April Dávila

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Autofiction: When Your Story Doesn’t Fit in the Box

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You sit down to write your story. It’s personal. Emotional. True, but also –  not exactly. You’ve changed names. Rearranged events. Invented scenes to make the emotional arc land.

And then, someone asks: So, is it a memoir or a novel?

Cue the panic.

If you’ve ever stared at your messy, honest, beautiful manuscript and thought, “What even is this thing I’m writing?” you’re not alone. Many writers have wrestled with this exact question. Sometimes what we’re writing isn’t fully memoir, but it isn’t fully fiction either.

I’ve wrestled with genre labels myself. Sometimes a story feels like literary fiction, but carries the emotional resonance of memoir. Sometimes it leans into magical realism or brushes up against the edges of another genre entirely. These boundaries can feel both helpful and limiting. They give us a framework but they also risk boxing in stories that live in the in-between. 

That in-between space? That’s where autofiction lives.

What Is Autofiction, Anyway?

Autofiction is a genre that blends autobiography and fiction. Think: memoir with imagined details or a novel based on real events where the author is clearly (but not explicitly) the protagonist.

It’s not new. Writers like Karl Ove Knausgård, Sheila Heti, and Rachel Cusk have been living in this space for years. But lately, autofiction is getting more attention especially from younger writers who value emotional truth over factual accuracy.

Two great recent examples:

  • Be Brief and Tell Them Everything by Brad Listi – A raw, reflective book about creativity, grief, and fatherhood, written in a voice that blurs journal entry and novel. I loved this book.
  • On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong – A novel in letters, fictionalized but clearly rooted in Vuong’s life.

Autofiction lets you say, “This is my truth, even if it didn’t happen exactly this way.”

Why Writers Struggle With Labels — Especially in Autofiction

The tension between truth and fact is at the heart of the autofiction conversation. Memoir demands that you stick to what happened. Fiction gives you room to play. Autofiction says: what if I do both?

Here’s where things get messy:

  • Legal Fears: Writers worry about defamation or family blowback. “If I call it fiction, am I safer?”
  • Marketing Confusion: Agents want to know where your book fits on a shelf. “Is this a novel or memoir?” isn’t just curiosity,  it’s a practical concern.
  • Internal Doubt: You may wonder, “Am I cheating if I invent things? Or holding back if I don’t?”

We’ve seen this come up in our Mastermind Sessions. One of the writers in our community called her book “a memoir with a safety net.” Another said, “It’s like fiction… but emotionally autobiographical.” That’s autofiction. It’s the genre of “yes, and…”

Reflections from Fellow Writers

This question (“What genre am I writing?”) comes up again and again in conversations with writers navigating personal material. It’s especially common among those who begin with memoir but realize along the way that fiction might offer the flexibility they need.

Some writers say their novels began as memoirs, but after changing so many details, the stories no longer feel autobiographical yet they still carry emotional truth. Others feel stuck trying to be perfectly honest, especially when their memories are unclear. For them, autofiction offers the freedom to let go of strict facts and simply write.

These kinds of reflections are powerful reminders that the writing process isn’t always linear and that genre labels can feel both helpful and limiting. For many, discovering autofiction becomes a way to move forward with a story that’s deeply personal, even if it doesn’t fit neatly into a single box.

Talk About It

Have you struggled to define your book’s genre?
What does emotional truth mean in your writing?

Start the conversation, whether that’s journaling on your own, chatting with a fellow writer, or bringing it to your next writing group. These are the questions that lead to clarity and momentum.

Writing Hard Scenes That Carry Real Emotion

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If you’ve ever hit a section in your story that made you want to close your laptop and walk away, you’re not alone. Writing hard scenes—grief, shame, trauma, heartbreak—takes something out of us. I’ve talked to so many writers over the years, across genres and stages of the journey, and this comes up again and again: how do you write the emotional parts without spiraling?

There’s no one right answer. But in my experience, having a plan for how to approach emotionally intense material makes all the difference.

Why I Avoid Writing Emotionally Hard Scenes (And Maybe You Do Too)

For many of us, there’s a voice in our head that says: “No one wants to hear this.” Or, “This is too much.” Or even, “Don’t be whiny.”

I was raised with a “suck it up and get it done” mentality. Describing emotional experiences didn’t come naturally—and honestly, it’s still the hardest part of my writing process. But I’ve learned that emotional writing is what gives a story heart. A well-structured plot can move a story forward, but it’s the emotional scenes that make a reader feel it.

What It Feels Like to Write the Hard Scenes

One writer in our community described revising her novel and reaching the last few chapters, only to feel sick at the thought of digging into the emotional beats. “It’s like the last mile of a marathon,” she said. “I know it matters. I know it will make the book better. But it’s exhausting.”

I call that “last mile stuff.” Those little emotional additions that elevate a story from passable to powerful. Often, it’s just a few key sentences, but they have to be exactly right. And sometimes those few sentences are the ones I avoid the longest.

I’ve had scenes where I knew exactly what was needed—and I still danced around them. I’d write everything but the moment that hurt. Eventually, I circle back and handle it, but not without preparation.

Writing Hard Scenes Without Hurting Yourself

There’s actual research to support this approach. Dr. James W. Pennebaker, a psychologist at the University of Texas at Austin, has conducted extensive studies on what he calls “expressive writing”—writing about emotional experiences. His findings show that when people write about difficult topics in a safe and intentional way, it can lead to better emotional and even physical health.

According to a Harvard Health article summarizing Pennebaker’s work, those benefits are most powerful when writers don’t push themselves too hard, too fast. Taking your time and layering your emotional truth onto the page in manageable stages can actually be more effective—and more sustainable—than diving in all at once.

Here’s what I’ve learned: you don’t have to dive in all at once. Think of emotionally intense scenes as something you can approach in layers. In draft one, sketch the shape of what’s happening. In draft two, add tone and texture. When you feel ready—and only then—go deeper.

Treat these emotionally charged scenes as something you build over time, not something you need to bleed onto the page in one go. That space gives you more control, and often, more clarity.

Some writers I know will write a placeholder in their draft—something like, “insert emotional moment here”—and only come back to it when they’re ready. That’s not avoidance. That’s pacing yourself.

How I Write Emotionally Difficult Scenes (Without Burning Out)

Here are a few strategies I’ve developed over the years, and that often come up in our community conversations:

  • Name what you’re avoiding. Say it out loud. Sometimes I’ll literally write a note in the margin: “This is the hard part.”
  • Write it fast and messy—then walk away. You don’t have to get it right the first time. Just get it out.
  • Let yourself feel it. If you cry or clench your jaw while writing—it’s okay (in fact, it’s probably a sign that you’re capturing some good emotions on the page). That reaction is part of the process.
  • Talk to someone about it. A writing buddy. A therapist. Someone who can hold space while you work through it.
  • Create a post-writing ritual. After I write something particularly hard, I go for a walk, take a shower, or put on a favorite playlist. Something to remind myself that I’m okay.

And always know: you are not obligated to write about every painful thing that’s ever happened to you. But if you choose to, honor it by writing with care—for your reader and for yourself.

Why Writing Emotional Scenes Matters

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” – Maya Angelou

When we allow emotional truth to land on the page, something shifts—not just for the reader, but for us as writers. It’s vulnerable. It’s brave. And it often becomes the part of the story that readers remember most.

Personally, I want to write stories with emotional heart. And that means I have to go back and write the sentences I keep avoiding. Not always right away. Not every day. But eventually. That’s where the good stuff lives.

I’ve seen this in every genre—from memoirists writing about childhood trauma to thriller writers digging into grief. Readers connect with emotion. It’s what brings a story to life. So even if you write fantasy or historical fiction or speculative worlds, know that the emotional core is what makes it real.

One of the most powerful things I’ve learned is this: you don’t have to do it alone—and having support can make all the difference.

What’s the hardest emotionally intense scene you’ve ever written? Or what are you avoiding right now?

If those difficult scenes have you stuck, these articles might help you find a way through.
👉 Writing Hard Scenes
👉 Avoiding Difficult Scenes

Because more often than not, the scenes we resist are where the real story lives.

Research for Fiction Writing

Do You Need to Know the Weather in Chicago on March 7, 1930? (Maybe)

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Research for fiction writing can be both inspiring and overwhelming. It’s easy to fall into the trap of endless Googling in the name of “getting it right,” only to find yourself hours deep in historical trivia with nothing on the page.

You sit down to write a scene.

It starts with a simple question: what did Chicago look like in 1930?

You hop on Google, planning to get just enough to color the background—and an hour later, you’re an expert on wind patterns, municipal building codes, and (for some reason) the 1930 weather report for March 7. It feels like progress—like you’re doing important groundwork—but then you glance at the clock and realize:

You haven’t written one word of your scene. 

As  a writer, you want to get the details right—but how do you know when it’s enough? How do you avoid spending hours on research that may never even make it into the final draft?

The truth is, research for fiction writing can be both a gift and a trap. Yes, it’s necessary for creating a believable world. But it can also be a sneaky way to procrastinate—especially when the writing gets hard.

I’ve been there. I once spent half a day researching the prevalence of glass-paned windows in 1850 California only to realize that it didn’t matter to my story AT ALL. 

So how do we find the balance? How do we do enough research without disappearing down the rabbit hole?

The trick? A clear structure for when and how to research.

The 3-Round Research Method

Not all research deserves the same amount of time or energy. To keep myself (and my students) from over-researching, I use a simple system I call the 3-Round Research Method.

Round One: Broad-Strokes Plausibility

Start by gathering the big-picture facts: what’s the time period, major technologies, political climate, and social norms? You don’t need deep expertise—just enough to make sure your story doesn’t feel wildly inaccurate.

Think of this as laying the foundation of your world. The goal isn’t perfection. It’s plausibility.

Round Two: Scene-Level Accuracy

Once you’re writing, you’ll need to add some texture. What would your character see, smell, hear? What kinds of shoes would they wear? How might they light their home at night?

This round is about immersing the reader in a lived-in world. But keep it light. Use specific detail sparingly, and always in service of the story. No info dumps.

Here’s a helpful gut check: would a reader stop and question this detail? If yes, verify it. If not, trust yourself and keep going.

Round Three: Deep-Dive Details

This is the level where it’s okay to find out what the weather was on a Tuesday in 1930—but only if your plot hinges on that storm.

These are the rare, story-critical details that deserve a full deep dive. But be cautious. You usually only need one or two pieces of specific information to make the world feel real.

As I often remind my students: the goal isn’t to prove you did your homework—it’s to make the reader feel like your world is real.

How Much Research for Fiction Writing Is Enough?

Here’s a quick test: will a typical reader pause and question this moment? If so, check your facts. If not, let it go.

We’re aiming for verisimilitude—the appearance of truth—more than literal, academic accuracy. That’s especially important to remember if you’re writing fiction.

You’re not writing a textbook. You’re telling a story. Research supports the story—not the other way around.

One trap I see writers (myself included) fall into is researching tangents that never make it into the book. It feels useful in the moment, but if it doesn’t serve your plot or your characters, it’s likely just another distraction in disguise.

A Few Questions to Reflect On

Let’s have some fun with this. Here are a few questions I often ask myself and my writers in our community—and they always lead to lively conversations:

  • What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever researched for your book?
  • Do you tend to over-research or under-research?
  • How do you know when it’s time to stop researching and start writing?

Want to Write More Without Getting Lost in Research?

Join the Mindful Writing Community and tune in for our mastermind sessions every Wednesday. We dig into topics just like this: how to stay focused, find balance, and actually finish what we start.

Because at the end of the day, no amount of research can replace the writing itself.

Choosing Your Publishing Path: The Traditional Way or Self-Publish?

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Somewhere along the way—usually after a few drafts and a whole lot of soul-searching—every writer faces the same question: Should I try to get a book deal, or should I self-publish?

And the truth is, there’s no right answer. The publishing path that’s best for you is the one that supports your goals, your timeline, and your strengths as a writer.

If you’re feeling stuck at this particular fork in the road, you’re not alone. Let’s break it down.

Traditional Publishing: The Dream (and the Reality)

For many writers, traditional publishing feels like the ultimate goal. There’s a certain validation in landing an agent, signing a contract, and seeing your book in bookstores. It’s the path that generally comes with professional editing, distribution support, and an advance.

If your dream is to walk into your neighborhood bookstore and spot your book on the “Staff Picks” shelf—traditional publishing is the lane you want to be in.

But the process can be long. Really long.

You’ll need:

  • A polished, agent-ready manuscript
  • A strong query letter
  • Patience for the submission process (think months… or years)
  • A willingness to handle marketing

Traditional publishing isn’t just about talent; it’s also about timing, market trends, and industry fit. What you give up in terms of control, you gain in the form of support, but that support can mean that your book reaches a much wider audience than it might otherwise.

Self-Publishing: Creative Control and Faster Timelines

On the flip side, self-publishing gives you full ownership of the process. If you’re someone who likes to be in the driver’s seat, this might be your route.

Self-publishing is fast, flexible, and empowering. You set your own schedule. You keep a bigger share of the royalties. You write the rules.

But it’s not without its challenges. You’re not just the author—you’re also the publisher, project manager, and marketing team. The job is less difficult if you’re writing in a genre like romance or thriller (genres with voracious consumers) but if you’re writing literary fiction it can be challenging to get your book into the hands of potential readers. 

If that challenge excites you more than it intimidates you, self-publishing can be incredibly fulfilling.

Hybrid Publishing: A Middle Way

If traditional publishing feels too slow and self-publishing feels too overwhelming, hybrid publishing might offer a balanced alternative. Hybrid publishers typically ask authors to contribute financially to the production of their book, but in exchange, they provide professional services—editing, design, distribution, and sometimes even marketing.

This model gives you more support than self-publishing without the gatekeeping of traditional publishing. But be cautious: not all hybrid publishers are created equal. Some are excellent partners, others are just overpriced printers. Do your homework. Look for hybrid presses that vet manuscripts, are transparent about costs, and offer a royalties structure that feels fair.

Writers who’ve gone hybrid often say they liked having professional guidance without needing to chase down an agent. It’s especially worth considering if you want to publish on a timeline, but still crave the polish of a team behind you.

Choosing Your Publishing Path: Questions to Ask Yourself

Before choosing a publishing path, take a moment to reflect on what you really want out of the experience.
Here are a few clarifying questions:

What are your goals as a writer?

  • Are you hoping to build a long-term writing career?
  • Is this a passion project you want to finish and share?

How important is timing?

  • Can you wait years to see your book in print?
  • Or would you prefer to publish in the next six months?

Do you have the budget (and energy) to manage production?

  • Are you comfortable hiring professionals for editing, book design, website creation, etc.?
  • Are you excited—or overwhelmed—by the idea of marketing?

And perhaps most importantly:

What feels aligned with your why?

  • If you revisit the reason you started writing this book in the first place, does one path stand out?

There’s no wrong answer here.
You don’t need permission to share your story with the world. The right publishing path is the one that gets your book into the hands of readers—on your terms. It’s not about chasing some industry ideal; it’s about choosing what works for your goals, your timeline, and the kind of writing life you want to build.

Talk about it

Whether you’re leaning one way or still sitting on the fence, you’re doing the brave work of bringing a story into the world. That counts for something.

Our community thrives on these conversations—not just for support, but for clarity.

Have you chosen your publishing path already? What helped you decide?

Or if you’re still in decision mode:

  • What questions are holding you back?
  • What kind of support do you wish you had?

💬 Leave a comment below and share where you’re at in your publishing journey.

How a Scrivener Outline Can Rescue Your First Draft

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If your manuscript feels more like a pile of spaghetti than a structured story, you are not alone. Many of my writer friends and writers I work with regularly admit that once their first draft is “done,” they have no idea what they’re actually looking at. The good news? You don’t have to have it all figured out. And tools like Scrivener can help you shape that beautiful mess into something coherent—without starting from scratch.

Why Your First Draft Feels Like Mush

Let’s normalize this: most first drafts are messy. They’re full of false starts, underdeveloped characters, scenes that go nowhere, and threads that vanish mid-page. But all of that is data. It’s raw material you can work with.

One of the participants in the Mastermind Sessions I lead every Wednesday recently said, “I just needed to see it all before I could figure out what I was trying to say.”

Sound familiar? You’re not off-track. You’re writing.

So how do you begin shaping that beautiful chaos into something you can actually work with?

Step One: Break It Into Scenes

Scenes are the building blocks of story. Not chapters. Scenes.

A scene is a certain number of people, in a specific place, at a specific time.

If any one of those changes—someone enters or exits, time jumps, or the location shifts—you’re in a new scene. Thinking in scenes makes it easier to:

  • Cut unnecessary fillers (“she tied her shoes and drove to the office”)
  • Identify where the conflict or emotional stakes are lacking
  • Reorganize story flow

One of the reasons I love Scrivener is that you can drop 80,000 words into a file (or write by stream of consciousness) and then split your manuscript into scenes using the “Split at Selection” function. Yes, it takes a little time. Yes, it’s worth it.

(In case you don’t know – I have a library of over 40 short, to the point Scrivener tutorials I recorded for my writing community. You can access it here for $19.99)

Step Two: Get to Know Scrivener Outline Mode

Scrivener’s Outline Mode gives you a bird’s-eye view of your entire manuscript—perfect for overwhelmed writers. But first, you’ll need to create short synopses for each scene.

If you didn’t do that while drafting (most of us don’t), now’s the time. All it takes is a sentence or two so that you can easily recall what the scene is about.  One writer in our group used ChatGPT to help: she copied and pasted each scene and asked for a 1-2 sentence summary. Then she pasted those into Scrivener’s synopsis cards.

Once you’ve done that, Outline Mode lets you:

  • See the shape of your story at a glance
  • Track scenes by character, theme, or timeline
  • Spot plot holes, pacing issues, and inconsistencies

Step Three: Color-Code for Clarity

If you’re a visual thinker (and many of us are), color-coding in Scrivener can be a game-changer. You might:

  • Assign colors based on point of view
  • Highlight key themes (e.g., trauma, healing, betrayal)
  • Group scenes by location or time period

One of the writers I work with had scenes about her protagonist’s past, her affair, and her current life. Once she color-coded them, she could instantly see how those threads braided (or didn’t) across the book. 

Optional But Useful: Export Your Scrivener Outline

Did you know you can export your Scrivener outline with the scene titles and summaries? 

This gives you a printable cheat sheet for revision—a huge help when you’re staring down 80,000+ words and wondering what’s what.

You Don’t Need to Fix It All In a Day

Revision is a process. Step by step, layer by layer. But having a tool like Scrivener—and a strategy for using it – can make the whole thing feel less daunting.

So if you’re staring at a mushy first draft wondering where to start, try this:

  1. Break it into scenes.
  2. Summarize each one.
  3. Step back and look at the whole picture.

You might be surprised by how much you do know once the chaos is mapped out.

Need a little inspiration or guidance? Check out the other articles on my blog where you’ll find tools, tips, and insights for every step of your writing journey.

Happy writing, my friend!