One of the many things that encouraged me when I first got into writing seriously was reading books and thinking ‘I could do better than that’. It wasn’t that the books I read were bad‌—‌many of them were fantastic, far better than anything I could’ve written overall. It was more that I’d spot a plot hole, or come up with a different (and, to my mind, better) solution to a problem the characters faced. Or I’d read a clunky paragraph, or a section of dialogue that didn’t sound right, or was too on-the-nose, and I’d see a different way of writing it. Little things, but because I not only spotted them but also saw how I’d ‘correct’ them, they inspired me to write for myself.

It still happens. I read widely, and some of the books I read aren’t great. I (usually) persevere to the end, seeing them as training exercises, as examples of what to avoid. But I also read books that leave me amazed, where the writing is incredible, where the world-building is incredibly immersive, where the characters come across as ‘real’.

Of course, books like this can be useful in my writing too. If I can figure out how another writer does things, I can learn from that, maybe incorporate those techniques into my own stories. But there are times when reading a great book drags me down.

It’s happened this week. I’ve been reading Arkady Martine’s A Desolation Called Peace, the follow-up to A Memory Called Empire. It won’t be to everyone’s tastes, but I was thoroughly impressed with the book. It still had the writing style of the first book (I suppose I’d call it ‘literary’, bordering on poetic‌—‌which is totally fitting for the plot), but what impressed me even more in …Desolation… was the interplay between the characters. Each character has motives, clear to themselves (sometimes) but hidden from others. There are all kinds of power-plays going on. Yes, the plot revolves around a war with aliens, but there’s far more tension in the inter-personal rivalries. And what struck me most was the subtlety of this, how it felt genuine rather than melodramatic.

This is something I’m aiming for with one of the story-arcs in Unity, and to see such a great example in Martine’s book left me feeling‌…‌despondent? I think that’s the word. There’s a mastery in Martine’s writing I can’t imagine myself achieving, or even coming close. To write something even half as good as this seems impossible.

If I hadn’t already written around twenty books‌—‌if Unity was my first serious writing project‌—‌I think I’d be tempted to give up. As it is, the doubts have risen‌—‌why would anyone read a book I’ve written when there are writers like Arkady Martine producing stories? And what about the other things I’m hoping to achieve in my story? How can my take on galaxy-wide civilisations infused with technology ever compare to Iain M Banks’ Culture books? And what about all those other great sci-fi writers‌—‌Hamilton, Baxter, Asimov, Herbert and so on? Am I a fool to even consider trying to write a large-scale space opera?

I have to believe that I’m not a fool. (Okay, I can be foolish, but you know what I mean.) So I have to do something about these doubts.

When I’m tempted to compare myself (severely inferiorly) to writers like Martine, there are a few things I need to remember

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First, I’m currently in the first round of edits of a very messy first draft of Unity Book One, and I’ve read the final, published version of A Desolation Called Peace. At one time, Martine’s book was nothing but an idea. It became a first draft, and then that draft was edited. I don’t know any details, but I’d imagine it went through many revisions, with input from editors and others.

I recently read Stephen Baxter’s Creation Node (another book that impressed me to the point of nudging those doubts higher in my mind), and in the back he lists everyone who helped bring the book to publication. There are over fifty names on that list. Fifty. Yes, some of those people (possibly the majority) were involved with publication rather than preparing the final manuscript (marketing, design, admin and so on), but books like Creation Node and …Desolation… are team efforts. So far, I’m the only person who’s been involved in my new book.

It’s like comparing a rough sketch to a painted canvas. It’s like comparing home-recorded noodlings to released music, recorded in top studios on high-end equipment, performed by professionals and engineered and mastered by experts.

Will my finished version of Unity match …Desolation…? Probably not. But it’ll be closer than it is at the moment.

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The next thing I need to remember is that I’m not Arkady Martine. I don’t write like her. And I need to see that as a good thing.

I’ll explain.

There’s a saying‌—‌give a hundred writers the same outline for a story, and you’ll end up with a hundred different stories. Every writer is different. Our personal experiences shape our writing, to varying degrees. Every writer has preferences, has strengths and weaknesses.

So, unless I’m trying to mimic her style, there’s no way I can write a book like Martine. And why would I? She writes stories in the way she writes them, and I write stories in the way I write them. And as I mentioned before, not everyone will enjoy …Desolation…. There are readers out there who prefer the way I tell a story. Maybe not many, but some.

Does this mean I can’t learn from Martine? Of course I can. But I can’t expect to be the same as her. Some writers can successfully mimic the style of others‌—‌an advantage for ghostwriters‌—‌but I don’t want to be someone else. I want to write the books I can write. And, as AI nudges closer and closer to being able to churn out readable‌—‌even good‌—‌stories, it’s important that, as a writer, I lean into what makes my writing unique.

What is my unique factor? I’m not sure, but it has to do with me, as a person‌—‌the way I write, the way I create stories, the language I use. It has to do with what I bring to my writing‌—‌my experiences, my thoughts, the way I see the world.

I want readers to enjoy my stories, but if they enjoy them because they were written by me, that’s even better.

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And this leads to the next thing I need to remember‌—‌I’m not writing for Martine’s readers. We both write sci-fi, so there may well be (should be?) some cross-over. But sci-fi is an incredibly broad genre. Even in space opera there is breadth. Some readers are drawn to fast-paced stories, others to intertwined character arcs. Some go wild for world-building, others get a buzz from snappy dialogue. Some prefer hard science, others lean towards a more philosophical take on science, and others don’t care if the science makes real-life sense so long as it works for the story.

If every writer is different, then so too is every reader. And there are far more readers than writers out there.

So I shouldn’t fall into despondency when I read great sci-fi. I should remember these three lessons‌—‌it makes little sense to compare my early drafts with another’s finished manuscript, every writer is different, and readers have differing preferences. If every book was a masterpiece in exactly the same way, why would anyone read more than one? It’s the differences that make every book unique.

Then I should consider what I can learn from great writers, what I can pull from other stories and adapt for my writing. I’m reading more and more as a writer (which I find makes reading more enjoyable‌—‌I can experience stories on different levels now), and this is something I need to develop, learning to tease out the linguistic tricks other writers use to make their work shine.

And if a book draws me in like Martine’s book has, it should serve as a reminder of the power of fiction. It should be an encouragement‌—‌reading can be an incredible experience. I might not reach anywhere near as many readers as Martine, but if I can reach some, then I can call my writing a success.

Although there’s always room for improvement.

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This post is the latest in a series I’m running on Substack, chronicling my work on this new project. If you’d like to read these posts as they appear, please consider subscribing for free.

About a month ago I wrote about figuring out names for my new series, something I always struggle with. But these aren’t the only names I need to work on. Stories use names all the time‌—‌for characters, for places, for companies and businesses, and (especially in tales that don’t take place in our contemporary world) for different objects. These names need to work in the story-setting, too. They can’t be so outlandish that they’re hard to read (unless that’s the point of them, in which case the reader will most likely skim over them). But make them too ordinary, too familiar, and there’s the risk of having thIn my day job it’s easy to tell if I’m working‌—‌I’m doing stuff. Most jobs are like this. If you’re sitting around staring into space, you’re not working. If you’re wandering around aimlessly, you’re not working. If you’re not at your desk or work-station, if you’re not in the building, guess what?

I used to think writing was like this. If I wasn’t at my laptop, fingers tapping away, then I wasn’t writing. If I was reading through a draft, I’d have my phone with me, and I’d be making notes‌—‌still working. But if I caught myself staring into space, I was procrastinating.

I’ve changed my mind on this. Things aren’t that clear-cut now.

Writing is a creative activity, and as such it involves perspiration and inspiration. There’s an active component‌—‌typing words, be that in planning, drafting or editing. There are all the admin and marketing tasks, which again involve me tapping away at my laptop. But there’s also a less physical component. To type those words, I have to come up with the words. The external presentation of the story has to follow the internal preparation.

When I look up from my laptop, gazing vacantly through the window, it’s because I’m thinking. Staring into space is what my body does while my mind is planning the next sentence, or trying to solve a plot issue, or working out how a particular character would react to a specific situation.

But it goes deeper than this.

Ideas‌—‌especially big ideas, the kind that solve taxing problems‌—‌always seem to come at the strangest moments. In the shower, as you’re about to drop off to sleep, when you’re out for a walk or washing up. The solutions come not when you’re actively thinking of the problem, but when your mind isn’t doing anything in particular. It’s almost as if all that conscious struggle was getting in the way. It’s almost as if the way to solve a problem is to stop thinking about it.

To a degree, this is true. We can’t sit back and expect great ideas to emerge on their own. We have to ponder problems. We have to actively seek solutions. We should investigate and research. But if the answer doesn’t come easily, then it is very likely we need to step back, to take a break and switch off.

The way I understand it, our subconscious mind is always working, deep in the background. Most of the time we’re unaware of it‌—‌it’s drowned out by our conscious thoughts. It’s only when we switch off that we become aware of our subconscious. Or it’s only when we stop thinking that our subconscious has the opportunity to be heard.

I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this.

Writing and storytelling are creative activities. Yes, there are mechanical skills involved. Yes, story can be analysed, and we can use that analysis to structure better stories. Yes, there are concrete craft skills we can learn and develop. But ultimately it’s creativity that drives writing. Creativity has to be nurtured as much as it can be taught. It comes from deep inside. We take in content‌—‌examples of story through books and films, videos on the craft of writing, books on story structure‌—‌and the creative side of us uses this to do its magic. Which it does very effectively in our subconscious, working away while we’re otherwise occupied. Or while we’re doing ‘nothing’.

This means that the ‘work’ of writing is far more than sitting at the laptop, or reading previously written drafts. It’s more than sitting and thinking. The ‘work’ of writing is going on all the time, and it’s important to ‘switch off’ so we can listen to that deeper, creative side.

It’s also important to let the subconscious do its stuff. If we’re constantly consciously working, that’s taking resources away from our subconscious. It’s why so many writers extol the benefits of taking regular walks. This goes beyond the benefits to our minds of having a healthy body. Heading outside for a walk detaches our conscious mind from the writing, and gives us an opportunity to listen to our subconscious mind.

I’m currently editing the first draft of the first Unity book, I’m treating it as three separate stories at the moment, dealing with each in turn. But my subconscious mind is bouncing all kinds of ideas around. So as I read through one section, making notes on things needing changing, I ‘suddenly’ had an idea about a different section‌—‌my subconscious mind throwing its idea at me. I saw how a simple change in motivation could make this different section more relevant to the rest of the book.

It was a problem I’d noticed some time ago, and had been putting off actively working on it because I didn’t feel up to it yet (or maybe I was trying to avoid the hard work). But I knew about the problem, so my subconscious mind worked on it. And something‌—‌probably a turn of phrase in the section I was editing‌—‌triggered a potential solution. That input was exactly what my subconscious mind needed.

Another example of the subconscious mind in action‌—‌I’ve been revisiting loads of old short stories recently, from when I posted a story every two weeks on my website, and I was struck by how many of these stories had been drafted either on holidays or after coming home from holidays.

Why should this be?

Part of it is surely down to stimuli. When away from home we’re exposed to new locations, maybe different cultures and languages, different food and smells, an unfamiliar climate. These new stimuli can spark creativity. This could explain the origins of a story on virtual holidays, or a post-apocalyptic take on a seaside resort.

Then there’s the travel involved in holidays. New stimuli can become old very fast. Being stuck in a plane for a few hours, there’s only so much to do. So it’s not too surprising that the mind wanders. It starts to ask questions‌—‌what’s the deal with that lone passenger two rows in front? What if that family across the aisle are spies? What would an alien race think if they saw rows of people sitting in a tin can hurtling through the air? People-watching becomes a game of ‘what if…?’

But there’s another aspect to consider. Holidays are when we switch off. While I’ll still do something writing-related on holiday, I usually try to arrange things so that I’m not in the middle of drafting or a big editing phase when I’m on holiday. It means I don’t have to think about those big projects. It means I’m not under pressure to finish the draft or the edit.

And in switching off, I give my subconscious mind the opportunity to let me know what it’s been working on. I can consider all those ideas that have been bubbling away in the depths of my mind. I’m relaxed sufficiently to allow solutions to ‘appear’.

As I continue writing, as I continue working on new projects, new books, new series, I need to bear this in mind. I need to remember that the work of writing continues even when I’m not tapping away at a keyboard. I need to remember that the creative side of story-telling pulls from both my conscious and subconscious mind. So I should give it time. I should force myself to step back, maybe take more walks, alone with my thoughts.

Sometimes, the most important work we do happens when we’re doing nothing.

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This post is the latest in a series I’m running on Substack, chronicling my work on this new project. If you’d like to read these posts as they appear, please consider subscribing for free.

Revisiting my previous books leads to a range of emotions. There’s pride (’this is something I created!’). There are moments of surprise (’I’d forgotten how well that twist works!’) But there’s also a vague sense of disappointment.

Yes, I may uncover mistakes (proofreading errors always slip through), but that isn’t what I’m getting at here. As I continue to write, my writing and story-telling improves. And there are moments in those older books that now feel clunky. There are passages (some long, some short) that I would now tighten. There is a great deal of room for improvement.

In retrospect, I didn’t use technology to its full in my Shadows and ShadowTech books.

In both series most characters have a lattice. This is a tech layer that sits beneath the skin and interacts with the body and mind. It can speed up healing. It can increase the efficiency of the body. It enables people to interact with different systems without physical connections, too. Pilots fly their craft by the power of thought. Hackers don’t need to rely on keyboards or other interfaces, only their lattices. People can operate machinery without needing to press any buttons.

The lattice also enables a kind of tech-based telepathy. People can ‘talk’ through their lattices, either in tight or wide conversations, without uttering a sound or moving their lips. With the aid of boosters, this communication can happen over vast distances.

Almost everyone has a lattice‌—‌but not everyone. A central character in these books has to cope with being seen as ‘inferior’ because of her lack of functioning lattice. Another character’s lattice starts playing up, leading to various complications.

So, what’s the problem?

Let’s take a step back. Think of mobile phones, and how different things were prior to their existence. Travelling to somewhere new meant using paper maps to plan a route, with no sat-nav to guide every single turn. End up in difficulties in the middle of nowhere, and you’d better hope someone came along, because there was no way to (easily) call for help. And if you came across something amazing you’d be telling people about it later, trying to convince them you didn’t make it up‌—‌no magical device you could pull out to record and transmit images and videos across the world in real-time. Need to know something? You’d have to visit a library instead of doing a quick internet search. Need to sort out your finances? Better make time for a trip to the bank, then wait five working days for any changes to take effect.

And I haven’t even touched on social media. Or QR codes. Or having a complete library of books, music and films on hand wherever we are, all the time.

Having these devices on hand at all times has changed so much of our daily lives that pre-mobile times are like another world.

Technology has consequences. Technology can change societies, in ways that can’t always be predicted. Technology can be invented for one purpose, but people will use it for all kinds of other purposes.

The same should be true in fiction. A powerful technology should have a major impact on day-to-day life.
I came across a great example of this a while ago. I think it was in Peter F Hamilton’s Salvation series (although I could be wrong).

Many sci-fi stories circumvent the impossibility of faster-than-light travel through portals or wormholes. Sometimes they are in set places (think Stargate), but in the Salvation books portals can be any size, and are extremely portable. Characters have collapsible portals they can carry around with them.

But throughout the books Hamilton explores how these portals could be used in so many different ways.

How do you change a desert into fertile farming land? You need water. How do you get water to the desert? You can pipe it in, after first laying the pipes. Or, with these portals, you can literally drop water onto the desert‌—‌a portal in the air above the arid landscape, a corresponding portal being fed water, and instant rain!

Cities would change, too. When workers can use portals to commute, there’s no need for mass transit infrastructure, so those unused wide roads become green spaces, turning the cities into more pleasant environments. With travel times so drastically reduced, there is also less need for hotels, less need for dense urban residential areas. Why live close to work when, with portals, anywhere is close to work?

That might be fine for the hoi polloi, but what about the wealthy? There’s no need for holiday homes when each room of a ‘house’ can exist in a separate geographical location, connected by portal doors. Eat in a dining room looking out over a vast Savannah, then relax in a lounge on a tropical beach. When that gets too warm, retire to the bedroom and watch the snow-covered mountains from the balcony.

And what about those exploratory craft travelling through space (because portals only connect to other portals‌—‌you can’t skip to somewhere totally new)? Hitting debris in space could be catastrophic. Place a portal at the front of the craft, another at the rear, and the problem is solved.

See what I mean? A technology that serves an important purpose in the story (allowing characters to travel vast distances without the time of that travel slowing the story), but one that has story-world implications. Even if the technology itself is ‘impossible’, the consideration of the wider impact makes it feel ‘real’.

So this is my challenge (one of the many) as I work on this new series. For every piece of technology I introduce, I need to consider the implications. How would it impact daily life? How would it be used for work and for entertainment? How would people twist the technology to their own purposes?

How can I make the fictional technology in my books feel as real as a mobile phone?

It’s definitely a challenge. And a daunting one. But this kind of world-building is all part of the fun of writing science fiction.

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This post originally appeared as a part of my Substack on writing a new series. If you want to have these posts delivered to your in-box when they’re released, please consider subscribing for free to my Substack by clicking here.

You might’ve heard writers say things like ‘my characters keep on doing things I don’t want them to’, or ‘my characters are always surprising me’. For a long time I thought this was nonsense‌—‌if you’re writing the story, surely you’re in control. Those characters are your inventions. They do what you want them to.

But this happens to me. I’ll be writing, and because of my planning I’ll have a solid idea of where the scene’s going. Then I’ll have a line of dialogue come to me, and before I’m aware of it the words are out of my mind and onto the screen. I’ll read it back and realise this one line could throw the whole story off-script.

Maybe I should illustrate this with a couple of examples.

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The main character in the story I’m currently working on (a story adjacent to the main series, because I needed a break‌—‌read my previous post for more information) is called Kane. He’s a loner. He’s been through a lot, done things he’s not proud of, and he’s learnt from his mistakes. Older and wiser (he hopes), he prefers to solve problems without resorting to violence, but if things get physical he can usually take care of himself.

As the story progresses he finds himself on a courier vessel, a part of a team hired for a particular job. But Kane manages to enter the crew’s area, where he strikes up something like a friendship with the vessel’s captain (once she’s overcome her wariness of him).
But as I wrote scenes where they talked I became aware that some of their dialogue and behaviours, bordered on flirting. This came from both the captain and Kane.

This wasn’t something I’d planned on. Kane generally doesn’t like people‌—‌he’ll work with them, and he can be sociable when it’s required, but he’s content on his own. H isn’t looking for any kind of relationship, even a short-term one.

At least, I didn’t think he was. But maybe there’s a side to Kane I wasn’t aware of.

But I didn’t plan for anything like this. It’s going to force me to reassess the rest of the story‌—‌if I introduce a bit of flirtation, that sets up an expectation. If I then ignore this flirting I’m not honouring an implicit promise‌—‌that this flirting will be relevant or important in some way.

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Let’s look at another example. Kane comes into contact with another member of the crew (who I haven’t yet named). This crew-member is antagonistic towards Kane, and I initially thought this was because Kane shouldn’t have been in the crew area. But in a later conversation with the captain she said that this crew-member has been struggling for a while now.

The vessel, by this stage of the story, is docked at what I’m calling an orbital‌—‌a satellite the size of a large town. There are tensions on the orbital, with different factions vying for power‌—‌a situation that will, over the course of the story, push Kane to ‘save the day’.

But as Kane and the captain talk, she mentions that this crew-member has worked on the orbital before, and that this is a big part of his problems.

I have no idea where that came from. But as I thought about it, I saw possibilities. I saw how a troubled past could interact with the current situation. I saw how it could enhance the whole book.

But, as with the flirting, it’s going to mess with my planning.

So I have two options. Either I go with it, or I rewrite these scenes to edit out these ‘surprises’.

I’m reticent to throw these surprises out, though. Because there’s something important going on here.

I’ll try to explain.

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We’ve been conditioned to think of work as ‘doing things’. If we’re being paid, we’re expected to be physically doing things for the time we spend at work. If there’s nothing productive to do, we find things to make us look busy‌—‌because not doing anything isn’t working.

It’s the same with writing. If words aren’t going down‌—‌whether in drafting, planning or editing‌—‌then it feels as if we’re not really writing. There’s a certain amount of pressure to produce a certain number of words each day. When we’re not physically writing (or typing) there’s a nagging guilt, and we tell ourselves we’re being lazy.

But writing, as with any creative activity, is far more than simply ‘doing the physical activity’. So much of writing involves thinking. We need to think about our stories and our characters. We need to explore different possibilities. In science-fiction we need to imagine exciting and interesting technologies, wild new worlds, craft that can travel across the vastness of space.

Some of that thinking is ‘active’. It happens when we’re sitting at our (metaphorical) desks. This is the kind of thinking we do at the laptop, typing up our ideas as they occur, or scribbling into a notepad. This is the thinking we do between lines, when we look up from the laptop and stare into space for a while, mentally running through possibilities for the next paragraph.

But thinking goes far deeper. When working on a story (or a whole series) we have countless ideas in our minds. We need to write them down to keep track of them, but those ideas are still buzzing around when we’re not typing or writing. We have a problem in the story, and that problem sits in our mind. We ruminate on it. It’s easy to become distracted while doing something else because we’re trying to find a solution.

And, far too often, that solution seems to come out of the blue, and at some random time. In the shower, or while exercising, or as we’re dropping off to sleep.

Because these problems sink into our subconsciousness. And our subconscious minds are churning away all the time. We’re ‘thinking’ even when we’re not thinking.

So when ideas seem to appear out of the blue‌—‌when characters do things I hadn’t planned or say things which go way off-script‌—‌I have to take notice. Chances are, these surprises come from my subconscious mind, and are solutions to problems I’m not yet fully conscious of in the story.

So Kane and the captain’s flirtation tells me I probably need to open Kane up to the possibility of not being so much of a loner. Or maybe it’s telling me that there’s another part of the captain’s character I haven’t fully understood yet, a part that is going to influence Kane’s decisions later in the story. And the crew-member’s history with the orbital tells me I need to make the story deeper to make it richer. It’s forcing me to reconsider Kane’s motivations for various things I ‘want’ him to do.

Does this mean more work? Definitely. I need to pause (maybe not for too long) and adjust my planning. When it comes to editing I’ll need to make sure these surprises don’t feel too random, that they’re foreshadowed as much as they need to be. And maybe this will lead to more ‘problems’ later on, with more things needing to be worked out when it comes to the edit.

But the extra work is worth it if it makes the story better.

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This post originally appeared on my Substack, as a part of my attempt to document my work on a new series. If you’d like to read these posts as they are published, delivered to your in-box, then sign up to my Substack for free by clicking here.

Stephen King famously said that if you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Especially in fiction, reading is a prerequisite to writing. How can you learn good writing and good story-telling if you don’t consume stories? How can you understand how words work if you don’t read?

There are different ways to read, and there are different genres. If I’m writing science fiction, specifically space opera, it helps to know what other writers are doing in this area. So I’ve built up a collection of space opera on my Kindle. Some are classics, like Asimov’s Foundation series. Some are more contemporary, such as James SA Corey’s Expanse series. I have older books I haven’t yet read (I’ve only got through a few of EE Doc Smith’s Lensmen books so far), and others I’ve read multiple times (including most of Iain M Banks’ Culture novels). I have long-running series and I have stand-alones.

Through reading these books, I’ve learnt not only what is considered standard for the genre but also what I enjoy — and what I don’t. Reading The Expanse showed me that while I like action, too much wears me down, and that I enjoy storylines with political intrigue. I’ve learnt that a big set-up needs a big pay-off, and that I can’t rush the ending. Where action is concerned, I prefer a few well-placed set pieces rather than a constant rush of adrenaline.

I’ve also come to realise that I like my sci-fi to have some kind of basis in real science, but not so much that I feel like I’m reading a text-book. It’s why I prefer space opera to hard sci-fi (although both subgenres have classics worth reading as well as books that, quite frankly, read more like first drafts).

But science fiction is predominantly a setting. I aim to write character-driven stories, and they exist in every genre. So I read widely. Thrillers are great for learning pacing, mysteries show me how to reveal facts and present clues. Dramas and romance stories focus on human interactions, and there is so much I can draw from them.

One of the story arcs in my new series will (hopefully) have a detective noir vibe, so I’ve been devouring books in this genre. I still have a few Raymond Chandler novels left to read, but those I’ve got through so far have been very instructive. I admire how the dialogue drives not only the plot but also the in-scene action. While the slang is dated, the way Chandler uses it is something I can adapt to my own writing.

The use of dialogue is an interesting point here. My main character in my story arc is introspective, something of a loner. But I didn’t want pages of internal thinking. My solution? The character now has an advanced (because this is far-future) AI assistant, in effect an internal character, and he talks through his problems with her.

My series deals with situations that affect many planets, so I have a kind of galaxy-wide government. Obviously, there’s going to be intrigue here, with different characters coming into conflict through differing objectives and motivations. I’m drawn to ideas of where power is held — not in the figurehead at the top, but in those below the surface, the schemers and the manipulators. Michael Dobbs’ House Of Cards books have been an inspiration here.

So far I’ve focused on story and plot, but what about the writing itself? I enjoy (some) literary fiction — although that’s a very broad label/genre, and there is excellent literary writing in every genre. When I read a well-written book now, I find myself picking up on things the author’s done with language, how they describe things, how they use words for different effects.

I also read books that are — how can I put this diplomatically? — in need of more work. These aren’t necessarily ‘bad’ books, because different readers seek different things from their stories. It’s possible to overlook clunky writing if the story or characters are engaging.

Books like these also serve as encouragement, especially when I’m struggling with my own writing. There always comes a point (sometimes multiple points) when I feel that my writing isn’t going anywhere. The story veers away from the plot. I don’t feel I have the characters right. It becomes a chore to get words on the page.

At times like this, I have to trust that things will improve — see my last post on ‘trusting the spiral’ for more on this. I have to remind myself that this is the vomit draft — get the words out, knowing that they’ll stink. It can all be improved in the edit.

And read books I don’t consider well-written. This helps give me a boost of confidence. Also, as I read, the writer part of my brain starts ‘solving’ the book’s problems. I might read a line of dialogue and imagine how I’d change it to be more forceful or to feel more realistic. If I read a bland description (rather than skimming over it — always a temptation when the book isn’t holding my attention) I’ll look for ways to make it relevant to the character or the situation, ways to engage all the senses, or ways to tighten the prose.

This feeds back into my own writing. It gives me confidence.

It can also remind me that good writing isn’t everything. As I said earlier, these books aren’t ‘bad’. Others enjoy them, despite the less-than-stellar writing. Books like these remind me that story and character are vital.

Writing involves so many strands, and so it’s important that I read widely, and with intention.

There’s another area of reading, one I haven’t mentioned yet. That’s reading for information — what’s often referred to as ‘research’. But that’s a topic for next time.

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This is part of a series of posts documenting the writing of a new space opera series. They originally appear on my Substack, which is free to sign up to. So if you want to read each installment when it comes out (a few days earlier than they appear on this website), and delivered to your in-box, click here.

I used to think that the process of writing was easy, even if the writing itself was hard. Start with an idea. This becomes a plan. Then, write the story according to that plan. There might be some errors, so do a quick check (called ‘editing’). And that was it. A straight line, from idea to completed story.

Oh, how naive I was.

The basic premise — plan, write, edit — is sound, but the practice is far more complicated. I now see that the process of writing isn’t linear but is more of a spiral.

I like the idea of having a plan before I pull up a blank page and start writing. I need to know where I’m going. But with experience I’ve learnt that no plan remains intact once I start typing. Characters say and do things I didn’t expect. I spot things in my planning that make no sense. I’ll thrown in a bit of world-building, or a throwaway phrase, and it’ll spark ideas that could improve the story.

I usually push through with the first draft. If I back-tracked for every new idea I’d never reach the end. But when I have that first draft I do my first major edit, focusing on the story.

And this is where I pick up more problems. I work through them, improving the overall story. I take a step back and return to my planning, checking these alterations work, making sure character arcs are intact and so on. And then I return to writing.

Some scenes only need tweaking. Others have to be put aside (not deleted, because I might be able to use them later). Still more have to be written from scratch.

And after all that, with this new draft, it’s back into editing. And repeat, however many times is necessary. Not a circle, but a spiral, each time drawing closer to that elusive goal of a perfect story.

How many times do I need to repeat this process? That depends on the story. Shorter works usually require less work. Sometimes the original plan only needs tweaking. For other stories the final product is totally different to that plan.

Take ShadowSiege, the second book in my Shadows trilogy. I thought that book was coming along well, and I’d reached what I imagined would be my final edit. But in re-reading the story I felt uneasy. It wasn’t working. There were major problems with it.

To correct these problems I had to practically re-write the whole book. Frustrating, but if I hadn’t done the work the book would’ve been so much weaker, leaving me struggling even more when it acme to the final book in the trilogy.

But I’m supposed to be documenting my work on this new space opera series. Why am I mentioning editing when I’m only in the planning stage?

The answer? Because knowing the process is a spiral and not a straight line gives me freedom.

Planning can be tricky. There might be moments when ideas flow, but there’s a great deal of hard slog. I’ve realised that I eventually reach a point where I’m barely tweaking anything, where I seem to hit a wall. Usually, I have a lot of scenes planned in detail (the major ones), but I have a lot of scenes where I know what needs to happen but I don’t know how.

Once this happens, I remind myself of that spiral. The plan will change, so it doesn’t have to be ‘perfect’. As long as I have an outline, I’m good to go.

I’ve reached that point with the first book in this new series. So I’ve fired up Scrivener, opened my planning in one window and a blank page in the other, and started writing.

In an earlier post I mentioned the plotter/pantser dichotomy — writers either plan before writing, or write to discover the plan — and how most writers sit somewhere between these extremes. In my process I have some form of a plan when I start writing, and this helps me get going. But I don’t know everything. Especially when I’m working in a new story-universe, with new characters and cultures and technology, I can’t know everything ahead of time. I have to write to sink into this universe, to learn what makes my characters tic, how their societies function, how they interact with technology. And the plot (the story) can only develop once I have a better understanding of these things.

I have the formality and structure of a plan, but I also have the freedom to discover as I go. It’s a journey.
And already things are changing. I think one of my characters’ arcs is going to totally change. There are minor characters who, as I’ve been writing, seem to be taking on more importance.

I’m also uncovering themes. I’ll return to this in the future (theme is an important area, and it’s something that I’m constantly learning about).

And if the story becomes a mess? It doesn’t matter, because there’s always editing. Then amending planning, then re-writing. I could start worrying that everything’s going wrong, but I prefer to trust the spiral.

Writing and reading are about communication. The writer imagines a story. They transform their ideas into words. The reader takes in these words and reconstructs the events the writer imagined.

But it’s not an exact process. A reader will ‘see’ things very differently from the writer. Even if the writer includes detailed descriptions they can’t cover everything. And that’s before we get onto other senses — the sounds and smells of a scene, the sensations on the skin, the internal emotions, the taste of food and drink.

So much of both reading and writing relies on imagination. And everyone has their own way of imagining things.

I’m not particularly visual in my imagination. When I read, I have only a vague internal image of the characters. It’s the same when I write. I focus more on the characters’ internal lives. I might have a rough sketch of each character — sex, age, size, maybe one or two distinguishing features. But beyond that, nothing.

But if I want this new series to be character-driven, I need to know the characters in more detail. In order to bring them alive on the page I need to ‘see’ them.

Some writers use images of famous actors playing particular roles. I don’t watch much (anything?) now. But I like the idea of having some kind of visual representation.

So I’ve turned to AI.

I’ve been dabbling with NightCafe for AI image creation for a while now, so I started prompting it to give me potential images of my characters. It’s not an exact science, though. I’m sure the AI sometimes ignores words in the prompt. It seems to have a bias for males with facial hair, and even when I include phrases such as ‘clean shaven’ or ‘no beard’ or ‘smooth chin’ it still comes up with stubble and beards.

But I’ve persevered, altering settings and adjusting prompts. I’ve gone through all the images NightCafe provided, looking for those that I feel best fit the vague characters in my head.

Let’s have an example, a character called Norm. He’s a part of a small crew on a spacecraft. Norm’s the mechanic, happiest when he’s prodding around behind an open panel, screwdriver and spanner to hand. He’s also a fantastic cook. His crew-mates tell him he could easily become a top chef, but for him, cooking’s a hobby. And a way of interacting with the rest of the crew (he’s not the most gregarious of characters).

There’s a downtrodden edge to him. Older than the rest of the crew, he’s had a ‘normal’ life, but he’s ended up on his own, down on his luck. He’s let himself go physically.

But he’s happy on the craft. It feels like a home of sorts.

After a lot of trial and error, here’s the image I selected for Norm.

The look of this character seems to fit my idea of Norm. There are subtle things in the image that add to his character, like the straps over his shoulders. They’re grimy, through a combination of neglect and grease or oil. They suit his character.

Let’s have a look at another member of the crew. Chelle is young. She comes from a good background, but she’s rebelled, to the point where she’s turned her back on her family and ‘run away with a degenerate bunch of ruffians’. She has a sharp tongue, and isn’t afraid to say what she thinks. She’s also very intelligent.

Take a look at Chelle:

My understanding of this kind of AI is that it draws from a large pool of source material. The larger this pool, the greater the variety the AI can analyse. But if there are any biases within this source material the AI will, naturally, replicate it.

I assume that’s why the AIs used in NightCafe tend to default to white characters.

I rarely (if ever) ‘see’ my characters as being a particular colour or from a particular ethnicity. In this new series, humanity has spread to the stars. I can’t see that happening unless different countries work together, so I’m assuming a lot of integration. But as humanity settles on new planets, new moons, and in craft that are in effect drifting cities, the old prejudices and cliques will be replaced by new ones. As generations adapt to slightly different gravitational or atmospheric conditions evolution will push different groups into new areas. Add to this biological and genetic manipulation through technology, and our current ideas of ethnicity will become ancient history.

This is a long-winded way of saying that, in the galaxy of this new series, it doesn’t matter what colour someone is.

However, I still need diverse characters. And if the AI keeps giving me white characters, it isn’t helping. So, to force some variety, I’ve experimented by adding prompt terms related to colour and ethnicity. Not because I ‘see’ characters as coming from a particular country or group of people, but because I want variety. Seeing an image that is ‘different’ to my (biased) perceived ‘normal’ will be a reminder that my characters come from different planets, from different groups of people.

For Chelle, the images NightCafe gave me only started to feel right when I added ‘Asian’ to the prompt. After quite a few that didn’t hit the mark I settled on the one above. From this image I can imagine a younger Chelle, with ‘perfect’ hair (before she cut it and let it do whatever it wanted). I can imagine her using make-up as her culture deemed normal, before she let her internal character show in a more natural look.

There’s also a combination of toughness and vulnerability in this image. It reminds me that, for all her insults and tough attitude, Chelle is still discovering who she is. In many ways her attitude is a way of hiding, or a way of coping with a universe she isn’t quite ready for.

As with the uncertainty and the down-trodden look in Norm’s image, Chelle’s image opens up the possibility of changes throughout the series. Neither of these characters are one-dimensional. They’re going to grow. While I ‘know’ that from the way I’ve imagined these characters, seeing these images reinforces that for me. These images provide a reference, something I can look at as I write, reminders that these characters are ‘real’.

It doesn’t matter if readers ‘see’ Chelle and Norm in the same way I do, or if their internal images are nothing like these AI images. Readers need to engage with the characters, and that only truly happens when the characters feel ‘real’. To make this happen, I have to write about ‘real’ characters — not ideas of what a character might be, but characters who are flesh and blood, characters who exist. These images, and the images I’ve come up with for other characters, are going to help immensely in this.

Of course, there’s far more to writing than imagining realistic characters. But a story, let alone a series, isn’t created in a single step. Next time, I’ll talk about another aspect of this project, another step in the realisation of my ideas.

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This is part of an on-going series of posts documenting my work on a new space-opera. If you’d like to get early access to these posts you can do so by subscribing to my Substack for free.

(This post originally appeared on Substack, earlier today. I’ll repost each Substack post here, but if you click here you can read the original and sign up to get the Substack versions straight to your inbox when they come out)

I should introduce myself. I’m TW Iain, and over the last ten years, since I got serious with my writing, I’ve published around twenty books. I have a dark Dystopian thriller series, a sci-fi/horror trilogy and a seven-book sci-fi action/adventure series. I’ve also written around a hundred short stories (currently available on my website and in a series of free ebooks, although that may change in the not-too-distant future).

And now, I’m starting a new project. A space opera series.

I’ve learnt a great deal over those twenty books. My writing has improved, as has my understanding of story. While each book was the best I could do at the time, I look back on some of the older stuff and cringe. Every book I write is (I hope) better than the one before.

But progress isn’t linear. There are plateaus. There are times of consolidation. Occasionally there’s a slump, where struggles build.

And sometimes things jump forward. All that slow learning coalesces. There’s a ‘eureka”’ moment where things come into focus.

This feels like one of those moments. This new project shouldn’t be a little better than my previous books, it should be on another level.

But that’s going to take work. Before I start ‘writing’ I need to organise. I need to make decisions about the series and the individual books.

And I’ve decided to document (or share) this whole process. Every couple of weeks (maybe once a week, depending on how much I have to write about) I’ll go through what I’ve been up to. From ideas to planning, then to writing and editing. I’ll go into my inspirations, and what I learn from books I’m reading.

It’s a look behind the scenes. You know how DVDs used to come with those ‘making of’ documentaries? Think of this as something akin to that, only coming out in real-time.

So, who’s this for?

If you’re a reader, this will be an insight into the work it takes to produce a story worth reading. It won’t tell you how every writer does it, because we’re all different. This will be my process, for this particular project.

If you’re a writer, I hope you’ll find some useful takeaways here. You might not agree with everything (again, we’re all different), but even in those disagreements you can sharpen your focus on what works for you.

And if nobody reads this? Then it’s for me. To produce this project I need to overcome all kinds of problems. Some people think by talking, others by doing. I find writing works for me. Documenting my thinking on these problems will help me find solutions.

So this is an ongoing work-in-progress following my current work-in-progress. Welcome along for the ride.