What Stan Lee Taught Me About Writing

Within minutes of the announcement that Stan Lee, co-creator of the Marvel Universe and its countless heroes, passed away at the age of 95, my Facebook feed flooded over with tributes and comments about people’s favorite characters, plot lines, and so forth. Many people left a simple “Excelsior!” because it was Stan Lee’s personal catch phrase. As for me, I started thinking about what made Mr. Lee such a stand-out in the comic universe. In my opinion, it was not the creativity or the illustrations. It was the writing.

Stan Lee, co-creator of the Marvel Universe

For those who have little interest in the world of superheroes, trust me that there is still valuable information within this post. And as for those Marvel fanatics, I am sure you will agree with parts of this as well. What made the Marvel Universe so fascinating was where superheroes were not about the “super” part, but rather the “hero” part.

When superheroes first appeared, the fascination was with their exceptional qualities – in the comics and on radio, the attention was on Superman’s many powers, The Shadow’s ability to cloud men’s minds, or whatever their particular ability was. They were super – that’s what counted. And yes, that was an amazing and fascinating attraction on its own. But then someone changed the focus – Stan Lee wrote about who these people were, not about what their powers were.

When we write any story, we need the usual components – a hero, the call to action, the adventure, the challenges and obstacles, the culmination of all this conflict, and the resolving conclusion. Superheroes originally made this all external adventure – outside forces pulled all of these levers, and our hero went straight toward the challenge. It was all fine and good, but at the end, the conclusion was that the bad guy was defeated, safety was restored, and all was right with the world. Very tidy, very neat, and kind of boring.

Stan Lee changed that focus. He said that when he thought about a superhero, he did not think about how these special powers would be put to use, but how a person would go about their life and use these powers. Some would resist using their gift, some would be corrupted by the sudden power they gained over others, and the rare few would take that difficult journey of balancing power with responsibility. These would become the core heroes of the Marvel Universe – not because of their powers, but because of their humanity and vulnerability when confronted with such a challenge.

The first thing that drew me to these heroes was that very premise. Peter Parker (aka Spider-Man) gained his power by accident, but as a teenager he did not understand what responsibility came with them. I could relate to that not because I also could shoot webs and had spider senses, but because I also felt that conflict between my desires and my responsibilities. Peter failed that test and in a twist of fate, his Uncle Ben was killed. Peter now had to live with this, and held himself accountable for his actions from that point forward. That is a human story. That point of conflict can carry its own in a non-superhero story, and is not the exclusive property of the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

One of Stan Lee’s most popular themes within the Marvel Universe was a simple one: “With great power comes great responsibility.” In the comics, this was demonstrated by the superheroes who followed that code and the villains who broke it. However, it was expressed through their humanity, not in their powers, and in this regard, there are plenty of examples of this in literature. Heroes face the internal conflict of binding themselves to the responsibility, villains (and anti-heroes) take the power to its furthest lengths.

I like to think that Stan Lee’s genius was not in making a world of superheroes, but in creating a world of relatable humans who just happened to have some powers. Whether or not you can buy in to Dr. Bruce Banner occasionally turning into a huge green rage monster is not as important as understanding how Dr. Banner lived with shaping his existence around controlling his inner demon (or inner Hulk in this case). These are, at their core, human stories. Internal conflict, flawed heroes and thoughtful villains, no easy answers and often regrettable conclusions – all parts of the human situation, and the key components of good storytelling. And Stan Lee showed me how those can make any story, genre, or character an interesting read.

Excelsior!

Editing - Advice on the Details

As we've reviewed each step of the editing process, we've narrowed the focus. The broad edit examined the story arc and made sure all the parts fit. The deep edit looked at the parts and made sure that they contribute to the story, and that every step has a purpose. Now we are ready to get down to the detailed edit, where we examine punctuation, grammatical details, spelling, and all of that nitpicking stuff. My advice for this step is controversial, but I swear by it.

Don't.

Before a bunch of editors throw their red pens at me, allow me to present my defense. For anyone who has written a piece with this whole process in mind, let's look at this experience. This means the author has written it, rewritten it, reviewed it, and probably reread it a time or two. Then they promptly did a broad edit on the entire work, and then a deep edit. This means going through the writing at least five times and likely more. By the time a writer has been through a work that many times, they are no longer reading the words and seeing the punctuation - they are skimming it as their mind recalls the story. It has become so familiar that the details fly by, the mistakes now unnoticed.

For the writing workshop I run, I am relentless with the editing pen. I will review everyone's copy and mark up all the commas, spelling points, etc., making sure no subject-verb disagreement goes unpunished. And I can guarantee that the writers could no longer see those little things because their focus had been on the written piece - and rightly so. When they are the writer, the best role I can take is as their teacher, editor, and adviser. Conversely, when I am the writer, that detailed edit is best offered by someone else, because I have looked at my work way too much to be an effective editor.

Let technology help whenever possible. Most every word processor has a spellchecker, so let it do the heavy lifting there. More importantly, they often have grammar checkers. This is not as simple as a spellchecker, and a grammar checker can often be wrong. However, they give you a chance to look at a sentence in isolation and examine whether it uses the passive voice, it contains the wrong usage of their/they're/there, or whatever. Easily half of the stupid mistakes can be tracked down through simple, mindless technology, so use it before you drag someone else into your process.

Finding an outside editor is not an easy task, and should be approached with an open mind. If it is someone close to you, establish ground rules about what you are looking for. More importantly, keep an open mind and try to not factor in the existing relationship. Tell them you want advice on grammar, punctuation, etc., and keep an open mind. None of their corrections are mandatory, but whatever they notice should be approached with an open mind. After all, they are a fresh-eyed reader of your work, so if they think a sentence is clumsy, that is what any reader might think. Don't try to explain it to them unless you plan on explaining the sentence to everyone who reads it. Rather, consider whether a little reshaping delivers the message better. This is what their role provides, so take advantage of it.

If you hire an editor, all the better. Lay out what you want from the editor, set a price, and go through the situation beforehand, then let them do their thing. However, be prepared for a brutal review. At this step, you will feel that your story will only need a few commas or maybe a semicolon. The truth will likely be very harsh, and that's just fine. If a manuscript comes back soaked in red ink, think of each correction as a chance to learn something. Critique is brutal, but often critical to growth.

When I first started writing professionally, I kept a stack of my edited copy next to my computer, with all the red ink facing up so I always saw it. The pile grew over the years, this huge stack of shame; a permanent record of every mistake I typed. But whenever I needed a little affirmation, I would look through the stack. The papers on the bottom were thick with corrections, but as I flipped through the pages, the corrections became fewer and further apart. The simple mistakes no longer appeared, the complex problems did not show up as much. This pile of errors was now evidence not of my problems, but of my education as an editor.

As you progress as a writer, your talents as an editor will evolve naturally. You will develop a habit regarding the Oxford comma, your use of the passive voice will fade, and your writing will become tighter and more efficient. But to reach that point, the most important part is not constantly editing. First and foremost, you need to be a writer. You need to write, review, and rewrite. Don't worry about where the comma goes, that will come in time. Be a writer, and let an editor help you with the rest.

Editing – The Next Step

The previous post was about editing in the big-picture sense – story flow, making sure the messages are delivered, and so forth. When that is finished, we have a great story structure – this places us ahead of the game compared to a lot of other writers. Now we need to tighten our focus into the individual sections – chapters, scenes, etc. – and make sure they serve their purposes.

We will call this the deeper edit. We still do not care about grammar and punctuation at this point – there will be too much rewriting to wonder about using the Oxford comma. The deeper edit takes the idea from the broad edit examining story arc and messages, and scales it down to chapters, sections, or whatever you prefer to call them.

At this point, it pays off to think about what each section means. No matter what we write, the following elements should exist – establishing element, purpose, progression, and continuation. In other words, the reader needs come away from this knowing where the narrative is taking place, what happens, how this moves the plot forward, and where it’s going. These should all be clearly stated in any outline, and when we edit these sections, we need to make sure these are addressed. Also, if anything else fills that section, we need to either make sure it serves a purpose, is followed up, or is edited out.

Let’s take a simple idea for a chapter: Our hero goes to a party with his friends in the suburbs so he can clear his head and forget about the problems from the last chapter. Simple, to the point. When we do the deeper edit, our first responsibility is making sure all those points are addressed. We put the character at the party – easy enough. Which friends join him? Which ones have dialogue? Do their words contribute to the plot? Do they create a problem for our hero, perhaps reminding him of what he’s trying to forget? Does the hero’s actions match the behavior of someone trying to forget about his problems?

These areas can be very tricky to edit, particularly if we really enjoy writing about the characters. We can spend too much time writing about a conversation and forgetting to show how it contributes to the character and plot. It might be completely in character for the hero to get into a passionate hour-long debate about Astroturf, and the dialogue could be very engaging and entertaining. However, will that ten-page discussion move the plot along, or feel like a commercial break from the story? Are the actual points of debate important? Maybe it would be just as satisfying to write, “Tom sipped his gin and tonic, and relaxed by falling deep into a debate with Matt and John about the pros and cons of Astroturf, no longer thinking about his problems.”

This is where the deeper edit is important – it distills the words into the most important parts of the story, and burns off the excess. The author clears away a lot of things that are likely still very thoughtful elements but offer no development, and the story is that much stronger. The reader finds themselves taking in a lot of information but never getting bogged down in a discussion that the author loved to write but didn’t move things along.

There are exceptions to this part of editing, of course. Obviously, if a major plot twist in Chapter 25 hinges on Astroturf, then that conversation needs to be in there to set the stage. But more importantly, sometimes we include at least some of that conversation if it serves a secondary role, such as mood or character development. If Tom debates with Matt and John, this provides an opportunity to develop those characters, and show some aspect of them that might help explain their actions later in the story. Perhaps Matt and John provide comic relief, helping show how Tom escapes his problems by talking with two very entertaining people.

Lastly, we need to address continuation. In short, this stage of the deeper edit makes sure the reader wants to head to the next section with an interest in what happens next. It examines what the reader is being taken and whether it seems like a natural transition. If Tom felt successful in forgetting about his problems, then this should be communicated in a way where the reader at least thinks they know where it’s going. If Tom failed, the reader should be asking themselves what the hero is going to do to complete this task. Whatever part of the hero’s journey is taking place, the reader should somehow be prompted to keep on reading.

If you do outline your writing, this part of the editing process should be fairly simple. However, do not be afraid to change the outline based on something you see in the writing. If you see the seeds of a subplot, consider whether it can fit in the outline and could benefit the story. If a character really livens up the scene, think about their role in the story and whether they could have a greater stake in it. And most importantly, if a character or element does not quite fit right, feel free to write them out. Nothing personal, just let them know this wasn’t a good fit, and maybe you’ll put them in another story.

Once this is done, it’s ready for the last step – the intensive, grammar- punctuation-structure edit we’ve been putting off for so long. And my advice on that might surprise you.

Editing - How to Learn From Your Writing

As much as us writers like to create, there comes a time when we have to review our work not as writers, but as editors. We have to look at our work with a critical eye, studying our beautiful words for the disasters living between the lines. This can be troubling and even painful, but like most tough tasks, it is a great way to polish your writing skills.

For those who are worried, this will not be about punctuation, grammar, and a vigorous debate about the Oxford comma. Rather, this will be a simple discussion about how to incorporate editing into your process, and how to establish your priorities. If you are particularly passionate about the grammar side, there is a time and a place. However, when you write any story, your first focus should be on the story itself, not whether there should be a semicolon.

There are a few schools of thought about how to edit your work, so I will start with my personal process. First and foremost, I never do my editing in the place where I do my writing. Sound weird? Maybe superstitious? It might. However, just as it helps to have a regular time and place to do your writing, there should be a pattern for when you put on your editor hat, and they should be different. The theory behind this is that when you get into a routine for your editing, your mind switches into editor mode rather than writing mode, and you can think critically rather than creatively. It becomes easier to look over your own work and fix it rather than create more of it.

My creative space is seated in front of my laptop, usually within a social environment like a Starbucks (I know it's a stereotype, but it works). This stirs up my creativity; it helps me create my world, my dialogue, my characters. However, when I become an editor, everything changes. I do not edit on my laptop, but rather on printed copy with a pen. I am usually seated in a quiet place, preferably with scotch on the rocks (time and place permitting). I developed this habit over the years, and once I get into that environment, I become an editor. When the laptop comes out, my creative side jumps up like Pavlov's dog hearing a bell.

And here's why it is important.

The biggest part of editing our own work has nothing to do with commas and grammar, or the proper spelling of "occurrence." Anyone can do the grammar part. As the author, your first edit has to be with the big-picture issues. Does your story develop properly? Are the character's actions a reasonable response to events? Do characters have independent voices and distinct personalities? Is the pacing appropriate for that stage of the story? Most importantly, are the messages you wish to convey explained effectively? These are things that you know better than anyone else, so it is your biggest responsibility to address these issues.

Many people suggest that the best way to approach this is to step away from your finished work for a while - a few weeks to a couple of months for a full manuscript - and perhaps have someone else read it, preferably someone who can be open and critical. Having a family member such as a parent read it is nice, but unless your goal is to have your manuscript pinned up on the refrigerator, you might want to find someone who you trust can be critical. Let them read it, and tell them to throw every question that comes to mind at you. And listen. Workshop the piece if possible, and take in as much feedback as possible.

Not all feedback is valuable, but all feedback should at least be considered. If someone says they didn't understand a particular relation, look at that part and see if it needs to be clarified. If some feedback says that a particular character was not likable, think about whether that character needs to be more likable or maybe they are just fine being their annoying self. Be open to every comment at least to some degree. If the first comment is, "This sucks," then at least consider whether or not it needs to suck less. In short, be open to everything but know that you don't have to accept anything.

This big-scale edit might require a lot of rewriting, moving sections around, deleting conversations and narratives, or whole sections of your beautiful words. This is fine - they served their purpose and their sacrifice is for the good of the manuscript. The larger story will benefit from this, as the broad arcs of the story will be sharpened, refined, and carry the reader along.

And once you get that done, you are ready for the next stage of editing - which is still not the grammar part.

Writer’s Block Revisited

Some people deny the existence of writer’s block. My guess is that those people have never experienced that feeling of looking at an endless expanse of nothing and being intimidated at the thought of filling it. Those people have missed out on that experience of having something to express but not knowing what the first word should be. Maybe they are the lucky souls who have clean creative plumbing, words flowing without obstruction from brain to fingers.

They are lucky, but they miss the opportunity to grow by breaking out of the paralysis.

My experience with writer’s block is nothing special. I have my moments, and they are tough to get through. However, the Block is kind of like a cold – some people never catch them, a cold is very annoying for those who do, and they are different for everyone. Over the years, I have broken them down into some simple categories, and I figure out which cold I have before I ever try to cure it. The listing is simple:

• I have nothing to write!
• I have so much stuff to write!
• Should I write that?

Just as I would never treat a head cold the same as one in my chest, these each have their own approaches and symptoms. Only the writer can know for sure which one is the current affliction, but that is half the cure. The other half is doing something about it. I’ll go through my personal cures, and you can see if any of them ring a bell.

“I have nothing to write!”

This is the most common of all the writing colds for me, so I have done a lot of thinking about this. Often, the thinking was a way of avoiding writing, but it delivered some results in the end. Usually, the conclusion is that I am not in a very aware, sensory place. I am not reactive to the world around me, so nothing really stands out. I might have plenty to write, but my feelings are not in touch with the words.

My cure is therefore to get really involved in the simplest of items. If I am at my desk, I focus on my pen. A coffee mug. A scar on my hand. I stare at it. I drown out the world around it. I tune my mind into the item and approach it from a sensory point of view. What does the coffee mug feel like? Smooth? Cold? Does the bottom have that ring of scratched ceramic? Is there a logo painted on it? Does the logo rise from the surface of the mug? I try to describe each sensation with a word. Two words. Five words. A complete sentence. A simile. Switch to another sense and do the same thing – what does the mug sound like when I tap the edge? The handle? As I do this, I tune myself into that reactive place until something stands out. I might write a poem about the mug, or a quick sketch about the mug and its thoughts. Something. Anything. But suddenly, I am writing again.

“I have so much stuff to write!”

Yes, this happens too. An embarrassment of creative riches, yet nothing makes it to the page. For me, this cold is the opposite of the previous ailment – at this point I am so aware that everything gets the creative juices flowing, but this forms a logjam of ideas. Everyone rushes to the front of the line, so nobody gets to be first.

Some people insist that they need to just choose an idea and start writing. Maybe that will work, but for me it only addresses the symptoms and not the sickness. When I am that creatively charged, I personally believe that there is some part of my creative self looking to come out. I explore my mind for the most challenging activity running through my brain, something that contains as much creative risk as possible or perhaps something I have feared doing. Poetry. A confessional essay. A narrative about one of the many dark secrets or untamed demons from my past. I force the biggest task to the front of the line and put that energy to work. Sometimes the results amaze me, sometimes not. But at that point, I’m writing.

“Should I write that?”

The answer to this question is obvious – yes, I should. But when I find myself asking this question, it usually has nothing to do with the subject. At this point, it’s about my writing. For whatever reason, I don’t feel my writing can match up with the subject at hand. More importantly, it doesn’t matter whether this is true or not. Now it is about trying to address those doubts.

At this point, I usually switch from a producer to a consumer of creativity. I read something simple or take Netflix for a spin. The catch is, for whatever I do, I think about how I would approach it. For that simple bit of reading, how would I have written it? What elements of style did I like? What did I disagree with? Could I have improved it, and if not, how could it improve my writing? As far as Netflix goes, I think about how I would write out a particular scene, how I would explain the visual media and create a page that conveys all the important elements on the monitor. These exercises are not intended to build my confidence as much as erase my doubts. I can see myself as a writer again, with a set of skills and with room to grow. At that point, I can write without being self-conscious, and give myself the liberty of exploring the written word again.

I know plenty of other versions of writer’s block – perfection obsession, burn-out, distracted writing, and so on – each with their own little set of symptoms. These will be explored in due time, but for now, the important part is to understand that people get these from time to time, and in plenty of cases they are like a cold – they just need to run their course. But sometimes we can go right after them, and even cure ourselves.

And this is for those people who never catch the Block: I know you, I hate you, and I will write about you.

It's Your World -- Now Share It

Whether you write fiction or stay in reality, you are in charge of the world. The entire freaking world. That’s a lot of responsibility, and even more demanding when you realize you have to bring that world to life for the reader. Then you realize that everything from the sky to the ground and all points in between can only be created with words. That’s a pretty big grocery list.

Before you panic, keep something in mind. The biggest mistake you could make is to create an entire world before you know what part is important. This goes for fiction and non-fiction alike. If your story is about a child growing up in the Midwest during the Seventies, you first need to know what is important and what can be left behind. Will the Vietnam War play a role? Sino-US relations? Nuclear power? Disco? These were all actual Seventies things, but if they do not fold into the narrative or at least give the world some real texture, there’s no need to remind the readers about them (especially disco).

Let’s take a deeper look into non-fiction world-building. The first danger is that when we write true-to-life stories, we already know the world around us, which makes it easier to leave it out of the writing. However, this is the world we need to bring to life for the reader. The reader needs to walk those streets with the characters, to invest themselves in this story, especially because it’s non-fiction. A true story better feel true-to-life, or it misses the point.

There are plenty of details I could offer about where I grew up. I had a Jones family on either side of my house. The rolling easement by our house was perfect for playing football, save for the railroad spikes lying around from when a spur track ran through there. Most every house had a fence save for ours and the house up the hill behind ours, which made the two properties into one long sledding run – save for one brutal phone pole right in the middle. High-voltage power lines crossed over the field across the street, their dull electrical hum like droning bees. Everyone insisted the lines were not a health hazard, but the dandelions in those fields constantly fused into mutated seven-headed abominations. Ah, childhood.

Those pieces of information created a nice feel for the area, but at this point, are any of them important to the story? Should I focus on the sledding? Not important for a summer story. Is the power-line situation worth anything? Well, probably not, unless I mention how the Jones family’s chickens constantly laid eggs with soft, rubbery shells. There’s a lot of information about this neighborhood, but most of it is distraction. I would rather stick to the details that fill in the story.

It’s also important to note that in a longer narrative, any detail that comes into play will bring with them an expectation of importance. The author Anton Chekov had a simple rule: If there is a gun over the fireplace in the first act, the gun gets fired by the third act. This applies to most any detail. If I talk about the easement space ripe for football, the reader will expect football. Otherwise, the reader feels like something was left out of the story. They feel disappointed.

Now, in the world of fiction, the further away your world is from reality, the more you have to infuse your narrative with that new world. Not just the parts critical to the plot, but the parts that keep the world unique and original, and that justify this different reality. As opposed to reality writing, the new world is entirely unfamiliar to the reader, so elements can have purpose even without being crucial to the plot.

A common failure of futuristic science fiction is when the author focuses on some element important to the story – space travel, for example – but does not offer anything sci-fi into everyday life. The reader will not be drawn to the world as a great new experience. In the future, fashions, hobbies, and even the simplest of things should at least have an exotic feel to them. Think of futuristic movies where a character orders a drink… and it’s blue. Blue! Is it important to the plot? No. Does the blue represent some critical change in the character? Not likely. The blue drink, however, reminds us that this is a different world where many things are possible, and the simplest thing can be blue. In this regard, our fictional world needs its fair share of blue drinks.

My preferred method of world-building in fiction-fantasy is to start shaping out the world as I write the story, then challenge myself to understand how it ties together. If the story is in a sword-and-sorcery world, but it involves a child on a farm who meets a magical creature in the woods, I should focus on the immediate issues: the creature, the woods, the magic around that meeting. At this point, I am not worried about whether they live under a merciless king, a dragon threatens their land, or the forces of darkness are preparing to wage the final battle of good versus evil. I think about the farms, the woods, and the creature.

As the world grows and the adventure expands, those other issues might come into play. However, I can still sprinkle my little world with fantasy elements to keep the reader invested in the fantasy. Maybe the farm grows a hearty corn used in making the breads preferred by dwarves rather than humans. Or maybe they grow tangleberries – a tasty fruit but the vines are very difficult to navigate. Does the child have a horse? Maybe just a pony? Perhaps the family is poor and can only afford to get a pet snark for the kids to ride (snarks do not eat a lot but they are very slow and smell like spoiled stumpfish). Life on the farm now has a fantasy element even if it’s not big and flashy – it’s different, and the reader pays attention.

For any story, world-building is a crucial part. Setting the stage – especially in genre-specific stories – provides the reader with the chance to walk through the character’s world, to invest their time and interest in the environment, and get a feel for it beyond the words. They will know that world. They will understand that world.

If it’s done particularly well, the reader might even wish they had a pet snark.

The Joys of Character Research

It is a rare person who gets excited about the thought of research. However, writers do this all the time – often without knowing it. As we become writers, we start noticing the little details of the world. We start appreciating things with all our senses. Simple things suddenly have a meaning we never saw, and we start looking at the world with the mindset of, “How would I write that moment?”

We are a weird bunch indeed.

However, when it comes to writing about a particular subject or incorporating a specific element into our story, we might not yet have all the information. If we write about a doctor, our medical knowledge might be limited to Google and Wikipedia, which will not help that character much and it could weaken the writing. This is where we do a little research – just enough to make our writing stand out.

And yes, it’s fun.

So let’s say I have a character who is a bartender. I use this profession because I personally have a few years of experience behind the bar, and I know some details that would stand out. Mostly the little things – the different habits between full- and part-time bartenders, the lingo, different ways of life and so forth. Surprisingly, the least important detail for a bartender character would be knowing actual bartending – like how to mix drinks. Unless their character quirk was a special way of making a Long Island Iced Tea, it doesn't play a big role. Rather, the human details will make that bartender real – even if they never mix a drink in the narrative.

For convenience, this commentary covers the two schools of researching a subject – method research and inquisitive research. Each one has its pros and cons and both are effective. The real decision comes from which one best fits your process.

Method research is similar to method acting – just throwing yourself into the situation. In the bartender scenario, a writer would go to bars and study every motion of the bartenders. They would listen to how they spoke, watch their mannerisms, and compare how someone behind the bar at a bowling alley would differ from someone at a busy night club. It becomes investigation, all while the writer thinks about their character and how they would address situations. If the writer sees a bartender skillfully manage annoying customers, then they think whether their character has that kind of patience or social skills. How would their character work the customers for a tip? When they give back five dollars in change, is it all in singles and they give it to the customer with their hand right next to the tip jar?

This process is very intense, but it does have limitations. Some professions are not easily observed, such as the doctor we mentioned beforehand. Others are very difficult to access, such as first-responders, due to the very nature of the profession. For situations that can be easily observed, method research can give the writer a very hands-on feel for their subject.

The other school is inquisitive research, which reverses the method process. This starts by writing the character and putting them through their motions. The bartender section is written up (but not polished) to the point where the writer knows the character’s drives, motivations, and purpose in the scene. They focus on the character part, and then get people with bartending experience to look over the piece to make sure it sounds genuine. From there, it becomes a question-and-answer situation, with the writer trying to fit what they’ve written into what their bartender friend has experienced.

Similar to the method process, this has limitations. Do we have friends who have the experiences we are looking to write about? Is their opinion a good example to use? This is more difficult to apply for that reason, but the benefit is that the writer knows exactly what the character needs beforehand. If the bartender character is overworked, the writer can ask questions to their friends that directly address that point. The inquisitive part can be very specific: “What is the most you ever made in tips for one night? Give me an example of what a great busboy does. How about a bad busboy? Did your place call them busboys or barbacks?” These specific questions give the writer exactly what they need and little else. The writer might not know everything about the life behind the bar, but they know enough to make the character believable and genuine.

Most importantly, when you need to research a character, do not be afraid to ask around. Put yourself out there. Between you and me, I think people are quietly excited when they have a chance to help a writer create a character. Putting the word out that you are looking to talk to someone who knows a thing about bartending will usually draw a good response. If your friend has a friend who used to bartend, do not hesitate to ask if you could be introduced to them for a few minutes to help with your novel. The experience is well worth it, and you might get a free drink out of the deal.

Reminder: Include their name in the acknowledgements when you get published. It’s just common courtesy.