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You know what’s fun? Getting paid less for the same work. Like when your boss announces a “new compensation structure” and you suddenly find yourself making 74 cents an hour and thanking them for the opportunity because “team culture.”

Guess what, indie authors? You’re now living that dream. Courtesy of our benevolent tech overlords at Amazon, who just unveiled their latest contribution to the slow, grinding erosion of your dignity: a 10% royalty cut on print books priced below $9.99.

That’s right. Starting June 10, they’re taking 50% of your book’s list price. But they’re not done. Oh no. Because you don’t just fork over half the cover price—you also get to pay them to print your book, and boy, do they charge you like they’re silk-screening it with gold leaf and unicorn spit.

Let’s break it down with a nice, digestible example.

A $9.99 Paperback: Who Gets What

Let’s say you’re selling a 300-page black-and-white paperback on Amazon KDP for $9.99.

Amazon immediately takes 50% of the sale price: $4.995You—the writer, editor, marketer, and occasional emotional support line for your characters—get the other 50%: $4.995From your share, Amazon deducts “printing costs”: $4.60Which leaves you with: $0.395

That’s thirty-nine cents. For writing an entire book.

You can’t even buy a gumball with that.

But wait—it gets better.

Because that $4.60 printing cost? That’s not what it costs them. Based on third-party digital printer data, the actual material cost to produce that book—paper, ink, cover stock, glue, labor, machine time—is about $2.10.

Which means Amazon is quietly marking up the print job by $2.50 per copy.

The Real Math (a.k.a. You’re Getting Played)

So here’s what actually happens when someone buys your $9.99 paperback:

Amazon’s royalty cut (50%): $4.995Amazon’s print markup: ~$2.50Amazon’s total profit: $7.495

And you?

Author royalty: $0.395

Final Split (Per Book):

Amazon: ~$7.50You: $0.39Actual printing cost: ~$2.10

Amazon makes nineteen times more than the person who created the book.

But hey—you’re empowered, right? That’s what they call it. “Empowered publishing.” You’re your own boss. You own your future. You get to call yourself a “creative entrepreneur” while Bezos buys another yacht with your dreams.

Meanwhile, traditional publishers print the same books for $1.25 a pop and sell them at the same price point. Because they use offset printing. Because they have distribution networks. Because they’re not trapped in the quicksand of a single-point-of-sale monopoly run by a corporation that treats every author like a pesky cost center.

And now, Amazon’s message is clear: if you want to price your book under ten bucks, they’ll still sell it—but you’ll be working for free.

So What Now?

You have options. Not great ones, but options.

Raise your prices and hope your readers don’t flinch.Look into alternative POD platforms like IngramSpark—if you like onboarding forms written by lawyers.Start a direct store on Shopify—if you’re ready to moonlight as your own fulfillment center.Or keep feeding the beast, if only because it’s the only game in town.

But don’t call it a partnership. Call it what it is: publishing feudalism. You do the labor. They take the land. You get a turnip.

Raise your prices if you must. Diversify your platforms. Warn your friends. And if you’ve got a cousin with a basement zine press and a criminal record—maybe give them a call.

Because Amazon’s not just skimming anymore.
They’re coming for the whole book.

You know what’s fun? Getting paid less for the same work. Like when your boss announces a “new compensation structure” and you suddenly find yourself making 74 cents an hour and thanking them for the opportunity because “team culture.”

Guess what, indie authors? You’re now living that dream. Courtesy of our benevolent tech overlords at Amazon, who just unveiled their latest contribution to the slow, grinding erosion of your dignity: a 10% royalty cut on print books priced below $9.99.

That’s right. Starting June 10, they’re taking 50% of your book’s list price. But they’re not done. Oh no. Because you don’t just fork over half the cover price—you also get to pay them to print your book, and boy, do they charge you like they’re silk-screening it with gold leaf and unicorn spit.

Let’s break it down with a nice, digestible example.

A $9.99 Paperback: Who Gets What

Let’s say you’re selling a 300-page black-and-white paperback on Amazon KDP for $9.99.

Amazon immediately takes 50% of the sale price: $4.995You—the writer, editor, marketer, and occasional emotional support line for your characters—get the other 50%: $4.995From your share, Amazon deducts “printing costs”: $4.60Which leaves you with: $0.395

That’s thirty-nine cents. For writing an entire book.

You can’t even buy a gumball with that.

But wait—it gets better.

Because that $4.60 printing cost? That’s not what it costs them. Based on third-party digital printer data, the actual material cost to produce that book—paper, ink, cover stock, glue, labor, machine time—is about $2.10.

Which means Amazon is quietly marking up the print job by $2.50 per copy.

The Real Math (a.k.a. You’re Getting Played)

So here’s what actually happens when someone buys your $9.99 paperback:

Amazon’s royalty cut (50%): $4.995Amazon’s print markup: ~$2.50Amazon’s total profit: $7.495

And you?

Author royalty: $0.395

Final Split (Per Book):

Amazon: ~$7.50You: $0.39Actual printing cost: ~$2.10

Amazon makes nineteen times more than the person who created the book.

But hey—you’re empowered, right? That’s what they call it. “Empowered publishing.” You’re your own boss. You own your future. You get to call yourself a “creative entrepreneur” while Bezos buys another yacht with your dreams.

Meanwhile, traditional publishers print the same books for $1.25 a pop and sell them at the same price point. Because they use offset printing. Because they have distribution networks. Because they’re not trapped in the quicksand of a single-point-of-sale monopoly run by a corporation that treats every author like a pesky cost center.

And now, Amazon’s message is clear: if you want to price your book under ten bucks, they’ll still sell it—but you’ll be working for free.

So What Now?

You have options. Not great ones, but options.

Raise your prices and hope your readers don’t flinch.Look into alternative POD platforms like IngramSpark—if you like onboarding forms written by lawyers.Start a direct store on Shopify—if you’re ready to moonlight as your own fulfillment center.Or keep feeding the beast, if only because it’s the only game in town.

But don’t call it a partnership. Call it what it is: publishing feudalism. You do the labor. They take the land. You get a turnip.

Raise your prices if you must. Diversify your platforms. Warn your friends. And if you’ve got a cousin with a basement zine press and a criminal record—maybe give them a call.

Because Amazon’s not just skimming anymore.
They’re coming for the whole book.

Like a lot of writers, I thought my query letter was fine. Maybe not Nobel-worthy, but clean, punchy, and good enough to net me a few bites. Then I racked up 31 straight rejections.

Spoiler: It wasn’t fine.
Spoiler #2: That’s a very good thing.

Enter Revise & Resub (#RevPit), a contest where kind but ruthless editors volunteer their time to help authors fix their query letters and first pages. I didn’t win. But I did get feedback from generous, sharp-eyed editors—including Allison Alexander—that gave me exactly the overhaul I needed.

Here’s what I learned:

1. Your Comps Are Probably Wrong

I’d chosen a comp that I loved. It felt tonally spot-on and shared some thematic DNA with my book. The only problem? It was seven years old.
Apparently, that’s ancient in publishing years. The RevPit editors recommended comps from the last two to three years, ideally by debut or midlist authors—not mega-bestsellers. (Gone Girl, we love you, but it’s time to let go.)

That sent me into full research mode, hunting for books that felt like cousins to mine—not twins. The best advice?
You don’t need comps that match everything. You can mix and match:

“Voice like Scorched Grace, plot like The Verifiers.”

One editor even linked me to a cool comp finder database by Allison Alexander. It doesn’t yet include mystery titles (unfortunately for me), but it’s a promising tool if your genre’s listed.

2. Voice Matters—Even in Your Query

My main character, Harper Morris, is snarky, jaded, and makes bad decisions for all the right reasons. I thought I had to write the query in a more neutral, professional tone.

Nope.

RevPit pushed me to let Harper’s voice come through in the summary—just enough to show agents what kind of ride they’re in for. It was tricky, because you still want the query to sound polished. But once I leaned into her attitude, the whole thing clicked.

3. Think GMC: Goal, Motivation, Conflict

They also stripped my plot summary down to the bones:

What does Harper want?Why does she want it?What’s in her way?

Everything else—side characters, backstory, subplot threads—got axed. It hurt. But the result was tighter, clearer, and more engaging. Here’s the final version I’m using:

Final Query Letter

Dear [Agent],

I’m seeking representation for The Three Faces of Harper Morris, a 95,000-word adult mystery that combines the irreverent, neo-noir voice of Scorched Grace with the digital-age deception of The Verifiers. The manuscript stands alone but offers strong series potential.

Harper Morris isn’t a real private investigator. She’s a con artist with a fake license and a real talent for pissing off the wrong people. When a tech CEO turns up dead in a quiet Orlando suburb, she doesn’t give a damn. But when a former mark puts a hitman on her trail, things get ugly fast. The state, deciding Harper’s an unfit guardian, takes custody of her autistic kid brother, Ollie.

Suddenly, that murder case looks like a lifeline. Solve it, claim the reward, hire a legal T-Rex, and fight to get Ollie back. But the deeper Harper digs, the messier things get: copycat killings, overlapping suspects, and a creeping sense that someone is steering her straight toward the killer. Someone smart, dangerous, and in the habit of leaving bodies like breadcrumbs.

The cops are circling. The body count keeps climbing. If Harper wants to survive this, she’ll have to pull off the best con of her life: becoming a real detective. If she fails, she won’t just lose the case. She’ll lose Ollie, the one person she was never willing to gamble.

By day, I teach game design and project management at UCF’s top-ranked graduate program for video game development. By night, I write about murder, deception, and people who make terrible life choices. The Three Faces of Harper Morris draws on my fascination with personality psychology, the art of the con, and the masks we wear: one for the world to see, one for who we wish we were, and one for the truths we refuse to face.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

So, Did It Work?

It’s too soon to tell—but since updating the letter, I’ve already received one request for a partial and one for a full. After 31 rejections, that’s real movement.

Querying still sucks. It’s slow, demoralizing, and weirdly devoid of feedback. But if you’re feeling stuck, RevPit was absolutely worth the time. And if nothing else, it taught me this:

A query letter isn’t just a summary. It’s a sample.
Make it sound like your book.
Make it feel like your voice.
And for the love of God, check your comps.

So, you’ve written a novel. Congratulations! You’ve climbed Everest. You’ve wrestled a kraken. You’ve survived a multi-year psychological endurance test conducted entirely by yourself, against yourself, with no clear rules and frequent bouts of sobbing into coffee mugs.

That’s supposed to be the hard part, right?

Wrong.

Because now it’s time to query.

Which means condensing your beautiful, messy, high-stakes brainchild into one peppy little email that says: Dear Agent, Please validate my existence and make all my dreams come true based on this 300-word pitch and a vague sense of market trends.

You finesse your comps until they sound both wildly original and commercially proven. You rewrite your hook sixteen times until it walks that magical line between “gritty” and “upmarket.” You agonize over whether the word “gritty” is too gritty. And then you hit send.

And that’s when the magic happens.

Just kidding.

That’s when the rejections roll in like a funeral parade for your self-esteem. Some agents ghost you entirely. Others hit you with a form letter so bland it could be copy-pasted into a break-up text and still feel generic. (“Thanks for the opportunity to consider your work. It’s not quite right for my list at this time.” Translation: I skimmed the subject line and already hate you.)

But the real soul-sucker? You get zero feedback. None. Not a single sentence telling you what missed the mark or why. You could be one comma away from perfection or twelve galaxies off course—and you’ll never know. You’re just screaming into the void, hoping the void is staffed by a plucky assistant who likes your vibe.

Spoiler: it’s not.

The Great Wall of Silence

Here’s the thing: rejection? I can take it. I’m a writer. I’ve built a personality out of emotional resilience, caffeine, and pretending not to care what people think. Rejection isn’t the issue.

The issue is that querying offers zero opportunity for improvement.

It’s like auditioning for a role in a play where no one tells you what the part is, or what the script says, or whether the director is looking for Shakespeare or SpongeBob. And when you don’t get the role, all you hear is, “We’re going in a different direction.” What direction? Where? Is it somewhere I can walk to, or do I need a passport and a better hook?

There are no scorecards. No helpful margin notes. No “Hey, your concept is cool but the execution reads like a TED Talk hosted by a raccoon.” Just silence. Or a form rejection so robotic it makes ChatGPT look like Oprah.

The only thing agents consistently agree on is this: they will not, under any circumstances, tell you why they said no. It’s not personal. It’s not you. It’s definitely not them. It’s just… publishing. You know, the industry that thrives on obscure trends, gut feelings, and vibes. Lots and lots of vibes.

So you sit there refreshing your inbox, wondering if your email got lost or if your book just has the literary appeal of a moldy sock. Either way, you’ll never know. Because the system is designed to give you exactly two pieces of information:

Whether the agent said yes.Whether they ever said anything at all.

That’s it. No notes. No guidance. Just a stone-faced wall with the occasional form letter stapled to it like a Post-it from the abyss.

I Rewrote Everything—So I Could Be Rejected Faster

After my first twenty rejections, I did what any optimistic, emotionally stable person would do: I spiraled. Then I got help.

I hired an editor. A real professional who specialized in turning sad little query letters into sparkling beacons of marketability. I handed her everything: the query, the logline, the comps, the plot summary, the first chapter. I stripped the whole thing down to the bones and let her help me rebuild it like a fixer-upper in a gentrifying neighborhood.

And you know what? We did a great job. She gave me clear, actionable advice. I rewrote the whole thing. The new version was tight, punchy, structurally sound. I felt like I was finally holding a ticket to the big leagues.

So, I sent it out.

And an agent rejected me six minutes later.

Six minutes. That’s not even enough time to boil an egg, let alone read five sample pages and thoughtfully consider a career-defining partnership.

Honestly? I was impressed.

Before the rewrite, rejections took weeks. Sometimes months. But now? I was getting rejected in real time. The editor didn’t necessarily make my pitch more appealing, but she did make the entire process much more efficient. I was out of the running before I had time to romanticize my odds. Talk about streamlining!

It felt less like being ghosted and more like being swiped left on Tinder before the app even finished loading your photo.

And yes, I laughed. Because what else can you do when the thing you’ve poured your heart into gets professionally dismissed with the speed of a spam filter?

Is Anyone Even Reading This?

At some point in the query process, a dangerous little thought creeps in. A whisper. A doubt.

“Are they even reading these?”

And the answer is… probably! Kind of! Maybe! Unless they’re not!

Look, I’m sure there are agents out there diligently combing through every query with a highlighter and a heart full of hope. But when your meticulously crafted pitch gets rejected in under ten minutes, on a Tuesday morning, fifteen seconds after the agency tweeted about how behind they are on submissions, it’s hard not to wonder if they even opened the file, or if your email just tripped an internal alarm labeled “Debut Author with Guts and No Platform. DESTROY.”

And here’s the brutal truth: most agents don’t reject your book. They never even get that far.

They reject the idea of your book. The query. The vibes. Maybe your comps sounded too midlist. Maybe your voice felt “off” that day. Maybe Mercury was in retrograde and they just didn’t feel like reading about murder before lunch.

It’s like applying for a job and getting ghosted because your résumé had the wrong font.

You spend years writing, months editing, weeks polishing your pitch—only to be turned away at the door because your logline didn’t sparkle hard enough. Forget “don’t judge a book by its cover.” In querying, they don’t even get to the cover. They glance at the envelope and throw it into the sea.

So, no, it’s not always clear whether anyone’s reading your query.

But it is clear that most of them aren’t reading your manuscript.

Because if they were? You’d have a whole different genre of rejection to enjoy.

The Feedback Paradox

You know what’s funny?

(Okay, not ha-ha funny. More like screaming-into-a-pillow funny.)

Every bit of publishing advice boils down to this: revise, improve, evolve. Keep getting better. Tighten your pitch. Sharpen your hook. Clarify your stakes. Polish, polish, polish.

But here’s the catch:

Improve based on what, exactly?

Because querying doesn’t come with notes. You don’t get a nice little breakdown of what worked and what didn’t. You don’t get redline comments or “Hey, this pacing lagged a bit in paragraph three.” You get a vague “not the right fit” and a one-way ticket to self-doubt.

It’s the literary version of being told to fix your face without a mirror.

You could be this close to agent-worthy brilliance, or so far off the mark you’ve actually reinvented a new genre, and you’ll never know. Maybe your comps were too obscure. Maybe your tone clashed with the market. Maybe you mentioned a prologue and the agent spontaneously combusted. All possibilities. None confirmed.

So you sit there, staring at your inbox, asking yourself the world’s most pointless question: What went wrong?

And the answer is always the same: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

You’re not being evaluated, you’re being vibed. And those vibes? Unspoken. Unmeasured. And absolutely immune to revision.

So, when people say, “Keep going! Just revise and resubmit!” you nod politely while your soul dies a little inside. Because you would. You want to. You just have absolutely no idea what needs changing.

It’s like being told to improve your aim while wearing a blindfold in a pitch-black room, firing darts at a moving target… that may or may not exist.

The Unsolicited Pep Talk

Eventually, when the rejection count hits double digits (or triple, if you’re an overachiever), the motivational brigade shows up. You know the type. Bright-eyed. Brimming with hope. Usually armed with a Canva infographic that says something like:
“All it takes is one yes!”

Ah yes. The battle cry of people who’ve either never queried or are safely on the other side of the gate, sipping iced coffee in their agented glow, pretending they too once suffered in the trenches. Spoiler: they didn’t. Or if they did, they don’t remember the smell.

And sure—technically, they’re not wrong. It does only take one yes. But that logic also applies to lottery tickets, spontaneous combustion, and being chosen by a celestial goat to inherit the secrets of the cosmos. Just because something’s technically possible doesn’t make it emotionally sustainable.

What they don’t mention is that “one yes” might come after 147 no’s, two existential crises, and a complete personality reboot. They don’t tell you the process is basically a soul-sifting colander with no handle. That you’ll watch worse books get picked up while yours gets ghosted in under ten minutes. That you’ll start questioning your title, your talent, your life choices, and your use of em dashes—all before breakfast.

But no worries! Just keep going! Smile through the pain! Manifest your dreams!

People mean well. Truly. And when fellow writers say, “All it takes is one yes,” they’re right.
In theory.

But persistence without feedback? That’s not growth.
That’s Stockholm Syndrome.

But Hey, You’re Not Alone

So, here’s what I’ll say: if you’re deep in the query trenches right now, screaming into the void with a stack of rejections and no idea what to fix… same. Me too.
It sucks. It’s broken. It’s infuriating.
But it’s not your fault.

Keep writing anyway. Keep querying if you can stomach it. Keep building something nobody can take away from you. Because even if no agent sees your brilliance today, that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

It just means they’re busy. Or tired. Or allergic to adjectives. Or maybe they’re flat-out wrong.

And if all else fails, remember: you already did the hardest thing. You wrote the damn book.

Publishing may be allergic to clarity, feedback, and basic human communication, but your work is real. It exists. It matters.

And one day, when your book finally finds a home, you’ll look back on all of this and laugh.

Right after you scream into a pillow for twenty straight minutes.

Most of us in the writing community are still figuring things out. Personally, I’ve self-published one novel, two works of non-fiction, and I’m currently dragging my second novel across the finish line.

This time, I’m shooting for the big leagues: traditional publishing. Step one? Word count. Or, as I like to call it, the first gatekeeping boss fight.

Agents are ruthless. Not mean. Just… efficient. Like sharks in blazers.

It’s easy to want to argue. To say things like, “My story takes as many words as it takes. I’m not cutting perfectly good scenes just to hit some arbitrary number dreamed up by marketing interns with spreadsheets. My favorite authors all write 1,000-page masterpieces.”

Sure, they do. But your favorite authors also have seven-figure deals and a Netflix adaptation in the works. You have a MacBook, a caffeine addiction, and a dream.

Good luck with that.

Agents get buried in queries every month. If you don’t play by the rules, they won’t even open the file. You could’ve written the next Great Gatsby, but if it’s 140,000 words and you’re not F. Scott Somebody, you’re getting ghosted harder than a bad Tinder date.

And it’s not just them. Word count, well, page count, is also a psychological landmine for readers. Imagine someone picking up your debut, flipping it open, and seeing 520 pages. They don’t think, “Wow, what a generous storyteller.” They think, “This feels like homework,” and quietly set it back down while making eye contact with the nearest exit.

So now you’re in a bind. You’ve got a manuscript that’s 20,000 words too long and a delete key that’s starting to look nervous. But before you go full machete and start lopping off chapters like a horror movie villain, try a scalpel.

Zoom in. Line by line. Sentence by sentence. You’d be shocked how much flab you can cut just by tightening your prose. The words you trim this way don’t hurt as much—and they add up faster than you think.

Here are some of the easiest (and most satisfying) targets to gut:

1. Filter Words

Filter words are like that friend who starts every story with, “So I was thinking about going to the store when I realized I might go to the store.” Just go to the damn store.

Before: I heard a scream from the basement and felt my heart leap into my throat.
After: A scream rose from the basement. My heart tried to stage a jailbreak.

Result: Saved 7 words. Also, no one needs to hear that you heard it. You’re the narrator, not the receptionist.

2. Redundancies

Redundancy is when you say the same thing more than once. Repeatedly. Over and over. Again.

Before: He nodded his head in agreement and gave a thumbs up to show he was on board.
After: He nodded and gave a thumbs up.

Result: Saved 8 words. We get it. You’re fine with the plan. Calm down.

3. Weak Modifiers

“Really,” “very,” and “kind of” are the beige paint of writing. Technically words, but spiritually filler.

Before: The house was really old and very haunted, like, sort of extremely cursed.
After: The house was haunted. Probably demonic. Maybe rent-controlled.

Result: Saved 7 words. Turns out, very is just code for “I didn’t commit to the sentence.”

4. Stage Direction

Your character doesn’t need to move like a Sims avatar with a broken pathfinding script.

Before: She turned around, walked to the chair, pulled it out, sat down, crossed her legs, and looked at me.
After: She sat and stared like I owed her money.

Result: Saved 17 words. We’re writing a novel, not blocking a community theater play.

5. The Obvious

If someone just flipped a table, I don’t need you to tell me they’re upset. Unless you’re going for “surprisingly enthusiastic IKEA rep,” it’s implied.

Before: He slammed his fists on the table and screamed at the ceiling. He was clearly upset.
After: He slammed his fists on the table and screamed at the ceiling.
Result: Saved 5 words. If readers can’t figure out he’s mad, your bigger problem is that they might be concussed.

6. Dialogue Tags

Not every line needs to be “exclaimed breathily” or “muttered with a tone of reluctant disgust.” Chill.

Before: “I’m not cleaning that up,” she growled bitterly through clenched teeth.
After: “I’m not cleaning that up,” she said.
Or: “I’m not cleaning that up.”

Result: Saved 6 words. We all read it in a bitter growl anyway, Karen.

7. Bloated Actions

Nobody “stands up out of the chair and begins walking toward the door” unless they’re paid by the word or actively stalling a breakup.

Before: He stood up out of the recliner and began to slowly walk over toward the kitchen.

After: He slunk to the kitchen like a man confronting expired yogurt.

Result: Saved 9 words. The word “began” is a weasel. Use it only when things don’t finish. Like your draft.

8. Frankensteining Sentences

Sometimes, two short sentences are just lonely halves of one better sentence. Stitch ‘em together like Dr. Frankenstein—but, you know, with a lighter touch and fewer pitchforks.

Before: The lights flickered. I froze. Something was wrong.

After: The flickering lights froze me.

Result: Saved 3 words. And you still got the vibe: spooky, concise, and not narrating like a guy reading off cue cards.

Word count doesn’t have to be your nemesis. Just your toxic ex. The kind you tolerate long enough to get through the query process, then quietly block once you’re published.

Cutting at the sentence level isn’t glamorous. It won’t get you a book deal. But it might get you past the first intern who’s been told to reject anything that feels “long.” And that’s a start.

Now go forth. Murder some modifiers. Evict some filter words. And for the love of God, stop describing every single time someone walks across a room.

Your future agent, and your readers, will thank you.

Dialogue in fiction is more than just characters conversing. It’s a window into their souls, a mechanism to drive the plot, and a tool for engagement. One of the critical differentiators between narrative and dialogue is their inherent nature and purpose.

The narrative, often considered the backbone of a story, lays out the setting, provides exposition, delves into a character’s innermost thoughts, or pushes the storyline forward. Its tone is usually more formal, flowing with descriptive and reflective undertones. It’s the author’s voice, guiding readers through the literary world they’ve crafted.

In contrast, dialogue is where characters come alive. It’s a medium through which they express their emotions, beliefs, plans, and reactions. The tone here should be conversational, peppered with the natural ebbs and flows of real-life conversation. Think about the last time you had a chat with someone—chances are, you used contractions, sprinkled in some slang, or left sentences unfinished in the rhythm of the discussion. That’s the essence of dialogue.

Crafting a genuine, engaging dialogue is an art. To make dialogue sound truly conversational, it’s vital to grasp the natural flow of speech. Characters shouldn’t sound as though they’re delivering prepared speeches unless the situation explicitly demands it. Interruptions, for instance, can infuse authenticity. Life isn’t scripted. We cut each other off, complete each other’s sentences, and sometimes, trail off into thoughtful silence. These elements, when portrayed in fiction, make characters relatable.

Exposition in dialogue is a double-edged sword. While it’s tempting to use dialogue to unveil critical plot points or explain background details, it’s essential to ensure that it doesn’t turn into an information dump. Nothing breaks the spell of immersion faster than characters explaining things they both should already know. The balance is the key.

Take Cormac McCarthy, for instance. His unique style, which forgoes the traditional use of quotation marks for dialogue, stands as a testament to breaking norms without compromising clarity. How does he achieve this?

The context is king in McCarthy’s works. The scenarios leading up to a dialogue exchange offer enough cues for readers to recognize an ensuing conversation. He also ensures each character maintains a unique voice, ensuring clarity despite the absence of punctuation. The sheriff, with his law-abiding principles and observations of a changing world, will possess a distinctive tone compared to a rogue drifter, bringing with him chaos and unpredictability. McCarthy also skillfully uses line breaks. When a new line of dialogue appears, it often starts on a new line, subtly hinting at a change in speakers. This meticulous construction enables readers to follow along, even without the traditional signposts.

Another essential element of dialogue is the distinct voice each character should have. This differentiation isn’t just about who they are but where they come from, what they’ve experienced, and how they perceive the world around them. Their vocabulary choices can unveil a lot. A professor would naturally have a different lexicon than a teenager. Their rhythm and pace of speech can also set them apart. An excitable character might speak in rapid, breathless spurts, while someone more introspective might favor longer, contemplative sentences.

Accents and dialects can be powerful differentiators. Regional dialects or accents not only add depth but also anchor characters to specific locales or backgrounds. Think of Mark Twain’s “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” and the array of distinct voices that populate its pages, painting a vivid picture of the American South.

Character quirks in speech patterns can also serve to make them more memorable. Perhaps a character always punctuates their statements with rhetorical questions. Maybe another has a habit of quoting literature or uses a particular phrase as a verbal tic. These idiosyncrasies make characters more human, more recognizable.

At its core, dialogue serves multiple purposes in fiction. It’s a device for character development. Through what they say (or don’t say), characters reveal their backgrounds, personalities, motivations, and relationships with other entities in the story. Dialogue often propels the plot. Many pivotal moments in literature are born from conversations, be it heated arguments, whispered confessions, or sudden revelations.

The pacing of a story often hinges on dialogue. Extended descriptive or reflective passages can sometimes slow down the reading experience. Dialogue segments, with their dynamic back-and-forths, can offer readers an energetic change of pace, driving the story forward with renewed vigor.

Moreover, dialogue is a potent engagement tool. Extended narratives can be immersive, but dialogues have a unique pull. Readers often find themselves drawn into conversations, taking sides, anticipating responses, or even mentally filling in the unsaid words. It’s interactive, even in the confines of a static page.

In conclusion, dialogue isn’t just about words exchanged between characters. It’s about authenticity, differentiation, and engagement. It’s an art that requires understanding, practice, and a keen ear for the music of everyday conversation. Whether a writer chooses to adopt a traditional approach or draw inspiration from the likes of McCarthy, it’s undeniable that dialogue remains a pillar in the edifice of fiction.

When developing a video game, one crucial decision that project managers have to make is selecting the most suitable development methodology. There are a variety of methodologies available, each with its own strengths, weaknesses, and ideal use cases. Three such methodologies are Scrum, the Critical Path Method (CPM), and Spiral Development. The best fit depends heavily on the specifics of the game being developed, such as its complexity, the predictability of tasks, and the tolerance for risk. Let’s delve into how each methodology might apply to different video game development scenarios, using hypothetical examples.

Scrum

Scrum is a subset of the Agile methodology and emphasizes collaboration, functional software, team self-management, and the flexibility to adapt to emerging business realities.

Strengths:

Frequent feedback: The team is in constant communication about what’s working and what’s not.Flexibility: Scrum allows the team to rapidly respond to changes and new requirements. This is particularly valuable in video game development, where elements might need to be tweaked based on testing and user feedback.Incremental delivery: Working software is delivered in small increments, which can keep stakeholders engaged and reassured of progress.

Weaknesses:

Need for discipline: Scrum requires a highly disciplined team to stick to the rules and practices, and teams without this discipline can struggle.Requires skilled Scrum masters: The Scrum Master needs to understand and be able to implement Scrum effectively.Not ideal for fixed deadline projects: Since Scrum encourages flexibility and adaptation, it may not be suitable for projects with a strict deadline or fixed requirements.

An example of a game that might benefit from the Scrum approach is “Among Us,” developed by InnerSloth. Given the game’s iterative nature and the constant addition of new features, maps, and balance changes, a flexible Agile methodology like Scrum is fitting. Developers can gather player feedback and rapidly iterate on that feedback, which keeps the game fresh and engaging. Also, the game’s unexpected surge in popularity during the COVID-19 pandemic would have required a nimble response from the development team to handle the increase in user base and feedback.

Critical Path Method (CPM)

The Critical Path Method (CPM) is a project modeling technique developed in the late 1950s. It’s usually used with projects that have a well-defined sequence of activities and dependencies.

Strengths:

Efficiency: CPM can help to identify the most efficient schedule for a project. This can be especially useful for video game development where certain tasks cannot proceed until previous tasks are completed.Cost savings: By identifying the critical path, CPM can help to allocate resources most effectively to avoid waste.Risk mitigation: It can help in identifying potential risks and bottlenecks in the project.

Weaknesses:

Lack of flexibility: CPM works best with projects that have predictable, linear workflows. However, video game development often involves a lot of iteration and change, which can disrupt the critical path.Overemphasis on the critical path: While it’s necessary to focus on the critical path, other important aspects of the project could be neglected.Requires accurate estimation: Estimating the duration of tasks accurately can be difficult in a creative endeavor like video game development.

When you have a game with a predictable and linear development process and a fixed release schedule, the Critical Path Method (CPM) can be a better fit. Annual sports video game franchises such as “Madden NFL” make for a good example. These games have a stable foundation to start with, and each year’s enhancements or additions are often incremental, reducing the overall project risk. The CPM can help manage the sequence of tasks efficiently to ensure the game is ready for its annual release.

Spiral Development

The Spiral Model is a risk-driven software development process model that is a blend of iterative and waterfall development models.

Strengths:

Emphasis on risk analysis: This is particularly relevant to video game development, where projects can be highly complex and filled with uncertainties.Flexibility: It allows for iterative refinement, making it possible to change the project scope based on learning from earlier cycles.Ideal for large and complex projects: It’s a good fit for big, ambitious video game projects that have a high degree of risk and where cost and schedule are secondary to functionality.

Weaknesses:

Requires risk assessment expertise: The success of the Spiral model largely depends on the team’s ability to identify and manage risk.Can be expensive: Due to its emphasis on risk and iteration, it can potentially be more expensive than other methodologies.Time consuming: It may not be suitable for projects with tight deadlines, as the emphasis on risk analysis and iteration can extend the project timeline.

A larger, riskier project like “No Man’s Sky” by Hello Games might have benefited from a Spiral Development approach. Initially, the game received a lot of criticism due to unfulfilled expectations and missing features. The developers then spent years updating and refining the game, ultimately creating a product much closer to the original vision. The constant iteration and significant risks associated with developing such an ambitious game align well with the principles of Spiral Development. Using this method from the start might have helped better manage expectations and deliver a product that was more complete upon initial release.

 

That’s a Wrap

In conclusion, choosing the right development methodology can significantly influence the success of a video game project. Whether it’s the adaptability of Scrum, the structured efficiency of CPM, or the risk-focused and iterative nature of Spiral Development, each approach offers unique advantages. The examples of “Among Us,” “Madden NFL,” and “No Man’s Sky” illustrate how these methodologies can be tailored to suit different game development scenarios. Yet, it’s essential to remember that there are many factors at play, and the choice of methodology is just one element among many that can determine a project’s success. By understanding the strengths and limitations of each method, developers can make informed decisions that best serve their project’s needs and ultimately create engaging and enjoyable video games.

 

It helps to have a ‘roadmap’ when you start writing, especially at the beginning of the novel where things can feel directionless and ‘blue sky’. With that in mind, I’ve tried to assimilate concepts that I’ve seen scattered through several books on writing, and present them in a single, compact form. The consensus seems to be that these things are ‘required elements’ of genre fiction, and if you fail to integrate them into your opening scene, you’re basically screwed.

Things the opening scene must do:

1.       Hook the reader

a.       Sentence 1, paragraph 1, page 1. Ensure intriguing, thought provoking first sentence/paragraph/page. If this fails, the audience will never turn to page 2

b.       Clearly state the scene goal up front (as every scene must do). Whatever this goal is, the protagonist either cannot achieve it, or achieving it will have become meaningless by the end of the scene

2.       Establish a compelling, unique voice and writing style. You can find some thoughts on that here

3.       Introduce the protagonist and stake a claim to the uniqueness of their personality, especially their inherent flaws. The character must be someone the audience can empathize with. Keep in mind that different audiences resonate with different heroes

4.       Establish the protagonist’s status quo. This is less about their personality, and more about the routine of their life. No backstory needed. Routine tedium is a bad thing. This opening scene puts the protagonist in their established routine, but by the end of the scene, that routine has been shredded

5.       End the scene on a setback. This setback must be disruptive. It attacks the protagonist’s fundamental flaw and endangers their status quo. It is the first event in a chain reaction described in point 6 below

6.       Overall, the opening scene provides the trumpet call that heralds the ending of normalcy in the protagonist’s life

a.       We do this by describing the precise scenario that starts a chain reaction. There is no immediate change by the scene’s end, but the chain reaction will be a sequence of events that lead inexorably to change by the novel’s end.

b.       This change will be the true journey that the protagonist will make. The entire novel will be the story of their permanent change as a person

 

Suggested further reading

How to Write a Novel Using the Snowflake Method

How to Write a Dynamite Scene Using the Snowflake Method

Super Structure: The Key to Unleashing the Power of Story

Write Your Novel From The Middle: A New Approach for Plotters, Pantsers and Everyone in Between

Story Engineering

You know that question that’s got everyone kind of twitchy lately? That elephant in the room question: “Is ChatGPT going to nudge us creative folk, like writers, out of our jobs?” I mean, you hover your mouse over ChatGPT-4’s tooltip, and it’s not shy about it. “Ideal for tasks needing creativity and advanced reasoning,” it brags.

Let me just put a pin in that worry balloon for you, okay? Nah, AI’s not about to elbow us out of the creative game. Not in the foreseeable future, anyway.

Let’s break it down a bit and demystify what AI like ChatGPT actually does. It ain’t human, not by a long shot. When you ask it to whip up something “creative”, it’s not pulling ideas out of thin air. What it’s really doing is churning out text based on patterns it picked up during its training phase. It’s not “getting” any of it. Its “creativity” is smoke and mirrors – a trick based on billions of examples, not a real eureka moment. What we’re dealing with here is a super-duper reference table wearing a snazzy interface that lets you ask for stuff in your everyday lingo.

Let’s zoom in on one word: ‘understand’.

Creativity isn’t just about popping out new things. Sure, AI can mush ideas together in some cool ways, but that’s only a piece of the creative pie. The meat of creativity involves deeper understanding, gut feelings, empathy. Take things like symbolism or abstraction. AI can regurgitate their definitions, and mimic their use, but because it doesn’t “get” them, it ends up using them in surface-level, tired ways. Ask ChatGPT to polish a scene you’ve written, and blend in a meaty metaphor, like linking the main character’s actions to a badger. What you get back is your scene with “and like a badger, she…” tacked on everywhere. Annoying, right?

Our human journey – our feelings, our views, our moral compass, our hopes – is key to a lot of creative processes, writing especially. AI can fake some bits of this, but it doesn’t actually feel or perceive. You and I both know there’s a world of difference between knowing and experiencing, and that’s the key distinction between us and computers. AI can’t “live” the world. AI-penned writing lacks that lived experience that often gives human writing its punch.

The plain truth is, AI only knows what we tell it. Nothing more. That’s crucial because we’re still pretty much in the dark about the human mind and the whole consciousness gig. Even with leaps in neuroscience, these mysteries remain. Check out some recent papers on consciousness – if you can trudge through the jargon, you end up with a bunch of educated guesses. Theories. Give it a decade, and they’ll all have changed. Now, if we don’t get the human mind, AI won’t either. But here’s the kicker: we may not get consciousness and experience, but they still shape our thoughts. Since computers don’t have actual consciousness, to simulate human thinking, we’d need to feed AI a precise model of the human mind. And we can’t do that because we don’t have that model.

The AI-is-going-to-replace-us worry is a red herring for now. But if we look back, we see that as tech moves forward, our roles tend to adapt more than vanish. AI’s rise might shake up what being a writer or a creative means, but it won’t kick human creativity to the curb. (And I’ll tackle what that future might look like in a future post.)

For now, just remember: AI’s just a tool. Skynet, at least for the foreseeable future, is just fiction… created by a human.

Some suggested resources

Life 3.0: Being Human in the Age of Artificial Intelligence – Max Tegmark

Beyond Human: The Transformative Power of Artificial Intelligence – Mehdi Senhadji

The Nature of Consciousness: Essays on the Unity of Mind and Matter

How AI can save our humanity – a TED talk

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