Writers in the Storm

By Jenn Windrow

Create a revision plan that looks like this:

Today we are going to talk about editorial letters and how to handle them. When I finish a developmental edit, whether it is for a personal client or the publishing house, I return a fully marked up manuscript with comments and line changes. But I also include an editorial letter that touches on the big picture items that need to be addressed in the MS.

If you have ever opened an editorial letter and felt your stomach drop, you are not alone. Editorial feedback can land like a thunderclap, especially when you are already deep in the emotional trenches of writing. The good news is this. An editorial letter is not a verdict on your talent. It is a roadmap. And once you know how to read it, you can turn that overwhelm into forward motion.

Let’s break this down in a way that actually helps you revise instead of spiral.

First, understand what an editorial letter really is

An editorial letter is not a line edit. It is not someone telling you how to rewrite every sentence. It is a high level analysis of how your story is working as a whole. Think structure, character arcs, pacing, stakes, clarity, and emotional payoff.

Editors are trained to zoom out. Writers live zoomed in. That mismatch is where a lot of stress comes from.

If an editor says something like “the middle sags” or “the protagonist lacks agency,” they are not saying your book is bad. They are saying the reader experience breaks down in predictable places. That is fixable. Very fixable.

Do not react. Triage.

Your first job is not to agree, disagree, or defend your choices. Your first job is to triage.

Read the letter once. Then walk away.

When you come back, read it again and categorize the feedback into three buckets:

1. Big picture issues
   These are things like plot structure, character motivation, theme, point of view, and pacing. They usually appear early in the letter and take up the most space. These are your highest leverage fixes.
2. Pattern problems
   These show up as repeated notes. For example, “scenes resolve too quickly,” “stakes drop after each confrontation,” or “side characters disappear for long stretches.” When an editor repeats themselves, pay attention. Repetition equals importance.
3. Optional or taste based notes
   These often sound softer. “You might consider,” “another option could be,” or “some readers may feel.” These are suggestions, not mandates.

This step alone turns chaos into clarity.

Translate feedback into questions you can answer

Editorial letters often feel abstract. Your job is to make them concrete.

Instead of staring at a note like “the protagonist is too reactive,” translate it into questions:

• What does my protagonist want in each act?
• What choice do they make that actively changes the story?
• Where do things happen to them instead of because of them?

Editors diagnose. Writers implement. The bridge between those two is asking better questions.

Look for the root cause, not the symptom

A classic mistake is fixing the surface issue instead of the underlying problem.

Example: An editor says the pacing drags in the middle. The instinct is to cut scenes or add action. But pacing issues are often about motivation and stakes, not word count.

Ask yourself:

• Does the character want something urgent in this section?
• Are consequences escalating?
• Is the outcome of each scene changing the situation?

Fix the engine, not the paint job.

You do not have to take every note literally

Here is an industry truth that writers rarely hear early enough. Editors are usually right about the problem, but not always right about the solution.

If an editor suggests killing a character, the real note might be that the character is not pulling their weight. You can solve that by deepening their role, merging them with another character, or sharpening their function.

Your job is not blind obedience. It is thoughtful interpretation.

Turn the letter into an action plan

This is where momentum returns.

How to Turn Feedback into Action

• Phase 1: Structural revisions
  Outline changes to plot, arcs, or POV. Do not worry about prose yet.
• Phase 2: Scene level fixes
  Revise scenes for goal, conflict, and outcome. Make sure each one earns its place.
• Phase 3: Thematic and emotional passes
  Reinforce the core theme. Track emotional highs and lows.
• Phase 4: Polish
  Only now do you worry about language, rhythm, and style.

Trying to do all of this at once is how writers burn out.

Remember why this hurts and why it matters

Editorial letters sting because they touch something personal. You built this story from nothing. Of course, it feels vulnerable. But feedback means someone took your work seriously enough to engage with it deeply. Silence is worse.

And remember that every strong book you love went through this stage. Multiple times.

What is one piece of feedback you have been avoiding, and what might change in your story if you finally faced it head on?

About Jenn Windrow

Jenn Windrow once attempted to write a “normal” book—and promptly bored herself into a coma. So now she sticks to what she does best: writing snarky, kick-butt heroines, broody supernatural men, and more sexual tension than a vampire in a blood bank.

She’s the award-winning author of the Alexis Black novels and the Redeeming Cupid series, where the undead never sparkle and the drama is always delicious. Jenn moonlights as a developmental editor, helping other writers wrangle their wild plots and tangle-free prose.

When not arguing with her characters or muttering about Oxford commas, she can be found binge-watching trash TV, wrangling the slew of animals that live in her house (husband and teenagers included), or telling herself she’ll only have one more cookie.

You can find her at jennwindrow.com or lurking on social media where she pretends to be an extrovert.

Photo by Flavio Amiel on Unsplash

By Liz Talley

Once there was a thirty-something writer who dreamed of contracts, edits, and book launches.

And she made her dream come true.

Oh, it took time. And effort. A little luck. Dogged pursuit. All the things required to keep one’s eyes fixed on the finish line and prepared to cross into victory.

Except, the writer began to realize she never truly crossed a finish line.

Because that elusive chalk mark scratched across the path isn’t the end of the race. It’s merely a mile marker in the long journey of a writing career. Every line crossed means another waits ahead. Some fellow writers drop out—tired, disillusioned, in need of a bench somewhere. Others press on, greeted by cheers and gold medals. And still others remain on the course alongside, picking up one foot, then the other, never knowing when—or if—that finish line will come.

Then there are the ones who get turned around, take a wrong turn, or stumble and scrape their knees. There are more writers with bleeding knees and black toenails than we like to admit.

Yes, a writing career means untied laces, blisters, worn soles, and iffy knees just as often as it means the awards podium. Some finish. Some don’t. And some start over.

Which is where I currently stand, sipping a sports drink and wondering if I’ve lost my mind.

Because after years of writing romance, I wrote a suspense.

It happens.

Sometimes we get a wild hair—an idea that refuses to let go—and suddenly the risk doesn’t seem so unreasonable.

For nearly twenty years, I pursued being a published author. It began with two manuscripts that never saw the light of day, followed by pitches, rejections, resubmissions, and finally, a contract. For many years, I wrote for various Harlequin imprints before making the jump to other publishers. With my agent’s guidance, I gained traction—hitting a bestseller list, earning a RITA Award nod, and landing three Amazon First Reads selections. Running on the right path, I felt confident, even at times, accomplished.

Then the market—already tight—grew infinitesimally narrower.

My agent couldn’t sell my next book. Proposals stalled. Crickets chirped from the publishing world. My work hadn’t changed, but the market had. Traditional publishers were no longer the sole gatekeepers. Indie publishing soared. Readers skewed younger, wanted books hotter, more dragon-y. Publishers chased low-hanging fruit—authors with massive platforms already in place. I was left dabbing my bleeding knees, trying to figure out how to reach the next checkpoint. Did I even want to keep running? That bench off to the side began looking awfully comfortable. What if I just sat down and …stopped?

Then I got an idea that wouldn’t leave me alone.

The problem? It fell completely outside the brand I’d spent a decade building—southern, sassy heroines bumbling their way into success. Marketing experts tell authors to pick a lane and stay in it for projected success. Reader expectations and all that. To leave my lane felt scary. Stupid even.

Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about this story, about how the heroine would grow, change, kill someone.

So I did something terrifying.

I stopped chasing romance publishing. I parted ways with my agent. And I wrote an entire quirky suspense novel with a darker, decidedly not-sassy protagonist.

A risk.

A pivot.

A Hail Mary to the end zone…wait. I’m mixing metaphors.

No matter. All that to say that now I’m on a different course.

What will this new race bring me?

I honestly don’t know. But being in my fifties and limping along in my career, a pivot felt necessary—I need a fresh course instead of another painful lap around the same one. I know the risks, know the logic against it, but the creative in me needed to be excited, to roll the dice on myself.

So for now, I’m putting one foot in front of the other. Meeting new runners. Working on my breathing. Trusting that I can reach the next mile marker—wherever that may be. It feels good to believe I can take another shot at a dream, even if hazards lie ahead. Because I choose to try. To reinvent. To change my socks and keep going with the hope that the white line lies ahead of me. They say it’s never too late to start over. I believe that.

So on I run, bandaged, determined, and a bit older than before.

But perhaps wiser? And at the very least hopeful that ahead is a new marker, a milestone reached.

Have you ever considered a genre change? Have you done something daring in your writing career? I’d love for you to share a risk that paid off or a lesson that you learned because you took a chance.

About Liz Talley

Liz Talley is the USA Today best-selling author of over thirty heartwarming stories. A finalist in both Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart and Rita Awards, Liz has published with Harlequin, Hallmark, and Montlake where she reached number one in Kindle romance and was named to Publisher’s Weekly mass market bestseller list. Her stories are set in the South where the tea is sweet, the summers are hot, and the porches are wide. In 2023, she also added screenwriter to her accomplishments, co-writing an adaptation of her novel The Wedding War, which landed in the Top 20 of the Louisiana Film Prize.

Featured image by Unsplash

By RJ Redden

We'd just come back from lunch, and honestly? The kids were dragging. My seven-year-old niece was doing that thing where she walks just slow enough to make it clear she's not entirely thrilled about the next activity. My five-year-old nephew was clutching my hand, but more out of obligation than excitement.

We shuffled into the children's museum like we were heading to a dentist appointment.

Then my niece spotted it.

"THE NEWS ROOM!"

The transformation was instant. One second she was dragging her feet, the next she was gone. Rushing toward a mock television studio complete with cameras, desks, and stacks of papers. My nephew dropped my hand and sprinted after her.

No hesitation. No “what do we do here?” moment.

They just knew.

Within seconds, my niece was shuffling papers with the seriousness of a seasoned anchor.

My nephew was making exaggerated reporter faces at the camera. The giggles started almost immediately, but underneath the laughter was something deeper:

Pure, unfiltered engagement.

They weren't learning about journalism. They weren't consuming content about news production. They were being journalists. Playing the role. Living the experience.

And watching their faces transform from sluggish obligation to electric participation, I had a revelation:

This is what we're all chasing as writers.

Not readers who just consume our work and move on. Readers who see our world and think "I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT THIS IS" and rush in to explore, to play, to participate.

Readers who go from dragging their feet to sprinting toward engagement.

The question is: How do we build newsrooms?

The Problem With Traditional Marketing

Here's what most of us have been taught: Write the book. Post about the book. Send newsletters about the book. Remind everyone, constantly, that the book exists and they should buy it.

It's the spray-and-pray approach. Shout into the void. Hope someone's listening.

And look—I get it. We do it because we don't know what else to do. Because someone told us "visibility" was the game. Because the algorithm demands constant content and we're all just trying to keep up.

But here's what that approach actually creates: readers with their shields up.

You know the feeling. Someone's trying to sell you something, and your whole body goes “nope.” You scroll faster. You delete the email without opening it. You unfollow.

That's not connection. That's noise.

And noise doesn't create fans. Noise creates... crickets.

So what's the alternative?

Stop marketing. Start building playgrounds.

The Journey: From Reader to Ride-or-Die

Not all readers are created equal. And I don't mean that in a snobby way—I mean it in a "there's a transformation that happens" way. A journey. And understanding that journey is the key to building something readers can't resist.

Stage 1: The Reader

They bought your book. Maybe they even finished it. They liked it! Gave it four stars, meant to leave a review but got distracted by laundry.

And then... they moved on. To the next book. The next glowing rectangle demanding their attention.

You're a pleasant memory. A name they might recognize if they saw it again. But you're not taking up any real estate in their brain.

This is where most readers stay. Not because your book wasn't good—but because there was nothing to DO after they finished it. No door to walk through. No newsroom to discover.

Stage 2: The Engaged Reader

These folks follow you on social media. They open your newsletters (sometimes). When your name pops up, there's a little spark of recognition.

But they're still on the outside looking in. They're watching through the window.

Interested, sure. But not invested.

Stage 3: The Participant

HERE'S where the magic happens.

Something shifted. They didn't just read about your world—they stepped into it. Maybe they took your "Which Character Are You?" quiz and got unreasonably excited about their result. Maybe they found the playlist you made for your protagonist and listened to it on repeat while doing dishes. Maybe they chatted with your character through a chatbot at 2 AM when they couldn't sleep.

Whatever it was, they crossed a threshold. They went from audience to participant. From watching the newsroom to shuffling papers behind the desk.

And something changed in their brain. We'll get to the science in a minute, but trust me—this shift is real and it is powerful.

Stage 4: The Superfan

You know these people. You might be one of these people for some author or fictional world.

They have the tattoo. They made the fan art. They've recommended your book to everyone at their book club, their office, their gym, and that poor unsuspecting stranger on the subway who made the mistake of asking what they were reading.

They pre-order everything you write, sight unseen. They cry when you announce a sequel. They have opinions about casting if your book ever becomes a movie, and they will defend those opinions.

They are ride or die.

And here's the secret that might change how you think about everything: Every single level-up in this journey didn't happen because you marketed harder. It happened because you invited them to play.

The Science: Why Play Changes Everything

Okay, let's get a little nerdy. Because this isn't just fuzzy "engagement" talk. There's actual brain science behind why play works when marketing doesn't.

The Defense Drop

Remember that feeling when someone's trying to sell you something? The internal nope? That's your brain's defense system kicking in. We're wired to be suspicious of people who want something from us. It's a survival thing. And traditional marketing triggers that response.

But play? Play sneaks past like it's got an invisibility cloak.

Because play isn't asking for anything. Play is offering something. An experience. A moment of fun. A chance to explore.

When you invite someone to take a quiz or chat with a character or listen to a playlist, you're not selling. You're opening a door. And open doors don't trigger defense systems—they trigger curiosity.

The Dopamine Loop

Your brain loves a good loop. Question leads to interaction leads to reward leads to dopamine hit leads to wanting more

That "Which Character Are You?" quiz? That's not a gimmick. That's a dopamine delivery system.

Curiosity (I wonder who I'll get) → Interaction (answering the questions) → Reward (finding out the result) → Dopamine (the little hit of pleasure) → Sharing (telling everyone you got the villain and you're not even mad about it).

This is why interactive content gets shared more than static content. It's not just fun. It's literally lighting up reward centers in people's brains.

The IKEA Effect

One weird truth about human psychology: we love things more when we helped create them.

It's called the IKEA Effect, and it's why you're irrationally attached to that wonky bookshelf you assembled yourself. You put effort into it. It's yours now.

When readers participate in your world—choose their faction, chat with your villain, build their own playlist of songs for your protagonist—something shifts.

It stops being your world. It becomes theirs

And people don't just casually appreciate things that are theirs. They protect them. They evangelize them. They get tattoos of them.

The Invitation: Building Your Playground

So how do you actually do this? How do you go from "author with a book" to "architect of a world readers can't resist playing in?"

You start where you are. You use what you have. And you build one piece of playground equipment at a time.

Low-Effort Entry Points

You don't need to build Disneyland on day one. Start simple:

A playlist for your book or main character (Spotify is free)

A "Which Character Are You?" quiz (plenty of free quiz builders out there)

Behind-the-scenes content about your world—the stuff that didn't make it into the book but makes the world richer

Remember: those scraps on your editing room floor? That's not trash.

That's playground equipment waiting to be assembled.

Once you've got the basics, level up:

- Character chatbots—imagine your readers having actual conversations with your protagonist (or your villain, which is honestly more fun)

- Interactive maps of your world

- "Bonus chapters" from different characters' perspectives

- Email sequences that feel like letters from a character

For when you're ready to go all-in:

• Augmented reality experiences
• Alternate reality games that blur the line between fiction and reality
• Full-blown community spaces where readers can interact with each other and your world

The point isn't to do all of these. The point is to start thinking differently.

Stop thinking like a marketer standing outside the fence shouting at people to come look at your thing

Start thinking like a playground designer building something people can't resist climbing on.

The Newsroom Is Waiting

Back at the children's museum, I watched my niece and nephew play journalists for a solid forty-five minutes. They made up stories. They interviewed each other. They took turns being "the camera person" with exaggerated seriousness.

Nobody told them what to do. Nobody gave them a tutorial. The environment was designed so well that they just... stepped in and started playing.

That's what your readers are waiting for.

Not another newsletter asking them to buy something. Not another social post reminding them you exist. But a newsroom. A space designed so invitingly that they take one look and think:

I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT THIS IS.

And then they sprint toward it. Your world is already built. Your characters already exist. The raw materials are sitting right there on your editing room floor, gathering dust. The only question left is: are you going to keep shouting from outside the fence?

Or are you going to open the gate and let them play?

About RJ

RJ Redden is your digital fairy godmother for audience engagement. Her wand wields AI, chatbots, and augmented reality to create experiences so engaging, your readers will forget Netflix exists. Find her at https://blackbeltbots.com. This article was edited with AI assistance, because this fairy godmother believes in using every tool in the workshop—ethically and transparently.

Top image from Pixabay