I shared the first chapter of my novel, Catfish Air with this group, and mine, and some friends, and got excellent feedback. The best part is that I got proper, constructive feedback. Not a single person said, "Oh, gosh-golly-gee-wow mister, this is swell!" Every reader said things like, "These parts are great, but that didn't work for me," or "I like this a lot, but this bit didn't make sense," or even, "Please delete this entire section - it's way too much!" And guess what? I took it all to heart. Not in a bad way. I mean I took is seriously. I genuinely went back and reviewed what I'd written and incorporated the feedback, and I think I cracked the code! Up until now, I'd had the POV and the voice all wrong. It was too stiff like I was a puppeteer with some marionettes and describing what people were doing. Not gonna lie...it kind of sucked. But now I zoomed in, stepped inside a character, share back stories as I go along which allows me to avoid cardboard cut-out characters. Thank you all so much for your feedback! And, if you're interested, I've attached the new version of the first chapter. Fair warning...there's one character who is VERY inappropriate toward women - but give him some grace because it's all part of his character arc.

After I finished my last non-fiction book, I promised myself I'd focus on fiction. And I did. I spent a lot of time developing the outline, working on worldbuilding, character development, and story arcs. Let me know what you think. Chapter One. Balad Air Base, Iraq Technical Sergeant Virgil R. Mason set his coffee cup down next to his Rubik’s cube and wiggled his computer mouse to wake his computer. The large, black mirror glowed to life. His desk was cluttered with papers in loose piles. The office he shared with Master Sergeant Edmund Erwin was in an old Iraqi military building. There was no way to know why the Iraqis built, or what it was used for. But it was ideall for this small Air Force detachment. “Don’t forget we have the assignment brief at zero-nine,” said Master Sergeant Erwin. “I think she’s sending us to FOB Colfax this week. I heard her mention it to Captain Carlisle the other day.” Virgil’s computer came fully to life and he double-clicked the Outlook icon. He remembered years before they used to say that if you wanted to beat the air force, all you’d need to do is shut down the phone system. These days it was Outlook. “And if you want to do the half-marathon, let me know,” said Sergeant Erwin. “I haven’t done any distance like that in ages and I could use the running buddy.” Virgil nodded and grunted quietly, slowly sipping his coffee. This morning he was having Starbucks’ Veranda – the one with the little hummingbird on the bag. Previous teams who had been through this office set up a collection point for coffee from care packages. If he had to guess, there was maybe seventy or eighty pounds of coffee – mostly Starbucks. His favorite was the Veranda, and he was running low. There was plenty of the Pike’s Place and whatever other dark or medium roast coffees they made – some bags of whole bean and some ground. One thing that hadn’t come in a care package yet was a grinder, so the bags of ground coffee, especially Veranda, were under his personal protection.

Purple prose is writing that is trying so hard to be beautiful that it accidentally gets in the way of the story. It usually shows up as too many adjectives, too many metaphors, too much symbolism, or sentences that draw attention to themselves instead of the scene. For example: The incandescent orb of molten gold languidly descended beneath the undulating horizon, painting the celestial canvas with ineffable hues. Translation: The sun set. Of course, those are opposite extremes. Good writing lives somewhere in the middle. Beautiful prose isn't the enemy. Some of my favorite authors write gorgeous sentences. The difference is that they know when to let a sentence sing. If every sentence is trying to be unforgettable, none of them are. One of the hardest lessons in writing is realizing that readers don't need to be impressed by every line. They need to be carried through the story. Save your best language for the moments that earn it. A good question to ask during editing is: "Is this sentence serving the story, or is it asking the reader to admire the writing?" Those aren't always the same thing.

I have some news, and I want you to hear it from me directly. The Wordsmiths' Guild is growing up. Over the next few months, I'm finishing the full Journeyman curriculum — eight lessons, each one built around a concrete, nameable craft skill, each one including a writing assignment that I read personally and send back with feedback. When it's done, the Guild moves to a formal tier structure: Apprentice, Journeyman, and Master levels, each with its own curriculum, its own price point, and its own completion rewards. That goes live September 1. Between now and then, I'm building this in public — and you're invited to be part of it as it takes shape. Every course I'm developing, every mentorship session I host, every piece of curriculum in progress is available to you right now, at no cost. Come learn. Come ask questions. Come watch the thing get built. Here's what I want to offer you specifically, as a founding member: Submit proof of publication before September 1 — anything you wrote, finished, and put in front of readers; a blog post, an article, a book, a piece submitted somewhere — and you earn Founding Apprentice status. That means lifetime free access to all Apprentice-level curriculum, for as long as the Guild exists. No monthly fee. No expiration. Grandfathered in, permanently. Your free membership isn't going anywhere. Nothing is being taken from you. I just want to give you the chance to step into something more before the door closes. For the full picture — tiers, pricing, what's included at each level, and the completion rewards — head to the Classroom and open "The Wordsmiths' Guild: How It Works." To claim Founding Apprentice status: reply to this post or send me a direct message with your proof of publication before September 1. I'll see you in the sessions. — Shawn

One of the hardest lessons I've learned as a writer is that not all inactivity is procrastination. There are three distinct states in the creative process: - Working: You're actively writing, editing, outlining, recording, or otherwise moving the project forward. - Fermenting: You've reached a point where more effort won't improve the work. The manuscript needs distance. It needs time to settle. Your subconscious is still processing it even though you're not touching it. - Avoiding: The project is ready for your attention, but you're finding reasons not to engage with it. Suddenly, every other project seems more interesting. New ideas appear. Side quests multiply. The challenge is that fermenting and avoiding can look identical from the outside. In both cases, you're not working on the project. The difference is how the project feels. When a manuscript is still fermenting, returning to it feels muddy. You can't quite see what needs to change. When fermentation is complete, something shifts. The project starts quietly asking for your attention. You begin to sense what needs to be done, but the work itself may feel difficult, tedious, or uncomfortable. That's often the moment writers mistake avoidance for inspiration and run off to a shiny new project. I've also learned that productive procrastination has value. While one project is fermenting, I might write an essay, critique another author's work, record an audiobook chapter, or work on a lesson for the Guild. Those activities keep me engaged with the craft without forcing a manuscript before it's ready. The key is making sure productive procrastination remains productive and doesn't become a permanent refuge from finishing. Sometimes the most important question isn't: "What do I feel like working on?" It's: "Which project is actually asking for me right now?"