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.
Storytelling hasn’t failed readers — publishing culture has simply become suspicious of it. If you’re being told to slow down, soften conflict, or “let the story breathe,” the problem may not be your writing at all. It may be that you’re telling stories in a moment that prefers experience over consequence.
Ideas don’t arrive fully formed. They start as small, sideways questions — the kind that won’t leave you alone once they land. That’s where stories actually come from.
For years, I assumed my growing frustration with certain fantasy novels was a personal failing—shorter attention span, impatience, age. It turns out it wasn’t me at all. Fantasy has quietly split into two different kinds of books doing two very different things: story-first fiction and immersion-first fiction. Neither is wrong—but when you don’t know which one you’re reading, disappointment is almost guaranteed. This post is about naming that divide, understanding where it came from, and giving readers permission to stop blaming themselves when a “perfectly good” book just doesn’t work for them.
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.
Hollywood franchises might be able to reset their storylines and expect fans to go along with it—but indie authors don’t get that luxury. Readers trust books to remember what came before. When we break that trust, we lose more than just continuity—we lose our audience. Here’s why honoring your story’s past isn’t a limitation—it’s your greatest creative tool.
In the latest season of Daredevil, Marvel trades spectacle for something stranger — a gritty, emotionally charged story that feels less like superhero fiction and more like urban fantasy wrapped in metaphysical angst. With sharp moral ambiguity, subtle symbolism, and just enough bloodied knuckles to make a point, this is a show that doesn’t just ask who’s right or wrong — it asks what right and wrong even mean.
After thirteen books, too many late nights, and a kingdom’s worth of research, the Once and Future Hearts series is finally drawing to a close — and we’re going out with a bang. For the first time ever, we’re releasing a 13-book hardcover collector’s set, exclusive to Kickstarter. If you’ve loved this saga — or are just discovering it — this is your chance to own the entire series in a beautiful, keepsake edition… and get the final book, Camlann, six months ahead of the public release.
Curious? Click “Notify Me on Launch” and help make some Arthurian magic happen.
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.
Readers aren’t toddlers in need of hand-holding—they’re highly skilled story-decoders who’ve been reading between the lines since grade school. They don’t need your theme underlined, highlighted, and surrounded by interpretive dance. In fact, the moment you over-explain, you kill the magic. Trust them to catch the subtext, feel the tension, and assemble the clues. Not only will your story be stronger for it—your readers will love you for letting them play along.
