My A-Z of Writing Tips: Know, Keep, Kill (and Who is Saint Giovanni?)

A trifecta of writing wisdom today:

Know the rules before you break them

Keep your character in the moment to avoid "telling"

Kill all your darlings - get rid of all those pieces of writing you've loved from the start but no longer have a place in your manuscript*

* As Mary Kole says: Lavish description at an inappropriate time is probably a signal that you need to kill some babies. (Translation: cut some of your favorite passages, not actually go down to the nursery and go on a spree.)

How about you: What's your best piece of "K" writing wisdom?

WHO IS SAINT GIOVANNI?

Have you heard about Rane Anderson's awesome project, "Who is Saint Giovanni?" I call it a project because it's not just the title of the YA paranormal romance novel she's written, it's a whole lot more. Over the next year, Rane will be posting her book online, for free! Click here to read all about what Rane is doing, and more importantly, why she isn't going down the "traditional" publishing route. You can also win some free stuff for helping her spread the word. I think it's amazing when authors do something so generous (and so different).

The first chapter of Who is Saint Giovanni? was posted on The Lit Express on April 11 (click here to read), and Rane will be posting a new installment each week, including illustrations, until the book is fully online (and available for free). Make sure you check it out if you haven't already.

Here's the Preface, which Rane kindly let me post here:

There’s a girl. She’s standing behind me. I don’t see her. The image of her forms in my mind. She’s angry. No. Hurt. She likes music. Bob Dylan. The Beatles. Golden-brown eyes and a warm smile. That’s her. Oh, and that smile. It will burn in my memory for an eternity. I close my eyes. There it is. It’s a rosebud of a smile yet to bloom. It will. I’ll make it bloom.

She’ll hate me.

My heart is hammering inside my chest.

I’ll love her.

She likes black-and-white movies. Jogging in the rain. She has a broken heart. A broken family. There is no breeze here in the graveyard. My skin imagines a breeze, a tender touch, a hand on my shoulder sliding to my chest. It will happen. She will do that.

I hear her step closer. Her name is forming. E. It begins with an E. Thoughts as sweet as a sunset. As bitter as vinegar. That’s her. Emily. That’s her name. The girl I will love is named Emily. It’s the name of a poet. It should be the name of a sonnet. Emily. I smell her perfume. No. Shampoo. Eucalyptus and…lavender. Gentle as her soul.

Her soul. My next breath is sharp. I hold it. I shake my head, hard. I bite my lip. Her soul. I see myself taking it. Soon.