Blogging out of the box

Thank you to all who have followed this blog. I started blogging in late 2014, unsure what I was doing with it. It’s been over 5 years, and I’m still as uncertain.

Thank you not just for following me, but for letting the email notifications for this blog fill your inbox. While I’ve been finding my voice in writing itself, finding my “blog voice” has been a secondary pursuit.

As 2020 commences, I’d like to think of what’s next for this blog. A good way to do that is to look backward first.

I’ve written about my writing habits. I’ve written more generally on writing craft. I ran a fun series called World Builders that had 3 incarnations and connected me to nearly 100 other writers. I even tried writing about anything but writing.

My most viewed posts are the ones on writing craft, so I’ve tried to write more of that.

But really…

…why do I blog?

After all, I have a newsletter. The newsletter for me has been a place to talk about progress mostly on my epic. Other relevant writing news is also fair game, such as my educational Highbrow courses.

Blogging is different. I want to create something a bit more public, and because of that, useful.

But I’m also a writer who focuses primarily on the writing that will be published and read, and how to improve that. I don’t have time for side-ventures that take me off track.

For this reason, from time to time I’ve gone quiet on the blog. And that fact is the most important as I reflect on what comes next.

Going forward, I want to try using what I’ll call (since I’m a writer and get to invent names) the Twitter Metric:

If it starts as a tweet but is too long for a tweet, I’ll blog about it.

If it’s official news about my own writing, publishing and marketing, I’ll save that for the newsletter. If it’s something useful, I’ll make a course or a book — which means, like 95% of my writing ideas, it will sit on my project whiteboard and only get written if it stays circled and irks me enough to decide sometime this year or next, that project will work its way into my queue.

One such project: Self-Publishing With A $0 Budget.

As I’ve explored different blog posts on aspects of self-editing, one thing that’s occurred to me time and time again is that this is the shitty rough draft of a book, not a blog post. I’m too daunted to write a formal book on how to edit or self-edit for self-publishing, because I feel there are too many books already on the topic, by authorities more seasoned than me.

But I have a unique experience in my role as senior editor with my company, and I’ve overseen the editing process on over 200 publications. I personally have edited more than 40. So, while I don’t feel I have the authority of others who have written books on self-editing and how editing works, I do most definitely have experience to share, and with my love for educational writing, it would be a fun project.

So, it’s on my whiteboard. Some of you have written to me to give me suggestions for posts on how to edit, which I appreciate, and I encourage anyone else who wants to do so to reach out by email. I’d like to assemble a team of beta readers, particularly self-publishing writers wanting to learn how editing works, who will act like students in a classroom as I write this book, using the comments to “put their hand up” and interrupt my otherwise one-sided lecture. I’d like to explain editing inside and out, how I understand it, but also to receive live input so I have a useful feedback loop, and can use that as part of the drafting process.

At least, that’s the project on my whiteboard as I see it, if is it to become a reality. And, as I find with writing in general, if it’s meant to become a part of the lineup, it will present itself somewhere in the crazy improv act that is the writing life.

I won’t be blogging about this topic anymore then, for the same reason I don’t blog my drafts in progress. I will either refine this into a product worth publishing, or ignore it; but, as Einstein wisely advised, if it comes to anything, I will keep my mouth shut while I work work work.

By the logic of the Twitter Metric, this means you can expect future posts from me will be my occasional thoughts on books I enjoy, the reading process, aspects of writing lifestyle I’d like to share, etc.

The blog will be more about living the writing life, and my unique angle on it, to be appreciated by other writers in their unique journey wanting to draw on inspiration and ideas. In that spirit, there will be long pauses where you don’t hear anything from me, since that’s also part of the game; don’t peek at rice when it’s cooking.

I’m thinking not just about those of you reading this now, but future first time visitors who come to my website and click on the blog link, and what I’d want them to find. The blog is my place to share more personally, less author-business-focused, like a longer tweet that’s worth expanding upon. At least, that’s what it will be from this point onward (and, to those new visitors, this post would be the “sorry for fucking this up the last 5 years, but now I think I got it” post).

Twitter is my heartbeat. And, my tweets are embedded on the sidebar here, so new visitors will find the both of best worlds.

I don’t know what you can expect next from me, but I will endeavour to make it unpredictable enough to amuse you, but not so much that you wonder if I got hacked by a bot.

Here’s to 2020, and blogging outside of the box.

And now, back to Anne McCaffrey’s inspiring Dragonflight, and the cat that won’t leave my lap until I get at least another hour of reading in.

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A Thousand Roads is OUT!

For those of you not on my newsletter, this is the BIG DAY. After 7 years of work, A Thousand Roads is OUT. No need to repeat myself, so I’ll link you to the newsletter. Sign up if you want to be on future updates (links in the newsletter).

Click the image to open the newsletter:

My newsletter is periodic and focused specifically on my epic fantasy writing and progress on that, whereas this blog will continue to be a freer forum discussing anything from living under the reign of two cats to gardening to the occasional reflections on writing life or writing tips.

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My review for Zen In the Art of Writing, by Ray Bradbury

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My new piano adventure!

*This post is based on the newsletter I sent out today, so apologies to those subscribers who also follow this blog.

I’m excited to share something new!

While I have continued to work on Blood Dawn every weekend now since March, I have also discovered a new part of my gig that I’m having so much fun with, I want to make it a part of what I do.

Here’s a link to a piece I have been practicing, that I finally felt was ready to share:

I began practicing this on the first week of the COVID-19 lockdown, in early March, and recorded that video on June 5th, some 16 weeks later, with lockdown still in effect.

It is from an anime series called Yuri On Ice, called the Free Skate Program. This piece had a lot of meaning for me as I thought about getting through to the other side where we will all be free to resume our lives again. For me personally, though, there was also something very freeing inside as I committed to the practice required to learn it.

I have been playing piano since I was 7. I started with Fur Elise, after copying one of the parents who would come early to daycare. My mom put me in lessons, but I didn’t like them, until when I was 9, a new teacher decided to break the rules and let me learn the Moonlight Sonata on the side. That was when my interest in piano took off. When I was 13, I got into piano quite seriously and took all the grades in our local conservatory, up to the final level. I played my way through all of Beethoven’s piano sonatas. I practiced Chopin’s etudes often, as well as most of his other works. I tried Rachmaninov, and though I struggled with his maniacal patterns, one dream in my heart was to someday play his 3rd piano concerto.

Then, when I was 20, when told I wouldn’t be able to make much of a living on piano, I gave it all up to chase academic dreams that left no room for piano lessons.

In the last few years as I went full in on writing, I’ve often wanted to incorporate piano practice. Over the last 17 years since quitting lessons, I’ve tinkered with the piano on and off, but never committed to learning anything for performance.

Free Skate Program from Yuri On Ice was my first official commitment to turn that all around.

At first an experiment, where I tried practicing this piece only for 1 hour a day Monday to Friday, I soon couldn’t get enough of that, so I went up to 1.25 hours. I went up to 1.5 hours a few weeks ago and already want to go up to 2 hours. When I sit at the piano, focused on one piece and the creative problem solving required to perfect it, I feel liberated inside, tapping into something I never knew I loved so much, and I can only get excited about what lies ahead.

I was worried this side quest would mean my writing suffers, but in fact, I’ve found that something about the magic that goes on in my brain when I’m immersed in piano notes transfers to my daily writing sessions. I’ll never be able to measure directly if and how it improves my writing, but I can certainly say I’m sharper than I’ve ever been, and every week am doing the best writing I’ve ever done.

The good thing about piano too is, it’s active. Most of my work involves sitting at a desk reading articles, or sitting in a chair reading a book, or sitting at a desk typing on a computer. Sitting, sitting, sitting.

On piano, I’m sitting on a bench, but I’m moving the whole time. It’s a full-on arm and finger workout (and, perhaps, improves typing skills).

Right now I am learning Chopin’s Etude #23, “Winter Wind”, which is so difficult it might be windy winter by the time I can perform it. But I will learn it, and share when it’s done. I also will do a 2nd recording (without cat toys in the background) of the Free Skate Program, once social distancing is lifted and I can get my piano tuner in.

If you want to follow my piano recording progress, go and subscribe on my YouTube channel after you listen to the video. And please click “like” if you enjoy it:

And share too — the more mileage I see this video get, the better. It will encourage me to practice more so I can make more videos.

I have no idea where this piano side quest will go, or if it will at some point take over my life, though as it has forced me to give up a lot of extraneous work, it’s helped me understand how deeply I want to do what remains: like write Blood Dawn, and Highbrow courses, and the reading and research I spend hours a day on.

If you have requests or comment, you can leave them in the comments here!

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A Covid-19 Writer’s Routine

I’ve always thought my writing routine boring to most people, so I just don’t talk about it. But as social distancing now nears the end of its 2nd week, with perhaps many more weeks to come, I see many people sharing how they are spending their time to stay sane. Among these especially: writers. So, it’s my turn.

Back at the start of 2017, someone gave me some good advice:

“Don’t wait to be a full-time writer. Be that now. Make it real, and let the reality catch up.”

I thought he was nuts, but I understood where he was coming from. The context of this advice: at the time, I was snowed in with editing jobs. There was no time to write. No time to do the reading I know a writer should be doing to improve.

What he was saying to me was that I had to cement the times to write. Pretend that money is no issue. Pretend I’m sitting on a 6-figure cheque. How exactly would I spend my time if writing were my job?

What he was leading me toward was a stark truth: just because you have all your time free to write doesn’t mean you’ll write. Instead, you’ll be stuck with Netflix and video games and social media chats and extra visits with friends and whatever the hell you want to do.

Becoming a full-time writer isn’t a financial thing. It’s a mentality, and the gateway to a discipline that becomes several habits.

The first thing I realized when the Covid-19 social distancing routine started was that my life for the last 2 years, since taking my friend’s advice, has been identical to social distancing, with one main exception:

I can’t go out to coffee shops where I like to work.

In a typical weekday, I’m get in about 5-7 hours of productive work. About 4-5 of that is specific to the full-time writing routine I keep up. On Saturday and Sunday I’m only productive about 3-5 hours and most of that is reading and writing.

I don’t do this all at once. I like to break it into about 3-4 chunks of 1-2 hours, and usually I change location between each. Hence the coffee shops.

One thing I learned right away during Covid-19 social distancing is that “change location” doesn’t have to involve much. Here are some examples of how I “changed location” without leaving my house:

On Saturday and Sunday, I go to a coffee shop first thing to put in 2 hours of reading on the local paper. This is a great routine and I typically can read about 50-60 articles on relevant news each weekend. I like to read a physical paper because there are no distractions. My phone is out of reach. It’s just me and the words.

I really didn’t know how to do this at home. But, left with no choice, I assessed the house and realized the kitchen table, if cleared of junk, is perfect. I did it and made a French Press of coffee, and was pleasantly surprised how it felt just as engaging as my coffee shop setting.

This is all a psychology game. Sitting and putting in a solid 30-40 hours of a mix of reading and writing (for me, it’s about 70% reading), will drive most people nuts. The trick is convincing yourself that each chunk of 1-2 hours is special and unique, so you don’t feel you’re doing the same thing over and over and over again.

In the case of my kitchen table, I set up a bit of a ritual to play the psychology game well. I will only sit at it to read the paper for my 2 hours on Saturday and Sunday. Now that space and setup in my mind is “weekend coffee shop”.

As another example, I have two different couches and an office. I’ve also learned to turn my bed into a reading space by propping up pillows so I can sit against them like a chair. I do this for some of the article reading I do first thing each morning on weekdays. I deal with my 1 hour of business decisions and tasks in my office every weekday afternoon. I do my writing there as well, but usually after I’ve gone to the garage for my workout (I have a power rack and dumbbell equipment there and work out about 20-40 minutes every day), and played piano for about 30-60 minutes. I do some journaling and reflection as well in the middle of the day. So, though I’m back in the office chair to write for 1-2 hours again, I’ve been doing other things and my brain is refreshed for 100% focus on the words and only the words.

Having these spots around the house to put in different types of work helps me prime myself to feel like I’m at a special place to do that certain work that “belongs” there. I knew this before, but the Covid-19 outbreak has helped me appreciate deeper how one can achieve this in a small 600 square foot house.

Going for a walk is quite important. We are not in extreme quarantine yet, so taking a walk around a few blocks, being sure you keep well away from anyone you cross paths with, and touching nothing on the walk, ensures you get your exercise and fresh air, without compounding the issue of this spreading virus. Going for a walk has simulated for me the same psychology as getting in the car and driving to a coffee shop. Usually, that’s a mental way of switching gears from one chunk of work to the next. But walking is also great because it engages every muscle in your body in light exertion, while you’re getting sunlight and breathing fresh air. It awakens your mind in ways that don’t happen otherwise.

Even if I could only walk around my yard in circles, I’d get out for that movement/air/sunlight dose.

I definitely miss coffee shops though. While I’ve found I get an extra 1-2 hours / day of productivity because of not having to drive anywhere, I do like the outing. But that said, I think after Covid-19 is past and life slowly shifts back to “post-Covid” and whatever that means, I will be staying home more than before. Spring is on its way, and that means the 2020 garden and what adventures it will bring for me this year. And if gardening has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t need to go far to feel like you’re immersed in a world of possibilities.

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How to copyedit a book: a checklist for a copyeditor

I know I promised no more “how to write” stuff. Well, I promised no more rules about what I write about, so that means there’s no rule saying I can’t write about writing when that’s what I want to write about.

This thing is, I believe many best decisions are made when you’re simply trying to solve a problem by doing them. And here’s my problem: I’m training a brilliant new copyeditor on my team of editors, and I want to do better than just write up a checklist. Why not make this easy to access, because you never know who else out there might be wanting to work on their copyediting chops.

I’ve resisted this post before. The problem with writing about how to edit is: training an editor is unique to each editor. Every editor has a unique style. Every writer, and even more specifically, every writing project, has nuances. This means there is no textbook that I can give to an editor that tells them how to do the job right. Most of what I’ve written on how to copyedit has come in personal emails, messages (gotta love the Slack app), and my own layer of comments in the manuscript. It doesn’t matter how many books on how to edit you read: until you cut your teeth on a job and get right in the trenches, and do the work, pick and shovel, well, it’s all might-be academics.

Consider this a caveat before I dive in. This post is, to whoever is reading this, just more academics, more textbooks, more how-to how-to stuff. If you want to learn how to do it, the best way to learn is to apprentice under an experienced editor who can teach you, who can build a learning program customized to you, based around studying how you work, your quirks, your strengths, your weaknesses.

To my copyeditor reading this post, no need for this caveat, because our email training talks will continue. So, let’s dive in.

A copyeditor’s checklist

How do you copyedit a book?

The simple explanation: read it like a book, in Word (or Google Docs), with the track changes feature on. Apply corrections and query as needed, according to your copyeditor instincts.

The hard version is based entirely on that part “according to your copyeditor instincts.”

On the surface, this will boil down to a checklist. Though not exhaustive, the checklist consists of:

  • Grammar
  • Punctuation
  • Clarity
  • Word choice
  • Continuity
  • Fact checking
  • Formatting
  • Logic

I could write a post on each of those, but won’t bombard you with that here. The main take away from that list is:

You don’t dive into storytelling, and you don’t fuss too much with typos and last minute errors.

To appreciate what a copyeditor does, imagine a relay team. The editing cycle involved in publishing a book is like a relay race. The first runner is the developmental editor. They work with the writer on revision at the broadest level, ie the storytelling itself. The second runner is the copyeditor. They come in after the storytelling is solid and get down to the nitty-gritty line-by-line. The final baton is passed to the proofreader. They come in after the chopping and hacking that is common during copyedits (more on that below), to fix typos and oopsies that are hard to spot when you’re trying to get a confusing sentence right.

The copyeditor is the one in the middle. That perspective is important when you’re a copyeditor. And this is the hardest part about copyediting:

You have to anaesthetize two parts of your brain — the one that says to catch every typo and get it all perfect right now, and the one that tells you to “correct” sentences and push to story-level rewrites. As much as you might want, if you are copyediting and you send a writer back to the drawing board, you’re sending them in circles. If the manuscript is so bad that you have to “fix” it, that means the developmental editor before them didn’t do their job right. Usually, that means send it back to the first editor, let them dig in deeper, then when that is done, then and only then are you ready to take your anaesthetic. (This has happened before, and usually this is the result not of negligence, but simply of the first edits requiring so many rewrites that the developmental editor got what I call “perspective fatigue”, ie, being so focused on the given rewrites that the other plot hole vanished on the battlefield; this is where a copyeditor’s fresh eyes can actually help the first editor rise to the helm for the final melee.)

When you copyedit, as you keep your checklist in mind, there are two ways you can do edits:

  • Directly in line
  • By way of comment bubbles

Most of your edits will be in-line changes. A grammar issue like wrong verb tense is best fixed directly.

Sometimes, though, your edit isn’t as objective. This is especially true of matters relating to logic, clarity, word choice, fact checking, and continuity. If someone’s hair was blue on page 54 and it’s suddenly green on page 57, you don’t know which colour is correct, so that’s best left for a comment.

It’s helpful when commenting to categorize the type of edit. For example, put the word “continuity” at the start of a comment, then make your argument. This helps the writer see what kind of copyediting issue you’re addressing. It also helps you though, since it’s tempting to use the comments to “chat” and share more subjective ideas, which becomes overwhelming to a writer who is already wading in heavy copyedits as it is.

As for what the rules of grammar, punctuation, and formatting are, this is where you can do your diligence. Read and reference style manuals. The Chicago Manual of Style is a good benchmark.

The biggest point though isn’t that you have to know your style manual rules inside and out. Do your best to learn as much as you can, but you can do even better:

Don’t ever let yourself “guess” unless an edit is a no-brainer. If you’re pinning down the use of a pain-in-the-ass verb like lie/lay/laid/lain, you don’t want to guess and guess wrong. You’re being paid to be the one who will look up what you need to, as you need to, so that the writer/publisher can trust their book is in good hands. Google is your friend, and lest I go on a rant to those who say that’s an unprofessional move for an editor, let me add: Google is your friend, because you’re smart enough to query like a detective and make sure you reference reliable sources. The internet’s full of gold, but it’s also full of junk, but again, there’s a reason you’re paid the big bucks, and it’s not because of the style manual you memorized.

And that’s as far as I can go for a copyediting 101 article. Good enough for a follow-up training email.

Lastly, it’s 1:00 in the fucking morning and I shouldn’t be writing this. This is the test embedded in the post. Copyeditor-in-training, please send me a list of typo corrections, so I can hit publish and get back to reading. I have a cat on my lap and my George Carlin book waiting for me, but, as George is teaching me in his Last Words, sometimes you got to just improvise, and get on stage when you’re needed.

Back to the cat!

Post note: this blog post has now been revised with my copyeditor’s copyedits. Passed with flying colors!

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How to do a developmental edit: understanding how it works before you hire an editor

You’ve likely heard the term “developmental editing” tossed around. The term will vary from editor to editor, much like how “hot yoga” can mean a lot, depending on which studio you go to.

This is because editing has become the Wild West of publishing. We can thank the rise of online publishing for this. Before the 1990s, editing services were mostly limited to the traditional publishing houses. Editors who freelanced on the side were mostly helping writers strengthen their books for submission.

There was no need to look past the “editor” hat and talk about developmental editing, substantive editing, or structural editing.

But that’s all changed with self-publishing. It is now the new frontier for authors who aren’t just strengthening manuscript for a publisher. Self-publishing authors have to emulate the steps involved in a publishing house, and in fact, they have the opportunity to do even better by hiring the right team and understanding the process well.

The most important first step is understand what a developmental edit is.

To put it in perspective, let’s talk about three kinds of editors you might encounter.

The cheerleader editor:

Many authors who pay for developmental editing end up disappointed because of what I like to call the cheerleader editor.

They might receive an abundance of comments like:

  • “Oooooh, I love the suspense here! Great plotting.”


  • “This scene is dragging, really need to rewrite.”

You might get some suggestions, but you’ll mostly find their edits consist of fixing typos, cutting repetitive words (i.e. overuse of “that”), tweaking commas, and occasionally reordering phrases.

But these are the kinds of edits you mom, spouse, or good friend could give you. They are what you might expect from a beta reader you’ve asked to read for input on your book. They aren’t worth $60/hour.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with an editor who adds compliments, or adds comments about pacing and assess reader engagement. I personally make sure I add these into every editing job I do. There’s nothing like an uplifting compliment when you are wading through hundreds of critical edits. It reminds you that, though your editor is doing their job well and thoroughly, they are still thinking about the value of your story and enjoying it.

Side note: an editor should always be honest, otherwise what are you paying them for? When I’ve encountered a story that’s falling flat and giving me nothing to cheer for, I stop while I’m ahead and prepare an editorial letter for the author suggesting revisions. The only thing worse than paying an editor $60/hour for a meticulous developmental edit is paying them $60/hour for a developmental edit on a book that you’ll later wish you’d put away for a while, or not published at all if you’d been better advised.

The show-off editor:

At the other extreme is the show-off editor. Their comments might look like this:

  • “The character arc here is failing to execute due to how the tension between plot and theme are intersecting. I recommend you consult Joyce and Wilde for structural comparisons, and draw from archetypes.”


  • “The symbolism in this scene is very powerful. Great choice of imagery to match the idea of an ascending spirit, as per the overarching theme of the book. Conjures images of Proust.”

These are the kinds of comments you’d expect from a pretentious book reviewer, or a literary critic, or someone making notes for their university literature class. These comments are absolutely useless to a writer who is trying to determine exactly what revisions they need to do in the limited time they have without pulling their hair out and throwing their computer out the window.

That said, there’s nothing wrong with an editor paying attention to symbolism or theme, or mood or style comparisons. Just like adding compliments, it shows additional perspective if an editor can, when relevant, point out how your novel is fulfilling its genre expectations, or how well your writing executes the tension of a suspenseful scene.

Side note: in a developmental edit, an editor will summarize global comments in categories, such as genrecharacters, plot, scene execution, and craft. You can expect to see some analysis and comparisons to other existing books, consideration of genre expectations, analysis of plot holes, and discussion on your craft habits and craft conventions. There might be some notes in the manuscript accompanying the edits themselves, but these should feel secondary. You will have a sense of the edits that are local, i.e. assessed for each specific line given the context of that line, vs edits that are global, i.e. broader perspective notes tacked in a given place, but which apply to a larger arc.

For example, sometimes when I have an overarching remark on a plot issue that’s developed across a sequence of chapters, I will put a comment right on the header of the first chapter and say in the note something to the effect, “This comment applies to the chapter 12-16 arc. I will label comments related to this in bold font with the label ’12-16 note’.” What this allows me to do is communicate clearly with the author how that exact comment fits, in a global sense, with other specific comments unified under one specific editing issue.

The Goldilocks editor:

Somewhere “just right” in the middle between the two extremes is the Goldilocks editor. You’ll find these sorts of edits:

  • “I rearranged these two sentences because we want to ensure cause before effect.”
  • “I’ve rephrased this to avoid the passive construction, and disembodied description (see editorial letter on disembodied description habits).”
  • “You can cut this sentence. The thought is already implied by what she says in the previous sentence, and reader will infer via subtext. Especially here, you want to avoid over-narrating because it slows the pace of the dialogue.”

You’ll notice that one thing all these edits have in common: they refer to specific in-line changes and suggestions. They augment real edits you can work with. Your editor isn’t just phoning it in and telling you, with a hand-waving ease, “You need to rewrite this, it’s boring.” Your editor is giving you a prescription.

That’s a good word because of the analogy. If you went to a doctor with a health concern and the doctor just told you, “It sounds like you might be having warning signs of a stroke,” then sent you home, that would be useless. You aren’t going to the doctor just to be told you have a serious medical condition. You’re going to the doctor, and paying lots of money, so that you can find out what’s wrong and how to fix it.

$60/hour is not a small sum of money. It’s on the cheap end for editing, as some editors with big house experience charge up to $200/hour or more. Whether $60/hour of $200/hour, you aren’t paying just for a diagnosis. You want an expert editor with expert skill who will sweat and toil expertly over every single sentence of your story, think of every paragraph and sequence of paragraphs, of every scene and chapter, of all the plots, character arcs, reader promises, of the line-by-line tension and narrative drive that must persist every single line from line 1 to the final line when the reader closes the book and thinks, “Damnit! When is the next book coming out?”

Caveat: the difference between voice rape and editing:

Rape is a strong word and I will apologize if this word offends you. But it is the correct type of word to describe the crime of an “editor” violating an author’s voice and vision with their own.

Developmental editors will cut. They will rearrange. They will rework phrasing. They will fill in “example” prose to highlight a certain type of phrasing they want the author to provide (a principle called a “minimum viable edit”, which means, if you like what they did, you could hit “approve” and you’re ready to go).

A good analogy is how the editors work on a movie.

In film, the director will create a wealth of shots during filming. It’s a jumble and there’s no way those shots are anywhere near the final movie. When the editors take over, their job is to refine the excess of shots and piece them together into the movie that is going to keep the audience on the edge of their seats minute after minute.

For the most part, the editors are cutting, splicing, and organizing. The whole time, they are doing so critically and carefully. Sometimes, they will realize something is missing. That means the crew and director might be going back for some last-minute shots. The editors push for whatever it takes to get that final movie working.

Never once, though, do the editors make new shots themselves. They don’t deviate from the direction of the film. They are using their expert skill to work with the mastery of the directors, producers, actors, sound and special effects crews, and everyone involved.

Your developmental editor likewise will get in there with a strong hand and in some places, if needed, hack relentlessly. They will not change words and phrases just because they think “this one is better,” but they will provide a suggested change if certain words or phrases you used were confusing or break the narrative drive. Each and every time, and every single edit, you should be able to see their justification, and, most importantly, that the edits are suggestions — minimum viable edits which act like doctor prescriptions you can follow, yet which you can modify if you feel they don’t quite work.

At the end of the day, when I’m doing a developmental edit for an author, I am thinking purely about the author on the receiving end of my edits and the experience they are going to have. That means I’m thinking about efficiency on their end. I want them to have a sense of what they have to do, and if ever they disagree (and everyone is going to disagree, since I’m not telepathic), they know what I’m thinking and can provide alternatives that gel with their vision.

Putting it all together:

Contrary to what many people think when they think about developmental edits, a developmental editor isn’t just following a check-list. There is no hard line between when a specific edit is best made as a comment with examples and suggestions, or when it’s best shown through a cut or rearrangement with comment to justify. If there’s a typo that gets crushed in the process, you can’t blame your editor for loving the Law of Grammar, but of course, this should be the exception, as the copyeditor who will work on your book after the developmental edits are complete will be tasked specifically with sound grammar, punctuation, and clarity.

Think of your developmental editor as your first line of defense. All the heavy lifting happens here, and the biggest bogeymen are going to be chased out of the closet, all corners of consideration carefully dusted.

The goal of a developmental edit is to produce a manuscript that the copyeditor will delight to pick apart further as they focus less on story, and more on clarity and final form. And that in turn will produce a manuscript that’s almost print-ready, which your proofreader will go over with fresh eyes to make sure it’s bullet-proof. A developmental edit done will will mean the copyeditor can delight at what they do best, and not wonder, “Why wasn’t this edited?” and likewise, a proofreader will not wonder, “How did these issues slip through the previous two editors?”

There are so many nuances in how to do a developmental edit that the only way to keep learning them is to keep reading more articles on specifics. For my part, I will write more (please leave requests in the comments, or email me), but want to start with the basics in this article about what it is and how it works.

And, of course, I am but one editor coming up for air to share some tidbits, so enjoy these and add them to your growing collection of resources, as you become a smarter self-publishing writer in this Wild West of opportunity for authors looking ahead to the 2020s.

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Checklist before you publish your book

You’ve just finished your book and you’re ready to self-publish. You don’t have a lot of money, so hopefully you can do most things yourself. If you had a dream checklist that would help you feel more confident, what would that be?

Let’s start with 3 common issues that I often see come up for authors I have worked with over the years.

1) Too much telling, not enough showing

Many writers receive this input in a critique group, or from consultant edits. This is a lazy kind of comment, because it ignores the nuances of the writing craft. However, as with all tried-and-tested advice, there’s a reason this one has stuck.

Narration that focuses too much on itself places a distance between the reader and the story. This is telling. As the writer, especially the first-drafter discovering your story for the first time, you are prone to lots of telling because it helps you get the story down.

Narration that backs away and fades into the distance presses the reader close to the page. Your nose is touching the ink, your eyes paint images. This is showing. You’re letting the reader do the work. You’re trusting them to paint the images the words will conjure.

But it gets complicated, because of this question we must ask, each and every paragraph:

When is it appropriate for the narrator to vanish, and when for the narrator to come in and be a part of the story?

This will come down to the specific narrative mode you use. Narration is the manner by which your story is being told. Don’t just think about third person limited, or omniscient. This isn’t narration. Narration takes in more than that: who and exactly how are the very words being laid on the page coming from story to reader?

Are these the words of a bard who, at the end of his life, decided to pen his chronicles? Or is this a first-person account of a traveling detective’s side-kick, pertaining to events in the not-so-distant past? Or, is this the grand nighttime tale told by a creative grandfather before the fire, free to wander wherever his imagination fancies?

Take this story you’re reading right now. Point of view and genre would say this is a nonfiction blog post written in a variety of second and first person.

But that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

What’s really happening, that I, the author, am aware of: the narrator (me) is an editor writing email advice to another writer who asked if he can write helpful revision/editing blog posts to her prompts. That’s the story unfolding — a story about how to write better. And with this come all my nuances, including the nature of how I’m telling it: a writer sitting at his desk at 4:08 p.m. (with a cat to the right judging him…well, me, technically). A writer trying to figure out blogging and trying something different each time, and here we are on this one, let’s see… (And any typos left behind, assume the cat walked across my keyboard.)

As you might notice, this narrator leans more toward telling right now, but it helps, because it reminds you I’m in the room with you. (As is the cat <3.) This isn’t just the story, but also the personality of the guy telling it to you.

Who is telling your story, and how? Before you can unpack the question of whether you should show or tell in a certain instance, you’ll need to understand just how your narrator would tell your story.

Show, don’t tell, is a good rule of thumb, but remember: a master seamstress has more than just her thumbs to measure thread, especially on a complex project where even a hairsbreadth of error will ruin the cloth.

Pro tip:

You can always convert showing into telling, and telling into showing. Think of these are two sides of a coin. Right now, if you wanted to, you could strip back your narration and show us more inside the sensory and internal direct experience of your character. Conversely, you could take a very descriptive paragraph about facial movements and just write, “She smiled.”

Readers will not be thinking about if you’re telling too much, nor if you’re showing too much. They will notice though if you’re telling when you should be showing, or showing when you should be telling. The trick is figuring out when you want immersion in the present, or when you want some distance.

When in doubt, try to connect to the narrator of the story, as though this is another person at the keyboard with you, or floating on your shoulder full of wisdom. Ask just how they would want to spin this tale, then let that lead your creative fingertips.

2) Too much info-dumping

We all know info-dumping. It’s another word that causes anxiety at a writing critique session.

I once heard someone call it a “data-dump”. That’s a better term because it gets to the point:

You, the writer, are carrying lots and lots and lots of data about your story. This includes details of your characters, the plot, and the setting, all growing to life like a garden on fast-forward as you type your way through your early drafts.

Our instinct is to write down what we need to write down, especially the first time through. Where else is it going to go?

That leaves some fun when it comes to revision.

Imagine your first draft as messy, unbrushed hair. Each revision is one passage of the metal brush to get out all the tangles. Info-dumping is one common tangle that will tug your brush many times.

I’ve written before about the difference between a draft and a revision. Think of a revision as a lazy comb: instead of yanking out all the tangles, pain and all, you smooth out everything else. Typos, repeated words, bad grammar, contradictions, things that catch your eye, moments to shine, moments you quickly zip up your fly.

None of these will change your story on a deep level. Worse: all the time you spend fussing with this final-stage stuff is time might be pointless because you’ll end up deleting whole scenes, even whole chapters.

A draft is that ruthless tug of the metal brush, and with that tug comes out all the nasty snarls. It means rewriting, cutting, cutting, cutting, especially cutting. Lots of info-dumps come out in this process.

Info-dumping takes on many forms. The obvious one is a big paragraph made of more than 5 sentences that wanders completely off topic. So you entered an ancient castle. Wonderful. What atmosphere. Now you describe in great detail all the furniture, down to the last layout, and while we’re at it, why not add in something about the history of this place, because it’s so cool.

That one’s a bit obvious. Think of all the times in a conversation when someone has wandered off onto a topic that got them really excited, and then they’ve lost you and you’re just nodding, looking for an opportunity to change the topic. That’s an info-dump.

But info-dumping can be even more insidious.

When you’re writing a book, every single line counts. You need line by line tension that pulls the readers eyes down like a magnet. Give the reader some slack, and they have a moment to think about the hundred other things they have to still get done, that you’ve managed to somehow make them forget all about because you write so damn good.

That effect is the effect of well-brushed hair. The result is nothing left behind that doesn’t drive the story forward, not a single tangle. Ornamentation is fine, if that ornamentation is full of life. Exposition is fine if curiosity, so strong in your protagonist that the reader feels it, needs it, has led them both to it.

As you work your drafts, get in the habit of recognizing your story in a binary form:

  • The story
  • Not the story

Pro tip:

Comb through your manuscript and apply this binary assessment, much like a metal brush through hair. I like to use Scrivener because it allows me to make a separate note that I can nest under a given scene’s file. I always call this “dump” because it helps remind me that “not the story” goes in the dump. If you use Word, you can achieve this effect by making a separate Word file and using Alt+Tab to bounce between.

Now, in each place where you cut “not the story”, try to bridge the gaps between “story” preceding it, and “story” following it. Write what the story needs. Move on to the next place you spot “not the story” and repeat.

Don’t get discouraged about “not the story” vanishing from your manuscript. Remember: valuable things can be found at the dump, and us writers believe in grassroots recycling. I like to organize my dump files as they come together. In fact, these usually turn into categorized information that eventually move onto my organized wiki for character and world-building details.

The key point is: don’t let info-dumps drag you down. They served a purpose. But now, in your next draft, they can serve a new purpose as they become the roots of your own mini-wiki, which you can consult later. And be rest assured: if the story needs them later, in some other form, it will tell you.

3) Developmental edit recommended

I’ll close off on this point for today because it’s worth talking about what a developmental edit is. Let’s start with what it’s not:

  • A family member or close friend reading over and making notes for you in your Word file
  • A beta reader going over the book and giving edits/suggestions
  • An edit for grammar, spelling, punctuation, etc.

Developmental editing is done by an editor. This is someone trained in the editing process who will analyze your story’s structure, character development, and plot, and give you both global suggestions (delivered in an editorial letter), as well as specific suggestions (mostly by way of comments in the manuscript).

A developmental edit will require rewriting. Sometimes, a developmental editor will fix obvious typos or make craft suggestions, i.e. spotting repetitive words or clumsy sentences. Mostly, though, they will be focused on the story as you’re telling it. If you have an info-dump, you’ll hear about it. If the line-by-line tension vanishes somewhere, they’ll point you toward it so you can tighten the rack. If you show when you should tell, or tell when you should show, they’ll be sure to tell you (or show by way of example).

A developmental edit will be mostly diagnostic, with some prescription. The editor’s job is to point you toward rewrites, giving you enough to work with, but not to do the actual rewriting.

Developmental editing happens early. Think of this like the metal brush in tangled hair. Copyediting and proofreading come after a developmental edit. This means all the rounds of revision and drafting to follow, based on your developmental editor’s notes, will be done. There’s no point polishing a diamond if you’re going to throw some of it away. Developmental editing helps you mine out all the diamonds and get rid of empty rock, so that copyediting can be about polishing the keepers.

Pro tip:

You can do a developmental edit yourself, though in saying this, I am reminded of the knife-juggler who tells people, “Don’t try this at home.” See my earlier post on how to do a developmental edit, for those on a budget, but if you end up with cuts and scrapes, you know where to find me.

Along the same lines, you can also train a beta reader to assume the role of developmental editor, using the guidelines in that post. I also plan to write more detailed follow-up posts on this DIY approach in future, so stay tuned.

Please share any questions or your feedback on info-dumping, showing vs telling, and developmental editing!

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Time in, words out: a writer’s tug-of-war

How do you measure progress at the keyboard?

Many writers like to use word count. A good day’s work is measured based on how many new words you write.

Some writers prefer page count. This is the same as word count, in the sense that it’s based on how much you produce.

Other writers prefer to track time. This is especially true when trying to track yourself during a later draft, or an intensive revision to an editor’s edits.

Regardless of which method you use to measure progress, you’ll always come up against a conundrum, which I like to call the “time in, words out effect”.

Let’s imagine three writers: Joe, Mary, and Angela.

All of them compare their writing progress at the end of a day.

Here’s Joe’s:

  • 5,000 new words on his manuscript

Here’s Mary’s:

  • 4 hours sitting at the keyboard, got through 18th chapter of 6th draft of book

Here’s Angela’s:

  • 10 new pages written, 6 hours total, reviewed 70 pages of old draft and threw away 60 pages

Who of the three was more productive?

It’s tempting to say Joe was the most productive, because writing 5000 new words is pretty impressive.

But writing 5000 new words say nothing about how good those words are. How many of Joe’s bad writing habits are just being repeated and reinforced by writing quickly? How much “lazy writing” is going on in those 5000 words because Joe is in a hurry to write fast to meet his quota? How many poor writing choices are in that 5000-word span of writing because his brain clocked out 1/2 way through and he would have been better taking a break for the day?

Mary’s time at the keyboard might seem better, because it’s based on quality, not quantity. Because Mary isn’t pushing herself toward an artificial goal, this means if she takes 25 minutes on one paragraph to seriously think it all through (it is a 6th draft, after all), then so be it. Mary’s focus is on disciplined time sitting at the computer screen, solving the problems before her one at a time.

The only problem this can present for some writers who follow a similar strategy is, how do you determine if the time logged is truly productive? A word count goal can be great because it helps you determine if you’re producing at an adequate rate or not.

I personally like Angela’s approach the best. On the surface, saying that she took 6 hours to write 10 new pages sounds a bit slow. But when she added that she reviewed 70 pages of her previous draft then discerned from that the best 10 pages to go forward on, I can see her process.

Much of the hard work that makes good writing is rewriting. Much of rewriting involves carefully thinking about the effects your writing is having on a reader. This can’t be measured in word count or page count. Stopping to intuit exactly what touches a sentence needs, or what new direction a paragraph or even a scene needs to take, carefully thinking about what the heck is wrong here then nailing that right on the head and, on top of this all, finding the perfect remedy, well, that’s fucking hard work. It’s a tug-of-war between producing new material and checking yourself against integrating deadwood.

However you measure progress, the key, I think, comes down to one idea:

Butt in the chair, eyes and mind on the story.

Do that, and the results, though fun and helpful to measure, are secondary.

What kind of writer are you? How do you like to measure progress? I’d love to hear in the comments!


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The art of rewriting: getting the most development mileage from your edits

I work with an amazingly talented writing client. Every week for 39 weeks now, he’s submitted his novel-in progress, usually 10-20 pages each week.

We’ve made it through draft 1. We took a short break where I did an analysis of the entire draft and made some road-map revision notes for a draft 2. We jumped right into draft 2, once the creative energy was cooking and we decided we were both ready, like boxers on a time out, focused, ready for round 2.

We’re now almost 2/3 through the 2nd draft, and the transformation is amazing.

One technique where this writer excels is the ability to rewrite. I’ll talk more about what I mean by that. But first, a bit of context.

Near the end of draft 1, we had a moment of despair, the round 1 knockout where you don’t think you’re getting back up.

“Should I just scrap this draft and write draft 2 as a fresh take?” was the question that came in, with just a few chapters to go.

“No,” I reassured. “Get to the end. Give yourself permission to write a crappy draft, knowing you can rewrite and make the next one better.”

Get all the cards on the table was another analogy I gave him. Throw everything down, so you an see how it all adds up. That includes the fuck-ups. The only thing worse than a bad draft is an unfinished one.

He persevered. And the end was impressive despite the qualms. What it allowed us both to see is how all the momentum generated by the draft came together. It allowed us to see this author’s vision for his story, and where all his characters would end up.

It let us see just what draft 2 had to be.

With this comes the art of rewriting. Let’s talk about what that means, because I often find many writers I converse with use “revision” and “rewriting” interchangeably.

Rewriting is a part of revision. What most people think of as “revision” though looks like this:

The cat went down to the street, and walked back to the pub with a pint.


The cat went to the street, returning to the pub with a pint.

Rewriting, on other hand, looks like this:

The street was dark. In the shadows, the cat crept, unseen by humans, a pint in its hand. No one realized, in their day-to-day bustle, that the world of cats was as advanced as that of humans.

The first example of “revised” text shows a common problem writers face when revising: getting locked in the grid of your words. When you pass over your manuscript trying to “improve” you usually take it as a given that you have to keep your old words. You see where you’re impressed with yourself, but not where others won’t be. If there’s a dialog between characters, you keep that dialog. If there’s a particular plot, or order of events, you keep that too.

Rewriting, though, means you can do whatever you want. There are no limits.

Usually, to rewrite, you need an objective professional, like an editor. This is the best way to truly push you to make the more radical changes that require rewriting. This is the way to turn okay writing into amazing writing.

In the above example, I imagined, as a writer, that my editor had gone over that passage and said, “Why the HELL is a cat walking with a pint to a pub?” And I imagined what kind of rewriting I might do, especially if this were the opening to a story about cats who have sentient lives analogous to humans, in a sort of Harry-Potter-esque parallel universe. I definitely don’t think that writing was amazing, but it illustrates the point well enough.

What my weekly writing client excels at is this art of rewriting. This week, and in many of the previous weeks, he’s doubled down on my prompts to treat draft one as, essentially, a very large outline of how the book could possibly work.

It’s let us develop a good strategy:

When going over a next draft, form a binary orientation to your story:

  • This passage is GREAT and is the gold worth saving
  • This passage ISN’T GREAT and must be rewritten so I can find more gold worth saving

Revision, then, is the art of passing over and over and rewriting the latter parts, until there are none of them left.

With this art of rewriting, your protagonist can go on a whole new adventure that develops her inner character journey within the expectations of the genre plot. In the case of my client, his novel is a detective novel, but it’s also heavily about personal transformation brought on by the external conflict. Knowing this, my writing client has doubled down week after week making new narrative choices.

-New characters speak who didn’t speak in the last draft. GOLD, worth keeping.

-Passive reflection turns into moments of transformation. GOLD, worth keeping.

-The forces of antagonism emerge in new character confrontations, heightening conflict. GOLD, worth keeping.

There are still some notes on how to improve, as we go through this draft, but because we’ve learned to trust this rewriting principle, it’s now a no-brainer when I leave in a comment, “This is a draft 3 prompt.”

Permission to fail means ability to focus on the success now that matters, and trust that failure now can be fodder for success to come.

Wherever you’re at in your manuscript, I hope you also are enjoying the power of rewriting, and the art of refining, as one draft leads to another, and slowly, gold predominates the amazing story you soon will be ready to share with the world.

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Your perfect writing week vs your real writing week

You can’t be perfect with your writing every week.

As much as we want to hit our word count goals, or make progress in our current draft just like we said we would, the fact remains that when we make these kinds of promises we are just guessing.

That said, you can still become good at guessing. Here’s one way I’ve learned to do it quite well:

  • Record your progress week after week
  • Keep a running list of your results for 5 sample weeks
  • As you get well past 5 weeks, keep the 5 sample weeks that most accurately reflect your performance

For example, I record exactly how much time I spend on reading and writing every day. I keep the tally for the week on a small sticky note I attach to my phone case. Every Sunday, I total my week.

I’ve been doing this for about 20 weeks now, and because of this, I’ve been able to notice the following:

  • On a “very bad week” I only get in about 17-18 hours total
  • Typically, I get in a little over 20
  • Occasionally, I can get in over 25 hours
  • Very, very rarely can I get more than 30 hours, even though my goal is 33 (20% of the 168 hours in the week, according to the Pareto Principle)

What I like about this method of tracking is, it’s realistic. I’m not beating myself up week after week for “failing”.

I learned this method by analogy from how I do my workout.

I follow a fixed routine of sets that cover a variety of exercises, i.e. deadlifts, bench press, barbell row, etc.

I do 5 sets of each:

  • 1 light weight (~50-70 reps)
  • 3 medium weight (~30-40 reps)
  • 1 heavy weight (~5-10 reps)

I track my progress on a spreadsheet. Instead of pushing artificially, I simply track how I do, then next time I complete my sets, I compare my results. I shoot for the same, or slightly better. If I do worse, that’s okay, because sometimes you have to fall back and build back up.

But I’m not shooting for artificial results that aren’t based on the reality of how I’ve seen my body perform.

Writing is the same. Your goal is, week after week, to figure out what you can put in to move forward.

This week was a “failure” for me, if I believe in the mindset of shooting for the “perfect standard”, 20% of my time committed to reading and writing. If I looked at it that way, I’d feel bad that it’s Sunday and I’m well short of even 20 hours.

But under this healthier mindset of tracking and comparing, I can see that, actually, I got 18.5 hours of reading and writing done.

That’s 18.5 hours of work. That’s better than 5 hours. That’s better than 10. That’s better, even, than 15.

Sure, it’s not 20. Sure, it’s not 25.

But procrastination is a greedy monster. It will eat you, if you don’t eat it first. So whatever you carve out, it’s better than the zero you’re guaranteed if you don’t take a small step forward.

The beautiful thing about starting small and learning just what you can do, is you start doing. Starting doing is the first step toward doing more.

The other danger though is doing too much. With this comes burnout.

It’s Sunday. Sure, I could push and get in 4 hours, burn the midnight oil. I’ve done it before, and know I have it in me.

But I’m mentally exhausted. The only thing I’ll get out of pushing for 4 hours today is 4 hours of written words, and 4 hours off a good sleep that will recharge me to have a great day tomorrow. 4 hours toward starting Monday on the wrong foot, and 4 hours toward possibly screwing up the week.

Instead, there is no fail for me. There’s simply the act of logging the hours, and checking out where they fit in my running list of 5 sample weeks. Learn and accept.

Hey! Actually, jotting this week’s “failure” down I see this is far from my worst week ever.

So there we go. Sunday is done, the next week is coming. And this next week is going to be amazing. I can already feel it, especially with the great sleep I’m going to get tonight, and all the energy zinging in my creative batteries.

Fellow writers, remember that regardless of what kind of week you have with writing, it’s never truly a failure. Look for progress, even if it’s small.

Ask yourself: where has your writing practice evolved since the same time last week? How have you grown and improved as a writer, in your vision and skill, not just the words on the page?

Here’s to a great week, and many more to come!

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