Improving My Craft
As a writer—and a creative in general—I always want to improve on my best efforts. That might sound obvious. No one sets out to get worse. But there’s a big difference between passive and active attention when it comes to craft. Passive attention rarely leads to growth. Active attention doesn’t always require heavy lifting—but it does require intention.
One of the most effective ways I’ve found to improve is by listening to those who’ve done what I’m striving for: writing extraordinary dark fantasy and gothic horror with a literary bent. I’m not chasing mass-market appeal, but I also don’t want to alienate readers who love horror and fantasy. It’s a balancing act. And one truth I’ve learned from author memoirs and craft discussions: no two writers work the same way.
That’s reassuring, because I often resist the “best practices” touted in the indie fantasy space. Writing to market can be fun—and profitable—but it doesn’t scratch my creative itch. I want to write the kind of books I’d never forget. That’s why formulaic advice often falls flat for me. There's a reason I use that word: most stories really do follow a formula.
Think of the Hero’s Journey. Think of how similar Avatar and Dances With Wolves are in terms of plot—same outsider, same assimilation, same final stand—just swap the frontier for a moon. Better yet, think Avatar and FernGully. Same tree, different paint.
I’m not trying to reinvent the wheel. I just want to write stories that feel authentic and inevitable, with characters as complicated as real people. And because I believe I’m capable of that, I don’t feel the need to follow every piece of advice I hear.
But I still make myself listen.
Why? Because thinking I’m “already that good” is dangerous. Advice is like ordering à la carte—take what serves you, leave the rest. I follow several YouTube channels by indie authors who share their process, wins, failures, and thoughts on what makes stories work. I’m not just learning how they write—I’m learning how they read.
My editor and beta reader challenge me in different ways—one is focused on clarity and craft, the other on emotional depth. That tension sharpens my work. Feedback from readers helps me refine the balance between literary ambition and connection.
I also read widely and watch TV and film—not just to be entertained, but to study. What works? What doesn’t? Why do some stories haunt me, and others feel like chores?
Case in point: Obi-Wan Kenobi. I loathed that show. The plot was contrived, the dialogue awkward, the characters baffling. I could see the strings being pulled. It felt like fan service with no respect for the legacy.
Which is partly why I waited to start Andor. When I finally did, I was stunned. It was layered. Nuanced. Real. It didn’t just entertain—it elevated the entire franchise. And that, to me, is great storytelling.
Every story I love (or hate) teaches me something. I recently gave ten hours to a 15-hour audiobook before walking away. The characters felt like idiots. The author was present in every line. That break-up led to a personal exit interview—and revealed what I want to avoid in my own writing.
Good writing hides the writing. It feels lived, not choreographed. The stories that linger—the ones that leave a shadow—teach us long after they’re done. That’s the kind of storytelling I aspire to create.
So I listen. I watch. I read. I grow. If all goes well, the work will reflect the effort.
