Hi, I'm Daniel. Welcome to the community! I'm the author of two novels, The Stone Harvest and Deadlined, and I'm currently working through my Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing (Fiction). Before writing became the center of my life, I spent years as a soldier and a police officer—work that still shapes how I think about character, consequence, and the kind of stories I'm drawn to tell. I want to be clear about something up front: I'm not here as an expert handing down rules from on high. The internet is full of folks who proclaim they're experts. I'm just a peer who's a few steps further down the same road you're on; still drafting, still revising, still learning constantly through my MFA program. Everything I teach here comes from what I'm learning myself, not from some finished, certified authority on storytelling. What I can offer is structure: a place to learn the fundamentals of craft, share your work in a low-stakes setting, and get honest feedback from people who are genuinely trying to help you grow. We will build a collection of skills and ideas I wish I'd had when I started writing. A little about what's ahead: every week, expect a craft lesson and a motivation post, plus regular chances to share your work in progress. I'll also be around in the discussions, not just posting and disappearing. Glad you're here. Introduce yourself below — tell us what you're working on and where you get stuck.

In my MFA program, I'm about to enter a phase where I'll be submitting a lot of my work for peer and instructor review. The prospect has me a bit nervous. My ego and selfishness sometimes make me resistant to changing my "vision" for a piece. But I recently came across some advice from a published novelist (one of my professors) about working with her editor, and one detail stuck with me. When he offered a note he felt strongly about, he'd sometimes add: if you follow this advice, it might ruin the book. That sounds strange for an editor to say, but it was his way of drawing a line: this is worth considering, but it's not a command. You're still the author. That distinction matters more than it sounds. New writers tend to get this wrong in two ways. The first is rejecting every note that doesn't match your original vision; treat feedback as noise, and you never grow past the instincts you started with. The second is worse: taking every single note at face value and rewriting your story into something that pleases everyone except you. Writers who do that often end up with technically competent work they don't recognize as their own. The better path is closer to an idea borrowed from improv comedy: "Yes, and." You don't accept a note wholesale, and you don't dismiss it outright either. You look for what's actually underneath it. In the example I read, the editor suggested adding a new major male character to a story with an all-female cast. The writer didn't do that, but the concern behind the note (wanting a stronger connective thread between the two leads) turned into one of the best changes in the book. The literal suggestion got discarded. The instinct behind it didn't. That's the mindset I want us to bring into our feedback threads here. When someone tells you your opening scene confused them, or your dialogue felt stiff, your first job isn't to defend the page; it's to sit with the note and ask what's really underneath it. Sometimes the answer is "nothing, this reader just isn't my audience." Often, though, there's a kernel worth keeping even when the specific fix doesn't feel right.

This is a list of EVERY publicly accessible learning link that I encounter in my MFA program. While I can't share the school-exclusive materials with you, what I'm assembling here is a treasure trove of writing-craft information. It includes posts on the nuts and bolts of fiction writing, plus a whole mess of other useful topics. I add to it every week as they're shared with us in our reading requirements and learning lessons. I'll keep this pinned near the top so you can access it anytime. Creative Writing Links

I've been thinking about writing routines lately, and seeing how much I've got going on, it's good for me to review my workflow. With all my schoolwork, plus working on a novel and a novella, a stricter writing routine might do me well. I need to find what actually makes a writing practice stick, rather than what just sounds good in an interview or a newsletter. James Clear wrote a piece breaking down the daily habits of 12 famous writers, and a few things stood out. First, the schedules look nothing alike. Vonnegut was up at 5:30 and swimming laps by mid-morning. Kingsolver was at her desk at 4 am because her head was too full of words to sleep. E.B. White worked in his living room with kids cutting through on the way to the kitchen. There's no single way to make writing happen. But there were three things almost everyone shared: Protect a block of time. It doesn't have to be a marathon session; just a window that belongs to the work. Everything else works around it. Work through the bad drafts. Multiple writers in the piece said their first drafts are consistently disappointing — and they wrote them anyway. Kingsolver throws out a hundred pages before she gets to page one. I, personally, am a fan of getting any writing done, no matter how "shitty" it might be. Shoutout to Anne Lamott for her "shitty first draft" approach! Show up even when you can't create. Henry Miller's self-imposed commandments included this: "When you can't create, you can work. Cement a little every day." That last one is the one I keep coming back to because of how I work (or, don't work). The difference between writers who finish things and writers who don't usually isn't talent. It's just showing up on the bad days. I, too often, use my bad mood as an excuse not to write. I tell myself a bad mood creates bad writing. I know better, because this excuse flies in the face of the "shitty first draft" approach, where getting anything done matters. Full piece here if you want to read it.

If you've ever hesitated to call yourself a writer, even while you're actively writing, you're in extremely good company. This feeling isn't a sign you don't belong here. It's close to universal. Charlie Jane Anders makes a point worth thinking about: no one will ever show up with a magic wand and declare you a "real writer." There's no ceremony, no certificate, no moment where the doubt is supposed to switch off. Success as a writer means different things to different people, and nearly everyone feels like they're failing at some point. Anders also makes a subtler point that's easy to miss when you're in the thick of comparison: writers aren't really in competition with each other; the real threat to any of us is people falling out of the reading habit altogether. Someone else's book doing well doesn't shrink your shot at anything. Hermione Hoby's New Yorker piece on MFA culture gets at where much of this pressure comes from. She points out that "talent" gets treated almost like obscenity — something you supposedly just recognize on sight, impossible to define or teach. That idea sounds intuitive, but it's also the exact belief that makes new writers feel like either you have "it" or you don't. Writing programs and workshop culture didn't invent that anxiety, but they've spent decades reinforcing it. Here's what both pieces circle back to: the fear of not being "real" is a byproduct of a system never built to make anyone feel secure. It's not a verdict on your work. The fix isn't proving you belong. It's finding people to write alongside who are wrestling with the same doubt, because that's what actually loosens its grip. So, where does your imposter syndrome show up loudest? Starting a new project? Sharing a page for the first time? Sitting with your own writing, still? Here are the articles that led me to these thoughts. https://www.newyorker.com/books/under-review/what-does-it-mean-to-be-a-real-writer