Good editing doesn’t draw attention to itself. When it works, readers never notice it at all — they simply fall into the story. Editing isn’t about rewriting an author’s voice or showing off clever fixes. It’s about removing the friction that causes readers to hesitate, lose momentum, or quietly stop turning pages.
Writers sometimes send manuscripts to an editor hoping the edit will “make it work.” But when the foundation of the story is cracked — weak character arcs, passive scenes, or conflict happening offstage — no amount of line editing can fix it. Editing refines what already works; it doesn’t rebuild the structure. Knowing the difference can save writers money, frustration, and a lot of misplaced hope.
Dictation can capture the natural rhythm and momentum of storytelling—but spoken language doesn’t always translate cleanly to the page. Here’s why dictated manuscripts need a different editorial approach, and how careful editing preserves the author’s voice while shaping it into clear, compelling prose.
If you’ve been thinking, “I should probably get a quote…” — this is your nudge. Editing queues don’t fill in tidy rows; they arrive in waves, overlap, and shift. And once the calendar is full, the only honest answer for new clients is: your start date will be later than you hoped.
After you’ve been editing fiction for a while, patterns emerge — not in the stories, but in the expectations writers bring to the process. Editing isn’t about fixing broken books or policing commas. It’s about helping a manuscript work the way the author intended: with clarity, emotional logic, and structural strength. Here are five things editors quietly wish every writer understood before the red pen ever comes out.
Readers don’t actually hate cliffhangers.
They hate being cheated.
What they’re reacting to isn’t tension or anticipation—it’s a broken promise. An ending that withholds resolution, slices a single story into artificial chunks, or stops mid-thought without delivering what the book itself set up isn’t a cliffhanger at all. It’s a contract breach.
A real cliffhanger resolves the story you promised to tell—and then opens the door to the next problem. It creates momentum, not confusion. When done right, the reader doesn’t feel tricked. They feel hooked.
If someone is handing you absolute, black-and-white “rules” about writing, they’re full of crap.
Most of those commandments started life as reasonable cautions… before nuance died somewhere between a conference panel and a poorly edited podcast rant.
Real editors don’t enforce rules.
Real editors ask one question: Is this working for this story, this audience, this moment?
Follow every so-called rule perfectly and you won’t write a great book — you’ll just write a technically correct, emotionally flat one.
Rules can stop you from making mistakes.
They cannot help you make choices.
And writing is nothing but choices.
Writing resolutions fail for remarkably predictable reasons.
Not because writers are lazy or unserious—but because they aim too high, too vaguely, and too emotionally.
The writers who finish books aren’t the ones who promise themselves a perfect year.
They’re the ones who build systems that survive imperfect weeks.
What editors want for Christmas isn’t polish, perfection, or vibes—it’s finished books, clear storytelling, and writers who trust their readers enough to be specific and brave. An editor’s wish list for writers who want stronger stories, better partnerships, and a publishing year that actually gets books across the finish line.
Editing a thirteen-book Arthurian saga isn’t for the faint of heart. Mark pulls back the curtain on his years in the trenches with Once and Future Hearts—from navigating character continuity and protecting authorial voice to the diplomatic art of asking, “Are you sure, Tracy?” as the finale, Camlann, heads into its early-release Kickstarter celebration.
Setting isn’t wallpaper. It’s the emotional engine under every scene you write. A confession uttered beneath stained-glass saints is a completely different moment than one whispered in the soft half-light of a bedroom — same words, wildly different meaning. If a scene feels limp, nine times out of ten the setting is the culprit. Make the room work just as hard as the characters, and suddenly the whole story sharpens.
Writers love to worry about swearing — usually more than their characters do. The truth? Profanity isn’t “good” or “bad.” It’s a tool. A sharp one. Used well, it cuts cleanly through tension, reveals character, or snaps a moment into focus. Used poorly, it just bleeds all over the page.
In this post, Mark breaks down when swearing works, when it absolutely doesn’t, how genre affects your choices, and why every curse word has to be earned. If your characters are going to swear, make sure they mean it.