Hi Reader,
There's a moment in almost every editorial relationship that nobody puts in the brochure.
It usually happens around the third round of revisions. Or when an author sends me a manuscript that has clearly been revised, with great care, in entirely the wrong direction.
I look at the pages. I look at my previous notes. And I realize: the writer heard something I didn't say, fixed something that wasn't broken, and didn't touch the one thing I was actually worried about.
Now what?
The easy path is to focus on what's working (there's always something), give the hard feedback gently, and trust the process. I've done this. It's not wrong. But if I'm being honest, sometimes it's a way of deferring the harder conversation. The one that might actually change the book.
The question I keep returning to is this: whose comfort am I protecting when I soften the truth?
Almost never the writer's. Usually mine.
The harder path is to say, directly, what I see. Not cruelly. Never cruelly. But clearly. "I think we've moved away from what this story needs. Can we talk about why?" That conversation asks the writer to trust me. It asks me to have earned that trust. And it asks both of us to be willing to be wrong.
Here's what I've learned after nearly two decades of working with fiction writers: most authors can handle a lot more honesty than I assume they can. What they can't handle is the particular frustration of feedback that's technically kind but leaves them with nothing actionable. The notes that say "this is lovely, just keep going" when the manuscript has a structural problem the writer can feel but can't name.
That's the kind of feedback that makes a writer doubt themselves instead of the page. And it's the kind I'm trying not to give.
The author and editor relationship works best, in my experience, when both people agree on one thing: the manuscript is the point. Not the feelings around the manuscript. Not the months of effort that went into it. Not the defense of any particular choice. The story itself, and whether it's doing what it set out to do.
That's easier said than committed to. So it's worth naming, especially early in a working relationship: I'm here for the book. You're here for the book. Let's act like it.
I don't always get this right. I've softened things I should have said plainly. I've said things plainly when softening would have served better. The failures have taught me more than the successes, which is maybe the most honest thing I can tell you about this work.
But here's the promise I can make:
When you hand me your manuscript, I will tell you the truth about it. I'll tell you what's working. I'll tell you what isn't. I'll do it with care, because your story matters and so do you. And I will not waste your time by being polite at the expense of being useful.
If that's the editor you've been looking for, I'd love to read your pages.
I'm taking on a small number of new fiction clients right now for developmental coaching and editing in thrillers, mysteries, and women's literature. If your manuscript is somewhere in the messy middle, or finished and waiting for the next set of eyes, send me a note. We'll talk about what your story actually needs.
I want to help you tell your best story.
Happy writing! Sue
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