I used to wonder why professional publishers advise authors to select one genre–one style of story–and stick with it. I like to read LOTS of different genres, and the stories brewing in my head were not necessarily similar. Why couldn’t I write them all?

You can, but you will encounter two challenges:

Readers will not know what to expect. This may not be a problem if you are either so obscure that readers have no particular expectation or so famous that they’d read a telephone book if it had your name on the front, but I’d advise those in between to look no further than your last pot luck dinner to understand this bit of human nature. As you stared down a long table loaded with food, you shared the same dilemma as a shopper staring at a row of bookshelves. So many options! You can’t possibly sample them all, so you start with a few selections you expect to like. If they’re good, you might go back for a second helping–or a book by the same author. But you probably won’t know if the cook who brought such great cookies brought a vegetable dish as well, and even if you did, the fact that she’s a great baker doesn’t mean you’d like her asparagus. Likewise, you might not even notice if your new favorite author had written another book that’s shelved in a different section, and even if you do, there’s no guarantee that you’d like it. We are creatures of habit. We like what we like, and most of us don’t like to waste time making risky choices.

Different books require different marketing strategies. Let’s say you’ve written a non-fiction book about the Civil War. Chances are you know other people who share your interest in that subject, so it’s easy to let them know about your new book. And maybe, while you did your research, you came across a compelling human interest story and decided to write a novel. It’s possible, since the book is set in the same period, that some people who enjoyed your non-fiction will enjoy your fiction as well, but there are others who read only one or the other. You’ll need a different marketing strategy to reach different groups of readers. Now let’s say that you decide to write an allegory of the issues you feel led to the conflict, but in this story warring factions of some mythical planet blast away at each other with photon torpedoes. Um…problem. The people who go to Civil War re-enactments are not the same folks who hang out at Star Trek conventions. In order for your new book to “live long and prosper,” you will have to develop a platform and build relationships with a third group of readers. You are now officially too busy to write any more books!

So what if you have lots of stories in your head? Are some doomed not to be written?

When you’re developing your skills, it may be fine to experiment. Try your hand at several genres, if you like, and as many writing styles as it takes to find your voice–the unique storytelling style that’s most comfortable for you. There’s something to be said for obscurity.

Once you’re established in one genre, you may be able to branch out under a pen name–one that your die-hard fans will recognize as “you” without causing confusion to the others. You’ll still have to develop a second platform and build relationships with a new community of readers, but if your heart is truly divided, it may well be worth the effort.

I borrowed and modified seven examples from the Seekerville blog. The Seekerville Grammar Queen gives excellent advice for those troubling grammar issues we face during our quest for a best-selling novel. In fact, check out the site after reading these examples. You may find it enlightening.

Misplaced Modifiers

Adjectives and adverbs belong next to the word they modify.

Incorrect: Naomi almost read every book in the library.

Correct: Naomi read almost every book in the library.

Dangling Participles

A participle is a verb, usually in its ‘ing’ form, which is acting as an adjective. We usually find it beginning a phrase at the start of a sentence, because it modifies the subject of the sentence. But if the subject is missing or is somehow not the one the writer intended to describe, hilarity may ensue.

Incorrect: Rushing to meet the deadline, the rough draft was not well edited. (The rough draft was not rushing to meet the deadline; the writer was…but where is she?)

Correct: Rushing to meet the deadline, Lynn did not edit the rough draft well.

Proper comma placement

In a compound sentence (one where the two halves could each stand on their own as complete sentences), the comma comes BEFORE the conjunction (joining words such as and, or, but).

Incorrect: Melinda made it to the airport on time but, she forgot her ticket.

Correct: Melinda made it to the airport on time, but she forgot her ticket.

Restrictive/nonrestrictive elements

When we interrupt the thought of a sentence to give specific information such as a proper name, we set the restrictive element off with commas.

Incorrect: Michelle asked her friend Lynn for a ride.   

Correct: Michelle asked her friend, Lynn, for a ride.

Comma Splices

When joining two complete thoughts, you may use a period to form two separate sentences or you may use a comma with a conjunction. On rare occasions, you might use a semicolon, but you cannot use a comma alone. This is called a “comma splice,” and it results in a run-on sentence.

Incorrect: Terri ate shrimp for lunch, she said it was excellent.

Correct: Terri ate shrimp for lunch. She said it was excellent.

Misused Apostrophes

Apostrophes take the place of dropped letters in a contraction (it’s for it is). Apostrophes are also used to show possession. There are some tricky exceptions, though, which must be memorized.

Incorrect: Shannon stroked the kitten behind it’s ear.

Correct: Shannon stroked the kitten behind its ear.

When and When Not to Spell Out Numbers

The rules vary widely, but numbers less that ten are almost always spelled. Check your style guide for the others.

Incorrect: There are 7 swans swimming in the pond.

Correct: There are seven swans swimming in the pond.

Exercise:

Check your work!

That’s something I hear a lot of young writers say. Excited about embarking on a first novel-length work, the tendency is to get a little bit stuck on what to add to the Big Middle to lengthen the WIP. If that’s where you’re stuck right now, here’s what you need to concentrate on.

and

Back up and take a look at the scenes you’ve written so far. Examine them for 2 major factors.

1) Is each scene pointing to the story’s conclusion? In other words, every single scene must be absolutely necessary to the plot. It must:

• build the tension and conflict with the character’s goal
• develop the main character’s arc (growth, change)

It doesn’t matter how much you love, love, love a scene. You have to be ruthless enough to gut it if it isn’t necessary to the points above — or — it has to be changed in a way that makes it vital to the story.

2) If the scene is necessary, ask yourself the question, is it a mini-story? Does the scene have a beginning? Does it build to a dark moment? Does it reach a conclusive cliff-hanger that leads into the next scene?

Think of it this way: at the beginning of each scene a character has a goal. They react to it. There’s an outcome, and that leads to the next scene. Sometimes that reaction is the beginning of the next scene. But at its most basic form, each scene tells a small story that is part of the big story. I hope that makes sense to you. It’s like each little part of your life – an adventure you’re having that teaches you something, a romance that fails or thrives, a conflict that helps you grow — all those moments (scenes) develop your bigger Life Story. In the same way, scenes in a novel build and connect together to create a character’s bigger story.

So far, you might be asking, “If I have to eliminate unnecessary scenes, how will that make my story longer?”

Story length doesn’t come from having “stuff” happen (events, conversations) at least not a lot of unnecessary “stuff”. It comes with fleshing out and showing the stuff you likely already have in place. Occasionally it involves adding a scene that shows a character making a decision or an event enhancing conflict.

But starting with the scenes you have, search out adverbs and adjectives and imagine how you could rewrite the sentence or paragraph using stronger verbs instead, or how you could exhibit what is really going on in the character’s head without telling feelings or explaining actions. Instead of,

“The cold wind blew against her,”

try something like,

“Shivers ran up her arms as she braced herself against the wind. Why hadn’t she remembered a jacket?”

See how showing the cold by virtue of her actions actually added length? Plus it made us feel so much more on behalf of the character.

I repeat, often the key to adding length is using stronger verbs and exhibiting character actions instead of depending on adjectives or adverbs. (This is what is meant by the story-telling adage, “Show, don’t tell.”) Here’s another example of building a paragraph this way:

Paul hurried out the door. He brushed the snow off his car and revved up the engine. He was still so angry about his talk with Anna that he spun mud and snow up as he took off out of the driveway.

Now how about this:

Paul slammed the door and stomped down the walk, heedless of the slush slopping around his ankles and soaking through his shoes. Snow covered his car and he swiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt, muttering under his breath. When would spring come anyway? The door creaked when he jerked it open. The seats were cold and stiff and so was the engine. It moaned when he turned the key.

“Come on, start!” Another try and the car sputtered. He stomped on the gas and revved it, then leaned forward and scratched his fingertips at the frost inside the window.

Would Anna have regrets about his leaving? He glanced back at the house. Not a curtain moved. “Whatever.”

Paul threw the car into reverse and roared backward down the drive, the tires spraying mud and snow, his heart skidding raw along his nerves.

Doesn’t that do a better job of showing the scene, while playing it out too?

Remember, scene upon scene. It’s a slow build. Put yourself into your character’s shoes and walk in his steps. Feel what he’s feeling, but don’t tell us what that is — explore it. Your characters’ conflict will grow more intense and the novel will become thicker too. The day might even come when you’ll find yourself with the opposite puzzle of a novel too long for publishing. Now that’s another conundrum…

Writers must resist the urge to explain or risk insulting their readers’ intelligence.

Most readers catch on quickly to the fine points in a story, and they like to make up their own minds about the meanings, morals and messages.

When you read a mystery, for example, don’t you congratulate yourself for being terribly clever when you figure out “who done it” before the villain is revealed? That’s a good feeling–a feeling that would be totally ruined if the author emphasized every clue by explaining its importance.

A shard of broken glass caught Nancy’s eye. It was blue in color, just like the missing vase. She picked it up and noticed the red stain along one jagged edge. Could that be blood?

Who didn’t groan inwardly and think, “Duh. Ya think?”

Better to say: A shard of broken glass caught Nancy’s eye. Blue. She picked it up, turning it in her hand. A streak of red stained one jagged edge.

Let your reader remember that the missing vase was also blue. Let them note the possibility that the stain is blood.

Trust them to read intelligently.

Resisting the urge to explain is just as important in other genres. If we are too keen to pound home our message, we risk treating our readers as if they are dim-witted. Subtlety is a better way to win friends and influence people!

Exercise:

• Read the Biblical account of a story the prophet Nathan told to King David. (2 Samuel 12:1-9)
• Notice the simplicity of the story. Did Nathan add anything to explain the meaning?
• Notice the emotional impact of the story on King David.
• When does the full message become clear? How does the timing and simplicity of the revelation affect the impact of the message?
• Read a scene you have written as if you were a stranger reading it for the first time. Take note of places where you might resist the urge to explain more than is necessary.

Isn’t going to happen, I said. I was a stay-at-home mother of seven, busy schooling my children, the youngest still a nursing baby. There was no way our family would be able to afford it, much less for me to get away that long.

Well, the surprise was on me. Not only did my husband agree that we could fit it into our budget, but a friend from church offered to come along to babysit while I attended workshops. And it was the most amazing experience.

The editor in charge had described conferences as a kind of family reunion for writers, where you discover at last that you aren’t the only weirdo in the planet (the kind who leaks story out your ears—I mean, from your fingertips). Later, I’d describe it as an extended slumber party. For adults. Who are writers.

At the risk of making it sound like just another form of entertainment, and an expensive one at that, let me assure you that this is probably one of the most valuable things you could ever do for yourself as a writer. Bigger than a weekly or monthly writers group (which is also invaluable—we whose work is of such a solitary nature need the interaction and support of others who understand our addiction), a conference immerses us in that most magical and mysterious of writerly activities, networking!

Networking is simply the process of getting to know people: first, other writers, from newbies to the multipublished. You’ll find an amazing rapport—and support—from both. You also have the opportunity, like nowhere else, to meet agents and editors, talk with them face to face, and watch them interact with others. This can be crucial to forging a good agent-to-author relationship, since you never know from a mere online profile who you’re going to click with and who you won’t—and doesn’t your career deserve the best fit you can find? But the main thing here is to remember that you’re building relationship. These are people, not notches on your belt.

Another thing is the retreat aspect of it. You get two to four days, on the average, of intensively studying the writing craft, the industry, and depending upon the conference, the spiritual side of being a writer … with relatively little distraction. The flame of your enthusiasm can burn for a good long time on that kind of fuel, not to mention you might find a surprising new focus either during or after the event.

Don’t think you have to attend some mega-conference to get these benefits, either. Small regional ones that last just a day or two can be just as beneficial, if not more, especially to the newer, struggling writer. You’re more likely to get personalized attention, and the more intimate atmosphere allows you to relax in ways you might not in a huge crowd. Not to mention, the cost is lower, and you’re less likely to feel guilty over the time and expense if “this writing thing doesn’t work out.”

I’d be willing to bet, though, that you’ll never regret the experience—and that you’ll come away with a new commitment to your writing. True, people can and do get published without attending a conference, but few experiences boost your writing, both in actual skill and professionalism, the way a conference or workshop will.

So I say: get thee to a conference!

Challenge:  What benefit of attending a conference is the most compelling to you? What are the reasons you might not be able to go, and how could you work around those?

A story that’s lean, mean, and able to truly satisfy a reader’s hunger must have all the fat trimmed off. What is the fat? It’s any scene, word, sentence, character, dialogue, or action that isn’t necessary to the tale. There is always fat. Sometimes gobs and gobs of it. Getting rid of it can be as tough as sticking to a treadmill routine. It’s a big pain, but writers have to be committed and, at times, ruthless.

During my first attempt at plotting a novel I pondered the questions of what would fill up the middle of the book. For instance, I devised activities that would take place. “Hm… That goofy fellow can attend dinner at the heroine’s house this week, and she can rebuff him – again.” Such was one example. I arranged travels, purchases, dances, meetings, fights, and all sorts of other actions and scenes. But I failed to ask myself why I included them. Why write a certain scene or include a particular behavior or conversation? Did it advance the plot by building tension between characters or develop a character arc? Or was it simply filler? Was it only good for fluffing up the book? Every time the answer was filler, it meant I should have cut it out as fat, even if I thought it quaint and wonderfully written.

Nothing as big as a scene or as small as a word should remain in a story just to fill space. If every particle of the story doesn’t do something to push it forward and create tension, then it needs to go. I picture it like walking across a teeter totter. (Not a recommended activity.) Each step must be carefully placed or you fall. When you reach the middle, the precarious walk comes into a very tentative balance, and the outlook changes. Then, with one more step, the path tips, and you head downhill toward a conclusion.

By the time we climb to the midpoint of a story every step of it should have pointed toward the pinnacle of the black moment, the life-changing hinge in the story about to take place. This includes conversations between characters as well. There should be no pointless dialogue. By keeping the story trim to this point, you can successfully force your character’s back against a wall where she either has to suck it up and draw on secret strength, or she will momentarily panic and do something rash — either forces a game changing decision that will propel her down the hill toward peril or her heart’s desire.

There are other fat corpuscles to remove in stories too. There are excess words. Get rid of “that” in every sentence that makes sense without it. Example: He never thought that she would go so far.

Trim out words and phrases that tell instead of show. Examples: She knew… he thought… She felt… In other words, don’t tell us how someone thought or felt. Describe it, or let the character be it. Examples:

Instead of–

She knew he’d probably be late. He always was.

Get inside her head and be her–

He’d probably be late. He always was.

Instead of–

She felt like a weight had settled on her chest making it hard to breathe.

Show us the feeling–

Her breath came in short spasms, each gasp clenched by the weight of pain settling on her chest.

Here’s the thing, by cutting out the fat, meaningless words, you actually strengthen and lengthen the meat of the story. All that filler you worried about coming up with in the beginning is no longer a problem. But instead of adding fat, the story turns into a strong, lean muscle, full of action.

So get exercising. Trim the bacon on your book!

With these words J.R.R. Tolkien launched an epic fantasy that has thrilled generations of readers. Yet he chose to begin his story with not with action nor with characters, directly, but with setting. Why?

Because in some stories, such as this one, setting is so vitally important to the story that it becomes almost an invisible character in its own right. The story simply could not happen apart from the setting. Let’s look at three examples:

In The Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins (and indeed, every Hobbit by nature) is excessively fond of home as a symbol of comfort, security and permanence. In a figurative sense, you might almost say that Hobbits “bury their heads in the ground.” The troubles that happen in other places do not much concern the residents of the Shire. They imagine that troubles only happen in other places. Hobbits love the predictability of each season and are generally content as long as meals are served on time. They value a life of peace in community with others. It is crucial to Tolkien’s story that we understand these things from the outset so that we grasp how very reluctant Bilbo is to take part in any adventure, what motivates him to become a “burglar”, and how desperately he longs to return home–only to realize that he never really can. The setting in this story is a symbol of the character’s motivation.

In J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan, we find another example of a vital setting–Neverland, a place where childhood is carefree and endless. To understand why Neverland is critical to the story, we need to understand a bit about the author. J. M. Barrie had an older brother who died in an ice skating accident the day before his 14th birthday. He would “never grow up,” and his grieving mother never recovered the loss. She spent her days in bed in a darkened room. When Barrie went on occasion to visit her there, she, like Wendy, would ask, “Is that you, boy?” and Barrie would answer, “No, Mother. It’s only me.” Could it be that Neverland represents the author’s wish that children who die prematurely are able to enjoy a happy eternity in a place where they never grow up? When Peter Pan eavesdrops at barred windows, listening to childhood stories, might that be the author’s way of saying it’s important never to forget lost children? Or might he, himself, be looking back to the happy family life he enjoyed before the accident? There are many theories, but it seems clear that in this story setting is a symbol of the author’s motivation.

Finally there are stories such as Alfred Lansing’s Endurance, the astonishing biographical account of explorer Ernest Shackleton’s survival for over a year on the ice-bound Antarctic seas. In this story the setting is the “villain”–the obstacle to be overcome, and so Lansing describes it in detail.

The more essential setting is to your story, the more time you can spend describing it to your reader. (Conversely, if setting is NOT critical to your story, a long, flowery description will seem pointless and boring to most readers.) We’ll take a look next week at specific tools you can use to make your setting come alive!

Exercise:

• Identify the setting in books you are currently reading.
• Could the story have happened in some other place, or is the setting vital to the story?
• How much time did the author spend describing the setting?
• What sensory elements were used to make the setting come alive to readers?

So, last week I talked a bit about marketing and looking at it from a fresh angle. What might be some ways to NOT promote yourself (or others)?

• When looking for an opportunity to present your story to an agent or editor, do NOT follow them to the restroom and slide your proposal under the stall door! (True story …)
• Nor should you pitch your story over washing your hands …
• Do not join online or face-to-face groups with the idea of them being just another forum for you to market yourself or your work. This includes promoting other people’s work.
• Do not ignore other people’s overtures to get to know you as a person, not just another cog in the publishing machine.
• Do not take a prominent position in an organization and then treat your newfound visibility as a vehicle for promoting yourself.
• Do not post reviews of your own work, or rate your own books. (I mean, really, who wouldn’t give themselves five stars if they could? I was taught that patting yourself on the back is just tacky.)
• And do not, whatever you do, make every conversation with your friends about them buying, reading, or otherwise promoting your work (or other friends’ work).

Do any of these sound far-fetched? Does it seem that the list would be self-evident to anyone getting into marketing? Well, all of these are real-life examples.

Conference-goers know there are rules of protocol in approaching an agent or editor. Similar rules apply—or should—in how to treat our readers. The first rule of both, I believe, is not to let desperation or the fire for “promotion” drive us to what might be considered a breach of common courtesy, or would make us offensive to those around us.

Unfortunately, not everyone has the same standard of what constitutes offensive or courteous.

One of our local groups had a recent brush with someone who joined our online community just for the sake of promotion. We explained to her that we were relationship based, that we’ve been burned by hardcore self-promoters and now only allow promotion from active members. She wrote post after post advertising her blog, her book, other people’s books. I approached her via private message, explained our purpose and asked her to introduce herself personally to the group before she posted that kind of content. She responded that her mission was to “help other authors,” but if that wasn’t welcome, she’d take it elsewhere. I explained again how we believe promotion begins with relationship. She never responded to that.

Another member decided to send her some tips on improving her marketing. She didn’t respond to that, either, or take the time to write a personal post to the group before eventually leaving.

I still feel a bit conflicted about it, but the truth is, “scattershot” promotion is far less effective than building relationship.

What could she have done better? Well, introduce herself as a “real person” to the group, for starters. Share who she is, what her interests are, even being honest about her intent to promote various authors would have been better than going straight to the flurry of promotional posts. Showing some interest in getting to know her fellow group members would have been even better.

Be genuine with the people around you. Respect their time and interests. Don’t view them as just a vehicle for selling your story.

Challenge: Can you think of other ways to NOT promote yourself? And what might be some practical ways to implement the do’s?

Over the years, I heard lots of words like promotion, sales numbers, networking. The first evoked uncomfortable images of foisting myself and my writing on everyone I meet, like I’m some sort of commodity. The second merely made my eyes glaze over. (I’ve never been good at economics and finance.)  The third, well, I knew that it had something to do with why I’ve persisted in attending writing conferences over the years and taken the trouble to do Facebook and other social things, both online and in “real” life.

The problem is—and this applies to everything from sending out query letters to letting friends and families know that hey, I finally sold a story, and if they’re interested, here’s where it’s available—writers aren’t usually sales people. If we were, we’d be out selling someone else’s product, because that’s ever so much less painful than peddling our own words (which usually winds up feeling like we’re peddling ourselves …). The current state of the publishing industry doesn’t leave us much choice, however, so what’s a person with even a bit of modesty to do?

One thing I found freeing is to realize that yes, while writing might be a solitary endeavor, we write so that someone, someday, might actually read our work. From that angle, marketing can be defined simply as what we do to help readers find us.

Networking, then, is the process of connecting to other people—some of them industry professionals (editors, agents, other writers) but some just ordinary readers. We can get pretty wrapped around the axle over whether or not we impress or offend industry professionals, while forgetting that readers are why we write, and ultimately they are the ones who determine the future of our writing career.

This was the slant of most of the marketing workshops at last September’s conference, much to my shock. The keynote speaker talked about being accessible, being transparent, being vulnerable—all within reason, of course. Others spoke about approaching marketing with humility, seeking to meet the needs of readers. This doesn’t mean being self-deprecating, or taking an “aw, shucks” attitude in accepting compliments. If people like our work, we shouldn’t be shy about thanking them, and sincerely. But understand there’s a lot of competition out there, many voices clamoring to be heard. A person who shows more concern for others than for their own fame is bound to stand out from the crowd.

So, how do we do that?

Listening, for one, goes a long way in creating an emotional connection with other people. One speaker challenged us to ask the people we met at conference (or any event) three questions, and honestly pay attention to their answers, before jumping in with information about ourselves. This might seem a little manipulative, since most people really are thrilled to share about themselves, and are much more likely to remember you as caring and genuinely interested in them. But keep in mind the old saying, “Be swift to hear, slow to speak …”

Just make sure you’re doing this out of a desire to really understand and connect with people, and not from the selfish motivation of making them love YOU.

Exercise/challenge: What are some other ways to serve your readers?

Don’t. Do. That.

There’s a difference between theme and lesson. Novelists often write around themes. We write around thematic ideas such as longing for love, searching for freedom, overcoming fear, spiritual rebirth, conquering abuse, surviving physical disaster, knitting family relationships, and a host of other themes. This is especially true in Women’s Fiction, Romance, and Young Adult Fiction, but in other genres as well.

Lesson, on the other hand, is about moralizing. It’s like when your grade-school teacher wanted you to write a tale and include “the moral of the story.” You might have even been taught to write the actual words at the end of the story: The moral of the story is… Maybe you wouldn’t be so obvious now, but it’s still tempting to point out what our hapless characters learned. Hmm… Too bad. It wrecks the flow when we do that. It stinks of author intrusion (the author getting in the way of the story).

We don’t state a moral. We don’t tell a lesson. That means our characters don’t either. We must let them live their lives for good or for bad, and we must let the readers come to their own conclusions.

This can be pretty tricky, and the temptation to make a hero’s or heroine’s life-lesson clear is like biking down a road at night and being drawn to oncoming headlights. We know we should get out of the way, but it feels like we’re bugs being pulled at by the bright glare, and in fact they’re blinding us. Moralizing does that. It blinds us to the distance we’re creating between our story and the reader’s interest. We’re getting ourselves as the author in the way of the story. We can’t see how preachy our writing efforts appear, when in fact, telling the summarizing moral will make a reader like me go, phhht! and I might set the book aside because I feel like I’ve been talked down to, not by the character, but by the author.

Here’s an example:

Jenna thought back over the weeks she’d spent working on the theatrical project with Brian. She’d learned so much! Mostly she’d learned that her role was important. It didn’t matter if it was small. Everyone had a part to play, and without her, the show wouldn’t have been the same.

She sighed. Brian made her see and understand just how important she was.

And then there was mom. Mom and dad were getting along so much better now. Mom, too, had realized that even when things didn’t go the way she had planned, life would be better if she just let go a little on the control now and then. Jenna guessed she and mom were quite a bit alike after all.

Okay, now that wasn’t super overbearing. But I bet the reader had already figured in earlier pages that Jenna learned she was important, that mom learned she couldn’t be a control freak, and that Jenna and her mom both had self-image issues and were a lot alike. The reader doesn’t need it summarized for them.

So fight the urge to tell about the morals and lessons of the story. Stick to weaving themes through the book in a way that the threads blend in subtly, adding strength and color to the fabric of the tale without sticking on a bright, moralizing patch at the end.

Exercise:

Go to your WIP and look for any cases where you might be explaining to the reader what the characters are learning. Instead, make sure their actions have shown their learning curve throughout the story. Don’t bother repeating it at the end.