I was having lunch with another member of Allied Authors, and we began discussing writing — our writing — and we both admitted we weren’t doing much of that.

As I sat there and listened to myself, I realized what a phony I was. Because, people, writer’s write. If they don’t, they are not writers.

Duh.

And that brings me to this: When writers — successful ones, by which I mean published ones — speak of their challenges or how/when they write and their daily activities, each one, always, mentions having a daily schedule where he or she writes…wait for it…every day and usually at the same time of day.

These writers have different techniques. Some just write without knowing where they are going. They have the idea of a plot, but they let their characters tell them who they are and what’s going on. Some outline their novels first, and they tell their characters where they are going.

Again, both practices have led to success — published success — so that’s not the issue.

The issue is what is best for you and me.

Personally, I feel I have wasted much time and energy in “just writing.”

Now some would say there is no wasted time in “just writing” because that teaches us about what works and what doesn’t. Hey, okay. I like that idea…all the hundreds of pages I have written taught me something. To be honest (and don’t we love that comment, especially on court shows? “Judge, to be honest, I…” ), all those pages — some printed up sitting in boxes in the basement, some in my office and more recently taking up space in my computer — taught me something: I should outline my work and then write.

It’s time for me to get organized.

I have three novels written, all deeply flawed but, I believe, all with really interesting plots and characters. So what’s the problem? They don’t move. They don’t have the tension novels need to keep the reader interested.

Wow. I know. Now what do I do? Where do I go? Who’s on first.

Well, what I should do is quit writing about how/why/when to write and start writing.

First, a cup of coffee? Let the dog out?

You understand fully. And so do I. So will I or won’t I get to work? Will you?

I’ll keep you posted.

Maureen Mertens contributed this article.

Artists have their brushes, easels and sketchpads; carpenters, their saws, hammers and levels; musicians, their pitch pipes, scales and embrasures.

As writers, we too have many and varied tools. Some are straightforward, such as vocabulary, basic understanding of grammar, punctuation and spelling. Others are more individualized and abstract, including our areas of literary interest, personal backgrounds and writing goals. (A blockbuster novel? The perfect haiku? An Oscar-winning screenplay?)

And perhaps there are a few that are too slippery and nebulous for easy classification.

I’d like to discuss one that, in my opinion, could be the Swiss Army knife for fiction writers when it comes to decision making and/or problem solving: Audience and Purpose.

Years ago, while teaching classes, addressing groups or conducting seminars, I was eventually (and inevitably) approached by confused/frustrated/stalled writers at a loss for how to proceed with their story or novel. They didn’t know “what to do next” or “how to write this part” or “why this scene doesn’t work” or…fill in the blank.

For many, perhaps most of them, a simple-but-not-always-easy Audience and Purpose (A&P) exercise might have been able to break the block and clarify not only what needed to happen, but also how it needed to happen.

While this tool can be applied to any piece of fiction (and can be effectively applied to nonfiction as well), I’ll frame it in terms of writing a genre novel.

Ideally, a writer will have some basic idea of the type of material he is writing — mystery, romance, fantasy, etc. — and this presents a broad A&P framework. On the surface, the use of this tool may appear obvious and hardly worth note. A mystery novel’s Purpose, its overall reason for being, is to present the reader with a puzzle (usually a crime) of some sort and the eventual solution of that puzzle. Broadly speaking, a mystery novel’s Audience is comprised of those who enjoy mysteries.

Not exactly a breakthrough realization.

Taking it a step further is still rather straightforward. Readers seeking and expecting a nice, cozy whodunit comprise a somewhat different Audience from those seeking a hard-boiled, double-fisted, take-no-prisoners tale or readers with a yen for a detail-rich police procedural or any of the other guises a mystery might take. While the overall Purpose might be the same (present and then solve the puzzle), the Audience, and therefore the approach, will vary.

Okay…still pretty obvious. Big deal, right?

Let’s take it deeper. While the overall Purpose may be to solve that puzzle, it’s not the only thing that happens. (At least I hope not). There are characters to meet, settings to explore, moods to create, relationships to develop. While these sub-Purposes may be colored by the overall Purpose, they are not controlled by it.

If, for example, your protagonist develops an attraction to or even a relationship with another character, and you want your reader to “approve” and be happy for them, this short-term Purpose will dictate your literary decisions.

(Note that your short-term Audience for this could briefly be different from your overall Audience. These readers perhaps want to see sexual tension and sparks or the signs of a happy romance — issues perhaps far removed from the crime under investigation. More on that below.)

An action-packed chase or fight or deadly confrontation presents us with a slightly different Purpose and a slightly different Audience — one that hopefully is worried about your characters more so than simply the solution to the puzzle/crime. You now wish to frighten readers, increase their heart rate, make them fear the outcome, and so you make appropriate creative decisions: short, sharp, hard words; brief, brutal sentences; short paragraphs (leading to faster page turning, a physical/psychological trigger).

Or perhaps you choose to use pages-long sentences with no punctuation or breaks in the action or chances for the reader to catch his breath or slow down or even think clearly because everything is happening so quickly that there is no time no time no time at all and the physical and mental rush of reading with no pause takes the reader’s breath away and that’s just exactly what you wanted to do…

At every level of the novel, there is an Audience and a Purpose. They can vary throughout and can have an impact on the writer’s decisions, both big and small. Take character names, for example…

Mystery and thriller writer Lawrence Block’s somewhat comedic Burglar books feature a bookstore owner/burglar whose criminal exploits often make him the suspect in a related murder, which he then has to solve to clear his name. The stories are light and fun, and the protagonist’s name is Bernie Rhodenbarr. Another Block series features an alcoholic unlicensed private investigator; this not-especially-pleasant ex-cop is named Matthew Scudder. Block had a specific Purpose for choosing those names, and those names have resonated with the Audience for each series.

A similar Purpose, however, does not necessarily dictate a similar approach…

Children’s book author Betty Ren Wright and Stephen King both have similar Purposes: give the readers a frightening thrill. But their Audiences varied considerably. Wright’s approach would not have given King’s Audience (adults) nightmares, and King’s approach would have given Wright’s Audience (small children) too many.

Let’s stick with King for a moment more for a bit of over-the-top-obvious fun.

If one of his sleep-with-the-lights-on books had cause to introduce a small town auto mechanic, we might expect him to be shirtless; wearing grease-stained, smelly bib-overalls (broken strap on one side); having unkempt dirty hair; holding a beer can in hand; unlit cigarette stub in mouth; one unfocused eye skewed off to the side; left foot dragging a bit as he shambles out of the filthy garage’s dim shadows.

If King wished to scribe a category Romance, however, both his Purpose and Audience would change. While the mechanic would doubtless still be shirtless (to show those ripped abs, of course), his clean, flowing hair would frame a strong, smiling face populated with piercing blue eyes, a strong chin, gleaming white teeth and perhaps the hint of his having forgotten to shave that morning. Although working as a mechanic that day (covering for an ill employee), he’s actually the owner of the immaculate garage, takes in stray animals, is a passable cook and writes poetry.

Okay, okay, I know…it’s a bit much.

Throughout our books, we may have a single overriding Audience and Purpose in mind, but it is a mistake to be unaware of the shifts in both that take place throughout the entire narrative. Individual scenes may have Purposes (and Audiences) that vary from the book’s overarching A&P, as can individual paragraphs, sentences and words.

At any point, a writer should be able to answer these questions:

• Right now, right here, what is my immediate Purpose? (To Frighten? Inform? Titillate? Move?)
• Who is my immediate Audience? (Someone who wants to be frightened? Wants to learn? Wants a sensual thrill? Wants to be brought to tears or laughter or…?)
• And how do I best fulfill that Purpose for that Audience?

The best writers tell the tales that move and compel them, and I caution you to please not mistake this particular tool for a cure-all formula or template. It’s simply a way to approach problem areas in our writing. In fact, the whole Audience and Purpose approach might best be served by ignoring it during the heat of a first draft and bringing it to bear only after the tale has been committed to paper (or computer file).

Once you know the basic story you’re trying to tell, then you’re able to go back and tell it well.

The next time you find yourself losing story focus, adrift in a sea of “what comes next?” or simply unsure of the best way to approach a particular scene or sequence of events, the A&P technique might just become your best friend. Give it a try.

If this tool helps you in any way, I’m delighted. If not, then my Audience has not been satisfied, and my Purpose has not been fulfilled. My apologies.

Jack Byrne contributed this article.

Writers tend to be their own worst enemies.

Sure, some amateurs might cast aspersions at agents and publishers who reject their works. And maybe published authors occasionally gripe about critics and other ungrateful readers who fail to find the genius in their words. Some scribes might even eye a fellow writer with envy, casting a commercially successful contemporary in the role of rival.

But at the end of the day, a writer is solely responsible for the success of a story. Notice I didn’t write “the sale of a story” or “positive reaction to a story.” I happen to believe that a story can be perfectly wonderful without having earned a single cent—or even a second pair of eyes.

What’s inside a successful, satisfying sequel? | Image by Retama, via Wikimedia Commons

Whether a bestselling novelist or an introverted dabbler, each writer decides which tales get told and which don’t, whether a concept is worthy of composition or destined to be forgotten. The writer hones her craft, or she doesn’t. He perseveres or surrenders.

Don’t get me wrong. Obstacles abound, and the outside world conspires. For instance, I can’t think of a single writer who doesn’t wish he had more time to devote to writing. However, external forces can be overcome—or at least mitigated—if the will is strong enough.

But a writer’s mind can be a dangerous thing.

Perhaps the most notorious form of self-sabotage is writer’s block. A related syndrome—which can traipse hand-in-hand with writer’s block—is a phenomenon that transcends writing (and the arts as a whole) to plague anyone who has tasted some measure of recognition in her field: the sophomore slump.

Or, in this case, the mind games that a writer’s brain engages in when he worries that what he produces next will pale in comparison to the premier effort.

A few years ago, I read a book by a first-time author and was surprised by how much I enjoyed it—not because he was newly published, but because I was burned out on the sword-and-sorcery fantasy genre and was pleased to find a tale that made it feel fresh again. I eagerly awaited the sequel I knew was coming.

And waited. And waited. And…

I can’t, with all certainty, ascribe the tardiness of the sequel to a sophomore slump (though I’m withholding the author’s name and book’s title just in case!), I’ve heard enough stories of writers who miss deadlines on subsequent assignments to suspect that many writers do, in fact, psyche themselves out when it comes to book number two, regardless of whether it is a direct sequel or not.

Perhaps it’s inevitable. Before a writer has a contract for a book, she operates on her own timeline. She can take as much time as she can to prepare her first novel, moving words around on the page for months before she decides it’s ready to send to an agent or editor. She can take a decade or more to make his first book as perfect as possible. But a publishing house won’t wait that long for the next offering.

I’ve been thinking about sequels a lot lately. Even as my diligent agent continues to shop around If Souls Can Sleep, the first book in my Soul Sleep Cycle, I’m rethinking and reworking Book 2 (tentatively titled Almost a Fantasy). During a recent conversation with my agent, he mentioned that because the events in If Souls Can Sleep and Almost a Fantasy take place concurrently, I should consider the possibility that Book 2 could be a better entry point into the series—that Book 2 might make a more suitable Book 1 (and vice versa).

Granted, this is a somewhat unique situation. Most series move forward in a linear and chronological manner. The plot of Book 1 precedes Book 2, which precedes Book 3, and so forth. However, in the case of the Soul Sleep Cycle, I envision the possibility that some events in Book 3 could even take place prior to those in Book 1 before eventually catching up—and passing—the timelines in Books 1 and 2.

I suppose “straightforward” just isn’t my style.

So I now find myself dealing with some of the inherent challenges of writing a sequel, only they are exacerbated by the fact that the sequel could be the prequel, so to speak. One of the biggest questions that needs to be asked of any sequel is how much of the first book’s plot needs to be filtered into the pages of its successor.

Readers need reminders, but a writer can’t spend too much time rehashing what came before. Prologues and introductions can help set the scene for readers who are new to the series as well as readers who didn’t immediately pick up Book 2 after closing the cover of Book 1, but such devices can do only so much.

It takes a deft hand to weave relevant details into the narrative at the right time, to provide readers with helpful sips of backstory rather than drowning them in oceans of exposition.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, if there is to be a sequel to the sequel—that is, a Book 3—one must decide where to end Book 2. How much should a writer save for the third entry of a series? And how much should she know about what is to come in Book 3 so that she doesn’t paint herself into a corner, as it were?

When it comes to trilogies, whether books or films, the second installment tends to be the weakest. (Yes, there are exceptions, you rabid Empire Strikes Back fans!) Generally speaking, the first episode of an epic franchise is the strongest. It’s the audience’s first thrilling glimpse at a new world and new characters. The best first books do the same thing: leave the reader wanting more.

Book 2, on the other hand, can’t provide that magical first kiss of Book 1; neither can supply it the climax everyone expects at the end of Book 3. So what do writers do with Book 2? Build upon the problems of Book 1, set up the dominoes for Book 3, maybe toss in a new character or two. Those aren’t the only options, of course, but all too often the second installment serves as the less exciting but certainly necessary scenes sandwiched between the engaging beginning and the awesome ending.

If a series, such as the Soul Sleep Cycle, ends up being four or more books, the challenge to sustain a high level of interest only grows from novel to novel.  Every book must have its own story arc—a worthwhile and autonomous beginning, middle, and an end. That is to say, even the middle of a bigger story needs its own satisfying ending. (Yes, you can leave some plot points hanging to entice the reader to return, but sheer cliffhangers are cop-outs.)

One would think that building upon an existing work would be easier, but I contend that writing sequels becomes an increasingly complex process. Maybe over a long enough timelines, the pros and cons of developing sequels vs. starting from scratch for each standalone even out. Meanwhile, I’ll eagerly dig into the conundrums of rewriting a novel that could end being Book 1 or Book 2.

If nothing else, it will force me to make sure both books can stand firmly on their own.

As for why fantasy and science fiction stories so often become series—from the ubiquitous trilogy to those best-selling, never-ending saga—is a topic for another day.

Perhaps a sequel to this article about sequels…

David Michael Williams contributed this article (reprinted with permission from http://david-michael-williams.com/2014/03/21/dissecting-the-difficulties-of-writing-a-sequel).