Category: Uncategorized

Categories
Uncategorized

Life Happens. It’s not always “writer’s block.”

Writing and Life: Why They’re Inseparable for Authors

We can’t talk about being an author without talking about life.

You’re not a writer just between 6 a.m. and 7 a.m., hammering out words before the kids wake up. Or between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m., stealing time after your partner goes to bed.

You’re a writer 24/7.

Every moment of every day, you’re soaking in experiences, emotions, and observations, all of which might eventually fuel your stories. Writing doesn’t live in a box—it’s interwoven with life itself.

At FictionMentor.com, this philosophy has been a cornerstone since day one. Sure, there’s no shortage of books and courses out there focused on the craft of writing. Many are excellent, and I recommend them often. But here’s the problem: when we hyper-focus on craft, we risk divorcing writing from two essential aspects of the journey:

  1. The business of being an author.
  2. The life that fuels creativity.

This separation does a disservice to us as creators. Life is messy, chaotic, and unpredictable. And it’s that very chaos that fuels creativity. Trying to isolate your writing from the rest of your life—to protect it or keep it “pure”—is not only unrealistic, it’s counterproductive.

Writer’s Block vs. Life

I’ve often said that writer’s block is a myth. It’s our job to keep writing, to push through, to figure it out. But there’s an important distinction to make:

  • Writer’s block is when you’re stuck on what happens next in your story.
  • “I can’t do this right now” is when life gets in the way—temporarily or permanently.

These are two very different things.

I’ve seen this play out in my own life and in the lives of my author friends. One friend, who achieved incredible success with multiple bestselling books, hit a point where he just stopped writing.

Not because he didn’t have ideas. Not because he didn’t have the skill. But because he was done.

Writing wasn’t serving him anymore, and he stepped away. On one hand, it’s heartbreaking. On the other, if he’s happier and healthier now, then that’s good.

Another friend has been wrestling with a book in a genre that isn’t “hot” in the current market. She’s deeply frustrated with the process and the industry. Some days, she’s at peace with taking a step back. Other days, she’s overwhelmed by a sense of loss.

This isn’t writer’s block. This is life.

Writing and Life Balance for Authors

Accidents happen. Illnesses happen. Relationships shift. Jobs change. Life throws curveballs all the time. And sometimes, it makes writing feel impossible. When that happens, it’s okay to take a break.

If you find yourself questioning not just your writing but your worth as a human being because of setbacks, please step back. Seek help if you need it. Reassess. Take time to heal. Nothing is worth sacrificing your mental health or your safety—not even your art.

(“Tortured artist” is another bullshit myth that needs killing.)

The stories you want to tell are important, but you are more important. We need your voice, but we also need you to be healthy enough to share it.

The Stress of Passion

I spent 22 years in theater, 16 of those running my own companies. It was stressful—juggling rehearsals, budgets, ticket sales, marketing, and actor drama. We weren’t often getting paid, and we poured our own money into productions, praying each show would fund the next one.

Me, in “An Impending Rupture of the Belly” with Stray Cat Theatre in Phoenix.

But here’s the thing: I loved it.

That stress, while intense, was good stress. It was the kind of challenge you take on willingly because you love what you do.

Writing is the same. It can be stressful—agonizing over the craft, worrying about industry trends, or questioning your skill level—but most of the time, that stress is what fuels your passion.

But sometimes, that stress crosses a line into being unhealthy. When that happens, you need to recognize it and step back. Nothing—not deadlines, not the dream of publishing, not your own expectations—is worth your health.

Keep Writing… When You’re Ready

If you’re frustrated with a plot hole or stuck on a character arc, that’s the kind of “writer’s block” you can push through with time, effort, and maybe some brainstorming with fellow writers. That’s part of the process.

But if you’re feeling crushed by the weight of life, the industry, or your own expectations, take a break. Regroup. Come back when you’re ready.

We need your stories. But more importantly, we need you. Healthy, whole, and ready to share your unique voice with the world.

Remember: you’re not just a writer during your designated writing hours. You’re a writer all the time, living a life rich with experiences that fuel your creativity. So live your life. Let it be messy and beautiful and chaotic. And when you’re ready, bring it back to the page.

Let’s keep the conversation going. What’s your biggest struggle when it comes to balancing writing and life? Drop a comment or connect with me on social media—I’d love to hear from you.

Categories
Uncategorized

Starting My New Writing Career: Writing A Book Is Not Enough

Here’s what I know.

I’m a good storyteller. I published nine traditional (“trad”) novels for a pretty good chunk of change. I got to write on a popular comic book. I’ve been writing in other universes, and get invited back. So I know how to do that part.

What I and most other authors are not so good at:

Marketing. Getting in front of people. Getting in front of the right people, the people who buy books.

Here’s what else I know:

I know that I’m really good at getting a group of people together to make something creative. A play, an audiobook, a short film. I’ve never had the same kind of success with these formats as I have with novels, but it also depends on what our definition of “success” is.

I have a very specific financial goal.

I also have a very specific emotional goal.

I no longer believe the two have to be exclusive.

The plan:

Write several serials at once. Failing and learning in public, per Gary Vee.

Use paid Facebook advertising to test headlines, images, and story ideas.

Use a social media scheduler to post no less than four times per day across the major platforms, with specific targets in mind for each platform (for me, Twitter/X only has good engagement on one type of post, so that’s what I’ll post. No more wasting time trying to drive traffic from a source that has a low time-ROI.)

Outline the serials to fill five or more complete novels.

Take the novels one at a time to Kickstarter.

Use book #1 in each series as a lead magnet and intro to the series.

Use newsletter swaps and paid newsletter advertising, as well as Facebook ads, to drive readers to the first book in the series.

Release for three months on Kindle Unlimited.

Then release wide, including my own storefront.

Once a book is wide and on my storefront, use that as the only link-in-bio…drive traffic first and foremost directly to my store.

…Repeat?

That’s basically it.

A lot of folks will say that’s too many irons in the fire at once. And I’d agree, except that this is how my brain works. I’ve tried all the other ways. Long gone are the days of a trad publisher offering me high five-figure advances, i.e., living wages.

If I don’t take charge now, I may never.

I’ve tried focusing on one thing at a time. I get excited by the new Shiny Thing and never go back. This way, I’ve got multiple projects that all hold my interest in varying degrees.

I get to tell the stories that have been cooking on back burners for so long.

This plan allows me to put to use many of my mentors’ ideas. For example, The Pumpkin Plan: Plant a shit-ton of seeds and prune the ones that don’t produce.

I don’t know which genre will land, but I’m not about to spend years writing a handful of novels, only to discover no one was interested. I’d rather spend one year or so writing a lot of different things, and then double down on the ones that bear fruit.

This also follows most of Gary Vee’s advice: post, post, post.

And by the way…

God help me….

It’s free.

I’ll have subscription options available for people who want more access and who want early access, yes. But otherwise, the stories will fundamentally be and stay free. My shit’s been pirated so much anyway, it’s not even worth the effort to whack every mole that pops its head up. So I may as well give it away.

I say all this with the enormous caveat that we are a two-income household, so I have a lot more room than most to manevuver. If I fail, our family won’t lose the house. This is not a process I’d recommend for someone who just stormed off the job with no safety net.

I think that’s it.

LFG.

Categories
Uncategorized

It’s The Not-Knowing: A short story + advice on novels vs. shorts

To hear the story and discussion, head to my Anchor podcast or look for it on your favorite podcasting site: https://spotifyanchor-web.app.link/e/nLKjwbVbysb

 

IT’S THE NOT-KNOWING

by Tom Leveen

© 2022

 

A hooded figure sat at Jack’s computer when he came down that morning. Jack, quite naturally, gasped, cursed, and stepped backward at the site of the hood, bathed in the blue light of the computer monitor on the desk before it.

 

“The hell?” Jack demanded, feeling his shoulders tense up and hands clench into fists. He licked his lips, wishing for a weapon. None were at hand. Jack worked at home and was a CPA who barely watched action movies, never mind owning anything that might defend life and limb.

 

“Get out of here!”

 

His voice was weak and cracked at the end, making Jack wince. Dammit.

 

“Go on!” he tried again. “Get!”

 

Like the ominous figure was a misbehaving puppy. Predictably, the words had no effect.

 

Jack glanced behind him at the open door. Obviously, the smart move here was to run, to go back to the kitchen where he’d left his iPhone charging, and call the police. They’d deal with the intruder just fine, by God they would!

 

Only . . .

 

They wouldn’t. Jack felt this truth like knives piercing his palms and feet, pinning him to this time and this place.

 

The room was dark except for the monitor, and it cast its light against the robe and hood in a way that made a black hole where a face should have been. The tip of a nose, the glint of an eye . . . something should have shown the figure to be human, but the blank space in the hood offered no such consolation.

 

So Jack figured it was Death.

 

It sat still. Motionless. No bony hands rested on the desktop, and no brimstone odor leaked from the folds of its black robe. Still—Jack felt deeply that his guess was right.

 

Death faced forward—well, “faced” being a relative term in this case—while Jack stood just a bit to the side, so that the figure wasn’t looking at him head-on. Instead it faced the screen. From his position by the door, Jack couldn’t see what might be on it, nor could he remember what he might have left up on the screen yesterday when his workday was done.

 

An Excel sheet? Some client’s bank statement? A video game he knew spent too much time on?

 

The light never flickered, so Jack assumed it was a static image. Perhaps just his desktop, with whatever quasi-inspiring image Bill Gates’ people had seen fit to push through that day.

 

“Look,” Jack said, again trying to moisten his lips. “I get it, okay? I know who you are. So, what now, do I get another chance? Is this just a warning? Look, I’ll eat more vegetables, okay? It’s not like I smoke. I don’t even drink a lot. So, come on. Another shot, huh?”

 

Death didn’t move.

 

“Well you don’t have to be a dick about it!” Jack shouted. “If we’re going to do this, then come on, do it! I’m . . . I’m ready!”

 

Lie. Total and utter. He wasn’t ready.

 

Death didn’t make a sound.

 

Jack gripped his short hair in hands. It felt melodramatic, but hell, life didn’t get more melodramatic than this.

 

“I’m talking to you! Answer me, say something! What? What do you want?”

 

While the figure made no movement, Jack heard a stealthy, slithering sound emanating from the dark folds of the robe. Cloth rubbing together, like arms shifting. But he could see no movement.

 

It occurred to Jack then to turn on the damn overhead light, but he hesitated, afraid of what the light might reveal. What if he then could see into the hood? What sort of Lovecraftian horror might be gazing back?

 

Jack released his hair and hugged his own body tightly, pounding his right fist against his chest. “Come on! Just do it, okay? You’re here for a reason, just get it over with!”

 

No response.

 

Jack shrieked. The madness of not knowing his fate grew like a geyser of India ink in his belly and torso, swirling black and heavy. He stamped his feet like a child.

 

“What are you waiting for? I’m here, I’m right here!”

 

Death offered no new sound, no motion.

 

The strain nipped at the edges of Jack’s sanity. In an ecstasy of tension, he gripped the sleeves of his shirt and tore them away. The old fabric whispered apart in his hands.

 

“What do you want from me? Huh? Are you the Ghost of Christmas Wasted or something? Speak!”

 

At that, the hooded figure slowly turned its head.

 

It was a slow, deliberate motion that obeyed all known laws of physics, yet at the same time, the gesture had an ethereal quality to it Jack could not pinpoint. The closest thing his addled mind could compare it to was the movement of a snake, which always disgusted him; they had no legs, how could they move? Here it was the same: the figure did not have a visible structure, no bone, muscle, sinew. How could it move?

 

Despite the movement, the darkness within the hood only appeared to grow thicker, revealing nothing. No pinprick ice-blue lights for eyes, no glimmering ivory fangs. Just darkness.

 

Jack raked his fingernails down his face and screamed. “What, what, what, what?”

 

He pulled thin layers of skin off, leaving burning tracks behind. It felt good, for a moment; felt good to feel, felt good to control, felt good to hurt. Pain meant he was still here.

 

So he did it again, and again. Bellowing rage at the dark figure, Jack fell to his knees and dug his fingers into his mouth. Pulled, hard, until the thin flesh gave way in a flood.

 

“What, what, what?”

 

By the time Jack stuffed his fingers into the soft skin below his eyes, he was well and truly insane. He tore his face to pieces until dead, lying prone against the thick-pile carpet in his office. It sucked eagerly at his blood.

 

The figure observed all this without a sound. When the deed was finally done, it rose gracefully from Jack’s leather chair. The robe fell neatly into place like drapery. It moved silently across the room and stepped easily over Jack’s mutilated body.

 

It was not Death, but Death’s assassin.

 

It was the not knowing that killed them.

 

THE END

 

Be sure to let me know what you think, or ask any question about the process of short stories vs. novels. 

To the question of whether or not aspiring novelists should write short stories, I think yes. No writing is ever wasted. It all helps your craft. Some authors argue that if you want to write novels, then just do that, a lot and often. I don’t necessarily disagree, but I do feel that short story writing — particularly under “duress” like I am doing for the next three months — opens up veins of creativity that can bleed wonderously into a full-length project. For myself, getting up every morning and essentially forcing these stories is not only putting me in a better mood the rest of the day, I can feel it kickstarting old, longer ideas back up to the front of my mind, those novels that long-since gave up clamoring for my attention.

It’s time to get back to work.

Keep writing!

~ Tom

Categories
Uncategorized

Never Abandon the Blissful Value of Saying What Can’t Be Said

 

MIXTAPE

by Tom Leveen

 

A mixtape says the things you can’t. Or won’t.

Or sometimes: shouldn’t.

Mikey fretted over this daily as he sorted through song after song, classics and new hits, trying to compose his feelings with someone else’s music.

Some of it depended on his mood. Some days it was all AC/DC, which he knew Glorietta liked from back in the day. But this wasn’t the sort of situation where one could blithely record Highway to Hell onto the mix, even if it was one of her favorites. The title was just too . . . inappropriate.

He leavened today’s tape with some old R.E.M., thinking some of the lyrics of Driver 8 said a lot of what he wished to say: take a break, we’ve been on this trip too long.

He’d never say that to her. Even if he could muster up the courage and, hell, write the words down, they still wouldn’t come out right. He had way too much experience with that. Glorietta deserved his best.

Nirvana next? No, too abrasive. Poison? No, a power ballad didn’t work either, not today.

Checking the time—he did not want to be late, so as to maximize their time together—Mikey hurriedly chose some Midnight Oil, followed by U2. Classic stuff. Despite not the world’s biggest U2 fan, in his opinion, The Joshua Tree was one of the top great albums ever made.

Minutes ticked away as he painstakingly constructed the opus. He didn’t have a title for it yet; previous incarnations included A Fragile Flash of Lightning, riffing off Pink Floyd’s Delicate Sound of Thunder. Glorietta—she preferred “Glory”—had given him a brief laugh for that, which Mikey cherished. Last week he’d gone full metal-head, nothing but Megadeth, Slayer, Anthrax, Metallica, Skid Row, Queensrÿche, Flotsam and Jetsam . . . and called it Wish You Were Hair, bemoaning that he’d lost his own long locks some time ago and still feeling pretty pouty and petty about it.

Petty! Of course.

Wildflowers became the last song on side B. Glory belonged among the wildflowers, most definitely.

Mikey hesitated as he scrawled the song title on the lined white insert. Did Wildflowers imply too much? That he, Mikey, should be her lover?

No, he decided. Most of the lyrics seemed very pointed at wishing the best for the other person. If that happened to come from a place of pure love and affection and . . . okay, fine, lust . . . Glory wouldn’t be any the wiser.

He hoped. God, the last thing she needed right now his sappy confession of love. No way, man.

Mikey snapped the cassette into its case and ran for his bike. If he pedaled hard, he’d get there just in time.

He got to the hospital one minute after Glory’s visiting hours began. A little breathless, he peeked into her room to see if she was awake.

She was. Barely. The TV was on. Family Ties.

“Hey,” Mikey whispered, still peering around the open door, not wanting to come in without Glory’s permission.

“Hey, you,” Glorietta said, and motioned with her fingers.

It was all the strength she had, and it was all the invitation Mikey needed. He slid into the room and went to the side of the wide bed, where he slipped the case into her hand.

“I, uh, I made . . . I made this . . . um . . . it’s, it’s a new—”

Even in her emaciated state, Glory’s smile lit his insides on fire.

“You know, Michael, one of these days . . .” She had to pause to take a breath. “You’re gonna have to bring a Walkman. Remember those?” Another pause. “Or you could just send me a Spotify list.”

He shook his head. “Not the same.”

“No,” Glory said. “It’s really not. You’re right.”

She lifted the tape to her face, squinting. “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For. Christ, Michael, you’re fifty-five years old, you better get on it.”

Glory smiled again as Mikey shuffled his feet. He wanted to say, “I did. I did find what I was looking for. Forty-five years ago when you moved in next door.”

But he couldn’t, and wouldn’t.

And, probably, oughtn’t.

All these years, nothing but friends. Through her various boyfriends, her first husband, her divorce, her second husband, him leaving her. Never having kids, career like a pinball in one of the old machines they used to play back in the neighborhood growing up. Then finally, this illness. He’d been the best friend he could. So he came every day with a new tape, and he’d keep coming until the inevitable end.

It was nearer than he cared to think about.

Glory gently put the cassette on a nearby table with several others Mikey’d brought over the past couple weeks. He almost helped her do it, her gesture was so weak. But he knew her stubbornness well. She would have given him a raft of shit for helping.

After the tape clattered mildly against the table top, Glory then stretched out her hand toward him.

“Michael.”

Perplexed, he took her hand. She was so cold.

“You don’t have to keep doing this.”

“Yeah, but, I . . . I mean, I do, I want to, I like to . . . unless you want me to stop.”

Glory shook her head weakly against the pillow. “No. Don’t do that. I’m just saying.” A pause. “You have a life. You don’t have to come if you don’t want.”

Mikey licked his lips, eyes darting. The words were right there, he could taste them in his mouth.

They wouldn’t come.

In a burst, Mikey snatched the new mixtape off the table and popped open the tiny radio-cassette player he’d brought on his first visit. He jammed the tape inside, slapped the tray shut, and pressed the play button.

Freddie Mercury said what he couldn’t. Mikey glanced at Glory, to see if she understood.

Glorietta pressed her lips together.

“Yeah,” she said quietly as the song played. “You’re mine, too.”

Mikey smiled, pulled a plastic molded chair to her bed, and sat down. Glory offered her hand again, and he took it.

She fell asleep an hour later in the middle of Tom Petty’s Wildflowers. Mikey stayed by her side until visiting hours were over.

He’d come back tomorrow. Maybe with some Beastie Boys.

THE END

 

What did you think? Thumbs up, thumbs down? I don’t think it’s bad for a first draft. Tell me your thoughts!
~ Tom