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.

New writers often think of the antagonist as an obstacle; something the hero has to get past. That's true, but it undersells the job. A well-built antagonist doesn't just block your protagonist's path; they shape who your protagonist becomes. Start with a motivation the reader can follow — even if they don't agree with it. The biggest difference between a flat antagonist and a compelling one is understandable motivation. Your antagonist doesn't need to be right. They don't even need to be likable. But readers need to see the internal logic- the why- from inside this character's head; their actions make sense. A villain who's simply "evil" with no reasoning behind it reads as a plot device, not a person. Give them a moral code of their own. The strongest antagonists aren't operating outside of morality. They're operating under a different one. They genuinely believe what they're doing is justified, or even serves some greater good. That conviction is what makes them dangerous instead of cartoonish. Pair that with real internal conflict, a moment of hesitation, doubt, or discomfort with their own choices, and you get a character who feels human rather than a checklist of villainous traits. Build them like a full character, not a function. Give your antagonist the same texture you'd give your protagonist: quirks, passions, a fully realized personality, maybe even some charm. A rich backstory helps too, but resist the urge to dump it all at once. Reveal it gradually, so the reader's understanding deepens as the story goes on. Make sure they're worthy of your protagonist. Think about pairings like Batman and the Joker, or Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty. What makes those work isn't just that the villain is smart or strong; it's that they're evenly matched with the hero. When the antagonist can truly beat your protagonist, every scene between them carries real tension. A weak antagonist makes your protagonist look strong by default, which is a hollow kind of victory. A worthy one forces your protagonist to actually grow.

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.