Aimee Lucido is a crossword maker, trivia writer, and the author of middle grade novels Emmy in the Key of Code and Recipe for Disaster, and picture book Pasta Pasta Lotsa Pasta, illustrated by Mavisu Demirag, among other titles for young readers. Here, Lucido reflects on the puzzling and painstaking process of writing her latest book, Words Apart, a middle grade novel featuring comics-style panels by Phillippa and Rachael Corcutt.

Some books write themselves. They appear fully formed in the author’s head, gift-wrapped offerings from literary gods, and writing these books is nothing short of Elysian. It’s a high so all-encompassing that it supersedes the desire for base necessities, like food, water, and bathroom breaks.

Sometimes, writing is the easiest thing in the world: joyous, magical, divine. But other times, it sucks.

Writing my new middle grade novel, Words Apart, sucked. I knew from its inception what I wanted it to do, but I had no clue what I wanted it to be. I knew I wanted to write about sisters, and I knew I wanted to incorporate crossword puzzles as poems. But that’s it. That’s all I had. I had no characters, no plot points, no setting, no theme. I had no beginning, no middle, no end, and I certainly didn’t have the connective tissue between. I had no words.

It seemed that for Words Apart, my words had parted. I was as empty as the blank page before me and as clueless as the crossword puzzle poems I also couldn’t write.

So, I waited it out, played hard to get. I thought about anything but the book, hoping an idea might sneak up on me. But the longer I procrastinated, the worse my writer’s block became. Writer’s block became writer’s brick, writer’s boulder, writer’s mountain, and soon, the very sight of my computer gave me flop sweat. It was getting ridiculous. I had to force myself to write.

I assigned myself the task of drafting two poems every day—yes, weekends too, and holidays. I was certain that if I skipped even one day, I’d never restart. But I was lenient with myself in other ways—a poem could be a single line, a lonely word written in crossword boxes, even a completely blank page if it made sense for the story. (Story? What story? I had nothing!)

Still, I strong-armed myself into wading through the fog. At no point could I see more than an inch beyond my nose, but every day I stared at the blank page and improvised what might happen next.

My progress was tepid. But every Sunday, I had 14 new poems. They were terrible, but they existed. And every Sunday, I would send those 14 poems to friends who were only allowed to respond with praise. I needed constant head pats, constant participation trophies, to make the slightest headway on the book.

But somewhere along the line, I turned a corner. Because occasionally, the forced praise would touch on something genuine. An aspect of the pages would shine... just a bit. They liked the dictionary definition poems—maybe I should write more of those! They liked the character of Mattie—maybe she could be a second narrator! They pointed out compelling plot turns, questions they wanted answered. And in this way, I clawed towards a semblance of story.

I sketched the first faint lines of character. I settled on a setting. I dowsed my way to a theme and even (gasp!) the skeleton of a plot. For the first time ever, I wrote an outline. I read Save the Cat and kept it open while I worked. At one point, I even sent the first half of the story to a friend and asked, “What happens next?”

Somehow, the book got written. Presumably because I wrote it... after all, that is my name on the cover. But I remember shockingly little of the actual writing of it, as if the creative trauma is still, four years later, too much to bear. But I do remember that after the book was drafted, I went back and read it from start to finish… and I liked it. No, I loved it. In fact, I thought this might be my favorite story I’d ever written.

How did that happen? How did the most excruciating writing experience of my life translate to my favorite reading experience? I have a theory.

When a story comes in a fit of inspiration, it’s easy to conflate love for the words on the page with love for the story in our head. When we read our own words, we immerse ourselves in the very images we used to write them, images that we, almost tautologically, love. It’s only when we bring our work to external readers that we are able to recognize the delta (often substantial!) between the book we wrote and the book we thought we were writing.

But Words Apart never existed in my head. There was no platonic ideal for me to confuse with reality, so every time I read the words, all I saw was... words.

If I wanted to love my writing, I had to write something that I loved. I had to use every tool in my toolbox, acquired from more than a decade of studying craft, to construct a story. I had to analyze what makes a character compelling, then use that analysis to create compelling characters. I had to twist plots with intentionality, manipulate language in a thoughtful and engaging way, and I had to work doubly hard to make myself—the angry, writer’s-blocked writer—smile. If I could amuse myself, if I could engross myself, if I could make myself feel love, that was entirely due to the words on the page.

I couldn’t function on inspiration, so I functioned on craft. In that way, I wrote and rewrote and re-rewrote and re-re-rewrote until I had a book.

Every single minute sucked. Zero stars, two thumbs down, do not recommend. If you can pick, have the book delivered prewritten to your brain by a Greek muse. It’s way more fun.


But if you’re forced to write a story the other way—the sucky way—the final product may not suck at all. Because sometimes writing is the most magical thing in the world, but having written is nothing short of Elysian.

Words Apart by Aimee Lucido, illus. by Phillippa and Rachael Corcutt. Versify, $18.99 Oct. 7 ISBN 978-0-358-65958-7