Editor Abigail Perry talks to Rebecca about one of the stories from season 1 (the story she wrote using the prompt “death in a small town”). Abby has great advice on how to expand and explore the story, but more importantly, she and Rebecca talk about how to build confidence as a writer and how to stop expecting your first drafts to be perfect so you can just keep writing. Abby offers advice on taking the pressure off yourself as well as how to explore the story you truly want to tell.
Abigail K. Perry is a Certified Story Grid Editor with professional teaching, literary agency, and film production experience. In addition to writing masterwork guides that help people learn how to write, read, and edit like a writer, she works as a freelance developmental editor/book coach and diagnostic editor, and is a monthly columnist for DIY MFA. Abigail also teaches Genre-Focused writing workshops for the genres she specializes in, which include Women’s Fiction, YA Fantasy, Upmarket Fiction, Historical Fiction, and Scripts. As a podcaster, she’s a passionate advocate for the butterfly effect stories have on the individual and world, which she shares with listeners on her podcast, STORY EFFECT.
Reach out to Abigail if you’re a writer looking for an editor who will help you grow as storyteller, and who has experience in differentiated instruction, traditional publishing, and film. Find out more at abigailkperry.com.
Things Abigail and I mention in the episode:
Some of these links (marked with an *) are affiliate links, which means I earn a small commission if you click on and make a purchase from them. Your price doesn’t change either way.
- DIY MFA
- Story Effect (Abby’s podcast)
- Story Grid Scene Analysis template (value shift, polarity shift)
- SG 5 Commandments
- Yellow Wallpaper
- Writer’s Digest Conference
- Johnathon Mayberry (a thriller writer)
- Writing excuses
- PS I Love You*
- James Scott Bell: Plot & Structure*, Write Your Novel From the Middle*
The Story From This Episode
Death is measured in casseroles.
Tuna.
Pasta.
Rice.
To be fair, Mrs. Stacey did bring lasagna, though it wasn’t her recipe. She stole it from her sister-in-law—and not the one she liked. Not that she’d admit it, but she’d told me years ago in a drunken state at book club and I’ve never forgotten.
We tried to eat two before realizing death also staunched appetites. The rest went into the freezer, which seemed to expand to hold the food and our grief all in one. I’m not sure how that’s possible, but if any more come, I’ll have to upgrade.
Organize the flower arrangements.
Death would be a lot easier if it occurred only to people who deserved it. If my husband’s passing had uncovered a secret affair or second family, for example. The anger might fill the utterly empty feeling for a while, giving me something to feel. Instead, I’m hollow. And there’s nothing to fill that hollowness but casserole. That, and the homemade cheesecake Mrs. Jones prepared. Damn her and her deliciously fattening desserts.
Coordinate extended family’s sleeping arrangements.
I never thought I’d wish to be haunted, that I’d genuinely beg whatever spirit realm existed to send me the ghost of my beloved to stay with me for all eternity. Mostly because I have a feeling that ghosts aren’t happy. I think they want to move on, but haven’t been able to for whatever reason and I’d never wish that on anyone.
Except my husband.
I wish it on him. And I don’t even care that we wouldn’t be able to touch each other, that we’d never share another warm embrace. I just want to hear his voice. To see his smile. To get his advice on what size freezer would fit all these casseroles so that I don’t get tricked into purchasing something I know I don’t need.
Clean the house.
I saw the neighborhood wives standing outside my house the other day. Like they were holding a town meeting on my porch deciding whether or not to knock on the door and come in. It’s just like Mrs. Stevens. I think I heard her say something like, “You know, for the children,” and if that bitch thinks she’s coming in to my house to help me raise my children after my husband died, she’s got another thing coming.
They didn’t knock. Didn’t barge in. I think they don’t know what to do with me now. Besides bring casserole.
Clean the neighbor’s casserole dishes, label them, and return to each neighbor as they complete their obligatory second check-in.
I wonder if I’ll have to move away. If the way they treat me—as if they’re wearing kid gloves—will cause me to go insane. I’m sure they don’t have this problem in big cities. You could lose a loved one and never once have to tell your neighbors, to explain in excruciating detail, to describe what it felt like when the police knocked on your door. You’d never have to watch their eyes soaking up every word, wondering if they were just curious, wanting to share your grief, or something worse.
Plus, you’d never have to drive anywhere again, to fear the very thought of getting in a car, because the public transportation is sure to be better than it is here.
Call the kid’s school to excuse their absences.
They tell you grief is easier when you lean in to the positive moments, when you cement the good times in your mind.
That’s bullshit.
I want to scream at the universe. To tell it to go fuck itself. To take someone else instead. But, when you make those bargains you never know who will lose their life for your happiness.
Though I’m not sure I’d care at this point. That someone else’s family might be stronger, more able to deal with the loss. Less likely to completely lose their minds at the thought of continuing to exist without that person by their side.
Clean the house. Again.
I pretended I wasn’t home when Mrs. Williams came by the other day. She knew I was. I knew she knew I was. But neither of us seemed to care. I’m sure she’s going to talk to the other women about me. They’ll come up with a clean solution to the “McCafferty Problem,” as I’m sure they’ll call it.
Joke’s on them. I’m not a problem. I’m just just too busy to let them in, too embarrassed to let them watch me scoop their casseroles into the garbage disposal. I wouldn’t want to hurt their feelings. I’m not cruel.
Curl up in bed and never get out.
Why do we have such a small period of time with which to grieve? Why, do other people get to determine how long that period of time lasts? Why don’t they tell us when it’s over? When they no longer want us to talk about those we’ve lost because it makes them uncomfortable, they should let us know it’s over—that our time to freely talk has ended.
Because it would save me time to know when it’s appropriate to talk about my pain and when I’m required to lock it away, to slowly go insane by myself.