Writing Advice for Fiction Writers: Genres, Story Structure, and Publishing Trends (Clip Show #16)

Rosemi Mederos: 00:00

Happy June, everyone. It's the first day of hurricane season and the first day of pride month. No matter who you love or where you live, I hope you're wisked away by true love and not a tropical storm this month.

This episode here is a clip show, wherein we stitch together a few of the latest writing advice segments so you can remind yourself not just how to write but also why you write. We've been discussing all the genres lately, and in the next episode, which should be out in just a few days, we're reviewing the novel overall and how to build endurance while sustaining reader engagement across hundreds of pages. I'll also be discussing why I think you should never, ever refer to yourself as a brand.

Now, let’s settle in at the Writing Break cafe and get started on a full episode of writing tips.

From Episode 148: Paranormal Fiction: Why the Supernatural Is Dominating the Market

Paranormal fiction centers on supernatural phenomena or supernatural beings within an otherwise recognizable world. What makes paranormal fiction different from fantasy is scale and normalcy. In fantasy, magic is part of the world’s structure. In paranormal fiction, the supernatural is an intrusion; it's something unusual to the book's world. It's usually something hidden and disruptive. The setting can be anywhere on Earth. It doesn't matter if it's set in a modern city or the countryside, readers expect the world to feel familiar. The supernatural element works because it exists against that realistic backdrop.

Paranormal fiction usually combines three things. One, suspense, meaning something is happening that shouldn’t be happening. Two, allure, which means the supernatural is frightening but also fascinating. And three, danger, which means the unknown carries emotional, physical, or psychological risk. Paranormal fiction readers today also want strong emotional arcs, distinct supernatural rules, structured communities, fast pacing, emotion, immersion, escapism, and momentum. At its best, paranormal fiction creates a tension between two competing impulses: I don’t believe this is real. But what if it is?

One of the most important craft principles in paranormal fiction is grounding the story in ordinary life before introducing anything strange. The protagonist should have . . . .

From Episode 149: Audience Ownership: Why Authors Can't Rely on Platforms Anymore

Retailers across media sectors are increasingly experimenting with what industry observers call visibility controls. Books may remain listed but appear lower in search results. They might be excluded from recommendations or lose merchandising support based on content policies, regional restrictions, or algorithmic ranking changes. Amazon has not publicly detailed its ranking criteria, but both publishers and independent authors have reported sudden drops in discoverability that cannot be explained by sales performance alone. So what do we have? The result is a marketplace where availability and visibility are two different things. A book can be technically for sale and still effectively hidden.

Discovery is no longer driven primarily by browsing or human recommendation. Visibility depends on platform rules, content policies, pricing structures, and participation in specific programs. Search rankings, recommendation engines, and category placement determine whether a book is seen, but those systems change frequently and operate without transparency. At the same time, magazine and midlist media contraction has accelerated. Major outlets such as Sports Illustrated, BuzzFeed News, and numerous regional publications have reduced staff, shut down print operations, or closed entirely. For authors, this means fewer widely respected bestseller lists than before as well as fewer review outlets. It also means fewer feature opportunities and fewer traditional pathways to audience discovery. Fewer media outlets discuss books at all, and those that remain feature a smaller number of titles. Publishers are increasingly focused on high-performing titles with clear market potential, leaving less room for slow-build careers supported by institutional visibility. Publishers are taking less risks, which means books are getting less and less interesting, which will only result in fewer and fewer readers. Organic publicity opportunities are harder to secure than before. Right now, algorithms control visibility.

The more concentrated the system becomes, the more valuable direct reader relationships become. This is why audience ownership has moved from a marketing tactic to a career strategy. You can’t escape it anymore. Authors who rely entirely on one retailer, one distributor, or one discovery channel are vulnerable to decisions they cannot influence. Chasing algorithms becomes a relentless pursuit that will leave you little time, if any, for actual writing. However, authors who build newsletters, reader communities, direct sales channels, and diversified distribution have leverage.

If a platform changes its policies, they still have a way to reach readers.

If an algorithm changes, their audience does not disappear.

If a retailer removes their book, their career does not end.

Maybe the publishing industry is not collapsing, but it is reorganizing around control, data, and platform power.

Authors would do best to put effort into finding ways to maintain direct contact with their audience.

From Episode 150: Romantic Suspense: Love in the Line of Fire

Romantic suspense blends romance and thriller together. These are two highly read genres on their own. From romance, readers expect emotional chemistry, vulnerability, growing intimacy, and emotional payoff. From suspense, they expect danger, escalating tension, high stakes, and mounting pressure.

A romance novel can have suspense but still be categorized as a romance, and a thriller can have romance but still be categorized as a thriller. What makes a novel romantic suspense is that the suspense plot and the romance plot matter equally. Readers want the romantic relationship to evolve in meaningful ways, and they want the external threat to feel urgent and consequential.

If a book is categorized as romantic suspense but either element feels secondary, the story starts to feel unbalanced. Too much romance and the danger feels like window dressing. Too much action and the love story feels rushed or unconvincing. Romantic suspense readers will crucify you in the reviews if you do this. To do romantic suspense right, the external threat must raise the emotional stakes, and the emotional bond must make the danger matter more.

The story should feel real, and the tension should be balanced. The life-or-death tension includes the threat, the mystery, the investigation, and the pursuit. The emotional tension includes attraction, distrust, fear of vulnerability, conflicting goals, and past wounds.

There are plotters and pantsers and authors in between, and whatever works for you is the way to go. However, when it comes to romantic suspense, authors should keep checking in on this dual tension as they write or they might end up having to do a lot of rewriting. Make sure you're weaving these tensions together so that each one affects the other.

For example, a character might hesitate to share critical information because they don’t fully trust their partner yet. That emotional hesitation increases the danger. Or the opposite might happen. A moment of emotional breakthrough leads to a strategic decision that helps them survive.

This is not about alternating romance scenes and action scenes. The goal is integration. The danger should shape the relationship, and the relationship should influence how the characters respond to danger. When those two threads tighten together, the pacing will accelerate on its own.

As we’ve read in many books and seen in many movies, extreme circumstances accelerate emotional charge. In everyday life, trust develops slowly. In romantic suspense, trust is forged through survival. When characters are forced into high-risk situations together, they see each other under pressure. They witness courage, fear, loyalty, and sacrifice. This means the external plot should create opportunities for emotional revelation.

Moments like one character choosing to stay when leaving would be safer, a secret revealed because there is no time left to hide it, a sacrifice that proves loyalty, or a mistake that forces forgiveness. These moments matter because they transform attraction into connection.

It’s also important to remember that both characters should have agency. This isn't a knight in shining armour rescuing a damsel in distress. Each character should contribute to survival. Each character should grow. And each character should influence the outcome.

Readers do not just want to see two people fall in love. They want to see two people become stronger because of what they face together.

You need two satisfying resolutions. First, the suspense plot must resolve. The villain is stopped. The mystery is solved. The threat is neutralized. The external danger ends in a way that feels earned and complete. Second, the romance must resolve. The emotional barriers come down. The characters make a clear choice to be together. Readers get emotional closure.

If the danger ends but the relationship remains uncertain, those who love the romance best will feel unsatisfied. If the couple declares their love but the external threat feels rushed or unresolved, those who love the suspense best will feel cheated. The strongest endings tie the two resolutions together so that emotional commitment and external victory happen at the same moment or directly influence each other. Survival and connection should feel intertwined. And if you're unclear on any of this, watch the movie Speed for a clear-cut example.

Let’s talk about what can go wrong.

From Episode 151: Young Adult vs New Adult Fiction: What Writers Need to Know

Young Adult fiction, commonly called YA, typically features protagonists between the ages of fourteen and eighteen.

These stories focus on the teenage years, a period when identity is still forming and experiences feel immediate and consequential. YA fiction often explores first love, first heartbreak, first major moral choices, and the first serious encounters with the wider world.

A defining feature of YA is the closeness of the narrative perspective. The story usually stays tightly aligned with the protagonist’s thoughts and emotions, allowing readers to experience events with the same intensity the character does.

Because these characters are still discovering who they are, their emotions are rarely filtered through years of reflection. Everything is happening in real time. When YA fiction succeeds, it captures the truth that teenage experiences may be temporary, but they rarely feel small.

New Adult fiction, often abbreviated as NA, generally centers on characters between eighteen and their mid-twenties.

This stage of life is defined by transition. Characters are stepping into independence for the first time. They may be leaving home, navigating college, entering the workforce, or beginning to build lives separate from the expectations that shaped their childhood.

Where YA often focuses on the formation of identity, New Adult stories tend to explore what happens after that first stage of self-discovery. Characters are not only asking who they are; they are deciding what kind of life they want to create.

Relationships also take on different stakes. Choices about careers, partnerships, and personal values begin to carry long-term consequences. As a result, the tone of NA can feel slightly more reflective than YA, though the emotional immediacy remains strong. These characters are still figuring things out, but they are doing so with greater independence and responsibility.

At first glance, YA and New Adult can look similar. Both genres focus on coming-of-age experiences and rely heavily on emotional stakes. The difference lies primarily in the life stage of the protagonist.

In YA fiction, authority structures are still firmly in place. Parents, schools, and social expectations shape the character’s environment, and much of the story revolves around discovering who they are within those boundaries.

In New Adult fiction, many of those structures are loosening or disappearing. Characters must begin making decisions without clear guidance, often for the first time. This shift in responsibility changes both the tone of the narrative and the kinds of conflicts characters face.

YA stories frequently ask a question of identity: Who am I becoming?

New Adult stories tend to ask a question of direction: What kind of life am I building?

The emotional core of both genres comes from these moments of transition, but the challenges arise from different stages of life.

Voice is critical in both YA and New Adult fiction, though the tone often differs slightly.

In YA, the narrative voice tends to feel urgent and immediate. The character is processing events as they happen, and readers expect the emotional experience to feel genuine rather than filtered through adult hindsight. Teen readers are especially quick to recognize when a voice sounds artificial or condescending.

New Adult fiction allows for a somewhat broader perspective. Characters may reflect on their circumstances with slightly more awareness, but the story should still feel grounded in the uncertainty of early adulthood. These protagonists are not fully established; they are navigating the difficult space between adolescence and stability.

In both genres, authenticity matters more than anything else. Readers connect when characters’ emotional responses feel specific and believable.

From a craft perspective, New Adult is easy to define. From a publishing perspective, it has a more complicated history.

YA has a well-established category in bookstores and libraries, while New Adult has often been absorbed into adult fiction or romance. Much of NA’s early popularity emerged through independent publishing, particularly in college-set romance stories.

As a result, New Adult remains a genre with strong reader interest but inconsistent shelving and marketing within the traditional publishing industry. Many authors writing in this space have found success through independent or hybrid publishing paths.

Both genres come with their own challenges.

From Episode 152: Writing Cozy Mystery: Murder, But Make It Charming

Cozy mysteries focus on the puzzle rather than the violence of murder, and most cozy mysteries share several defining features.

First, the story usually centers on an amateur sleuth whose ordinary life places them in the path of an extraordinary mystery. The sleuth might run a coffee shop, a bake shop, or a bookshop. There may be a cat wandering around the shop or a town festival just around the corner.

Second, the setting tends to be a tight-knit community. Often this is a small town, but not always. It could be a neighborhood, a university campus, or even a cruise ship. What matters is that the characters know one another and the social dynamics create opportunities for secrets, conflicts, and motives.

Third, the tone remains light despite the crime. The violence happens off-page or is handled with restraint. The focus stays on conversation, clues, and the intellectual satisfaction of solving the puzzle.

There's little to no blood, and we get, at most, a mere fleeting glance at the dead body. Readers are not there for gore or psychological trauma. They’re there for the pleasure of watching a clever mind untangle a web of clues.

A quiet town, a clever amateur sleuth, and a mystery that unfolds through observation, conversation, and deduction.

Readers of cozy mysteries expect to be invited into a world that feels familiar and comforting, even while a mystery unfolds.

But make no mistake. Someone is still getting murdered.

The murder is the engine of the plot, but the community is the heart of the story.

One of the most important elements of a cozy mystery is the setting.

In many genres, the setting simply provides a backdrop for the story. In a cozy mystery, the setting becomes almost a character in its own right.

Think about the places where cozy mysteries often unfold: small towns, seaside villages, mountain communities, historic districts, bookstores, bakeries, craft shops, and cafés.

These spaces allow the story to build a network of recurring characters. The shop owner down the street, the local police officer, the gossipy neighbor, the rival business owner.

Over time, readers return not only for the mysteries but also for the community itself.

This is one reason cozy mystery series are so popular. Each new book allows readers to revisit a familiar place and spend time with characters they’ve grown to enjoy.

The setting provides comfort and continuity, while the mystery introduces fresh tension.

So, while cozy mysteries often take place in small towns, connection is what's key. The characters know each other, interact regularly, and carry shared history.

And that shared history creates plenty of motives.

At the center of most cozy mysteries is the amateur sleuth.

Unlike the hardboiled detective of classic noir fiction, the cozy sleuth is usually an ordinary person with a sharp mind and strong curiosity.

They are not solving crimes because it’s their job.

They’re solving crimes because they can’t help themselves.

Sometimes they stumble across a body. Sometimes a friend becomes a suspect. Sometimes the official investigation seems to be missing something.

Whatever the reason, the amateur sleuth begins asking questions.

This character often has qualities that help them succeed where others fail. They might notice small details others overlook. They might have access to information through their job or social connections. Or they might simply be persistent enough to keep digging when others stop.

Another key element is relatability. Readers should feel that this person could exist in the real world.

Maybe they sell real estate, or bake cupcakes, teach yoga, or organize town events. Their everyday life anchors the story in a recognizable world, but when a mystery appears, their curiosity takes over.

The biggest challenge when writing cozy mysteries is balancing the subject matter with the tone. After all, a murder happens early on in the story. Yet cozy mysteries manage to maintain a sense of warmth and humor. They do this in several ways.

First, the violence itself is usually kept off-page. =

From Episode 153: Writing Modern Westerns: Same Frontier, Different Moral Code

So, if the Western genre never really died… what actually changed? Let's go back to the beginning. 

Classic Westerns were built on myth. They presented the frontier as a place where order could be established through strength, courage, and a clear sense of right and wrong, but over time, that certainty began to erode. Audiences became more skeptical of simple moral narratives. Historical awareness expanded. The frontier was no longer seen as just a place for heroic good guys and worried women leaning against thresholds. Audiences wanted the truth of what the frontier used to be, and what it used to be was a place shaped by violence, displacement, and inequality.

So, the Western turned inward. Instead of asking, “How do we bring order to chaos?” stories began asking, “Was that order ever just to begin with?” That shift led to revisionist Westerns and, eventually, to neo-Westerns. The setting changed, but more importantly, the moral lens changed.

Four main forces shaped this evolution. First, historical awareness. As perspectives broadened, the mythology of the frontier became more complicated. Stories began to reflect that complexity. Second, cultural skepticism. Modern audiences expect nuance. They question authority. They distrust simple good-versus-evil narratives, as they should. Third, genre blending. The Western survived by merging with other forms. Crime fiction, literary fiction, and thrillers all absorbed Western elements, creating what we now call neo-Western. And, finally, modern anxiety. The main antagonists are no longer a few bad guys with guns. Neo-Westerns often reflect concerns about land, power, economics, and identity.

The defining feature of both Westerns and neo-Westerns is moral tension. Characters are forced to make decisions without clear guidance. There may be laws, but they are weak. There may be systems, but they are unreliable, so characters fall back on personal codes. In classic Westerns, those codes often align with justice. In neo-Westerns, they often don’t. Neo-Westerns explore what it means to be good in a world that rewards brutality, what happens when survival requires compromise, and whether justice is ever truly fair.

Now let’s talk about something practical: How well does this genre actually sell?

From Episode 154: Graphic Narratives: Storytelling in Panels

The first big difference for writers when working on a graphic narrative is that the story they are writing will not fully exist until the illustrations are complete. Description, dialogue, and pacing play off both the words and the images, and it can take time to get a feel for what belongs on the page and what needs to be left off.

Unless the writer is also the illustrator, graphic storytelling is not a solitary art. The final effect depends on collaboration. Meaning is carried jointly by the script, the art, the page design, the color, the lettering, and the rhythm of the reader’s eye moving across panels.

From the outside, comics and graphic novels can look simple. There are fewer words on the page, and the reading experience can feel faster. But that does not make the form easier. In some ways, it makes it more demanding because every word has to earn its place and every visual moment has to be selected with care. The page has limits, the panels have limits, and inside those limits, the story still has to feel complete.

Graphic narrative is a broad category that includes comic books, manga, graphic novels, webcomics, and other forms of sequential visual storytelling. A story is told through the interplay of sequential images and language. The key word there is interplay. The images and words are working together to tell a story. Under this broad category, different forms have distinct traditions. American comics have their own histories and expectations. Manga has a different visual language and pacing. Graphic novels often signal longer or self-contained works. What matters here is that all of these forms ask the reader to make meaning by moving through a sequence of images shaped by text.

A prose writer can tell you that a character is anxious, humiliated, distracted, and trying to conceal it. A graphic narrative can distribute that information across expression, posture, composition, distance, silence, and a short line of dialogue.

The reader is doing more than reading words. They are reading spatial relationships, transitions, emphasis, motion, and omission. They are filling in what happens between panels and inferring movement and emotional shifts from what is shown and what is withheld. That is one reason the form can be so powerful. It asks the audience to collaborate with the creators and with the page itself.

Every storytelling form has its native strengths. Graphic narratives are especially good at compression, contrast, and control of time. They can communicate a surprising amount of information very quickly. Environment, mood, social context, and tension can all be established before a character says a word. They are also excellent at managing contrast between what is said and what is shown. A character can claim to be calm while their body tells another story. A caption can frame an event in one register while the image undercuts it.

Pacing works differently as well. In graphic storytelling, pacing is tied to the panel. The size of a panel, the number of panels on a page, and the density of detail all affect how time is experienced. A single silent panel can slow a movement down. A sequence of smaller panels can create urgency or fragmentation. A splash page can create scale or impact, and silence becomes visible. A panel with no dialogue is not an absence of writing. It is a deliberate choice. It directs attention and gives the reader space to absorb what is happening without being told how to interpret it.

When you write a graphic narrative, you are not writing the final object. You are writing part of the final object. That means the writer must communicate enough to guide the story while leaving room for the artist to contribute meaningfully.

Many writers fall into one of two extremes . . . .

From Episode 156: Experimental Fiction & Hybrid Fiction: How to Break Form Without Breaking the Reader

Experimental and hybrid fiction is great at representing internal experiences. For example, it allows the writer to jump between memories, associations, and contradictions in a way that mirrors how people actually think. Different forms can carry different emotional or intellectual weight simultaneously, so the writer can layer meaning. It's great at creating surprise, of course, because readers can't tell from the structure what's going to happen next. It challenges the reader in a productive way. The reader becomes more active, piecing together meaning rather than receiving it passively.

But this only works if the reader feels guided, not abandoned. That means the writer is still in control of the writing.

Many writers who try their hand at experimental or hybrid fiction assume that unconventional story structure means the writing process can be loosey goosey. But I think some successful experimental writers might argue that it requires more control than traditional storytelling. If a good traditional story is a seven-course meal with spot-on wine pairings, a good experimental story is a plate-and-cup spinning act with an overstimulated performer.

Experimental and hybrid fiction still requires clear emotional throughlines, intentional pacing, and coherent thematic development. The story is fragmented, yet the meaning is discoverable. The reader feels disoriented, yet the writer holds steady. When writing experimental and hybrid fiction, do not use confusion as a substitute for depth. Lack of clarity does not automatically make a story meaningful. Break form with purpose. If you can remove the experimental element and nothing changes, it didn’t belong. Be careful not to overcomplicate the reading experience. Readers will work, but only if they trust there’s a payoff. And definitely do not write just to imitate another author. Avoid copying surface-level techniques from experimental works without understanding why those techniques work.

So, let's talk money.

From Episode 157: Writing Short Stories: Structure, Pacing, and Word Counts Explained

Short stories are great for capturing brief moments that carry significant emotional weight. A single interaction, a realization that occurs in a single scene, or a shift in how a character understands themselves can all form the basis of a compelling short story. A single gesture or line of dialogue can carry a disproportionate amount of weight because there are fewer competing elements than in longer works of fiction. The writer can place emphasis very precisely, and the reader is more likely to notice.

Short stories rely heavily on suggestion. Because there is not enough space to explain everything, the writer must trust the reader to infer meaning from what is presented. This is what gives short stories their lingering effect. The reader is allowed to sit with the implications rather than receiving a fully closed conclusion. No epilogue to the epilogue here.

So, how long should your short story be? The answer is not, “as long as it needs to be.” That sounds wise, but it is not useful. If you're looking to get published in a lit journal or magazine, you have to know their word count limits. Plus, word count determines what the story can realistically accomplish.

Let's review the different forms of short story fiction and what they’re actually good for.

From Episode 158: Why Some Stories Should Be Novellas (Not Novels)

There is a difference between depth and length. A story does not become deeper simply because it becomes longer. Sometimes depth comes from sustained focus rather than expansion. This is an important lesson because many developing writers instinctively add material whenever something feels emotionally thin. Often the real problem is not lack of content, but lack of specificity, tension, or thematic cohesion.

Now let’s talk practically. Novellas occupy a somewhat unusual position in publishing. Readers often enjoy them, especially in genres like horror, science fiction, fantasy, and literary fiction. Digital publishing and audiobooks have also helped the form considerably because readers are less tied to physical-book expectations than they once were. Traditional publishing, however, has historically struggled with the economics of novellas. Printing and marketing costs do not scale neatly with length, which means a shorter book can be harder to position commercially at certain price points.

That said, the landscape has shifted somewhat in recent years. Small presses frequently embrace novellas. Subscription models and digital formats have helped. Some genres now actively welcome shorter forms because readers appreciate the tighter pacing and faster reading experience. So while novellas may not dominate the commercial market, they absolutely have a place within it.

If you're wondering if your work in progress is a novella, ask yourself, How much complexity does the core idea naturally generate? If the story revolves around one central conflict, one dominant relationship, or one tightly focused transformation, it may belong in novella territory. If you find yourself expanding outward primarily to increase length rather than deepen meaning, pay attention to that. A story should not need artificial inflation to survive. Another clue is momentum. Some stories lose energy when stretched too far. Others gain richness through expansion. Learning to recognize that difference is part of becoming a stronger writer.

I hope you enjoyed this bonus episode. Make sure you're following Writing Break so you don't miss the next episode on novels in general. Thank you so much for listening, and remember, you deserved this break.

Thank you for making space in your mind for The Muse today. 

Writing Break is hosted by America’s Editor and produced by Allon Media with technical direction by Gus Aviles. Visit us at writingbreak.com or contact us at podcast@writingbreak.com.