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I love commas. Between them and the semicolon, my writing is populated (some say overpopulated) with pauses, breaks, and spaces to breathe, sharing with the reader the pace and clarity I hope for. Commas have more jobs than any other punctuation mark, which is why so many writers treat them like seasoning and sprinkle them wherever a sentence feels bland. In The Language of Fiction, Brian Shawver argues that real rules lie beneath it all. He focuses on four that give fiction writers the most trouble, plus a few common mistakes. 1. Two complete thoughts get a comma before the "and." "I went to the game, and I bought a hot dog" has two independent clauses, so the comma goes in. "I went to the game and bought a hot dog" has one subject doing two things, so it doesn't. Shawver almost lost a teaching job over this one. Writers bend it all the time, though. Drop the commas from a chain of clauses and the prose rushes forward, which is useful in a chase or a panic. Just watch for misreads. In "Jerry whacked the baseball and his father grinned," readers spend a half-second picturing Jerry hitting his dad. 2. Commas separate items in a list. That part is simple. The Oxford comma before the final "and" has no settled standard, so pick a side and stay consistent. The craft is in the variations. Leave out the final "and," and the list ends abruptly, with the last item landing hard. Swap every comma for "and," as in "lions and tigers and bears," and the list feels crowded and overflowing. Tim O'Brien uses both in "The Things They Carried" so his many lists never fall into the same rhythm. 3. Equal adjectives get commas. Stacked ones don't. "The spastic, gray poodle" needs a comma because both words describe the poodle equally. "The fat German shepherd" doesn't need a comma because "fat" describes the whole phrase "German shepherd." To test it, put "and" between the adjectives or reverse their order. If it still sounds right, use the comma. This rule also gets broken on purpose. Hemingway's "plump brown legs" skips the comma because the words are short and quick. George Saunders writes "fat little unemployed guy" without commas because the line is meant to come out in one breath.

Add this to the list of things I wish I had known before I started writing my first novel. “Narrative distance” sounds like one idea, but writers use the term in two ways. Sorting them out will save you some confusion. Distance as closeness to the character- In the most common usage, narrative distance (often called psychic distance) describes how far the reader feels from the narrator and the character. At the close end, the reader sits inside the character’s experience and sees events through their eyes. At the far end, the reader watches from outside, as if observing a scene on a stage. Your point of view largely sets the range- - First person and third person limited are deep and intimate, so they call for close distance. - Third person objective stays out of every character’s head and shows only action and dialogue, so distance is naturally far. - Omniscient allows far distance and gives the narrator more room to tell rather than show. A quick tell for where you are on the spectrum: distancing words like “she thought,” “he knew,” “I wished,” and “she felt.” They put a small pane of glass between reader and character. In deep POV, cut these filter words, along with excess adverbs and pronouns, and let the experience land directly. Also resist blunt explanations of what a scene means. Trust clear details and a few breadcrumbs to let readers draw their own conclusions. Distance as one of four- A second view treats narrative distance as only one of four “cardinal distances” you balance in a story: 1. Psychic distance: how intimate the narrative voice is with the character. 2. Temporal distance: when the story is being told from. A narrator looking back from the future has hindsight, so use reflective passages sparingly, or they pull readers out of the moment. 3. Physical distance: what a character can actually see, hear, and know from where they stand. A woman walking under storm clouds can’t see the light on top of them. 4. Narrative distance: how much the story itself knows about its own theme, even when the characters don’t. Fairy tales state their morals openly. Literary fiction tends to hold back and let readers find the theme in the subtext.

I was working on my own YouTube channel today and got sucked down a rabbit hole of videos from other great YouTubers. The one that stood out this morning was about what NOT to write. Most new writers ask what they should write. The following is a brief encapsulation of book topics unlikely to serve your professional career. If you’re writing purely for joy, none of it applies ... and I encourage you to write for your own joy, but if you hope to sell your work, take note. 1. Sequels to someone else’s work. You don’t own the rights, so nobody will want to read or buy it. Wishing a disappointing sequel had been better doesn’t change that. 2. Anything built on intellectual property. A new story set in a franchise universe is still someone else’s IP. The same goes for adapting a book you love. Without the rights, you can’t sell it. You earn that opportunity with credits first. 3. Your own memoir (as a starting point). Everyone’s life matters, but a newcomer’s story has an uphill climb because buyers want a proven name or property attached. If your book has already sold well and you own the rights, that changes the picture. 4. A main character who is a writer. It feels natural because it’s what we know. It’s also one of the most common choices for new writers, so it can make you blend in rather than stand out. 5. A story you wouldn’t want to read or watch yourself. Finishing, revising, and selling a story takes enormous time and love. If you’re writing it only because you think it’s what’s expected, the long road gets much harder. 6. A story you’d be ashamed to tell people about. You are your work’s best advocate. If you’d be reluctant to say what you wrote, you’ll struggle to champion it. The common thread: write something you can own, in every sense. Legally, creatively, and emotionally. I encourage you to watch the whole video yourself: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sIFHqFYVoEQ It focuses on screenwriting, but the principles of rights, standing out, and believing in your project apply to fiction.

I'll be working on a tense scene in my thesis manuscript, one where the protagonist comes face to face with one of his bigger threats. It's supposed to be a friendly meeting, but I need to add threatening undertones by highlighting the weather, the tension in the faces of those around them, and what isn't said. How about you?