Epic Fantasy vs. LitRPG: 20 more principles that set them apart from other genres

So building on yesterday’s blog post, after asking ChatGPT to contrast litRPG against epic fantasy, I asked the AI to come up with twenty more principles that show how litRPG and epic fantasy are more similar to each other, by contrasting them against other genres. In other words, I asked for another twenty principles that either 1) hold true for both litRPG and epic fantasy, but not other genres, or 2) do not hold true for litRPG or epic fantasy, but do hold true for other genres. This was what the AI came up with.

What do you think? Do you agree with the list, or do you think the AI doesn’t know what it’s talking about? I mean, of course the AI doesn’t know what it’s talking about—it’s a pattern-matching stochastic parrot incapable of actual thought—but does the list itself hold true, or not? I’m interested to hear what you think!


✅ Ten Principles That Work in Both Epic Fantasy and LitRPG (but not as well elsewhere)

1. The Long Form Is an Asset

  • Epic Fantasy: Readers expect doorstoppers; sprawling stories add gravitas.
  • LitRPG: Readers binge long series to follow progression.
  • Other genres: Overly long novels (romance, thrillers) often feel padded or indulgent.

2. Worldbuilding as a Core Pleasure

  • Epic Fantasy: Intricate maps, languages, and histories enrich immersion.
  • LitRPG: Detailed mechanics, systems, and economies are part of the appeal.
  • Other genres: Too much worldbuilding bogs down the story (e.g., in mystery or romance).

3. Reader Dedication Is Assumed

  • Epic Fantasy: Readers accept investment to reap the mythic payoff.
  • LitRPG: Readers accept grindy arcs to enjoy progression.
  • Other genres: Casual readers often want quick satisfaction.

4. Hero’s Journey as Central Skeleton

  • Epic Fantasy: Growth from obscurity to legend is the core arc.
  • LitRPG: Growth from level 1 to overpowered is the core arc.
  • Other genres: Often resist the monomyth (slice-of-life, literary realism, etc.).

5. Community/Ensemble Casts

  • Epic Fantasy: Multiple POVs enrich the tapestry.
  • LitRPG: Party dynamics (tank, healer, mage) reflect RPG roots.
  • Other genres: Large casts risk confusing readers who want intimacy.

6. Spectacle as Payoff

  • Epic Fantasy: Climactic battles or magical revelations awe readers.
  • LitRPG: Dungeon raids and boss fights provide thrill.
  • Other genres: Spectacle without intimacy or brevity (like in romance) falls flat.

7. Maps and Charts Enhance the Experience

  • Epic Fantasy: Maps show kingdoms, trade routes, and lost ruins.
  • LitRPG: Stat sheets, skill trees, and quest logs scratch the gamer itch.
  • Other genres: Appendices and diagrams often feel extraneous.

8. Bingeability

  • Epic Fantasy: Readers want to sink in for weeks.
  • LitRPG: Readers tear through serialized arcs like binge-gaming sessions.
  • Other genres: Shorter, self-contained experiences dominate (rom-coms, thrillers).

9. Immersion Requires Internal Consistency

  • Epic Fantasy: Magic systems, politics, and cultures must feel internally real.
  • LitRPG: Mechanics and progression must follow consistent rules.
  • Other genres: Small cheats or contrivances are forgiven more easily.

10. The Fantasy of Escape Into Another Life

  • Epic Fantasy: Readers escape into a mythic, larger-than-life destiny.
  • LitRPG: Readers escape into a game avatar, empowered and free.
  • Other genres: Escapism is more muted—characters often mirror real-world constraints.

❌ Ten Principles That Work in Other Genres But Not in Epic Fantasy or LitRPG

11. Economy of Length

  • Epic Fantasy: Truncated stories feel shallow.
  • LitRPG: Short books cut off progression.
  • Other genres: Brevity (novellas, short novels) often thrives in romance, literary fiction, thrillers.

12. Standalone Closure

  • Epic Fantasy: Readers expect series and arcs across volumes.
  • LitRPG: Readers expect sequels and continuous leveling.
  • Other genres: Standalone novels dominate many markets (romance, crime).

13. Minimal World Detail

  • Epic Fantasy: Sparse settings break immersion.
  • LitRPG: Thin systems or game mechanics disappoint.
  • Other genres: Often better to focus tightly on character or conflict.

14. Immediate, High-Speed Pacing

  • Epic Fantasy: Readers accept gradual build-up.
  • LitRPG: Readers accept grind loops before climax.
  • Other genres: Quick, relentless pacing (thrillers) is a selling point.

15. Subtlety Over Spectacle

  • Epic Fantasy: Readers want grandeur, not quiet minimalism.
  • LitRPG: Readers want flashy abilities, loot drops, boss fights.
  • Other genres: Subtle slice-of-life or understated literary fiction works well.

16. Ambiguous Endings

  • Epic Fantasy: Readers want resolution—wars won, empires reshaped.
  • LitRPG: Readers want progression arcs to complete.
  • Other genres: Literary realism thrives on ambiguity.

17. Everyday Banality

  • Epic Fantasy: Mundane routine (work, school, dishes) feels like filler.
  • LitRPG: Grinding without purpose or progress feels like padding.
  • Other genres: Slice-of-life, contemporary drama thrive on the ordinary.

18. Romance as the Core Engine

  • Epic Fantasy: Love enriches but rarely drives the whole tapestry.
  • LitRPG: Love plots are secondary to leveling and quests.
  • Other genres: Romance is often the primary driver.

19. Prose Minimalism

  • Epic Fantasy: Readers want at least some richness, tone, and weight.
  • LitRPG: Readers want clarity and detail in mechanics, not Hemingway sparsity.
  • Other genres: Minimalist prose shines in lit fic or thrillers.

20. Compressed Timelines

  • Epic Fantasy: Readers want generations, years, or at least a long journey.
  • LitRPG: Readers want long campaigns and layered arcs.
  • Other genres: Stories that span a weekend or a single evening work beautifully in mystery, romance, lit fic.

⚖️ Big Takeaway

  • Shared Strengths (1–10): Both genres embrace immersion, scope, detail, and reader investment. They reward readers who want to live in another world for a long time.
  • Shared Weaknesses (11–20): Neither does well with brevity, minimalism, ambiguity, or everyday mundanity. Those principles thrive in other fiction but undermine the immersive, long-game experience of epic fantasy and LitRPG.

Epic Fantasy vs. LitRPG: 20 principles that work in one but not the other

So I was doing some genre research using ChatGPT, comparing epic fantasy (which I write) to litRPG (which I do not write—at least, not yet). After going back and forth for a while, I had ChatGPT list a bunch of principles that set each subgenre apart from each other. In other words, each of these principles holds true only for the one subgenre and not for the other.

It’s an interesting list. But being AI-generated, I’m not sure how much I can trust it, so I’d be interested to get your feedback. How true do you think these principles holds? Is it a pretty solid list, or are any areas where the AI got it wrong?


✅ Works in Epic Fantasy but Not LitRPG

1. Slow, Majestic Pacing

  • Epic Fantasy: Readers savor patience, waiting hundreds of pages for payoffs.
  • LitRPG: Readers expect regular “level-ups” or stat reveals—slow burns feel like stalling.

2. World as a Living, Breathing Character

  • Epic Fantasy: Setting is alive, with cultures, histories, and myth shaping events.
  • LitRPG: Worlds are often coded, constructed systems; too much “world-agency” risks breaking the conceit of “game mechanics.”

3. Archetypal Myth and Destiny

  • Epic Fantasy: Readers love prophecy, ancient bloodlines, and cosmic fate.
  • LitRPG: Players expect agency and control; prophecy undercuts the appeal of player choice.

4. Elevated, Poetic Language

  • Epic Fantasy: Slightly archaic or grand prose enhances the mythic atmosphere.
  • LitRPG: Readers expect clear, modern, accessible prose—too much ornament feels like “lag.”

5. Moral and Philosophical Depth

  • Epic Fantasy: Readers enjoy wrestling with justice, faith, and power.
  • LitRPG: Too much moral philosophizing slows down what should feel like gameplay and strategy.

6. Earned Heroism Through Suffering

  • Epic Fantasy: Heroes rise through sacrifice, scars, and loss.
  • LitRPG: Heroes rise by optimizing builds and winning battles. Too much suffering without progression feels like poor game balance.

7. History as Weight

  • Epic Fantasy: Ancient wars, dynasties, ruins, and forgotten myths enrich immersion.
  • LitRPG: History matters less than mechanics; world “backstory” is often secondary to the system’s function.

8. Layered Political Intrigue

  • Epic Fantasy: Kingdoms, councils, conspiracies—slow, strategic plotting excites readers.
  • LitRPG: Readers may skip political detail to get back to quests, loot, or progression.

9. Villains as Ideologies

  • Epic Fantasy: Antagonists often embody philosophies or cosmic balances.
  • LitRPG: Readers want enemies to be challenges, bosses, or rival players—not treatises on ideology.

10. The Reader Must Feel Small

  • Epic Fantasy: The awe of mountains, empires, or gods dwarfs the individual.
  • LitRPG: Readers want to feel powerful, not humbled—progression fantasy is about growth and mastery.

✅ Works in LitRPG but Not Epic Fantasy

11. Constant Tangible Progress

  • LitRPG: Frequent “dings,” new skills, and stat boosts scratch the gamer itch.
  • Epic Fantasy: Constant visible gains feel artificial—growth should be slow, hard-won, and often invisible.

12. Game-Like Structure

  • LitRPG: Clear quests, dungeons, XP, and loot tables create satisfying loops.
  • Epic Fantasy: Too much structure breaks the illusion of a living world—life doesn’t hand out quests so neatly.

13. Crunchy Mechanics

  • LitRPG: Readers relish stat blocks, skill trees, and optimization discussions.
  • Epic Fantasy: Overly mechanical explanations kill immersion—magic should feel mysterious, not like a spreadsheet.

14. Frequent Combat Encounters

  • LitRPG: Battles are core gameplay; readers expect frequent fights.
  • Epic Fantasy: Endless combat risks exhausting readers who want battles to feel rare, costly, and decisive.

15. Player Agency Above All

  • LitRPG: The protagonist must feel like a player making choices.
  • Epic Fantasy: Fate, prophecy, or the “burden of destiny” often guide characters beyond their control.

16. Meta Awareness

  • LitRPG: Characters can reference game mechanics, genre tropes, or player logic.
  • Epic Fantasy: Meta jokes break immersion—characters can’t wink at the audience about being in a story.

17. Loot and Rewards as Story Fuel

  • LitRPG: New gear and loot drops are story progression.
  • Epic Fantasy: Magical swords and treasures matter, but they’re rare, symbolic, and usually secondary to inner growth.

18. Episodic, “Grindable” Arcs

  • LitRPG: Dungeon runs, quests, and side missions can be modular and satisfying.
  • Epic Fantasy: Too episodic undermines the long-arc gravitas; the story must feel like a single tapestry.

19. Power Fantasy at the Forefront

  • LitRPG: Readers want to imagine themselves growing invincible.
  • Epic Fantasy: Too much power fantasy feels hollow—readers want awe and cost, not invincibility.

20. Immersion Through Familiar Systems

  • LitRPG: RPG tropes are comforting—readers enjoy seeing familiar mechanics at play.
  • Epic Fantasy: Familiar mechanics feel derivative—immersion comes from originality, history, and myth.

⚖️ The Big Picture

  • Epic Fantasy: Offers immersion in a mythic, awe-inspiring legend, with patience, gravitas, and weight. It humbles and uplifts.
  • LitRPG: Offers immersion in a game you can read, with momentum, mechanics, and constant progression. It empowers and energizes.

They share world immersion as a value—but diverge in what kind of immersion the audience craves: awe vs. agency, myth vs. mechanics, destiny vs. progress.

How to (not) write women (and men)

This guy has an interesting YouTube channel. He does mostly writing videos, and his advice is better than most of the stuff out there. I think he’s a literary agent and a non-fiction author.

Anyways, watching this one was a real throwback to my days as a newbie writer, when I made some of these mistakes and had to work on how I wrote female characters. I agree with most of his advice, especially that you should avoid writing a “strong female character” (my words, not his) that is really just a man with boobs. There is way too much of that these days.

The comments are also really interesting, though apparently the discussion got super heated. Which is typical of course. I miss the internet of 15 years ago. It was a much friendlier place.

By the way, he also did a video for women trying to write men, and the mistakes they often make. It’s hilarious.

How I hacked my ADHD to triple my daily word count

Writing with ADHD can be tough. It’s easy to beat yourself up for being “undisciplined” or “lazy” when the greater problem is that you’re trying to work against your ADHD instead of finding ways to make it work for you. It’s like swimming against a rip current instead of swimming sideways to get out of it.

In the last month, I’ve made a really fantastic breathrough that I think will change the way I write from here on out. So far, it’s helped me to double or even triple my usual word count. The novel I’ve been wrestling with for more than a year now—the longest one I’ve written since I started indie publishing—now looks like it will be finished in just a few of weeks, when I expected it to take a couple of months. Needless to say, I’m really excited.

What changed? I found a way to make my ADHD work for me, rather than against me.

In my previous post, A reading hack for the ADHD addled brain, I explained how I exploited my ADHD to read more books. Basically, I did the same thing, but for writing. There was a lot that had to happen first, though, and the biggest of those was that I had to learn how to make and keep an outline.

Step 1: Learn how to outline properly

For years, I just sort of assumed that I was a discovery writer, probably because of the ADHD. Most of creativity has to do with finding novel or unexpected ways to combine two or more ideas, and when you have ADHD, your brain naturally jumps from idea to idea. That was why I always hated taking meds when I was a kid: I felt that it stifled my creativity. And since most of this idea jumping happened subconsciously, I assumed that outlining would also kill that process.

But after a few years of struggling as an indie author, I realized that my writing process was too slow. In order to succeed, I needed to publish more frequently, but in order to do that, I needed to produce more content regularly. Back then, I would usually write a novel from start to finish, laying it aside for a month or two if I ran into a serious block, and also after finishing each draft. A typical novel would go through two or three revision drafts, so it would literally take years before a +70k word novel was ready to publish.

I decided that the best way to shorten my writing process was to “cycle” through the book, combining all the drafts so that I was working on revisions while simultaneously writing the rough draft. In order to keep track of all that, I needed to keep an outline. So I tried out a few different methods and tweaked them until I came up with a method that worked well for me.

The thought of outlining can scare a lot of writers who consider themselves “pantsers” or “discover writers,” but the thing to keep in mind is that there is no one right way to keep an outline. In fact, there are probably as many ways to outline as there are writers. For some, a couple of quick sketches on the back of a napkin is enough, while for others, it turns into a massive story bible that’s just as long (or longer) than the actual book. But without trying out a lot of different methods, you’ll never figure out what works for you.

It took me a couple of years, but I eventually developed a method that worked really well for me. With it, I was able to write Edenfall and The Stars of Redemption, as well as the last two Gunslinger books, in much less time than it took for my other ones. I was also able to combine all eight of the Star Wanderers novellas into a novel—something I probably wouldn’t have been able to do very well without a solid outline to keep it straight.

But I still would run into blocks that would occasionally derail the project, at least for a little while. I ran into that a lot with my current WIP, Children of the Starry Sea. Sometimes, they were genuine story problems that I needed to work through. More often than not, though, the problem was one of momentum: I was having too many bad writing days interspersed with the good writing days, so that each day felt like I was starting from zero. After a while, that becomes difficult to keep up.

Step 2: Allow yourself to write out of order

When I came back from my second hiatus to work on Children of the Starry Sea, it was clear that my new method wasn’t working as well as I needed it to work. Children of the Starry Sea is much longer than anything I’ve published so far, and I found that I just wasn’t producing enough new words consistently to make my “cycling” process of revisions work.

Around this time, I remembered something I’d heard on a recent convention panel, where one of the authors shared how he collaborated with another author. Instead of going back and forth, he told his cowriter: “how about you just write all the odd chapters, and I’ll write the even chapters, and when we’re both done we’ll combine it all together and see how it turns out.” To their surprise, it actually turned out really well.

So with that in mind, I decided to experiment with skipping around my current WIP, rather than writing it in order from start to finish. If I woke up and felt like I wanted to write an action scene, I would pick one of the action scenes out of my outline and write that. If I felt like I wanted to write the ending, I would skip ahead and write that. If I felt like I wanted to write the next scene, I would go back to where I’d left off and write that.

The outline was the key. Without it, there’s no way I’d be able to keep everything straight and know where each part is supposed to go. The outline also had the added benefit of dividing the novel up into smaller chunks, making the overall project much less intimidating. The way to eat an elephant is to take one bite at a time, just like the way to climb a mountain is to take one step at a time. Same thing with novels.

That’s all well and good, you may be thinking, but what happens when you’ve written all the stuff that you want to write, and all that’s left is the stuff you didn’t want to write? Isn’t that a bit like eating your dessert first, and leaving your vegetables for last? Not really, because chances are that if you really don’t want to write a particular scene, the reader probably won’t want to read it either. So if you can find a way to rework your story so that scene becomes unnecessary, you’re probably better off doing that.

But I actually haven’t had that problem yet. The thing about ADHD is that it actually feels right to jump around all over the place like that. Just because I don’t want to write a particular scene on one day doesn’t mean that I won’t want to come back to it sometime later. And more often than not, writing a later scene actually makes things fall into place with the earlier scenes, and makes me more excited to write them.

It’s as if the project itself is a puzzle. Can you imagine trying to put a puzzle together in linear order, starting from the top left corner and moving to the bottom right? That would be pure torture! Instead, you pick up whatever pieces catch your eye, and try to fit them in with other, similar pieces, until the puzzle itself begins to take shape.

There a lot of disadvantages to writing with ADHD, but there are some areas where the ADHD can actually become a strength, if you learn to work with it instead of against it. I’ve already mentioned how it can help with creativity, since your mind is always bouncing around between different ideas. What I’ve learned in the last month is that writing out of order is another great way to harness ADHD as a strength, since something that leaps out from writing one scene can often lead to a breakthrough in another. Writing out of order gives your ADHD brain the space it needs to make those intuitive leaps, and harnesses the “oh, shiny!” toward something productive, rather than driving you to procrastinate.

Step 3: Start in the middle, not the beginning

For me, the hardest part of writing is getting started. That’s probably my ADHD: it’s always easier to get distracted than it is to settle down and do what you’re supposed to do. Once I’ve settled down, though, and gotten into a groove, I can usually stick with a task until it’s done. In fact, once you’re in something of a flow state, the ADHD can actually make you hyperfocus.

So if the hardest part of writing is getting started, how do you turn that from a weakness into a strength? By leaving the next scene(s) unfinished, so that the next time you sit down to write, the scene has already been started and you just need to figure out the next word. One word leads to the next, and before you know it, you’re in the groove again.

By far, this has been the biggest part of my breakthrough: realizing that I don’t have to write every scene from start to finish in one sitting. In fact, it’s better if I don’t. Instead, I’ll typically finish one or two scenes in the morning, then pick out three to four scenes in the afternoon and write the first couple hundred words or so, deliberately leaving them unfinished so that I have a variety of scenes to choose from the next day.

If the hardest part of writing is getting started, then the hardest part of getting started is feeling overwhelmed at how much you have to do. But if all I have to do is write a couple hundred words, that’s easy! It also works with my ADHD instead of against it, since I get to jump from scene to scene instead of getting bogged down.

With the way that I used to write, most of my “writing blocks” had less to do with the actual writing and more to do with working myself up to write. Many times, I found that if I just sat down and opened up my WIP without thinking too much about it first, the writing would come a lot easier. Starting in the middle is a great way to harness that, because you aren’t confronted with a blank page the moment you sit down. It takes a lot less effort to find the next word than it does to find the first word.

So with where things stand right now, I just need to start four new scenes every day this week and I’ll have every remaining scene in my novel WIP started by Saturday. From there, if I can finish two or three scenes a day, I can easily finish the rough draft stage of this novel WIP before the end of February—which will be amazing, since I’m only at the 65% mark right now, and historically that’s always the part where I find it most difficult to write.

I’m really looking forward to writing a whole novel from start to finish using this method. As soon as Children of the Starry Sea is finished, I’ll start outlining the sequel, Return of of the Starborn Son, and write it the same way. If things go well with my current WIP, I’ll be very optimistic about finishing the next one before the end of the year—perhaps even before the end of the summer.

I do expect things to get crazy around here soon, though. Our second child is due in the early spring, which means enduring a month or two of chronic sleep deprivation. I’ve gotten to be pretty comfortable with writing at 4AM, but we’re also getting a lot more uninterrupted sleep than we were when Princess Hiccup was a newborn. I anticipate that we’ll have at least a month where nothing gets productively done.

So it will be really fantastic if I can finish Children of the Starry Sea NOW, before the baby comes—and not just the rough draft, but the revisions too. Fortunately, I don’t think I’ll have too much difficulty with the revisions. I’ve already cycled through the first half of the book a couple of times, and it’s working pretty well. Also, revisions come a lot easier to me than writing new words. I’m not sure why that’s true, but it is.

And for the record, I don’t advocate jumping around all over the place while doing revisions. It’s probably best to do that part in sequential order, if nothing else than to make sure that all the scenes and chapters flow properly. I haven’t gotten to that part of this writing method yet, so it will be interesting to see how it goes. So far, the stuff I’ve cycled through actually seems to flow pretty well, but I need to take it from the beginning to really be sure.

2020-01-23 Newsletter Author’s Note

This author’s note originally appeared in the January 23rd edition of my email newsletter. To sign up for my newsletter, click here.

Every week, when I sit down to write the author’s note for this newsletter, I try to come up with something that you’ll find genuinely interesting or insightful. I don’t want to talk about myself too much, since that tends to get boring rather quickly, and I also don’t want to talk too much about writing, since for non-writers that also tends to get boring. Most of my fans probably aren’t professional writers, and those of my colleagues who do subscribe to this newsletter probably just want to keep tabs on what I’m doing and aren’t themselves fans (except for you, J.R. Handley).

Then again, since you’re someone who 1. actually opens the newsletter, and 2. bothers to actually read it, you probably do have some interest in both me and my writing. So I hope you’ll indulge me, because the thing that’s on my mind this week has to do with a couple of blog posts I read by Kristine Katherine Rusch and Dean Wesley Smith.

I have tremendous respect for Kris and Dean. Their opinions on writing and publishing had a huge impact on my decision to jump into indie publishing nearly nine years ago. That said, their advice has been a mixed bag: some of it ranks among the best writing and publishing advice I’ve heard, but some of it has sent me down the wrong path, sometimes for years.

On Wednesday, Dean wrote a blog post where he explained his big secret:

It actually boils down to one simple thing… I don’t care what anyone thinks of me. Or of my writing, or methods of writing.

I just flat don’t care.

In other words, the grand key to understanding all of Dean’s writing and publishing advice is this: don’t give a damn about anything else except having fun.

All of a sudden, everything began to fall into place; both his good advice (don’t let agents scam you, trust your own voice, don’t let writing groups boss you around, don’t devalue your work) and his bad advice (never revise anything, never read reviews, do all of your own covers, write everything quickly, don’t outline anything, don’t actively promote your books). It all comes down to his core philosophy of not giving a damn.

But is that really the best approach?

Dean’s advice is very good for writing a certain kind of book. But the kind of books that I want to write are the ones that I like to read: books that really stick with you, either because they get you to think deeply about something, or feel deeply about something in a way you’ve never felt before. And I may be wrong, but Deans approach of not giving a damn seems like a terrible way to write those books.

Another thing that Dean always talks about is “critical voice.” Basically, all writers have two voices in their head: one that understands story and makes you want to write, and the “critical voice” that tells you what’s wrong with everything and makes you want to give up writing forever. Maybe he’s right about that. But does it necessarily follow that the only way to write anything is to get your critical voice to shut up?

For the last few years, I’ve been developing a new method for outlining my books. I used to think that outlining is terrible because it takes all the fun out of writing—in other words, exactly what Dean says. Instead, outlining helps me to keep my “critical voice” in check, because when something is broken the outline helps me to see where the problem is, and how to fix it. It also helps me to eat the proverbial elephant one small bite at a time.

Is there a useful place for “critical voice” in the writing process? Can giving a damn actually be the key to writing a better book, or making writing fun again?

This past week, I was writing a new scene in Star Wanderers from Noemi’s point of view. It takes place during the events of Fidelity and Benefactor, when Mariya’s father loses his job and the family doesn’t know what they’re going to do. It felt like a slog until I realized that the conversation between these two characters, Mariya and Noemi, offered a really interesting chance to explore questions of faith, doubt, and the problem of evil. Suddenly, the scene really came alive for me, and the key was asking myself “what can I offer my readers here? What will they take away from this?” In other words, giving a damn actually made the writing more fun, not less.

A few weeks ago, Kris wrote a really interesting blog post where among other things she said:

If a writer isn’t afraid of what she’s writing, then she’s doing it wrong because she’s not stretching herself. You should always reach just a bit, go a place you haven’t gone before.

I like that. And if I didn’t actually care about what you or others thought—if it was all about myself and “having fun”—I don’t think I’d ever really stretch myself as a writer. Or perhaps I would, but not in the right way. I’d be like one of those bodybuilders, with massive pecks and teeny tiny legs.

All of which is to say that I think I finally understand now why Dean Wesley Smith’s writing and publishing advice is so hit-or-miss. And also, that I understand a little better how to write the kind of books that made me want to write in the first place.

Why writing every day may still be the best advice

A week ago, I blogged about how writing every day may not be the best advice. I pointed out how following that advice had helped me when I was first starting out, but it had also hurt me later on. I pointed out how sometimes it’s better to work smarter than harder. After all, why throw out 80% of what you write if by taking a little time to properly outline things, you can write a clean first draft?

Well, I’ve been reading a book called The Compound Effect, and it’s made me rethink some of those ideas. The main point the book makes is that it isn’t the big things that make the most difference, but the small, regular things compounded over time.

Is it still a good idea to work smarter? Yes, definitely. If by taking the time to prewrite a book, you can avoid throwing out 80% of your work, then by all means that’s more important than hitting your 2k / 3k / 10k words for the day, or whatever. But here’s the thing: there’s a smarter way to write every day too, and it has to do with momentum.

If you’ve been in a writing rut, it’s very hard to go from 0 to your daily word count goal in a single day. Over time, that goal becomes a ceiling instead of a floor. It’s all very psychological. Your writing time fills up with procrastination or busywork, to the point where it takes all your energy just to hit that daily goal.

All of that changes if instead you say “I’m going to write 500 / 200 / whatever words more than I did the day before.” Even from a rut, it’s not that difficult to go from 0 to 500 in a single day. And once you’ve hit 500, it’s not difficult to hit 1k. Compounded this way, you can soon break through that ceiling and still have energy to hit everything else.

It’s an interesting approach to daily writing goals, one that I’m trying out right now. But for it to really work, you do have to write every day, otherwise the compounding never happens.

When I first started this blog back in 2007, I used to write a lot about momentum. I was very much a novice writer, but even back then I could feel how much easier it was to write when I was on a streak than when I was starting from zero—and a streak can start with a day of just a few hundred words.

The things to avoid are busywork and useless guilt. If your writing goals have become a ceiling that you just can’t break through, perhaps it’s time to recalibrate. Work smarter AND harder.

And now, for no particular reason at all, here’s a Sabaton music video.

Why writing every day may not be the best advice

When I started writing back in college, the prevailing advice was to write every day. And to be fair, at the time, that was very good advice. I was just getting started on my writing career and had a lot of learning to do. My writing improved by leaps and bounds as I strived to make progress on my WIPs every day.

Now, though, I’m not so sure that writing every day is the best thing to strive for.

It’s not that I’m against the idea of practice. Writing is one of those rare creative professions where people don’t think you get better the more you do it. Of course, that’s flat-out wrong. The best musicians put in hours and hours of practice, as do the best chess players, or the best soldiers, or the best sports stars. Writing is no different. If you don’t put in the time and effort, you won’t get the results.

At the same time, there’s a tendency among aspiring and even journeyman writers to become consumed with guilt because they missed their writing goal for the day. This is counterproductive. Goals don’t exist to give you satisfaction or guilt, but to give you direction. Satisfaction comes from what you achieve in pursuit of a goal, not in the goal itself.

So that’s one aspect of it. But there’s another aspect, and that’s how effective it is (or isn’t) to write every day.

Between high school and college, I worked as a gofer on a masonry crew. One of the things my boss used to say was “work smarter, not harder.” He often said it rather tongue-in-cheek, but it’s still an important concept. It doesn’t matter how hard you work if you’re doing it wrong.

This applies to writing as well. What does it matter that you write every day, if you’re just going to throw out most of it anyway? Is that really the best use of your time and energy? If by taking a week to establish things like plot, character, world-building, etc, you could write a much cleaner and better first draft, does it matter that you technically weren’t writing every day during that week?

Write smarter, not harder.

Now, I’m very glad that I did write every day back when I was starting out. My first (and possibly my second) million words were mostly crap, so it was better to put in the time and get through it as quickly as possible, just for the learning and growth.

But now that I’m an established journeyman writer, I find that the results are much better if I take the time to do some basic prewriting before I attack the first page. My first drafts are cleaner. The story comes together easier, with fewer problems. I don’t have to do “triage” revisions, where I’m throwing out characters, subplots, or even major plot points simply because they don’t work.

In Brandon Sanderson’s writing class, I once asked what I needed to change so that I could write my WIPs straight through without getting stuck in the middle. Brandon asked me if I was still finishing them, and when I said yes, he basically said don’t worry about it. That was good advice then, but it isn’t anymore. I’ve reached the point where writing smarter is more important than writing harder.

Anyway, those are my thoughts at the moment. Things change a lot when you’ve been writing for 10+ years, and unlike all the resources available for aspiring writers, there isn’t a whole lot of stuff out there to help guide you through the later phases. I’m basically figuring it out as I go.

What I would do if I were starting out now

In a word, short stories.

Write a bunch of short stories. One or two a week if possible. Keep that up for a year or two, tapering off at the end to transition into novels. But keep writing short stories even after novels have become the main focus.

Make a serious effort while writing short stories to master both the craft and the art of storytelling. View it as an apprenticeship period. Experiment. Try out new things. Join a writing group, preferably of experienced professional writers, and have them rip your stories apart. Soak up as much constructive feedback as possible, and apply it to the next story.

At the same time, don’t spend so much time reworking old stories that you aren’t producing new ones. Learn how to keep a rigorous production schedule. If a story is totally broken, toss it out! Get to the point where you can hit 2k words consistently every day, and knock out a story at least every couple of weeks or so.

In a word, learn how to be prolific.

Experiment with standalones, but also build a couple of universes with recurring characters. Write a few series, both sequential and non-sequential. Focus especially on the non-sequential series, though—the ones where any story can be an entry point. Learn how to find the sweet spot between writing a satisfying ending and leaving a hook for the next one. That sweet spot is different for every genre.

Submit every story you write to the traditional short story markets. Start with the highest paying markets and work your way down. Pay close attention to average response times on sites like the Grinder and don’t submit to any market with an average response time of more than 30 days, no matter how high the pay rate. The goal is to get each story through all of the pro- and semi-pro markets in about a year. If a market can’t get back to you in a timely fashion, it’s not worth your time. Ideally, you want to be receiving multiple rejections every day.

Once you’ve got about twenty or so stories that have come off of submission, start self-publishing.

Use the first couple of stories to learn how the process works. Figure out how to format, do cover work, and write up all the metadata on your own, then do all you can to streamline that process until it becomes automatic. You can outsource some of the more difficult stuff, but learn to do as much as you can on your own. Don’t spend more than about $50 per story to publish it, preferably more like $30.

Once you’ve got a process down, set a rigorous release schedule of 2 stories per month. Keep to that schedule religiously. Don’t worry too much how the stories are selling: they probably won’t sell well until you’ve got a couple dozen or so out. Just focus on getting them out.

Keep an email list, with links to subscribe in the front and back of all your books. Build that list as much as you can. Most of your early marketing efforts should go to building that list, and cultivating a relationship with the people on it. Don’t rely on Facebook, because you don’t own that site and can’t control it. Same with any other social media. Do all you can to bring your readers to a place you control.

Start blogging. Build relationships with other bloggers. Strive to post something new every day. Make it the kind of site that your readers will want to come to. Be sure to have pages for all of your books, as well as a series page that lists every story in every series, in chronological and written order (side note: I really need to write up a series page).

Experiment with free pulsing and price pulsing. Experiment with price points. Experiment with bundles. Experiment with everything.

ORGANIZE YOUR DATA. Ohmygosh. You’re going to be drowning in data after just a few months. Keep all of your sales reports, and compile all that into spreadsheets showing how many sales you got of each title each month, how much you earned from each title each month, etc. Data, data, data! Learn how to thrive with data!

Write a formal business plan, and update it constantly as you go. Write down all the strategies that work, as well as the ones that don’t. Write down all the strategies you want to try out. In case it wasn’t obvious, write down your release schedule. Write down your to do list, organized by urgent / not urgent and important / not important quadrants. Write down everything. WRITE IT DOWN.

Eventually, you’ll get to the point where you’re releasing bundles alongside or even in place of your short stories. Don’t unpublish anything. Maybe update the covers, if you decide your early ones are really really bad. But don’t worry about it too much. Just focus on being as prolific as possible.

As long as you keep moving, you’re going to get somewhere. So always keep moving. Even when you have a disappointing sales month, or a spat of bad reviews, or whatever, just keep moving. Even if you’re moving in the wrong direction, that’s better than not moving at all.

At some point, you’re going to start to see some success. You may even have a breakthrough. At that point, you can start moving on to novels. Hopefully you’ve written a couple of them by now. Your first one is probably utter crap, so toss it out and focus on the good ones.

Hopefully, you’ve written it in the same universe as a bunch of your short stories. That will make the marketing easier, but its not strictly necessary so don’t worry about it too much if you haven’t. Also don’t worry too much if the novel isn’t in a series of its own. It’s better if it is, but standalones have their place too.

Try to write in trilogies, or to write standalones that can easily be turned into trilogies. The first book should stand on its own, the second should end on a low note and hook into the third book, and the third book should blow the reader’s mind away. Brandon Sanderson’s Mistborn series is a great example of this.

If your career hasn’t taken off by now, you aren’t experimenting enough. That, or you’re cutting too many corners. One way or another, you’re going to have to put in the work.

That’s pretty much it. Have fun!

Larry Correia on creating “offensive” characters

Larry Correia has a fantastic post up on the pitfalls of political correctness when writing fictional characters. He not only nails it on the head, he takes a nail that’s been twisted in three different directions and rams it into the wood with just a couple of well-placed taps. Seriously, if you’re interested in writing at all, you should check the whole post out.

The main gist of it can be summed up by this quote:

Smart writers are going to focus on entertainment. They’re probably going to offend everybody at some point. But at least they won’t be boring while they do it.

I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again, the unforgivable sin for writers is being boring. As a writer you can get away with damned near anything as long as you are entertaining a big enough audience.

There is a contingent of readers out there who exist only to nitpick and bitch. There aren’t that many of them, but they make up for it by being loud. Many authors are under the mistaken impression that you can make these readers happy. You can’t. At best you can appease them. Temporarily. But you will cross their invisible line sometime and they will get all sorts of outraged.

The latest person to get outraged was Melissa Harris Perry, who denounced Star Wars because Darth Vader was (and yet at the same time wasn’t) black. Seriously. It’s like she saw this clip and didn’t realize it was satire:

But I digress.

The reason it’s impossible to please politically correct SJW-types is because the way that they signal their virtue to other members of their tribe is by finding something to be outraged about. This is a consequence of their belief that the only way to fix society is through social revolution, a point that Dennis Prager deconstructs quite effectively. It’s all about how loud they can scream.

As Larry points out, trying to placate these perpetually outraged people is a game you can’t win—not unless you’re already a member of their tribe. This ironically makes them far more prejudiced than most of the people they’re so outraged at. When was the last time you heard the word “white” used as an insult? Has the word “cisgender” ever not been used as an epithet? “Privileged” is another one—without knowing anything about you as an individual, they have already passed judgment and despise you.

Again, this is why I support the Sad Puppies: because they have the courage to stand against these perpetually outraged types who would tear down everything in SF&F that they can find offense with. The most imaginative genre in fiction is no place for self-appointed thought police.

There is one important area where I disagree with Larry. He rejects the Bechdel test out of hand, where I think it still has value. As a litmus test, I totally agree with him: I’m against any kind of a litmust test for stories. But from a writing perspective, I think it can still be a very useful tool.

The Bechdel test is something that I usually have in the back of my mind when I write: not out of fear of offending the perpetually outraged, but in order to write more complex and interesting characters who can stand as heroes of their own stories. I don’t think we’re at odds on that point, since Larry himself says the same thing in his discussion of how to write a strong antagonist. To that extent, I personally find the test to be useful.

The point is, if you want to be a successful writer, don’t try to please everyone. As soon as you start to experience success, someone will inevitably take offense with you just to bring you down a notch. Don’t let them get to you. In the words of Brigham Young:

He who takes offense when no offense is intended is a fool, and he who takes offense when offense is intended is a greater fool.