In my work writing, I'm very good at getting people's half-assed ideas to sound like Something Real.

Things I like about my writing? I have a very distinctive style. I'm good at atmosphere.

In business writing, I'm good at emotion--putting it in, but much more importantly, knowing when and how to take it out.

I'm also good at the Oxford comma.

Just as an exercise in taking a break from self-doubt, it'd be interesting to read what other people really like about their own writing.

I kick butt at creating distinctive minor characters. A great-grandma who adores rock and roll. The street-tough investigator who's also a Rhodes scholar. Real people have quirks. Some real people, though, don't have quirks, so not all the characters can have interesting twists.

I'm good at dialogue. I cheat, though, because I'm just taking dictation from the movie in my head, which is a great timesaver. I fortunately have a knack for showing individual speech patterns.

I can occasionally make myself cry at the emotion in a scene. Yes, I'm a sap, I fall for every competent tear jerking moment (though not so much with darling, big-eyed children, I tend to think more Stephen King than Hallmark when there's a helpless tot in a piece). That said, if it makes me sniffle, then I figure I've got a lock on at least half of my audience.

Thing is, though, I don't know if any of this sort of thing can be taught. I can't say how I do any of this, I just have the ability. Though I guess emotion on a page depends on how honest you're willing to be about dealing with emotion. To be able to depict an emotion, you have to admit you understand an emotion. I've run into writers who think it's too revealing to honestly depict lust or deep love or--most often--true, burning hatred and rage.

I read my old stuff frequently, and while I go, "Bad phrasing, I should switch those clauses," I often enough go, "That's pretty good, and I wrote that" to make me keep going.

I'm good with dialog, and I'm good at starting things. I've learned a lot of writers don't know how or at what point to start the action.

I like to think that I'm good at finding the details that will vividly convey a lot about a character or a place in just a few words.

I trust my audience enough to let them connect the dots. And like Anne, I try to convey much without too many words.

Ooh. I like to think I'm good at dialog, because I rarely attribute a speech, and usually have Tom unpacking his suitcase.

"No." He returned the stack of folded undershirts to the open drawer, and then shut the drawer just a little too hard. "I didn't enjoy the trip."

"But why not?" she fiddled with the Hello Kitty figurines atop the bureau, aligning them in a rank to face him with blank, accusing faces. "Didn't you guys go out after your meetings all day?"

My real strength, though, is putting the reader in place. I write sensually, because that's the way my imagination works. I see/smell/hear/feel on my skin the scene in my head, and that's what goes into words. I'm good at it.

Unfortunately, once the reader and I are there, with all our spidey senses tingling, most often I don't have a story to tell. So, there you go.

I'm good at the telling detail, the one thing that grounds a scene in reality--well, some reality, anyway. And I'm getting better at plot, but that's more like work.

the best writers (and even good writers) always question this, while the really crap writers always assume they are great.

That takes me back to that study from a few years ago, about how competence and judgment are related--those with competence are able to analyze themselves and their work more critically and clearly than the incompetent. So the bad writers don't know what good writing looks like, and therefore think they're fabulous, whereas good writers are a bit more skeptical of their own work.

So long as we are skeptical, and looking to improve, I think there's hope for all of us.

Turning It On

He watched his older sister carefully; she seemed to have an idea of how to breach the barrier. She was, of course, taller than he was; she had some hope of her height advantage helping her make it over the top. However, every attempt to dig in and scramble over, failed. He looked around; there had to be another way. Then, it was as if someone had flipped a switch. He grabbed one of the ottomans, pushed it up against the plastic mesh fence, climbed on top of the ottoman and he was over! First, the kitchen; next, Mt. Everest.