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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
There was a glorious time — not as far back as dinosaurs, but far enough that you had to physically turn a page — when spy thrillers were built on tension. Real tension. The slow-burn, creeping dread variety that made you lean forward until you realized your spine was doing yoga poses you didn’t sign up for.
These were the days of The Bourne Identity, the early Bond novels, and le Carré’s Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy — stories powered by paranoia, not pyrotechnics. Today, spy thrillers have traded that slow dread for weaponized anxiety and smartwatch hacking. But both eras have something to teach us about how to build suspense that sticks.
