Even if [the yeast of intelligence] operates in vain, it remains evolution’s peak. . .: something to enjoy and foster as much as possible; something not to betray by succumbing to despair, however deep the many pits of darkness.
—Diana Athill, Stet: An Editor’s Life

Sometimes I get so involved in the daily difficulties of writing that I forget why I ever wanted to become a writer in the first place.

Then I remember. . .

1. Whenever my cats object

   . . .to my prescribed determination of their fates—and sometimes just random flexing of my ability to boss them around—I think of my own helplessness at the whims of of the gods. I sometimes find myself wishing in real anguish I had some magical ability to create a portrait of that link between their worlds and mine so I’d feel less crippled by everything I simply can’t do anything about.

   And I remember: I do have that ability.

   I have words, and I have the techniques of fiction. I just need to practice them until I know how to handle them deftly enough, and I can create something vivid and tangible, something I can hold in my hands and revisit again and again, something that truly helps make my life less of a private assault upon me, personally, and more of a resonance echoing throughout the experience of all humanity.

   Something that might even help others, like me, caught in this mortal coil.

2. Whenever I’m washed-up

   . . .in an airport terminal or doctor’s waiting room or endless meeting I remember the strict injunction I gave myself when I was still a teen: “A writer has no business ever being bored.”

   And I remember that as long as I have words and five senses and something—anything—to write on, my job is to stop feeling sorry for myself and practice my craft.

3. Whenever I’m suffering

   . . .the reverberating shock of a really bad injury to my heart: walking into my grandmother’s bedroom to see them wheeling out the life support; coming home from sending a get-well card to a beloved uncle and my husband taking my hands to say, “Your mother called. Peet died last night”; holding my grandfather’s hand as his face contorts through the horrible B-movie grimaces of dying—

   I remember that I have something to do with that experience beyond simply being destroyed by it.

   I have words. And I have the techniques of fiction. And I have a deep, immovable longing that has never left me, no matter what I’ve been through in all my fifty years on this planet—a longing to make it all have been worthwhile.

The Art and Craft of Fiction:
A Practitioner’s Manual
by Victoria Mixon

“The freshest and most relevant advice you’ll find.”—Helen Gallagher, Seattle Post-Intelligencer

“Wonderfully useful, bracing and humorous. . .demystifies essential aspects of craft while paying homage to the art.”—Millicent Dillon, five time O. Henry Award winner and PEN/Faulkner nominee

“Teeming with gold. . .makes you love being a writer because you belong to the special club that gets to read this book.”—KM Weiland, author of Outlining Your Novel

The Art and Craft of Story: 2nd Practitioner’s Manual
by Victoria Mixon

“This book changed my life.”—Stu Wakefield, Kindle #1 best-selling author of Body of Water and Memory of Water

“Opinionated, rumbunctious, sharp and always entertaining. . .lessons of a writing lifetime.”—Roz Morris, best selling ghostwriter and author of Nail Your Novel

“As much a gift to writers as an indispensible resource. . .in a never-done-before manner that inspires while it teaches. Highly recommended.”—Larry Brooks, author of four bestselling thrillers and Story Engineering

“I wish I’d had The Art & Craft of Story when I began work on my first novel.”—Lucia Orth, author of the critically-acclaimed Baby Jesus Pawn Shop

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