Archives: Subsync Posts (Page 1 of 2)

Voice has always been something of a cape that writers wear. Or maybe a shield. Or superpower.

Whatever.

The fact is that my voice is mine, and it didn’t come from anyone else. That’s beautiful. It’s also scary as hell.

But where does my writer’s voice actually come from?

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Journalism

Yeah, yeah, I know. I just turned a lot of people off with that admission.

But my degree and the career it created are vital to why my voice is the way it is. Journalism is all about getting the point across quickly. You write on a limited space, so you have to be economical about what you’re telling people.

Not only that, but you have to get the important stuff into that first line. And every sentence needs to be important enough to spend money on ink.

Writing stories is very much the same.

Which leads me to…

Screenwriting

You want to talk about pacing and structure? Go look at your favorite screenplays. You’ll notice very quickly that they are so well thought-out that it’ll blow your mind how much goes into a production looking effortless.

I stumbled into screenwriting in 2017 because a friend from high school needed help with a project. I said yes without realizing it would eventually bring me back to creative writing after nearly a decade away.

I was rusty. Really rusty.

But screenplays have a way of exposing every weakness. They don’t let you hide behind beautiful prose. Every scene has to move the story. Every line of dialogue has to reveal character. Every beat has to earn the audience’s attention.

I learned that what you leave out can be just as powerful as what you put on the page.

That’s still how I approach novels.

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Communications

You want to know something about perspectives? Talk to a communications professional.

On any given day, I’m writing for faculty, students, administrators, researchers, legislators, alumni, and the public. The same event has six different stories depending on who’s reading it.

My job isn’t to decide which perspective is right.

It’s to understand all of them.

I’m asking questions, getting answers, and filtering it through a public lens so that the world will know the story and understand why it’s important. That’s much harder to do than a lot of people realize.

And then one day, you start to realize that everyone thinks they’re the main character in their own story. No one wakes up believing they’re the villain. Everyone has a reason for what they do. Even when they’re wrong.

Honestly? I’ve caught myself doing this at times. Turns out, it’s human nature.

And it’s a lesson I’ve put into my stories as well.

Medicine

Living beside medicine means that I’m exposed to more humanity than people probably realize.

One of the earliest lessons my husband brought home was from an older doctor who told his cohort: “One day, each of you will carry a graveyard.”

He wasn’t trying to scare them (that came later). He was reminding them that medicine isn’t practiced by perfect people. It’s practiced by human beings making impossible decisions with incomplete information.

The point wasn’t to forget those patients.

It was to learn from them.

That idea has never really left me.

Stories work the same way. Every mistake changes someone. Every success changes someone. Every conversation leaves a mark.

That’s probably why I’m drawn to ordinary moments more than dramatic ones.

In Summary

Journalism taught me to look for the facts. Screenwriting taught me to get rid of the excess. Communications is where I learned to understand perspective. And living with medicine continues to teach me to have compassion for imperfect people.

That’s how I got my writing voice. Or maybe the better way to look at it is that this is how life built it. Because voice isn’t just sentence structure and cadence. It’s also me showing you how I see the world.

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You know that phrase, It takes a village? I’m a firm believer in it.

That’s because, in the medical life, you’re thrust into a world where life and death sometimes rests on the shoulders of a twenty-something-year-old who’s still figuring out who they are while learning how to save someone else’s life.

But here’s the thing.

They don’t get there alone.

When my husband first got into medical school, our world was small.

We had each other. No family nearby. We had friends who were beginning careers and lives that looked very different from ours. And because I graduated college in a horrible economy and took the first job I found, we weren’t even living in the same state for his first semester.

It was isolating.

But then, one day, it wasn’t.

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Credit to his medical school class. Because they were the inaugural cohort on a brand-new campus, there were no second-years to mentor them. There were no upperclassmen handing down study guides or telling them what to expect. They were building the culture from scratch.

The stereotypical thing would’ve been for the sharks to come out. But that’s not what happened. Instead of competing against one another, they decided to compete with the material.

The study groups the school assigned became real communities. Notes were shared. If someone missed class, someone filled them in. If someone didn’t understand a concept, someone stayed behind to explain it. They celebrated each other’s successes because one person’s passing grade didn’t make another person’s accomplishment any smaller.

These people are the ones my kids call Aunts and Uncles. Hell, some of them held my children before their grandparents did. One in particular performed my c-section because I asked her to stay after her call shift was over.

They’re the reason some of my favorite supporting characters exist. We call them supporting characters, but the truth is, they’re the reason the main characters get where they’re going in the first place.

Supporting doesn’t mean they’re less important. It means they’re helping someone else reach the finish line. And it’s also the main role of the medical spouse in their partner’s life.

This is why every supporting character in my stories has a life beyond the page. They have their own dreams. Their own relationships. Their own heartbreaks.

There’s usually another love story unfolding just outside the spotlight, and found family always finds its way into my books. Because that’s how I’ve experienced life.

I didn’t get here alone.

Honestly, I don’t think any of us do.

Who are your supporting characters in your life?

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To research or to ask my husband? That is the question I ask myself every time I need to write medicine from a physician’s perspective. More often than not, thanks to his schedule, it’s Google to the rescue.

Most of my novels come from personal experience—things I’ve observed, witnessed, or simply lived through. But every writer has a trusted sidekick, and mine is a good Google search bar.

Sometimes those searches are completely normal. But there are times they’re the kind of thing that makes you wonder if you’ve accidentally landed yourself on a government watch list.

Here are just a few things I’ve Googled while writing Emergency Contacts:

• How are cadavers stored?

• How many medical students, on average, pass out in anatomy lab?

• What happens if a medical student recognizes one of the cadavers? (This one actually made it into a work-in-progress, and yes, I asked my husband.)

• What happens if someone accidentally nicks themselves during anatomy lab?

• Where do anatomy labs get their cadavers?

• What does the first semester of medical school actually look like today?

• What support systems are available for struggling medical students?

• How do you get the smell of formaldehyde out of your nose after anatomy lab?

• How do you survive medical school when everyone around you is competing?

• How do anatomy practical exams actually work?

Thankfully, I have a built-in medical consultant who survived medical school and now spends his days as a surgeon.

Unfortunately for him, I still Google first. Mostly because he’s busy. Partly because I enjoy the rabbit holes.

And honestly because every now and then, Google answers one question while giving me three more story ideas.

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Have you ever closed a book and wondered what the epilogue would look like for the main couple? Sometimes, that might be because there’s chemistry but not compatibility between the main characters.

Chemistry is one of the easiest things to recognize in a story.

Think about it as the opposite of that class you took in high school (shout out to my lab partners who basically carried me through that semester). This chemistry is actually fun. Because it’s the banter that makes you laugh. The stolen glances that make you read faster because you need to know what happens next. The tension that crackles every time two characters share a room. It’s the reason you find yourself whispering, Just kiss already.

Compatibility is trickier for both writers and readers. Because it’s the conversation they have after the kiss. It’s the aftercare after that spicy scene. I also build it into my spicy scenes—little hints that this is going to work longer than the sex.

Some of my favorite romances have incredible chemistry. The characters challenge each other, surprise each other, and make every scene they’re in more entertaining. But every once in a while, I’ll finish a book and realize I can’t picture what their lives look like five years later.

It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the romance. I just don’t know if I believe the relationship.

Here’s the Mechanics Monday lesson for both writers and readers.

Chemistry answers one question: Why are these two people drawn to each other?

Compatibility answers another: Why would they choose each other over and over again once the butterflies settle?

Hint: The best relationships need both.

Think about the couples you know in real life.

We’ve all met people who light up a room together. They make each other laugh. Their conversations bounce effortlessly from one topic to another. Everyone around them can see the spark.

Sometimes those couples build wonderful lives together. But sometimes they burn out just as quickly.

That’s because attraction alone isn’t what gets people through the chaotic mess of life.

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Compatibility lives in the ordinary.

It’s how two people solve problems together. It’s whether they can disagree without trying to win. It’s whether they respect each other’s dreams, communicate through misunderstandings, and get through a string of day-to-day moments that make up a life together.

Ironically, those moments aren’t usually the scenes readers talk about after they finish a romance. They remember the first kiss. The confession. The grand gesture.

However, those scenes only resonate because, somewhere along the way, the story subtly convinced us these two people could survive everything that comes after.

As writers, it’s easy to spend all our time building chemistry. Banter is fun. Flirting is fun. The “almost” moments are some of the most satisfying scenes in romance.

Compatibility requires a little more patience. It shows up in mundane moments. My personal favorite? The moments where someone feels safe enough to become completely themselves.

Those scenes don’t always feel dramatic while we’re writing them. But they’re often the reason readers believe the happily ever after.

When I think about the romances that have stayed with me over the years, I don’t remember them because the characters had the best chemistry. I remember them because, by the final chapter, I couldn’t imagine either character building a life with anyone else.

That’s compatibility.

It’s also why I think the strongest romances don’t end with two people falling in love.

They end with readers believing they’ll still be together long after the story is over.

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So why the heck did I choose to write a novel based in the first year of medical school?

Short answer? I got tired of reading medical romances where the doctor is thirty years old, somehow owns a penthouse, drives a luxury car, has endless free time, and falls in love between perfectly timed shifts.

That is very far from reality.

So I figured I’d write the story I wanted to read while being realistic about what the medical life is really like.

The long reason’s a little more complicated. Because, honestly, I wasn’t even looking for my next novel at the time.

My husband was recovering from an injury, and while life had slowed down, I was busy writing what eventually became an award-winning memoir.

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One afternoon, my mind wandered to an old journal sitting in my nightstand. I’d carried it with me through medical school, residency, fellowship, moving houses, and raising three daughters.

Inside wasn’t a novel. It wasn’t even an outline.

It contained some ideas for stories—situations and characters that were, quite literally, just vibes on a page.

And one in particular stood out to me: What if a guy got accepted into medical school at the last minute and had to move in with a complete stranger because there wasn’t any other housing available?

And suddenly I couldn’t stop asking questions.

What does falling in love actually look like when one person is trying to survive anatomy exams, overnight call, and rotations?

What does it feel like to be the person waiting at home?

What sacrifices do both people make?

Because medicine isn’t just a career. It’s a lifestyle that touches everyone around it.

As the wife of a surgeon, I’ve watched the late nights, the missed holidays, the celebrations after impossible cases, and the heartbreak that follows the ones no one could save.

I’ve also watched the friendships that become family, the humor that gets people through impossible days, and the scrappy resilience of the people who love someone in medicine.

That’s the version I wanted to write.

This is not the fantasy of a rich doctor sweeping someone off their feet (which happens, I know). But I was more intrigued with the reality of two people trying to build a life together while medicine demands a piece of both of them.

Emergency Contacts is absolutely a romance.

But it’s also my love letter to the people behind medicine—the ones wearing the scrubs, and the ones waiting for them to come home.

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A few weeks ago, I wrote that readers don’t buy plots. They buy promises.

Today I want to take that one step further.

One of the biggest ways writers communicate those promises is through tropes.

Somewhere along the way, tropes got a bad reputation. People started using the word as if it meant “unoriginal.” But that’s never really been their job.

Tropes don’t tell readers what is going to happen. They tell readers what kind of emotional journey they’re about to take.

When someone picks up an enemies-to-lovers romance, they’re probably not hoping to read the exact same story they’ve read before.

They’re looking for the emotional payoff. The gradual shift from resentment to respect. The moment one character realizes they completely misunderstood the other. The earned vulnerability that couldn’t have happened if the characters had liked each other from page one.

The same is true for forced proximity.

Readers aren’t excited because two characters are sharing an apartment, a cabin, or a single hotel room. They’re excited because emotional distance is no longer an option. The relationship has to move forward. The conflict has to be confronted.

Friends to lovers isn’t really about friendship. It’s about watching someone realize the person they’ve been searching for has been beside them all along.

The trope isn’t the story. It’s the emotional promise behind the story.

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Think about music for a second.

If you tell me you’re listening to country music, I have a rough idea of the experience I’m about to have. That doesn’t mean every country song sounds the same.

Or every rock song.

Or every romance novel.

The category tells me the feeling I’m signing up for—not every lyric I’m about to hear.

That’s what tropes do. They’re emotional shorthand. A way of telling readers, “If this is the kind of story you love, you’re in the right place.”

The writer’s job isn’t to avoid tropes. It’s to deliver on the emotional promise they make while telling a story only they could write.

That’s why readers can devour fifty enemies-to-lovers romances and still be excited for number fifty-one.

They aren’t chasing the same plot. They’re chasing the same feeling.

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Every writer has their little rituals.

Some people light candles. Some people have a lucky mug. Some people can apparently write in complete silence like absolute psychopaths.

Here’s what I can’t write without.

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Headphones (preferably noise-canceling)

I cannot overstate how much I need these.

I don’t have a dedicated office, so most of my writing happens from the recliner in my living room while my husband, kids, and dogs continue living their very loud, perfectly normal lives around me.

If I can hear the TV, someone asking where their shoes are, or a dog barking at absolutely nothing…my focus is gone.

Spotify

This goes hand-in-hand with the headphones.

I have playlists for almost every project and every mood. Emotional scenes. Romantic scenes. Tension. Revision. Even one that’s basically just for outlining and building character bibles.

The right song can pull me back into a story faster than almost anything else.

A drink

Usually an Alani.

Sometimes a soda.

Less often…water.

Okay, it’s never water.

But every writing session starts with me convincing myself that this might finally be the day I become one of those people who’s properly hydrated.

It has yet to happen.

A blanket

If I’m writing in my recliner, there has to be a blanket over my legs. It feels wrong otherwise.

My feet get cold ridiculously fast, and for reasons I can’t explain, socks make me want to crawl out of my own skin.

So blanket it is. Every single time.

Those four things don’t magically make the words come easier.

But they do tell my brain, Okay. It’s time to write.

Now I’m curious…

What’s the one thing you always need before you can settle in and do your best work?

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One of the most common pieces of writing advice you’ll hear is this: Trust your reader.

Don’t overexplain. Don’t spell out every emotion. For the love of the stars, don’t connect every dot. Give your audience enough credit to participate in the story.

I believe that with my whole chest.

But lately I’ve been thinking about the other side of that relationship.

Recently, a writing friend read the opening chapters of one of my works-in-progress and suggested I move several pieces of information much earlier in the manuscript because they had questions.

At first, I wondered if they were right. Then I realized something.

Every one of those questions was answered.

Just…not yet.

It reminded me of one of my favorite Sheldon Cooper moments from The Big Bang Theory. He’s reading a scientific paper and keeps stopping to ask, “Why?” Frustrated, he turns the page—only to discover the paper answers the very question he just asked.

Sometimes the answer is on the next page.

Stories work the same way.

Readers are supposed to have questions. Why did they react that way? Why are they so guarded? What aren’t they saying?

Those questions aren’t signs that a story is broken. They’re often the very reason we keep reading.

That’s different from confusion.

If a reader genuinely can’t follow what’s’s happening, that’s on me as the writer.

But if they’re asking a question I’ve intentionally planted because the answer comes three chapters—or thirty chapters—later, that’s not a flaw.

It’s a promise.

I found myself thinking about this while revising Emergency Contacts.

In Sofie’s opening chapter, she says something that feels like it should explain everything about her. If you stopped reading there, you’d probably assume you’ve identified her deepest wound.

You haven’t.

You’ve only found the first layer.

Adam is the same way. Early on, he remembers something that seems to explain why he’s pursuing medicine. It feels foundational.

Until you spend more time with him and he trusts you enough to tell you more.

Because that’s how people actually work.

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When you meet someone for the first time, they don’t hand you a neatly organized timeline of every defining moment in their life. They don’t begin with their deepest heartbreak or the experience that fundamentally changed who they are.

They tell you what they’re ready to tell you.

Relationships are built in layers. The more trust exists, the more truth gets revealed.

I think stories should work the same way.

As writers, we’re often told to trust our readers. I would argue readers have to trust writers, too.

Trust that an unanswered question isn’t necessarily an oversight. Trust that not every motivation belongs in Chapter One. And that a character can say something completely true without it being the whole truth.

There’s a difference between withholding information to manufacture suspense and revealing information the way human beings actually reveal themselves.

The first feels manipulative. The second feels like falling in love with a character.

Of course, critique partners are invaluable. Sometimes they point out genuine confusion. Sometimes we’ve buried something too deeply or failed to establish enough context. That’s part of the revision process.

But sometimes the question they’re asking is exactly the question the story intends them to ask.

Often, it’s not because the author forgot the answer. It’s just that the answer hasn’t been earned yet.

As readers, we often ask writers to trust us. Maybe we should return the favor.

Sometimes the next page is exactly where the answer is waiting.

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