***SPOILERS for my debut novel, The Dragon Liberator: Escapade***
One of the things I learned while writing my debut novel is that I connected a bunch of plot threads without meaning to. For instance, I wanted two pivotal characters to form a friendship and was struggling with figuring out how to get them to see eye-to-eye. That’s when I realized that I had accidentally written their backstories to reflect each other. Both characters lost their mothers in the same tragic event, and this realization on my protagonist’s part (and mine as well) caused him to see the other person for who he truly was. It was the perfect way to get them to sympathize with each other despite their circumstances.
My novel is littered with examples just like the one above. It was like my brain subconsciously filled the plot holes for me when I was crafting the timeline, and I am very lucky it all worked out the way it did. I’m not so sure I’ll get that lucky again.
I didn’t outline Escapade. I identified as a “pantser,” someone who flies by the seat of their pants and has very loose ideas for how the story is going to play out. Of course, I knew the overall plot I wanted to write, but all the connecting scenes were improvised. This is part of the reason why it took me so long to write Escapade. I was afraid that if I outlined my story (every plot beat, every chapter, every scene) I would feel stuck and would go into writer’s block. I believed that “outlining” meant creating a path I was not allowed to diverge from for any reason lest it ruin the rest of the story’s events. The truth is I had never even tried outlining before, so I defaulted to believing I was a pantser.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I have a goal to finish the first draft of my novel’s sequel by the end of this year, 2025. In order to do this, I knew I had to be consistent, which is hard to do when you’re improvising every scene like I had been doing for years. I had to outline for the very first time, and I was skeptical if it would work for me. I love making lists and plans for myself, with chores and hobbies and schedules galore, but my brain has never taken to any of them for long. Well, as you can see from the title, I thought I was a pantser, but I’m actually a planner (or at the very least someone in the middle, but still leaning more toward “planner”).
This does not mean that I am trapped on a self-made railroad. It just means I have a guideline, or as I like to call it, the bones of a story, that I can add muscle and organs and flesh to as I further develop the book’s events. I thought outlining would feel like pulling teeth, but it, along with using my Freewrite (love that thing), has boosted my work ethic. I find myself writing at least three days a week all while still doing school work, going to work, reading consistently, maintaining a social life, and keeping up with my other hobbies. I have never felt to healthily productive in my writing time before now.
And it’s all thanks to a YouTuber and fellow self-published author I discovered through a friend. Abbie Emmons is a young woman who has writing/publishing /editing lessons you can pay for, but she also has an overwhelming wealth of free knowledge through her YouTube channel of the same name. If it were not for her, I would not have outlined my second novel as well as I did. It took a while to get through all of her advice, but that advice is absolutely necessary if you want to outline your story in such a way that limits the amount of developmental editing later on.
Her outlining works wonderfully for any fiction-based genre, for stand-alone books, and for series of books. If it were not for Abbie Emmons, I would still be fooling myself into thinking I was a pantser (and I probably wouldn’t be sitting at a lovely 46,000 words written so far).
I am making terrific progress. It’s only the third month of the year and Act I is already drafted and I’m well into Act II right now. Act II is the longest, so I wouldn’t be surprised at all if it takes me the majority of the year to complete, but luckily Act III (the last section) is the shortest of the three parts of the story. I have a plan of action. I have a helpful little color-coded roadmap. And, dear reader, I have a drive to get this book published in less than half the time it took me to write my debut novel. Happy reading and happy writing!
P.S. If you want to outline your novel in an organized, fun, and explorative way, I recommend you check out Abbie Emmons’ playlists on plotting a novel with the three-act structure, and how to outline a novel.
Hello dear reader! I wanted to share with you the first chapter for free of my debut novel. Maybe you’ll like what you see. 😉
This is epic fantasy, action/adventure with a little twist of mystery.
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Chapter 1: Fendrel
Just keep a steady pace. Don’t make eye contact . . . There he is.
A grin tugged at the corner of Fendrel’s mouth. He snaked his way through buyers and sellers as he followed his target, inconspicuous to the bustling crowd. Fendrel thanked his short stature and hooded coat for keeping him hidden from searching eyes as he waded through the populous streets of Sharpdagger. Caribou fur coats were uncommon in this region, but Fendrel would take the discomfort of sweat over being discovered any day. To his delight, the capital of the human kingdom was tightly-packed, each denizen living oblivious to the shady dealings that run rampant around every corner.
Someone slammed into Fendrel’s shoulder as he passed. Out of instinct, he placed a protective hand on his bag. The leather was cracked, scratched, torn, and scorched over years of travel, but it had served Fendrel well.
“Be more careful where you step, boy!” the passerby barked, turning around. His anger turned to shock when he saw who he had knocked into. The man stood in silence until a wave of citizens separated the two from each other’s view.
Fendrel ducked his head. He had been recognized. It was only a matter of time before every knight in the city knew where he was. Panic pricked through Fendrel when he realized he had lost sight of his target. With a more frantic pace, he pushed onward, only breathing a sigh of relief when the suspicious figure once again caught his eye.
The target, a devil-like man named Sadon, stopped in his tracks. He, too, wore a long coat but cut from the body of a wolf and tailored with finer craftsmanship. Fendrel suspected it hid Sadon’s baldric, armed to the teeth with daggers. Sadon’s gray-streaked, blonde hair had been cropped short. Even from where Fendrel stood, he could tell the older man’s hair was cut professionally.
Has the royal guard become so lax that even Sadon can be preened here without the threat of arrest? Fendrel wondered as a look of disgust crept across his face.
Fendrel hid behind the corner of a building just as Sadon whipped his head around, his stern face scrutinizing everyone behind him. When Sadon grunted and continued on his path, Fendrel followed in his wake. He turned the corner just in time to see the well-dressed man disappear through a long alley. The stretch led to the side door of one of the tallest buildings in the city, second only to the Sharpdagger palace.
This must be some kind of storage house. Is it for weaponry? Or maybe items for trade?
He waited for Sadon to disappear inside, then maneuvered to the same entrance. The weathered door hung from the top hinge. When he pressed his ear against the door, it creaked slightly, but no one came to investigate.
Voices very familiar to Fendrel came from within the building. The first one—that of a middle-aged man named Charles—was a surprising comfort to hear, although Charles’ the soft-spoken tone made his words unintelligible.
The second voice was Sadon’s, speaking in awe. “Look at this monster. Those claws of hers will grant us a fortune.” There was a beat of silence, then Sadon spoke again. “Charles, hand me that snapper.”
Something inside the building hissed. It burst into an inhuman screech that chilled Fendrel to his bones and made him grit his teeth as if he were the one being tortured.
They must have used the snapper to break its wing.
Fendrel’s heart sank. He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard the noise. He may have to forfeit the mission if his position was compromised. But it seemed as if no one had heard—or perhaps no one cared.
There’s a dragon in there, Fendrel thought as he turned his eyes back to the door. I wonder what tribe it’s from.
Two pairs of footsteps retreated deeper into the building. Fendrel listened until he heard a door inside the room slam shut. Perfect. He poked his head around the poor excuse for an entrance door to make sure no one else was there.
Only the dragon remained. Fendrel carefully opened the door a little more and slipped inside the expansive room.
Traps and snappers were stored in open wooden crates. Axes, arrows, spears, and swords lined the cobblestone walls. Amidst it all, in the center of the room, locked in a cramped cage, was one of the daintiest dragons Fendrel had ever seen. While small for a dragon, she was about the size of a horse. Fendrel’s eyes widened, and his breath caught in his throat as he noticed the dragon’s tribe.
Silver eyes peered at him cautiously, fearfully. The dragon cowered against the back of her cage. Her dark gray feathers curled at the edges like swirls of mist. Her smooth, shiny horns and claws were dangerously sharp. The dragon’s ears, long and fluffy like those of a donkey, were pinned flat against her long neck. One of the dragon’s wings bent at an unnatural angle, blood trickling from where the shattered bone penetrated her skin.
This was a Vapor dragon, classified by Sadon’s hunters as one of the least-dangerous dragons known to mankind. Fendrel was inclined to believe the rumors about them but kept his mind open. After all, this was the first time he had met one.
How long has she been here? Probably not long. Sadon wouldn’t let a dragon keep its claws unless he was busy.
When Fendrel shut the door behind him and stepped toward the cage, the dragon hissed and recoiled. Fendrel winced and waved his hands in front of him, shaking his head. He pointed at a set of double doors on the other side of the room, the only way the dragon hunters could have gone.
The dragon looked at the doors and stopped hissing. She must have presumed the hunters to be a worse enemy than Fendrel. After a moment, she returned her glare to the young man.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” Fendrel said, in the language of dragons, as he gave her a reassuring look.
With a noise of surprise, the dragon shoved herself farther back in her cage. There was a leather muzzle around her snout. Fendrel frowned and looked around at the weapons to see if there was anything he could use to break it. He doubted he would be able to use a snapper, not after the dragon had experienced the tool’s intended purpose. Spying a long metal staff with a hook attached to the end, he grabbed it.
Immediately, the dragon growled, wisps of mist curling from her nostrils and between her restricted jaws.
She won’t let me near her without me proving myself, will she?
Fendrel propped the staff up against the cage bars and reached under his shirt. He fished around for the necklace he showed to every dragon he rescued. Over the years, it had become something most dragons recognized, marking Fendrel as a sort of urban legend. His fingers closed around the smooth leather strap attached to a circular pendant carved from the bones of a caribou. Slowly, he lifted the necklace over his shirt.
Upon seeing the pendant, the dragon’s eyes widened. The mist’s descent ceased, and her noises subsided.
Fendrel tried to hide his smile. It was normal for him to be recognized by any common dragon, but not one as elusive as from the Vapor tribe. There was a reason most humans did not believe they existed.
He hid the necklace beneath his shirt and lifted the hooked staff. The dragon did not protest this time as Fendrel stuck the tool between the bars and hooked its end onto the muzzle. With one hand he held the staff, and with the other he unbuckled the strap that secured the muzzle around the dragon’s head. He began to pull the staff toward himself, and the dragon tugged her head in the opposite direction. Once the muzzle was left hanging around the hook, Fendrel set the staff down. The dragon scratched her snout with her talons, then moved her head to inspect her broken wing.
Fendrel looked at the lock on the cage to see if there was any way to break it. He sighed in annoyance. This metal was too strong to break or melt in any short amount of time. The lock would have to be opened. “Do you know what is past those doors?” Fendrel asked as he pointed to the doors through which the two hunters had left the room.
The dragon looked down at Fendrel with hesitation in her eyes.
“I know you can talk, and I know you can understand me.” Fendrel held his open hands out. “I don’t know what rumors the Vapor tribe may have about me, but surely you heard I speak Drake-tongue, right?”
“There . . . there are at least six other humans in this building. I can hear them moving boxes, but I do not know what is past the doors.” The dragon’s voice was soft and trembled with fright.
Fendrel sighed. He had freed dragons from hunters countless times before but never in this building. And to add to what could go wrong, Sadon was here.
He better not be the one holding the keys, or I may never get this dragon out of here, Fendrel thought.
“I’m sorry to leave you, but I have to find the key for this cage. I will be quick.” Fendrel placed a hand on the lock.
The dragon’s ears lowered in worry. “Please, be careful.”
With a nod, Fendrel turned to walk toward the set of double doors.
“What is your name?” The dragon raised her voice a bit. “My name is Fog.”
“Fendrel.” He gave Fog a polite grin, then continued on. When he reached the doors, he steeled himself with a deep breath.
He pushed one door open a crack and peeked inside. The sight that met him made him wish he had never come to the city.
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If this little snippet interested you, you may want to get the book for yourself (or leave a review if you’ve read it already <3)! You can purchase it through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or directly from me using this hyperlink or by scanning the QR code below.
In my freshman year of high school, I began writing my debut novel, previously titled The Dragon’s Treasure on Wattpad, of all places. I had written a “book” before in 8th grade, but that was technically a school assignment. This, though, was something I had chosen to do thanks to an idea I’m sure was given to me by God.
In my sophomore year of high school, my mom asked me if I was interested in being a beta reader. That was the first time I had heard the term and I learned it meant that I would read a book and give my thoughts to the author before it was published. I was reluctant to accept, but Mom said the would-be author was her friend and Bible study leader, Beckie Lindsey. Even though I’m not a fan of contemporary fiction, I felt compelled by the Spirit to become a beta reader. There was something about the request that I just couldn’t say no to. When I took on the role, I suspected nothing more than to read the book, write down notes as I went, and send the notes to Beckie through an email. But once I finished it, she wanted to talk with me in person.
We met in a local Starbucks. I was nervous, obviously. This was a woman I had never met before, and a real writer. I didn’t want to say anything that would offend her. I didn’t want to say she could improve in some areas because I didn’t want to come off like I knew everything. It’s very hard for me to read expressions, so when Beckie’s face shifted in the middle of me giving her my notes, I feared the worst. She shook her head incredulously, looked between me and my Mom, and asked, “Wait, wait. Are you a writer?”
I didn’t know how to answer. Sure, I had written stories before, but nothing like what she had done. The most I had ever written was the first draft of The Dragon Liberator: Escapade, and I was ridiculously embarrassed of my lack of experience. It wasn’t true that I was a full-blown writer, at least not in my mind, but I had written something. I simply replied with, “A little.”
Typing this now, after having just finished her series last night, I am reminded of just how much that first meeting with Beckie meant to me. Her main protagonists–four high school girls who become friends despite their differences–were constantly hanging out in their local coffee shop, The Grind. Whether they were there for hours or for a couple minutes just to catch up, they always found themselves in that building. I wonder now if Beckie chose to invite me to that Starbucks because she loved coffeehouses, or if she invited me there because she knew this meeting was going to be special. If that little nudge the Holy Spirit gave me to read her books was noticeable for me, a constant prodigal child, then it was no doubt obvious for Beckie, a woman whose faith knew no bounds. She probably didn’t know why that meeting would be special, why God brought us into each other’s lives, until she asked me that question.
Faith is a strange thing. At times my faith has made me feel safe no matter what happened and other times my faith made me feel like a flag holding onto its pole in the middle of a storm. There are several times in my life where I was unsure of what God wanted me to do. But, when Beckie asked me if I wanted to join her critique group, I knew God wanted me to say yes.
But, I wanted to say no. I was embarrassed of my writing, my ideas, my characters, my world building, everything. I didn’t talk about my writing much because I feared if people knew I was writing they would want to read it, and then they would be disappointed in my lack of experience. I wanted to tell Beckie no, because joining a critique group meant she would read every word, and she would have criticisms. But I knew I would be wrong to refuse.
The next couple of years flew by with me going to critique group once every two weeks, always on a Tuesday, and always worried that I was going to hear about how much the other ladies hated my story. I was always wrong. The other members were older than me with the youngest being in her twenties and the rest being in their forties or older. We all wrote different genres and it seemed as though I was most of these ladies’ first introduction to fantasy. They never ran short in compliments, and I almost never believed them. I was a high schooler, after all. How good could I really be? I would tell myself “I know my story has problems. They just can’t see them because they don’t read fantasy. They don’t see how awful my book truly is.”
I didn’t have confidence in my abilities back then, something I still struggle with, and because of that I didn’t give as much critiquing advice as I wanted to. While reading Beckie’s books for the first time since she passed, I couldn’t help but feel like I should have done better by her. I should have gave her more input. I should have spoken my mind more. I wanted and still want her books to be perfect, but they’re already done. It’s been seven years since I first met Beckie, and every time I saw her I learned something new about writing and faith. I wish that back then I had the experience and confidence that I do now. But even still, her books are pretty good. I’m just a harsh critic, especially of myself.
Beckie was my biggest cheerleader. Even when we couldn’t meet up because of quarantine restrictions or because of her sickness, she always pushed me to seek publication. She believed in my story and she knew people would love it if only they knew it existed. I know now more than ever that God gave me that nudge to be a beta reader so Beckie and I could be in each other’s lives, if only for a handful of years.
Beckie passed from stage 4 ovarian cancer in March 2024. She was diagnosed in January 2021, 1 year after her brother and sister-in-law passed in a car accident. She dedicated her fourth and final book to them, saying “See you soon.” When she wrote that, I don’t think she understood just how soon “soon” would be. Beckie was a fighter. She wasn’t afraid to admit that the cancer and chemo were weighing on her, but her faith was stronger. She touched so many lives while she was on earth, and I believe that it was part of God’s plan for her and me to work with and encourage each other.
I reread her books in an effort to find something to remember her by, and it wasn’t hard to do so. While writing her series, Beckie often told me how she was a lot like Krystal, one of the main four characters, when she was a teen due to her cynicism and sarcastic personality. But in her wisdom, her nurturing, and her faith I see her as Lauren, the central mentor figure. I wish I had told her that when she was still here.
Beckie loved Jesus, her family, coffee, and cats, all in that order. Her personality is all over these books, and so is the message she worked so hard to put out: we are all God’s children, no one is too broken to be saved, and we are all beautiful.
I don’t know how far my voice will reach, but if you’re a teen or perhaps you know a teen, I think you should check out her work! All four of Beckie’s books are available at Amazon under the series title “Beauties From Ashes” and the last three books of her series are available at Barnes & Noble. I’d like to share the synopsis of the first book, Secrets, with you:
“Mackenzie is the shy, awkward new girl at school, depressed and desperate for a real friend. When she stumbles upon the deepest secret of a sarcastic, angry-at-the-world track star, Krystal, they become instant enemies–especially about the flirtatious baseball player, Bryce.
Tammi, a gloomy singer/musician who couldn’t care less about what others think of her, meets Sadie, a dancer and a people-pleaser with a cotton candy disposition. They have nothing in common until their lives begin to collide in more ways than one.
As the girls’ worlds begin to converge, their secrets rather than their similarities draw them together. Meanwhile, all that’s kept hidden has left them vulnerable to a battle in an invisible realm where demonic creatures fight to keep the girls chained to their pasts while angels of light work to free them.
Can good ever come from evil? Can beauty ever arise from ashes?”
“To all who mourn in Israel, he will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair.”
Isaiah 61:3, NLT
Beckie’s books were all about overcoming our flaws and insecurities through community. It takes time, and I’m still battling with mine, but I am nowhere near as scared to share my stories as I was eight years ago. I know that’s all thanks to Beckie, and to God for bringing her into my life.
That’s all from me for now. Thank you, dear reader, for spending time here. I pray that you have an amazing day, week, month, and beyond.
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