Learning What to Learn as a First-Time Novelist

Before I started drafting The Songsman, I was already deep into studying writing. I read craft books, watched videos, and chased every tip people said I “needed to know.” What I didn’t grasp yet was the scope of the thing. I didn’t know what I didn’t know—or even what I needed to know to know it. That subtle gap didn’t make sense until I actually sat down to write a book.

A year later, I understand more of the terrain. All the easy, searchable knowledge is a fine starting point. Questions like “What is show, don’t tell?” and “What makes a good character?” are great when you’re new. But writing a full draft forces you into questions no beginner guide can prepare you for—questions shaped by your own blind spots and weaknesses.

These are some of the big questions that surfaced as I wrote my first draft, along with a few things I discovered during revision.

How to Make a PoV Shine

How do great authors handle third-person limited while staying true to a character’s inner lens? I understand the basics, and I even pulled it off well with a few characters. But I want to go further—stronger PoV diction, cleaner focus, and a sense that the reader is living inside the head of someone real.

Now that I know this is an area to sharpen, I’m planning to study a few books known for standout characterization. I’ll read with purpose this time, paying attention to how each author filters the world through a character’s mood, history, and worldview. And when I reach the stage of getting editorial and reader feedback, I’ll ask about this directly so I can get eyes on it from people who aren’t trapped in my skull.

After a few revision passes, I’ve already applied one lesson I picked up from recent reads: describe the setting through the character’s lens.

If there’s a table full of ale mugs in an inn, Cael—a cynical, hardboiled type—might see:

“In the center of the common room sat a simple ale and pipe-smoke–infested table. A monument to sad souls drowning the last scraps of their humanity in the fetid marsh of vice and painful conversation.”

But Delarin, who’s more upbeat, might see:

“In the center of the common room sat a sturdy, if rustic, table. Surrounded by the din of mirth and people lifting their spirits after a long day’s work, it stood like a monument to the sense of community draped over the inn like a vibrant tablecloth.”

Same table. Different eyes.

I’ve noticed this gets easier as I go, especially with Thadren, Cael, and Kara—they each have a distinct way of reading the world, which helps guide the prose. And maybe that’s part of the answer: if I’m struggling to describe a scene through a character’s unique perspective, it might mean the character isn’t distinct enough yet and needs more depth.

Setting Descriptions

During my latest read-through of The Songsman, I noticed something surprising: my prose had actually improved. Not just the mechanics, but the shape of my voice. In the first draft, I’d glossed over in-depth, flowery descriptions. I added them where I knew I wanted them, but I didn’t force them in just to match what I’d seen in other authors’ work.

What struck me in this revision is how at peace I felt with the level of description I already had. Maybe that’s part of my natural style. Maybe it’s modern writing in general. The books I grew up with could spend half a page describing a frilly dress or the trim on a mantelpiece. I know I don’t want that. I want to be concise, give the reader what they need, and move.

Still, description is something I’m eager for feedback on—not just the metaphors or imagery I choose, but the frequency. Are scenes grounded? Are readers oriented? Or am I drifting toward “white room syndrome”? That’s an area I want to keep refining as my style continues to take shape.

Fight/Action Scenes

This one caught me off guard. As a kid of the ’80s and early ’90s, raised on The A-Team and Ninja Turtles, I naturally assumed I was an expert in action scenes. (And yes, I fully intend to sneak in a sequence where the protagonists have to build an impromptu tank. In a fantasy setting. Somehow.)

But once I started writing actual fight scenes, I understood why people struggle with them.

They can slip into a tedious laundry list in no time.

After studying and focusing on them in revision, here’s what I learned: the impact of a fight scene doesn’t come from cool flips or hyper-detailed descriptions of how the villain curls his fingers to cast a spell. It comes from emotional context. Sun Tzu said, Win first, then fight. A great fight scene is written in the plot long before anyone starts swinging. The stakes, the build-up, the dread of what happens if the characters lose—that’s what makes a fight land.

The physical moves matter only in small, intentional doses. Enough to aim the reader’s imagination in the right direction, not enough to bog them down. In action, less really is more. You’re trying to pump emotion into the reader, and move-by-move choreography just clogs the pipe. Efficiency is everything.

Character Arcs

I’m gearing up for my final big revision pass. The book is strong—really strong—in almost every arc except the main one, Delarin’s. His storyline works, but something felt off, and I couldn’t name it until this last read-through. It lacks narrative pressure and a clear sense of desire.

Without spoiling anything, this isn’t actually true inside the story’s logic, but it’s true for what the reader sees for a good stretch of the book. All the right elements are already in place; the foundation is solid. What’s missing are a few well-placed highlights—beats of plot and moments of character growth that bring his momentum into focus.

It’s like cooking a dish that’s technically good but tastes a little flat. The flavor is there; it just needs salt. Delarin’s arc doesn’t need to be rebuilt—it just needs those small, intentional additions that help the reader feel the movement long before the ending carries it into the end zone.

Physical Descriptions

This one’s more of a stylistic question I need to sort out. I tend to lean heavily on physical cues during dialogue. Instead of writing, “He was surprised,” I’ll write something like, “His eyebrows arched in shock.” And I’m pretty sure my characters smile and nod at each other more than real humans do. I blame the Robert Redford mountain-man nodding meme that apparently lives rent-free in my head.

During my last revision pass, I focused on this habit. Toning it down—or rewriting cues so they weren’t all pulling from the same small bag of tricks—helped a lot. I think I’m headed in the right direction, but I’m still not entirely sure. I’ll be paying close attention to this in feedback, and I want to watch how other authors handle it the next time I read with a craft lens.

Conclusion

All in all, I’m proud of The Songsman and everything I’ve learned so far. One more solid revision should get it to the point where I’ve done everything I can on my own. After that, it’ll be time to bring in outside eyes to help me push it toward a publishable state—equal parts exciting and a little unnerving.

Whatever they say, the feedback will be another step in the learning curve, and probably a sharper one than anything I’ve hit on my own. Either way, it moves the journey forward.

Exciting times ahead.