Find Your Joy | Writer Self-care

Writing is a sedentary, solitary pursuit for the most part. How do you take care of your physical and mental health while you’re at it? 

I’m never alone when I open the door to my writing studio.  On my right side are loneliness and guilt, the left doubt and fear. Loneliness because I do have to isolate myself to write my best, and guilt because I question if what I produce is worth the sacrifice. As R.F. Kuang says in the novel Yellowface, “You have no assurance that what you’re creating has any value, and any indication that you’re behind in the rat race sends you spiraling into the pits of despair. Keep your eyes on your own paper, they say. But that’s hard to do when everyone else’s papers are flapping constantly in your face.”  Amen. I have indeed spiraled. I have been in the pits.

And then there’s a tantalizing fear compelling me to go create because with every writing session I know that I'm about to embark upon an adventure. I might not recover mostly due to the subjects I choose to write about: serial killers, the haunted past, generational trauma, and flawed protagonists that sometimes I’m not sure I like. In my writing room, loneliness, doubt, fear and guilt elbow each other relentlessly. It gets very crowded. But still! The adventure! The magnificent possibilities!

Raven, she haunts my dreams.

After I complete a long writing session, my physical body emerges from the room, but my mind stays behind dazed and confused. Once at dinner after a long 8-hours of writing, my friend looked at me and said, “What’s going on with you tonight, Faye?” to which I gave no answer, because, after all, I was not yet all there. My mind needed time to catch up with my body.

Half of me was here.

To stay grounded, I try to do three things every day no matter what. I meditate for about 10 minutes (and yes, sometimes it’s hell because my mind is a hamster on a wheel), take a 30-minute walk, and write for an hour. I know the writing part may sound counterintuitive, but I stress when I go long spells without writing. I miss it. 

And I also read, hang out with author friends and talk mostly about writing, and play with the grandkids. When I say play, I mean play. I am assigned monster trucks and action figures. We act out scenarios and I do the voices. We chase each other around the house. That's where I find my joy. 

 

The grandkid on the slide. I went next.

Just remember, writing may be solitary, but in the end in this big wide world of ours, it’s just not that serious.

Inertia Notwithstanding from James W. Ziskin

Writing is a sedentary, solitary pursuit for the most part. How do you take care of your physical and mental health while you’re at it? 

As Matthew wrote earlier this week, I don’t. I don’t care for myself. For starters, I don’t like exercise, a petulant sentiment to which I feel entitled by virtue of my advanced age and general lack of drive (read, I’ve managed to stick around this long and now I don’t feel like moving). I’d rather not exert myself, unless it’s for a good reason, like running from a lion. You won’t find me hiking through the woods or climbing mountains, no. I am one of the Great Indoorsmen. 

I exaggerate, of course. (No, I don’t.)

Inertia notwithstanding, however, I admit that I don’t actually sit for too long when writing. Perhaps I shouldn’t complain.

When I’m in a writing sprint—careering toward the end of a book—I spend a couple of hours a day in a chair working. Usually in the morning. Then I do other activities such as running errands or eating. Later, in the evening, I often return to writing and put in some more time. I write on a tablet, so I can work anywhere. On the couch, in bed, at the table. The hours I spend sitting and writing are actually a holiday for me (see above re: attitude toward exercise), which, I suppose, might be beneficial for my mental health.

But for the past several years, I’ve been teaching high school French. And now I’m teaching Italian and Spanish in a middle school, so there’s absolutely no reason for me to want for exercise. True, I do lose my mind every day. Several times a day, in fact. That’s just part of the job. It’s in the job description. Every day is a workout. 

In addition to insanity, another downside to a full-time teaching gig is that I don’t have the energy or inclination to write as much as I would like. But that will surely change. When it’s time to sit myself down and sprint to the end of a book, I’ll be ready. Exhausted, sure. Mentally drained, without a doubt. But blissfully content to sit for hours in a chair by myself. My mood will improve, the burden will lighten, and I will spit out a book. That always brightens the damp drizzly November in my soul. But I still won’t do any exercise.

**********************

THE PRANK…enigmatic and unnerving. The pace never flags for a second. This is some masterly plotting. I loved it. 

—Liz Nugent, author of Strange Sally Diamond

Zero

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TAKEAWAYS

Writing is a sedentary, solitary pursuit for the most part. How do you take care of your physical and mental health while you're at it?

by Dietrich

Writing may be a solitary pursuit, but once the characters come to life, the party starts.

That moment when the players stop feeling like outlines on the page and start their antics, making unexpected choices, and pulling the story in directions I never planned — that’s when I know I’ve arrived at something I won’t toss out the next morning. My quiet desk becomes the stage, and in an odd way I’m not alone anymore. There’s a gathering of voices.

To answer the question: as the months of writing tick by, I need to take care of body and mind to keep the whole thing going.

Hours disappear while I sit staring at the screen, living inside some character’s head. When I’m writing for long stretches, shoulders tighten, eyes strain, and the blood slows. Mentally, the solitude that once felt productive can tip into isolation. Sometimes I push on because the story feels like it’s getting richer, even though the writer seems to shrink.

So I have to remember that some degree of care is essential. I stand and stretch, walk around the room, sometimes dictating a scene out loud as I move. Speaking the dialogue while pacing helps me hear the rhythm and keeps the blood flowing at the same time. I keep a kettlebell and a dumbbell within reach so movement feels like part of the process instead of an interruption. A few reps between chapters work wonders to clear the mental fog. The body will keep the score if I ignore it; the mind also works better when the body isn’t neglected.

I protect the solitude when the story needs deep immersion—those long stretches when the only conversation that matters is the one happening on the page. But to keep the whole thing in check, I need real conversation and outdoor resets to ward off isolation. A walk outside, even twenty minutes, usually clears my head. Talking to an actual person—about anything, the weather, the news, the ridiculous plot twist I just invented—keeps me connected to the real world. 

Sleep is non-negotiable. Hydration is non-negotiable. Stepping away when the words get stuck is non-negotiable. Pushing through fatigue doesn’t produce better pages; it produces more pages that will need rewriting the next day.

I’ve noticed that when I neglect these things, the whole party suffers. The characters become flat. The energy dips. The joy that comes from watching a story come alive gets replaced by resentment and staring at a blank screen. On the days when I’m rested and energized, the opposite happens. The characters become vivid. The work feels lighter. The solitude becomes chosen rather than imposed.

In the end, the characters may throw the party, but I need to show up fully charged and in the right frame of mind to enjoy it. Taking care of the physical and mental self isn’t a distraction from the writing. It’s what makes the writing sustainable, and what keeps me ready when the characters show up.

Keep Moving

 

Terry here with our question of the week:

Writing is a sedentary, solitary pursuit for the most part. How do you take care of your physical and mental health while you’re at it? 

For me, mental health is closely tied with physical health. Years ago I used to be a runner, and when I hurt my back and had to stop running, my mental health took a sharp decline until I found other ways to get exercise. So for me, getting plenty of physical exercise means I feel good. 

 People often comment on my energy, and I think it’s directly related to exercise. A caveat is that my father was also a very energetic person and I probably inherited the “energy” gene. But I also know that if I don’t get enough exercise I start to feel sluggish and my energy level goes way down. A few days ago I had to concentrate on turning around edits for a book and I neglected to exercise for a few days. Finally one evening I realized I had to take a walk for twenty minutes or so. The first ten minutes, I felt so sluggish I wondered if something was wrong. But gradually I began to pep up and by the end of the walk I felt much more energetic.

 For me, I usually need to get exercise first thing in the morning, because if wait until later in the day, I end up making excuses not to exercise: a have to cook dinner, I’m tired, I need to call someone, etc. What do I mean by exercise? I mean the real thing. Twice a week I walk with a group of women, a fast walk of three miles in an hour. Two other days I have an hour-long exercise class. The one I take is by Zoom with anywhere from ten to twenty people tuning in. I never pay the any attention to what anyone else in the class is doing. I concentrate on doing exactly what the leader, Sam, tells us to do. By the way, I’m well into being a senior, and it’s a senior exercise class. My guess is young people would find it not particularly challenging, but for me it’s perfect. 

 As for the other three days, I usually take a day off and the other two days will take a bike ride (er, I mean a trike ride—yep I have an adult tricycle) or a walk. The other thing is that I try to get up and move around every hour or so when I’m writing, because if I don’t, I get stiff. Unfortunately, that doesn’t always work. For example a few days ago, I was deep into writing. I look at the clock and it was 12:15. FIVE MINUTES LATER it was 1:00. So sometimes I get so caught up that I don’t think to get up and move around. I know some people set timers so they’ll remember to do it, but I don’t like the idea of interrupting the flow. 

 Mental health. Happily, I have an optimistic disposition, and it serves me well. But sometimes I need more. Beyond using exercise to keep myself mentally healthy, it’s harder for me to figure out how to do it. Six years ago I moved to Los Angeles, and have to admit that I have a diminished life here. Previously, I enjoyed being social in the evenings after I’d finished working. In the Bay Area I could call someone spur of the moment and we’d get together. I had a lot of friends who were happy to do last-minute things. 

In LA, not so much. It’s partly a result of my not having years of cultivating friendships. People in my expanded age group have a set group of friends by now. But also, it’s the distances people have to travel to get together. I’ve made several friends in southern California that I really enjoy. But most of them live at least an hour away. It’s difficult to call someone up at 5:00 and say, “Come over for dinner.” They’re faced with an hour or more drive, and then an hour at the end of the evening. 

 Which brings me to a few activities I enjoy that keep me mentally in balance. One is attending events where I know I’ll run into other writers. I went to a panel a few nights ago that featured Tess Gerritsen, Meg Gardiner, and Jordan Harper. Jordan said he thought it was important to cultivate friendships with other writers because we understand the difficulties we all face. I agreed wholeheartedly. 

Which is why I also find that attending conferences is important to me. Seeing writer friends, catching up on their current projects, attending panels, and hanging out fills up my need for social contact. I go to bookstores when writers I enjoy reading will be talking and signing their newest books. Noir at the bar. Book fairs. It’s what keeps me mentally healthy. 

 So solitary, sedentary…it takes work to maintain body and soul, but it can be done.

Take Care - by Matthew Greene

Writing is a sedentary, solitary pursuit for the most part. How do you take care of your physical and mental health while you’re at it?

My first instinct was to answer this question with: I don't! That's the problem!

But let's see if I can do better than that.

So, I've been "selling out" a bit, as of late. By that I mean I've signed some contracts and taken some writing gigs that were purely for the money. Some of this was born out of necessity. (Three cheers for capitalism.) And I'm grateful for any opportunity to pay my bills doing what I love.

That is, until it ceases to be the thing I love.

Such has been my struggle for the last few months, as I dragged myself out from under the weight of commercial commitments and tried to rediscover the joy of the craft. And yes, I'm purposefully using a high falutin' word like "craft," because I'm trying to remind myself that my work is something that deserves to be taken seriously. 

I'll be honest, this has been a tough year. For all kinds of reasons, none of which I'll bore you with now. Suffice it to say, there have been days (weeks?) when it's been tough to do any more than just get through. There have been plenty of times when a new draft, a set of revisions, or a half-finished outline have seemed so meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Maybe that's why it was so easy to say yes to some of the soul-sucking writing assignments I've taken on, as of late. And maybe that's why it's taken such a toll on me.

Because yes, writing is hard. It can fill you with self doubt and make you question whether there's any merit to the way you see the world. It's not for the faint of heart. But the only thing that takes a bigger toll on my mental health than writing is not writing.

I discovered long ago that pen-to-paper (and, later, fingers-to-keys) was the way I made sense of the world around me. Crime fiction was a natural evolution of that impulse—the opportunity to sort the chaos of life into a narrative where things are solved. Maybe not completely. Maybe not perfectly. But it's a hell of a lot more control than I feel in the "real world" most days. 

While I was burning myself out writing "content" (god, I hate that word) that I couldn't care less about, I was neglecting the one thing that could have pulled me out of my artistic depression. I've discovered—not for the first time, and not for the last—that I need to write. 

I fear I didn't quite answer this very thoughtful question. I could come up with a list of things that have helped me in the past, healthy habits that I should get back to. I'll come back to read the sage advice of my fellow bloggers. I'm sure they'll have much more helpful things to share.

As for me, though, I'll just reflect on a moment I had this past week. My partner and I were on vacation in Dublin, and I snuck down to the hotel bar with a notebook and a pen. Fueled by gin and pent-up creative energy, I just let myself write. No expectations, no cell service, no contracts. And, liquor aside, those few minutes did a whole lot to heal me.

So, is writing the sickness or the cure? In my case, I think it's both. 

Pretend I'm Not Here by Poppy Gee

Describe your ideal bookshop

The main thing I want in a bookstore is to feel comfortable browsing endlessly. Sometimes you don't know what you're looking for until you find it. I'm so happy to be invisible in a bookstore. I want to soak it up, browse, read a few pages, explore, relax and find something new and amazing.

Here are some cool, original, unforgettable bookstores I have had the pleasure of browsing in:

Arcadian Books and Prints, New Orleans, USA

This is the most crowded bookstore I've ever been in. The book stacks tower precariously. Some fell, whooshing with a clatter to the floor, while I was there. The bookstore owner welcomed me then completely ignored me while he kept reading his book. I loved everything about this store. 

Quixotic Books, Launceston, Tasmania

This is such an unusual store. I walked in and saw hundreds of brand new books but I didn't recognise any of the covers. Usually you see all the regular big names in Australian publishing. Not here. Quixotic Books sells remainder books - books which didn't sell in bookstores overseas and were returned to the publisher. Toby Wheels-Cobb, the owner, selects books from catalogues of thousands of books, and brings them to Tasmania. He also describes himself as a book detective. If there is a book you want, he will find it for you.

 

Tell Me How It Ends Bookstore, Brisbane, Queensland

Located in California Alley in The Valley, this cool bookstore is owned by writer Lauren Jones. The decor is dark academia, you feel like you're inside a candlelit, gothic library when you're in this gorgeous intimate store. They stock everything, with a great range of romance.  

 

Barnes and Noble, Denver

There is nothing more exciting than seeing your own book in a big bookstore. I never take it for granted that my book will be there, and when it is, it's the best feeling in the world. My perfect bookstore would stock my books... I was thrilled to see VANISHING FALLS in this Barnes and Noble, several years after it was published.

 

No such thing as a bad bookshop, by Catriona

 Describe your ideal bookshop.

I'm not a discerning customer when it comes to bookshops. Look at my laptop. I've never been in a bookhop that I didn't li- 

Actually, I've just remembered a crime-fiction bookshop, in Wigtown (Scotland's book town) that a. stank of cat pee and b. was owned by an insufferable couple who had show-offy conversations with each other designed to be overheard and admired. It closed.

Which is not to say that I'm disagreeing with Eric, from yesterday, on the general topic of the bookshop cat. The bookshop *dog* on the other hand . . . Well one bookshop dog, anyway. Last week, Neil almost stepped on a wee terrier in a secondhand bookshop. It got a huge fright and skittered off after a high-pitched yelp. The owner looked up and said, quite mildly, "Oh, did he bite you?" Um, no. But if that's the level of surprise you'd feel, I think we'll both stay out of his way. Right?

And I also want to say that every other bookshop in Wigtown is lovely. Fewer than a thousand people live there but there are more than a dozen secondhand bookshops, inlcuding Scotland's largest, called The Bookshop and owned by Shaun Bythell who has written four diary-style memoirs about running it.

The words behind the lamp are "set fire to"

I love new-book bookshops too. The Avid Reader is my home bookshop. I have my launches there and order all US books from there. Old Haunts, though, up in Granite Bay is a new bookshop that's been an instant friend to our Sisters in Crime chapter. Kramers at Dupont Circle in DC was a stroll away from my flat there and served dinner. Bloomsbury in Ashland has a great coffeeshop with a charming garden. Underground Books in Oak Park is one third of a perfect evening out in Sacrmento: dinner at Fixin's, new book, old film at the Tower Theater. (Next month is Hitchcocktober.)

They're all absolutely ideal. 

But to try to answer the question . . .

My dream bookshop has comfy seats to sit and read in. It's got a banned books display that doesn't tell you why, when and where the books were banned, so you have to think. (I mean, The Wind in the Willows?) It's got non-snooty categorisation. (Because sometimes the division between "literature" and "fiction", or between "general fiction" and "mystery" comes down to nothing more than snobbery. And, often, sexism.)

I'm easy about music or no music. Even about what music. If a bookshop played Slipknot I'd be intrigued enough to linger and try to work out why. Oh. I've just remembered a happy memory from my first trip to the US in 2004. Neil and I were in Wooster (sic) OH, browsing in different bits of a big bookshop, when both of us started to actually listen to the NPR programme that was playing. Then we searched for and found each other other and both said, "Are you hearing this? What is this?" It was CarTalk. Happy days.

You know what other kind of bookshop I love? Fictional ones. Only a protagonist who's been having a rough time and suddenly inherits a creepy old house in the countryside is better Catriona-bait than a book set in a bookshop. Whether it's the total seasonal escapism of Jenny Colgan's Midnight at the Christmas Bookshop, the interrogation of toxicity in Alice Slater's Death of a Bookseller, the dramatic wallop of Amy Meyerson's The Bookshop of Yesterdays, or Laura Jensen Walker's bittersweet but redemptive The Pilgrimmage of Primrose Honeychurch (coming 20 Oct 2026), partially set in Hay-on-Wye, which is England's book town.  

And that's pretty much where we came in.

Cx

Bookshop by Eric Beetner

 Thinking about an ideal bookshop is such a pleasant exercise. Immediately I picture a warm, inviting space and that is a testament to all the previous bookshops I’ve been into. I do think there is maybe a difference between something one would describe a bookshop vs. a bookstore. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

First, a bookshop in my mind is independently owned by someone with a passion for books and not necessarily big bucks. Ideally it is tucked away in some small town, maybe in a building with some history. I like a bookshop with many rooms. You walk in the door and then move deeper into the space, getting lost a little. That’s definitely part of the fun.

In Westport, CT. where I lived for a while as a kid there was a place called The Remarkable Bookshop. It was housed in a 18th century colonial that they painted pink and it became iconic in our little town. The floors creaked, there were steps down or up into and out of rooms that you just knew people tripped over all the time. But it was magical. It opened in 1963 but of course it is long gone now. 

Maybe the most important thing for my ideal bookshop is it has to have a cat. I’m allergic to cats, but I’d still want one in every bookshop. When I walk into a bookshop and see a cat I know I’m in a good place.

I like a good ‘Staff Picks’ shelf or table. I like to know the staff is invested. Any great bookshop should be a place where you can go in not having a clue what you’re going to come out with and end up with a passionate pitch from a worker who truly loves a book they are trying to get into your hands.

Well delineated sections are good. There is a charm to browsing through a mish-mash of books looking for a diamond, but somehow that feels more at home in a used bookstore. Couldn’t say why, but in a used store the chaos is part of the charm. But if you have a special corner you return to each time you enter a favorite bookshop then you immediately know what is new, what’s being featured and what you should be looking at next. It becomes a personal, familiar space for you whether it’s the Mystery section, Romance or Horror. 

Any bookshop owner will tell you they can’t survive on book sales alone. I like to see puzzles in a bookshop. We’re so often the same demographic. Little book-themed tchotchkes and gift-y items are always welcome. 

I don’t drink coffee (I know, a writer who doesn’t drink coffee or alcohol - I’m a disgrace to the profession) but I do love a little coffee bar inside a store. That and comfy seating is a welcome invite to sit and browse. It is letting you know they are not trying to rush you out and get on with the next sale. I don’t love the people who take advantage of the seating and never buy a book, but bookshops don’t judge, only other customers. And more than a few books have been know to be written on a comfy couch in a cozy bookshop.

I like a good playlist, but music in a bookshop should be calm and I prefer instrumental. If I set foot in a bookshop and see a cat, hear some jazz and smell coffee I am in heaven.

Last, in my ideal bookshop I’d see myself behind the counter, recommending books, scheduling readings with authors I love, checking out the new releases and smiling at my wife as we settle in to our new life as small town bookshop owners who are poor, yes, but happy. In my vision she has a coffee in hand, I have my allergy meds and we both love hearing the sound of the bell over the door ring when a new book lover enters what I hope is their favorite bookshop.

Shoot the Refrigerator

  

Describe your ideal bookshop.

Writers such as Ann Patchett, Gabrielle Zevin, and Louise Erdrich have written about the ideal bookshop. Their visions tend toward the utopian: community, discovery, celebration, the warm glow of books bringing people together.

 

Lovely [sarcasm mode ON].

 

I’m looking for something with a little more adrenaline.

 

My ideal bookshop would remind me of the scene in Edward Abbey’s The Fool’s Progress—which, if you haven’t read it, you should. Henry Holyoak Lightcap is a boozer, a misanthrope, and a man on his third marriage. When his wife finally has had enough of him and leaves, he takes a .357 to the refrigerator.

 

Yes, the refrigerator is symbolic: defiance against modern progress, matrimony, and possibly refrigeration itself.

 

But that’s not why I love the scene.

 

I love the sudden, glorious act of Enough.

 

Books are in bookstores to be sold. Bookstores, like the rest of us, have bills to pay, so shelves are inevitably influenced by what sells.

 

But what sells is not necessarily what changes us. Sometimes what sells is the safe thing. Sometimes it’s the thing that has acquired so much momentum that refusing to stock it would be commercially insane.

 

Fifty Shades of Grey is an obvious example: a phenomenon that began as online serial fiction, gathered an enormous audience, and was subsequently revised and repackaged for a much larger market. The early print edition was infamous for howlers in copy editing and printing errors. “She liked caning” is a rather different proposition from “She liked canning.”

 

Then there’s A Confederacy of Dunces.

 

John Kennedy Toole couldn’t get his novel published. He committed suicide. His mother persisted in trying to get the manuscript published, eventually putting it in the hands of Walker Percy. The book went on to win the Pulitzer Prize.

 

One book was practically impossible to sell until everyone wanted it. The other became a publishing sensation.

 

That’s the problem with letting the market decide too much: the market is very good at recognizing what it already recognizes.

 

My ideal bookstore would therefore be slightly unruly. I want books that might and will offend me. Books that make me uncomfortable. Books that make me think the unthinkable because I never experienced life the way the characters experience it. 

 

I want the book I didn’t know I needed because I didn’t know it existed.

 

Reading as escapism has its place. I enjoy it myself. Sometimes a reader needs a beach, a detective, a dragon, or a very attractive vampire. Fine.

 

But the books that matter—the books that alter a life, a conversation, culture—often make us think, feel, argue, or get genuinely pissed off.

 

There are already more books than there is shelf space. We can’t read everything, so someone has to decide what gets the real estate.

 

I’d rather that decision be made with some faith in readers because if how we spend money influences what the media corporations publish, and what corporations publish influences what we see, then the choice of what reaches the shelf is already shaping the field before we ever walk into the store.

 

And who knows what books we never discover because nobody decided they were worth the gamble?

 

Give me a bookstore full of bad bets.

 

Give me books that are weird, dangerous, inconvenient, brilliant, offensive, overlooked, or just plain difficult.

 

Give me something that makes me want to shoot the refrigerator.

Two Fishes A Bookstore, Coming Soon?

Describe your ideal bookshop:

Somewhere in a parallel universe there is a tiny little bookshop built on the edge a lake or sea, called Two Fishes. Right now, it resides only in my mind, but I can still see it clearly. If I focus hard enough, I can smell the it too, the fresh pastries, a steaming pot of strong coffee. The books, new and old, of every genre stacked from the floor to the ceiling. It has huge picture windows that allows the weather inside, whether it's the bright sun of a summer's day, a rainy windswept fall with orange and brown leaves plastered against the glass, or fat snowflakes drifting down from overstuffed snow clouds to frame the windows in winter finery. And of course music, low and slow, but always there.

And there are cats, at least two, but probably four, that roam the aisles or curl up on a welcoming lap or a plush armchair. There is little shop attached that sells wonderful local pastries, along with tea, and coffee, and of course wine from all over the world. 

Browsing, moseying, loitering over the pages is not only allowed, but encouraged. Local and indie authors are searched out and highlighted right along with the super famous from the big publishing houses.

There is no such thing as sections based on the color of the author, books are displayed together based simply on their genre. The booksellers are passionate bookworms who delight in sharing their love for reading with every guest who walk through those doors. And are paid accordingly. 

Every year there is a writer’s conference that uses one day to highlight local writers, new writers, and marginalized writers. There is a podcast that not only talks about the latest and greatest in books, but also share opportunities for local writers to meet more established writers, form writing groups and be a place where writers can congregate, seek advice, or simply feed off the energy of being around other writers. 

This is my ideal bookshop, a place where writers are supported by other writers and readers can find and peacefully enjoy their love of stories. A place to find a respite from a world that has become unhinged at every turn. 

Triage that Sh*t by Faye Snowden

We all get notes from editors, beta readers, and agents. Sometimes we don't agree. When you get feedback to change something that you really want to keep, how do you let it go or justify keeping it?

I have a pile of Poets & Writers magazines on an old Salvation Army desk where I wrote my first few novels. Some of the magazines are well-thumbed, others with perfect covers, barely perused. Some time back, long before this week’s question was published, I picked up the July/August 2025 issue. On the cover is Toni Morrison with a formidable stare, as if she is saying, “I dare you. Come at me.” 

Stop judging me

The accompanying feature article, adapted from the book, Toni at Random: The Iconic Writer’s Legendary Editorship by Dana A. Williams explains how an author did just that. A poet with whom Morrison was working to publish a book of poetry argued with Morrison about everything from the font the publisher selected to the cover design. At one point she writes to Morrison, “…the designer didn’t read the book and thought: a classy French lady who writes love poetry…although I really wanted to keep out of it, I…spent seven hours looking at least 3,000 book covers…”

Let’s stop right there. 

Three. Thousand. Book. Covers. To be fair, I don’t know if this number accurately reflects the author’s research, or if it’s an exaggeration for effect. What it does reflect, however, is an author’s struggle with a work of art which in the end becomes a product in the marketplace, not an inconsequential product, but a product, nonetheless. As such it must compete on bookstore shelves with similar, brightly colored products all screaming to the reader, “Pick me!” I believe, as Morrison said in her response, that it’s the publisher, their editors to an extent, and their designers who understand what aspects give a book the best chance of succeeding. 

Now, I have pushed back when I felt that the cover design for my Killing series was not right. Below is the first idea my publisher had for my latest book, which isn’t bad, just not right for the mood of the book. They listened to my concerns and produced a phenomenal final cover, which is at the end of this post.

As for manuscript edits, I rely on my editor to identify areas that need work. I generally listen. He knows what he’s doing and I don’t have time to protest every single, little thing, nor would I want to. I work full time at a demanding job, have six grandkids, and am probably working on another book by the time the editor’s notes arrive. I certainly don’t have time to research 3,000 book covers, and since I am a fierce protector of my time, I triage the edits this way: 

For the record, I seldom make it to 4 with my editor. He’s awesome.  

Guide, Don’t Decide from James W. Ziskin

We all get notes from editors, beta readers, and agents. Sometimes we don't agree. When you get feedback to change something that you really want to keep, how do you let it go or justify keeping it?

All of my editors have sung the same song. “You are the author. The final decision is up to you.”

What I’ve always appreciated about my editors is that they never try to write the book for me. They never say, “I would have done it this way or that way.” Rather, they tell me what they don’t get. What’s confusing or underdeveloped. I find it reassuring to have a professional in my corner who guides instead of decides.

Beta readers may not be professional book jockeys, but they’re real readers. Eventually, your work is going out into the world and will be read by other real readers, so the feedback you get from betas is absolutely valid. Since they’re involved earlier in the manuscript’s life, they might be more likely to provide gut feelings, point out plot holes that will be mostly filled before the editor gets it, and be overall more critical (or supportive) of the story, depending on whether your beta readers include other writers, friends or…your mother. In the past, my beta readers have discovered major and minor errors in my work, and they’ve stayed my hand when I was laying it on a bit thick, not quite thick enough, or when I was simply wrong about something.

I’ve worked with three agents during my career. The first—about thirty-five years ago—gave no feedback and discouraged all contact. I felt like an unwelcome guest at her party. After two unsold books, we parted ways. I shrugged it off, sure I’d find another agent in no time at all.

Actually, it took me seventeen years to find another agent, but my experience with him was wonderful. He offered advice similar to what my editors did. He was kind, honest, and supportive. We parted ways on the best of terms after seven books sold. I’ll always be grateful to him for selling my Ellie Stone novels.

My current agent expresses her opinions honestly on my work. Some things she loves, some things she doesn’t. The feedback has never been on the micro level of my writing style, which seems to suit her fine. But she doesn’t always like the mood or characters in my books, and, while I’d love to hear effusive praise for my every word, I appreciate her honesty.

Once I’ve taken stock of all the feedback I’ve received, it’s my turn. I have to decide what to accept and what to reject. Why do I reject some suggestions? Usually it’s because I know what I’m trying to accomplish with my books, which ideas I developed to shape my story and characters. I’m confident I’ve done those things right. Or, at least, the way I wanted them to be. 

And when do I accept the feedback and make the changes? When I’m made to realize that I’ve failed to make those ideas clear to readers, starting with my beta readers, agent, and editor. I’m not so arrogant to think I’m always right, so, in some cases, I’ll take another stab at the project and incorporate the feedback they’ve offered.

The thing is, writers need editors and readers, beta and professional ones like agents, too. We don’t simply type out our books and stories and post them for the world to see. At least we shouldn’t do that. Multiple sets of eyes—eyes with experience and perspective—will always improve a book. And that’s why I recruit beta readers, have an agent, and work with editors.

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THE PRANK…enigmatic and unnerving. The pace never flags for a second. This is some masterly plotting. I loved it.”

—Liz Nugent, author of Strange Sally Diamond

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Gut Feeling

We all get notes from editors, beta readers, and agents. Sometimes we don't agree. When you get feedback to change something that you really want to keep, how do you let it go or justify keeping it?

By Dietrich

The email comes in. The track changes open. The editor’s note says, “So… about this one part…”

Right in the middle of the feedback is a suggestion aimed squarely at the thing you want to keep most—the line that makes you smile, the subplot that feels like the book’s secret engine, or the ending you bled over.

You don’t agree. Not a bit.

So, you trust your instincts—the ones that come from deep within every book you’ve ever loved and every scene that has ever worked.

When feedback smacks into something I really want to keep, my first move isn’t to dig in. It’s to get curious and ask a few questions: What problem is this note trying to fix? Is it about clarity, pacing, emotional logic, or reader investment—or is it just someone else’s taste? If I cut the scene or make a change, does the story lose something it genuinely needs, or does it just lose something I’m fond of?

If it’s something load-bearing, —holding up the theme, the character’s core wound, or the whole vibe of the book—then I need to keep it. Other times, I need to realize I’m attached to it simply because I like it, not because the story needs it. This means the story will be happier when I let it go.

Here’s a good general rule to follow: Work with the notes instead of against them. The goal isn’t to win the argument; it’s to make the book better. Right?

If time allows, I might try the change, make a temporary version, and live with it for a day or two. Then I read the surrounding pages and ask myself, “Does the story feel tighter and clearer? Or does it suddenly feel like something important just dropped off?” This second reaction is usually more honest than the defensive one I had in the first five minutes.

I also pay attention to patterns. One person hating a favorite scene is interesting. Three different readers all flagging the same thing is hard to ignore.

At the same time, I stick to the non-negotiables—the emotional truth that has to stay, the structural choice that makes the book feel right, and the voice that would die if I polished it too smooth.

Killing your darlings might be the right call. There’s a kind of growth in cutting something I love because the larger story is stronger without it. It shows me that it’s better to serve the book instead of my attachment to a single shiny moment.

And if I do cut it, I cut it clean. I don’t want to leave a ghost of the original hanging around as a half-measure. Either it earns its place or it doesn’t.

If I do keep it, I just need a clear reason. “I just like it” isn’t enough. A good editor or agent usually respects a clear, story-first defense more than they respect instant obedience. They’re not looking for writers who never push back. They’re looking for writers who can tell the difference between ego and craft.

The decision never becomes automatic. Every new set of notes reopens the same questions. The skill isn’t in always keeping or always cutting. The skill is in coming back, again and again, to the same simple test: what actually makes the story better?

Trust your instincts. Stay open to the input that shows you the blind spots you couldn’t see on your own. And remember that the story is what matters here.

When the notes land and something you love is on the chopping block, sit with both the attachment and the suggestion long enough to hear what the book itself wants. That’s usually where the right call lives.