I'm working on the first 5000 words of my novel to enter into a contest and I've been devouring writing craft workshops, books, and podcasts. I listened to one today that strongly recommended keeping the first few pages of a novel free of backstory to keep the story moving forward. What do you think about this? I'm working on 2 versions of my story now, one that includes snippets of backstory in the first pages and one that focuses on the MCs feelings about the current situation, hinting at the backstory without telling it. Would anyone here be willing to read the two versions and let me know which works better?

Many writers assume that feeling stuck means something is wrong with the story. In long-form projects, I’ve found it often means the manuscript is asking a different question than it was at the start. As eBooks and novels develop, themes sharpen, characters shift, and what once felt clear can begin to feel uncertain. In my work supporting long-form writing, progress at this stage usually comes from realigning the draft with what the story has become, not forcing it to match the original plan. I’m curious how others here approach this moment. When a manuscript starts evolving beyond the initial outline, what helps you regain clarity and direction?

I am following the craft recommendations to start in the middle of the action for my fantasy novel and avoid backstory and info dumping. And now I keep getting reader feedback saying they don't understand who the characters are, what their magical powers are, how they work, despite extensive description about what's happening. I read a bunch of craft articles about this and one cracked me up, saying we need to inform the reader sneakily about the nature of the world we're building because they don't want to be educated but they also don't want to be confused. I'm feeling a bit fed up with writing for the reader. I've never been a person suited for mass consumption, and am beginning to wonder if I could write a book that would be.

How do I trust myself again… when survival meant shutting parts of me down? When silence was safety, numbness was wisdom, and the parts of me that felt were liabilities I couldn’t afford. What do you do… when your body adapted to war, but your soul is begging for peace? I don’t remember when I stopped trusting myself. Only that one day, silence felt safer than speaking. Stillness felt smarter than wanting. And disappearing…well, that felt like strategy, not surrender. See, when survival becomes the goal, your body learns to cut costs. Hope? Too expensive. Desire? Dangerous. Emotion? A luxury for the safe. So I split. I severed. I simplified. I became efficient. Sharp. Unreachable. And it worked. I stayed alive. But now? Now I’m trying to live. And the things I once buried are knocking. Not like ghosts More like children I left behind in the storm. Still waiting for me to come back. Still believing I will. Here’s the hard part: They don’t want an apology. They want reintegration. They want me to feel again. Risk again. Trust again. But how do I trust the very instincts I once had to betray in order to survive? And how do I bring those parts of me to a God I was afraid of trusting too? Because sometimes I thought Jesus only loved the version of me that looked holy, not the one that hid in the corner just trying to breathe. But I’m learning something new. Maybe He didn’t just wait for me at the finish line. Maybe He walked with me through the splitting. Sat with me in the silence. Whispered to the parts I abandoned, “You’re still Mine.” Maybe the answer isn’t to go back to the self I was. Maybe it’s to honor the one who adapted, thank the one who endured, and invite Jesus to sit with the one who’s still whispering beneath the armor. I don’t have it figured out. But I think trust begins in the quiet. When I stop asking myself to be perfect and start asking if I’m willing to be present. And maybe that’s enough, for now. Maybe that’s where He begins too.

Many writing projects don’t stall because the idea isn’t strong, but because long-form work asks for sustained clarity over time. Somewhere between the early momentum and the final draft, direction can blur, and progress slows. In my work supporting eBooks and novels, I’ve seen how a bit of outside perspective—whether on structure, pacing, or overall direction- can help a manuscript move forward without compromising the author’s voice. If you’re currently working on a draft and finding it hard to see the next step clearly, you’re welcome to comment or reach out. Always glad to talk through the writing process.