Stop introducing your characters. Readers don’t want a list of traits—they want the pleasure of discovering who someone is through action, dialogue, and the little details that make a story feel real. Trust your readers to connect the dots, and your fiction will become stronger, faster, and far more engaging.
Readers are smarter than many writers give them credit for. When we explain every emotion, clue, or joke, we take away one of reading’s greatest pleasures: discovering the story for themselves. Sometimes the best editing advice is also the simplest—trust your reader.
I finished S.J. Morden’s One Way and immediately bought the sequel—not because I liked the protagonist, but because I had to know what happened next. It also reminded me that hardboiled and noir aren’t the same thing, and why that distinction explains Ptolemy Lane far better than I ever realized while writing him.
Readers are remarkably good at putting two and two together. Yet many writers, worried that a character’s emotions or motivations might not be obvious enough, add a sentence explaining what the reader has already understood. Those explanations rarely add clarity—they usually weaken the scene. Here’s how to recognize when you’re explaining the obvious, and when an explanation genuinely earns its place.
Solar Sail Theory isn’t about finding stronger sources of momentum. It’s about becoming better at capturing thousands of weak sources of momentum that already exist.
One newsletter subscriber won’t change your life. One podcast appearance won’t transform your business. One new reader or conference conversation or bookstore event won’t either.
Individually, they’re almost insignificant.
That’s why the sail is enormous.
What makes a book unforgettable? It often isn’t the plot—it’s the people. The characters who quietly step onto the page, feel completely real, and stay with us long after we’ve finished the final chapter.
Some of the most memorable people in our lives were never the main characters. The same is true in fiction. If your supporting characters exist only to deliver information or move the plot along, your story misses an opportunity to create a richer, more believable world. Every character should feel like they have a life beyond the page.
Every publishing season seems to produce another “overnight success.” But behind almost every breakout author are years of writing, learning, failed launches, and steady persistence. Real publishing careers are rarely built in a single moment—they’re built one book, one reader, and one lesson at a time.
Most writers love writing but dread rewriting. Yet revision isn’t evidence the first draft failed—it’s where good stories become great ones. Like weeding a garden, editing isn’t about destroying what you’ve grown. It’s about giving the best parts room to flourish.
Gone With the Wind turns ninety on Monday, yet it still feels astonishingly modern. I first encountered the novel—not the famous film—as a teenager borrowing it from my high school library, and it has stayed with me ever since. Looking back at it through the eyes of a novelist, I think I’ve finally figured out why Margaret Mitchell’s epic continues to captivate readers after all these decades.
