I accidentally sent a picture of myself in Jamaica instead of my story?  GASP!

What Do I Do Now?

The answer: Query!

The Shimmer guidelines say to query if you haven’t heard from us if a month has passed.  Why do we say this?

The internet is a wild, wild place, dear readers.  Any number of things can happen.  Your story could get lost on the way and never arrive.  Our response could have been eaten by a dreaded interweb monster.  Maybe your story was misplaced?  Who knows!  That is why you should query if you have not heard from us.

What if I come off as needy?  Or desperate?  What if they autoreject me for bothering them?

Relax, grasshopper.  We invited you to query.  If you’ve read the guidelines and understand when to query, we won’t be mad at you.  We’re happy to help, honest!

Besides, I’m going to tell you how to query.  Right after I tell you….

When to Query

Should you query us at EXACTLY thirty days, right down to the minute?  No.  That’s unnecessary.  The thirty day rule is not a contract of any sort, it’s just an estimate. Here’s what we’re really trying to say:

“Hey!  Usually we can read and response to your story within 30 days, but that’s just an average.  If it’s been like 40 or 50 days and you haven’t heard from us at all?  Something probably went wrong.  Shoot us a polite little email and let’s figure this out.”

Also, sometimes a market will read your story and hang on to it.  Why are they holding on to it?  They just want to read it a time or two, maybe let it bounce around in their minds for a bit to see if it’s memorable, or if it will fit in with the particular theme or niche they are going for. If we’ve let you know we’re holding on to your story, there’s no need to query–we’re on the job.

It’s been forty-five days and now I have to write a query letter. How?!

Here’s an example of a good query letter.

Dear [Editor’s Name]

I submitted [story] on [date], and have not yet received

a response.  I am writing to make sure my story arrived safely.

Best,

[Author Name]

That’s it!  Keep it very simple, and very polite.

Here’s an example of a query letter you might NOT want to send.

Dear Sir/Madam

I sent you my story, but you never wrote back.  Why not?  Are you mad at me or something?  I told you I like your magazine, and I even bought a copy once.  Is this how you treat your fans?

So I just wanted to know if you just hated my story and decided not to reply.  You probably did.  That’s okay, though, cuz I’m gonna be a famous author one day and I’ll never send you another story again.

Bye.

Ouch!  No one wants to receive a letter like that.  Don’t be defensive or over explain everything.  Remember, keep it simple and to the point.

Now You Know How to Query

It’s not as hard or scary as you think.  Stuff happens.  Editors understand that.

Part II of this post will be on how/when to query for length.  So stay tuned!

I’d love to hear about any querying questions or comments you might have.  Feel free to leave them in the comments.

Happy Querying!

Last time on the blog, Elise had a wonderful post about rejection dissection and what those pet phrases slush readers use actually mean. It was a great post and I was happy to see that some people commented about their different rejection experiences. (In a related post, Silvia Moreno-Garcia talked about how not to deal with rejection.) I want to talk about something that’s related, too: the personal rejection.

Realistically, there are very good reasons why a rejection may not be personal. The sheer volume of stories a publication receives makes it impossible to give every rejection that personal touch. We all love the warm fuzzy, but need to remember that the focus of the editors at any magazine is to put out the magazine, not train writers.

I think every rejection should be personal. Not only because it’s nice for the writer to receive, but because I’ve found that writing a personal rejection hones my own writing and editorial skills. A little bit of personalization helps everyone.

Personal rejections are helpful and insightful, and they make you feel good. Probably not as good as you would feel if your story was accepted and the acceptance letter had lipstick kisses all over the page, but it’s nice to know that a real person took the time to share their thoughts about your story.

Even if you already know that personal rejections can come in handy, you might be surprised to find out that there are a handful of categories of personal rejections. Personal doesn’t always mean unique, and that’s also helpful. It means you can identify telling characteristics and determine what best to do with your newly acquired rejection letter.

I generally categorize rejections into one of three categories:

Market Research

Let’s face it, even if all the magazines in the world could keep their submission guidelines up to date all the time, there are bound to be little quirks of the editors’ that don’t make it into the guidelines. This doesn’t mean you should panic or second-guess the guidelines. A lot of the time, it comes down to a problem of semantics.

I submitted a story that I described as “quirky fantasy.” To me, quirky meant something with an unusual storyline that focused on the absurdity of the situations that my characters found themselves in. When I submitted that piece, I found that when a certain editor said they wanted “quirky,” they really wanted quirky characters, not storylines. When I received that rejection, I made a note of that preference and moved on. In the future, if I happen to write something with quirky characters, I’ll try that magazine again.

Revision-focused Rejection

This editor liked X but didn’t like Y. She wants to see more tension in the first part of the story, and thinks the middle sagged. Hmmm…this sounds eerily familiar. Maybe it’s because this is what my beta readers were saying! If I get a rejection like this, I try to incorporate any criticism the editor has into future revisions of the story. Of course, most rejections won’t be very detailed. There’s a fine line between addressing problems in a story and hitting the author over the head with them. Most editors try to stay far away from the latter.

Encouragement

Even if the editor doesn’t have anything to say about your story that you find particularly helpful, a personal rejection can give you a little zap of encouragement where a form rejection would not.

I have some of my favorite rejections in a folder that I keep in my desk. The best ones tell me to please keep writing and submitting. These are my favorites because I know that someone other than my writing partners or my sister saw potential in my work–enough potential that they felt they should encourage me to continue writing. The support of a stranger is an incredibly powerful thing for a writer to receive.

Your Turn

What about you, readers? How do you feel about personalized rejections? Do you find them useful or encouraging? Let us know in the comments!

Aaron Polson submitted to Shimmer roughly eleventy-billion times before recently making his first sale to us. Here, he speaks to persistence, and why it’s vital.

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My four-year-old son, Max, plays with the Soccer Hobbits on Saturday mornings, and no one keeps an “official” score. Soccer Hobbits focuses on playing, learning to love the game, experience, and fun. When Max pursues the ball during scrimmage, however, the look of grim determination on his face speaks all business. Max might not be as big or as fast as some of his peers, but he makes up for his lack of prowess with sheer guts and persistence. One tiny tap of the ball, even if it is stolen a microsecond later, proves enough to keep the fight in his tiny legs.

I can’t help but draw a parallel to what it takes to stay in the game as a writer.

Anyone can write. I have to believe as much to survive my day job as a high school English teacher. Some days are harder than others, for my students as well as me. Writing well and developing one’s craft requires patience. Patience requires a healthy dose of perspective. Since I started my writing journey four years ago, I’ve gained as much perspective as any bit of craft. Rejection is part of the game, and I’ve received my share. Each “no” used to sting like a solid punch in the gut, knocking the writing wind out of me.

But persistence requires a certain level of stubbornness despite little defeats. I listened to editors. I dusted off my knees and worked harder. I read. I’ve read the best in the field, devouring year’s best volumes, retrospective collections, award winners—trying to unlock the magic. Along the way, I identified what I liked, what worked and what didn’t, in the stories I read. I made a mental list. I wrote, too. Every day. Even days when I was too sick or tired or defeated to keep going, I forced at least one hundred words on a page, just as Max forces his little legs to keep pumping on the soccer field.

I first submitted to Shimmer in 2007. By my count, I’ve beleaguered the editorial staff with 27 manuscripts over the past few years. Persistence requires a writer to believe the next time will be it, the golden message, an acceptance letter with contract attached. It’s a sort of insanity, really, trying to find a home for one’s stories in highly competitive markets. For a writer to stay with the game, a writer must believe each story is better than the last, each story is a move forward.

And finally, most of all, a writer must be patient—as patient with her/himself as with a market’s submission wait-time. Craft does improve, only with time and effort; no “magic writing beans” exist, no overnight elixirs of brilliance. Stories need patience, too. Patience to develop. Patience for the characters and setting and plot cogs to snap together in the right way. Sometimes patience requires a story be set aside for months, as I did with “The House was Never a Castle.” I’m not the same writer I was when I first submitted to Shimmer back in 2007. I won’t be the same writer a year from now.

Max can keep playing soccer as long as he loves it; I’ll hammer away, story after story, page after page, word after word, putting my patience and persistence to the test.

Some writers know instinctively who they are from day one. Words bloom on the page, and the writer’s personal style spills over and saturates the story with meaning. To quote the lovely Anne LaMott, we don’t like those people very much. Most writers struggle initially to find their voice and wonder what the hell narrative voice even means.

To put it simply, Voice equals Style. Voice is what makes a person’s writing unique. It’s the personality and attitude the writer conveys in the story. The more charismatic and fine-tuned the voice, the more immersive and enjoyable the experience is for the reader.

When you pick up a book by a favorite author it’s like slipping into a snuggy with a cup of hot cocoa. Your expectations are rewarded; you know something of what you’re about to enjoy – whether that’s an immersion into lush prose, to be confronted with a gritty and uncompromising tone, or simply transported by a transparent style.

But even if we know what narrative voice is, how do we find our own? We often doubt we have the skills to achieve the soaring lines we admire in our favorite authors. Sometimes, this doubt can become crippling, and stall out your writing career before it even begins. So what’s the answer?

Pretend.

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be.” –Kurt Vonnegut

Pretending is what writers do best; it’s like breathing. When we pit our bi-polar heroine against the evil Cobbler, and bequeath the Cobbler with halitosis, a smoker’s cough, and a penchant for wearing lacy thongs beneath his leather apron, we’re pretending.

Why not take a half-step further and pretend to be awesome writers, even when we don’t feel awesome enough?

Borrow from the writers you admire. Read their works twice: first for the sheer enjoyment, and then again, critically. Pinpoint what you love most about the author’s voice (what you don’t like is also useful). Think about the tricks and flourishes the writer uses to make the story better, and then borrow them. Go ahead and try one of them yourself. Then try another. And another.

Another fantastic way to learn voice is to type or write out chapters from a beloved book, or even copy the entire book, word for word. It helps to feel those words on your fingers. You begin to understand how and why the author made certain choices, and you will probably enjoy an AHA! moment or two.

Borrow away then, to gain confidence and skill, and to discover what suits you. Authors have learned from one another since stories were invented. Our heroes blazed the trail before us; they studied, and continue to study their own personal heroes. When we borrow and try out their skills, we become more fluid, take risks, and improve and grow along the way.

No one else can write like you; your uniqueness is inbuilt. Each new skill adds to that. Like kids dressing up in adult clothing, we eventually fill out those clothes, and then we are what we pretended to be.

Be AWESOME.

Your turn.

Let us know what you think about developing your voice. What have you learned?