M. B. Heywood: Editor vs. the Machines

Derived from my Dustsong: Len the Wanderer novella (2023), currently behind the paywall here, available in paperback in my shop, or available unsigned from the online retailer who shall not be named.

How do you know where commas belong and where they don't?

M. B. Heywood — Tue, 27 May 2025 11:03:29 GMT

This post is part of a series of follow-ups to the article, “15 habits that make it harder for readers to enjoy your indie story.”

The Short Story

Indiscriminate comma placement works against readability. Many writers stick a comma wherever they’d take a breath when speaking (and nowhere else). But commas are best used with arrow-like precision, to maintain order in your writing. A comma clarifies logical relationships by separating words, or groups of words, in one of several ways.

The Real(ist) Story

If you’re under the impression that a comma belongs wherever you’d take a breath when reading aloud, you aren’t daft. It’s tempting advice for teachers and students alike, because it’s (deceptively) simple and produces tolerable results much of the time. Besides, contrary to popular belief in literary criticism classes, writing isn’t entirely divorced from spoken language.

Yet, “put a comma wherever you take a breath” is aggravating to language professionals because it’s guaranteed to produce some incorrect results, too. Ears and eyes function differently, after all, and sometimes require different signals to interpret meaning correctly.

There’s also a kernel of wisdom in the adage “if in doubt, don’t,” applied to commas, because comma clutter is an editorial sin in itself. Alas, I can’t endorse that counsel, either—with hyphens, perhaps, but not with commas. I encounter too few commas more often than I encounter too many commas. I suspect it’s an acute problem for folks who write so fluently that they don’t take many (mental) breaths. (And for those who use voice-to-text. No further comment.) That’s the impression left on readers, anyway: the stream of inspired consciousness has burst the dam and threatens to drown us. I know I can only read so much underpunctuated narrative without succumbing to the chaos.

Of course, everyone’s a critic. For the sake of being constructive, here are the main reasons I find myself adding commas to writing, in descending order:

To separate words, phrases,1 or clauses2 in a list (series) within a sentence.
To separate clauses within a sentence, with the help of a connecting word (like a conjunction or relative pronoun) that occurs at the beginning of one of the clauses.
To separate an introductory phrase from the main part of a sentence, especially if the phrase comprises multiple words or syllables.
To bracket a parenthetical word or phrase, emphasizing that it’s not the main thought but rather plays an explanatory or other subordinate role, without using punctuation as obtrusive as parentheses or em dashes.
To emphasize contrasting logical elements in a sentence.
To separate words or phrases that might be misread otherwise, at least initially.

Story Time

Here are a few examples of commas in action.3

To separate words, phrases, or clauses in a series:
Hastily, she collected her kit—saddlebag, steel cap, scimitar, bow, and quiver—before slipping away to the mounts.
A comma separates every consecutive pair of terms in this list, including the final pair. The comma after bow is called the Oxford comma, preferred by the forces of order but avoided in the nightmare realm called journalism.
To separate clauses:
She was tired, yes, but if she hesitated or lost focus, she might drop the thread, or her needle might snap.
This is a compound-complex sentence, comprising three clauses. The first bolded comma helps connect the first independent clause to the complex construction. The second bolded comma helps connect the dependent and independent clauses of the complex construction. Note that but and if are the conjunctions connecting the clauses.
To separate an introductory phrase:
Between cinching her bedroll and lashing it to the saddlebag she used as a pillow, Zshurii picked out Cactus’s familiar silhouette from their horse-line, nearer the perimeter.
This prepositional phrase is so lengthy, the comma is non-negotiable. There’s a lot of editorial discretion, and style guides differ, so consistency is the key. I now prefer a comma after most introductory phrases longer than one syllable.
To separate a parenthetical word or phrase:
She was tired, yes, but if she hesitated or lost focus, she might drop the thread, or her needle might snap.
The commas around yes offer emphasis and logical clarity. The comma before the final independent clause is optional. I used it because I wanted her needle might snap to feel parenthetical, instead of giving it the same weight as she might drop the thread.)
Between cinching her bedroll and lashing it to the saddlebag she used as a pillow, Zshurii picked out Cactus’s familiar silhouette from their horse-line, nearer the perimeter.
The final three words are a supplementary phrase adding detail about the horse-line.
Cactus didn’t look, either, but his ears pulled back and his neck strained forward at the sights and sounds of the deadly bolt-clouds.
Either adds a clarifying note of contrast to the relationship between the first clause here and the previous sentence.
To emphasize logical contrast:
Yet, Danuh was still her city. It was home.
To the consternation of ‘90s elementary school teachers, I don’t advocate putting a comma after a coordinating conjunction—and, or, but, for, yet, so—when it’s used as an introductory word. As a matter of professional preference, I make an exception for yet, more often than for or or but, because yet is such an emphatic contrast word. The comma plays to that emphasis. Not only, … but also constructions may fall into both this category and number 2 above.
To prevent misreading or awkward reading:
Before Zshurii or Rhecah could retake the initiative, the prefect brought his scythe up, across his broad chest, and shoved the pole at their necks.
Yes, this example technically falls under number 4 above. But category 6 here represents the reason I chose to make across his broad chest a parenthetical phrase in the first place. When a preposition follows an adverb that’s sometimes also used as a preposition, a reader may experience a split second of mental head-scratching I prefer to avoid. The comma clarifies that the words belong to separate phrases and aren’t two prepositions being used in illogical combination. You might also imagine the comma as a stand-in for and.
As another example, I suggest writing So what as So, what in a declarative sentence so readers are a smidge less likely to mistake it for a flippant So what? on first contact.
And I sometimes recommend a comma before because, depending on the intended logic of the sentence. A comma tells readers the subsequent clause applies to the entire portion of the sentence that comes before, not just the final preceding bit. In She hadn’t enlisted because she possessed Rhecah’s bravery or Cactus’s yearn for adventure, the clause after because provides hypothetical explanations for the character’s decision to enlist, whereas She hadn’t enlisted, because she possessed Rhecah’s bravery or Cactus’s yearn for adventure would explain why she decided not to enlist.

Godspeed and happy rewriting!

Article: Style for consistency

Loosely speaking, a phrase is a group of words with a subject or a verb but not both.

A clause is a group of words including both a subject and its verb. It may or may not form a complete sentence.

The examples are from Daughters of the Rising Sun, a novella version of my Zshurii serial (currently in the Vaporous Realms archives).

15 writing habits that make it harder for readers to enjoy your indie story

M. B. Heywood — Tue, 29 Apr 2025 15:29:39 GMT

(Updated May 1, 2025)

The Short Story

Poorly copyedited writing may tell a compelling story—riveting enough that your most enthusiastic readers can ignore the errors and inconsistencies. Yet, most of us maintain higher standards for formally published work than for the editorial hellscape of online forums, comments, and chat. Better copyediting means improved readability, which is about reducing barriers for people who might enjoy your work. A little editing goes a long way in showing you care about your readers.

The Real(ist) Story

The fifteen habits listed below are some of the most common things that trip me up as a reader and make me cringe as an editor. (Several folks rightly pointed out that I skimped on examples in the original version of this article. I’ve tried to rectify the situation, inserting errors and such into sentences plucked from my Vaporous Realms stories for illustrative purposes.)

1) Placing a comma wherever you’d take a breath when speaking (and nowhere else), instead of where it clarifies phrasing in written English:

Between cinching her bedroll, and lashing it to the saddlebag she used as a pillow, Zshurii picked out Cactus’s familiar silhouette, from their horse-line nearer the perimeter.

More readable: Between cinching her bedroll and lashing it to the saddlebag she used as a pillow, Zshurii picked out Cactus’s familiar silhouette from their horse-line, nearer the perimeter. [The commas here help organize the sentence into logical clauses and phrases instead of breaths.]

(Go on a deeper dive in this follow-up post.)

2) Using a comma to splice together dialogue with narrative that describes other actions of the speaking character, not the way the character delivered the dialogue:

Zshurii petted Cactus’s muzzle, “Think thyself too good just to eat grass, hmm?”

More readable: Petting Cactus’s muzzle, Zshurii murmured, “Think thyself too good just to eat grass, hmm?”

(Go on a deeper dive in this follow-up post.)

3) Inserting a redundant pronoun, right after its antecedent (the noun it refers to):

Sandy-haired, round-faced Rhecah, she slipped into line on Zshurii’s left.

More readable: Sandy-haired, round-faced Rhecah slipped into line on Zshurii’s left.

4) Using scrambled syntax (sentence structure or word order) that aspires to be old-fashioned but is, in truth, convoluted and unnatural:

Wherefore, mere heartbeats from the skirmish, Zshurii now smacked with the flat of her scimitar a swordsman in a bent-crested helm across the shoulder blades, unsuspecting though he was, and shoved him aside, heedless that he might be an ally.

More readable: Zshurii was mere heartbeats from the skirmish now. With the flat of her scimitar, she smacked an unsuspecting swordsman in a bent-crested helm across the shoulder blades. Unheeding that he might be an ally, she shoved him aside.

5) Using a pronoun with an ambiguous antecedent:

Zshurii tried to take advantage of the prefect’s open flank, but he repulsed her with a swift kick that almost connected with her knee. Then he thrust the sharpened butt of his scythe backward to parry Anntica’s attack from behind. He followed up by knocking her akilter with his left elbow. [The final “her” could apply to one of two characters, Zshurii or Anntica.]

More readable: Zshurii tried to take advantage of the prefect’s open flank, but he repulsed her with a swift kick that almost connected with her knee. Then he thrust the sharpened butt of his scythe backward to parry Anntica’s attack from behind. He followed up by knocking the commander akilter with his left elbow. [Eliminating the final pronoun clarifies that “the commander,” or Anntica, is the recipient of the prefect’s follow-up blow.]

6) Using a singular subject with a plural verb (or vice versa), often in situations where a plural or collective noun comes between a singular subject like each or either and its verb:

Each of the enemy soldiers were bearing a standard on their back, like the one she carried. [Regardless of how you feel about using a plural prounoun like their in potentially gender-ambiguous situations, the verb “were” here mistakenly treats “soldiers” as the subject of the sentence.]

More readable: Each of the enemy soldiers bore a standard on his back, like the one she carried.

7) Shifting verb tense unnecessarily—for instance, between the past and present tense or between the simple past tense (slew) and the present perfect (has slain):

The defenders on the bulwarks to either side continued hurling arrows and stingers, but their aim had erred high. A stiff breeze had been buffeting Zshurii from the side. [The verb tense slips from simple past “continued” to past perfect “had erred” to past perfect continuous “had been buffeting.” Any change in tense without a contextual reason is a potential distraction, and the wordiness of the perfect tenses slows the pace.]

More readable: The defenders on the bulwarks to either side continued hurling arrows and stingers, but their aim erred high. A stiff breeze buffeted Zshurii from the side.

8) Connecting most thoughts with and, even if they’re loosely related or a different conjunction would reflect the logical relationship better:

She didn’t try to aim carefully and made a slight adjustment each time, and they closed from the arm-aching limit of her range to a less strenuous bowshot.

More readable: She didn’t try to aim carefully but made a slight adjustment each time, as they closed from the arm-aching limit of her range to a less strenuous bowshot.

9) Bogging down your sentences with adverbs—or worse, adverb clusters:

It might have been only an illusion, the dance of sunbeams, but he seemed to leave a trail of light, really quite faint and almost dissipating, wherever he’d last been. [Unless you’re getting paid by the word, trying to do a bad Dickens or Austen impersonation, and/or aiming for an ironically detached tone, cut the fat y’all.]

More readable: It might have been an illusion, the dance of sunbeams, but he seemed to leave a faint, dissipating trail of light wherever he’d last been.

10) Capitalizing words idiosyncratically and inconsistently:

The battle-clamor intensified as they neared the clash of red and purple banners in the center. The Commander’s sturdy Sea-folk infantry were better equipped and more desperate than the foes they confronted. A fourth Company of their battalion, newly arrived, drove toward the defenders’ exposed flank.

More readable: The battle-clamor intensified as they neared the clash of red and purple banners in the center. The commander’s sturdy sea-folk infantry were better equipped and more desperate than the foes they confronted. A fourth company of their battalion, newly arrived, drove toward the defenders’ exposed flank.

11) Placing non-quote, non-dialogue words within quotation marks as a lazy way of indicating irony or emphasis, thereby adding more to visual clutter than to reader comprehension:

As if her half-formed thought had bid them into being, scorpion “stingers” flew through the air from the direction of the city gate.

More readable: As if her half-formed thought had bid them into being, scorpion stingers flew through the air from the direction of the city gate.

12) Using comic book conventions like ALL-CAPS or multiple forms of end punctuation(?!!) outside of comic books:

“What do we do NOW?!” she shouted. Zshurii heard the panic tingeing her question.

More readable: “What do we do now?” she shouted. Zshurii heard the panic tingeing her question.

13) Attaching descriptive phrases to the wrong part of a sentence—that is, using dangling modifiers, which may get the gist across well enough but make for loose writing and occasional head-scratching:

Handy enough with a scimitar in drills, her skill with a bow was certainly greater. [“Handy enough with a scimitar” is supposed to describe the character, but grammatically, it refers here to the subject “her skill”—which makes no sense.]

More readable: In drills, she was handy enough with a scimitar, but her skill with a bow was certainly greater.

14) Frequently using words that add more to syllable count than to meaning (like even, nine times out of ten):

Surely this was only hopeful speculation. But even so, from a man called a prophet, it carried more weight. [Full disclosure—this was the version I actually posted in Daughters of the Rising Sun.]

More readable: Surely this was hopeful speculation. Yet, from a man called a prophet, the words carried weight. [It’s not that “only” and “even so” made no difference whatsoever. But the meaning of the sentence comes through fine either way, and an incrementally more direct tone better fits the narrative context. Words must earn their keep.]

15) Using a semicolon instead of an em dash (long dash) to connect a sentence fragment to a complete though:1

It was a matter of duty; terrible duty, the warp yarns that held together the weave of a civilized realm.

More readable: It was a matter of duty—terrible duty, the warp yarns that held together the weave of a civilized realm.

If you do any (or many) of these things, I’m not judging your overall skill or talent as a writer. We all exhibit some of these habits sometimes, so join the club. But I say something because I care that you care about your readers. If you need help understanding any of these habits or how to address them, let me know. At the very least, try reading your work aloud to yourself before posting. Every bit of editing makes a difference.

Godspeed and happy (re)writing!

You may think this particular error isn’t so grievous compared to the others. It’s not, hence its placement at the end of my list. But for folks who know on some level that the semicolon is meant to join complete thoughts, or to replace serial commas in a list where listed items already abound in commas, semicolon errors are a hiccup in our reading experience. The semicolon signals our brain to look for an independent clause, so we find ourselves momentarily perplexed, looking for a complete thought that isn’t there instead of staying immersed in the story.

How does being an avid reader help you edit?

M. B. Heywood — Thu, 17 Apr 2025 20:11:21 GMT

The Short Story

If you want to be a better editor, arguably the best thing you can do is read more books—assuming they’re well edited.

The Real(ist) Story

For many an editor, training began when we were young bookworms. A reading habit, ideally but not necessarily lifelong, is the best preparation for being a good editor. Reading well-written, well-edited books strengthens our practical knowledge of words’ usage and connotations, sentence structure, punctuation usage, story development, and so forth. This knowledge may be more intuitive than conscious, but it’s invaluable all the same.

Now, editors with structural knowledge of written English on top of intuitive knowledge make better copyeditors and proofreaders, as a rule. I find I can spot a writer or editor who’s well-read but lacks formal knowledge of grammar and punctuation. The quality of their work tends to be high in general but with odd, obvious-to-me exceptions and inconsistencies. And inconsistency, alas, defeats much of the point of copyediting and proofreading.

Yet, intuitive editorial knowledge born of extensive reading seems to make it easier to absorb and apply structural knowledge of mechanics and phrasing in practice. This makes reading a huge asset to self-editors, assuming the books you read are edited well.

On that note—and I say this as an ardently indie author and editor—traditionally published books are a safer bet if you want to learn editing by osmosis. It’s a gross generalization that trad-pub books are better edited than indie books, but as a generalization, I stand by it (regarding copyediting, anyways).

It’s ideal to begin a reading habit early, in part because most of us have a lot less time for discretionary reading the further we venture into adulthood. And TV ~~computer games~~ those infernal mobile devices are all too tempting when we have but a few minutes to reset our weary selves at the end of a long day.

From an editorial perspective, read widely (genre-wise) for a broader knowledge base, including understanding of genre distinctions. Also, reading one author intensively, early on, may lead to quirks that aren’t entirely beneficial. Sure, Dickens taught me how to use whereupon and aforementioned as a sixth-grader, but decades later, I’m still recovering from a penchant for thirty-word sentences and polysyllabic monstrosities.

But no matter your literary preferences, invest in reading (instead of AI upgrades) as the path to becoming a better editor. Read a lot, y’all. Read aloud to your kids. Let them see you reading silently, too. And don’t give up the habit.

Godspeed and happy (re)writing!

Is "y'all" a proper word (and is that the correct spelling)?

M. B. Heywood — Tue, 25 Mar 2025 22:07:06 GMT

The Short Story

Y’all is the crowning achievement of the American Southern dialect(s), a veritable linguistic gift from the South to the Anglosphere. It adds clarity to the second person plural. The alternatives are, to use professional editorial jargon, weak sauce. Y’all is the conventional and recommended spelling. Ya’ll makes little to no sense. Yall, which I’ll bet becomes an accepted spelling a few generations down the road, makes grammatical sense and is fine for informal, text- or chat-level writing. Y’all carries less negative baggage than in days of yore, but alas, it remains a colloquialism (for now) and therefore is best avoided in formal writing.

The Real(ist) Story

I nearly labeled this a grammar post. But as confident as I am in my opinions related to y’all, discretion and preference factor heavily when it comes to this very American, very Southern word.

Y’all, to state the obvious, is a contraction of you and all—pronounced as one syllable, [YALL] as opposed to [yuh-ALL]. The latter mispronunciation is a dead giveaway you’re a non-native speaker of the word.

I suppose it gives away my position on the topic question(s) that I use y’all fairly often in my writing here and on the Vaporous Realms site. Yet, in my perceptions and experience as a child of the twentieth century, hailing from a transient metropolitan region possessed of an overinflated collective ego, y’all has a history as a much denigrated, emphatically low-prestige word. (For folks residing firmly in the cultural and linguistic South, I assume this is less true.)

These days, most such prejudice seems rightly relegated to the historical trash heap. In short, if you mock someone for using y’all nowadays, you’re much less likely to garner scorn and much more likely to come off like a jerk than would’ve been the case a few decades ago.

I’d like to attribute this perceived shift in mass public perceptions to the fact that y’all is at the forefront of genuine linguistic innovation in the English language. I suspect, though, that Southern American English is akin to country music or Nashville: some combination of celebrities, reality TV, and social media has led the general American public to absorb select parts of it into the national identity, taking away some but not all of its original regional character. Long story short, y’all is a lot less remarkable and somewhat cooler now than it was when I was a kid.

Even when it wasn’t cool, I believed with an ideological fervor that it was a proper word. It’s been in common usage, including by educated Southerners, for a long while. Comparable to Welsh chi or German ihr, it performs a distinct grammatical function as the second-person plural pronoun—the word used to address a group of two or more. It’s a clearer, more precise alternative to you, which also (and often) serves as the second-person singular for addressing one person.

And really, what’s the alternative to y’all, except the less-precise you?

Youse is far more limited geographically than y’all and, to my eye and ear, has the misfortune of seeming like a grammatical error—akin to making mouse plural as mouses instead of mice.

Once upon a time, and occasionally today, folks embarrassed to say the real deal (or afraid it would sound odd in their native dialect) resorted to the uncontracted version you all. Whereas some people may think this sounds more respectable, I’d contend you all is just y’all in denial. And you all, like y’all, never broke into formal written English.

Much to my chagrin, change-resistant contexts like academia, law, and formal business settings continue to resist y’all. So I must advise y’all, reluctantly, to avoid it in such situations. (Give it a century or two. Y’all isn’t some passing fad.)

In the meantime, to be fair, we rarely write formally to a group of people in the second person. If there’s ever a whiff of ambiguity where you is concerned, you have the option of adding a phrase to clarify: I’m addressing you, [name the individual or identify the group].

When y’all is an option, I’ve seen a few different spellings proposed:

y’all — This is the standard, accepted spelling, with the apostrophe being a tip of the proverbial hat to you’s omitted -ou.
ya’ll — This may be a better reflection of its pronunciation in spoken English. But it’s either an error or a contraction of ya (as a nonstandard pronunciation of you) and all, making it a very informal spelling suitable, at best, for dialogue.
yall — This may be the orthographic destiny of y’all. Using it, as I’ve been known to do in informal written conversation, eliminates a punctuation mark that does nothing for readability (unlike won’t / wont or don’t / dont). Moreover, this spelling declares boldly that yall has morphed into a single morpheme, becoming more than the sum of its etymological parts.

Story Time

Formal but potentially ambiguous: You shall not kill.

Weak sauce (with an awkward rhyme): You all shall not kill.

Standard conversational (with a slick rhyme): Y’all shall not kill.

Silly-sounding for virtually the entire population of the English-speaking world: Youse shall not kill.

Godspeed and happy rewriting!

Article: Story for resonance

What is genre (and why does it matter)?

Fri, 21 Mar 2025 23:05:42 GMT

[A previous version of this article was posted in February 2024.]

The Short Story

Genre may refer to a form or category of writing. Outside of academia, we use it to refer to a certain kind of book, based on the story or other content. In both the fiction and nonfiction worlds, readers have different sets of expectations for different genres. These reader expectations help determine what writers and editors can get away with. If you want your story to resonant with your readers, don’t mess with their genre-based expectations—unless you’ve thought it through and are willing to take a calculated risk.

The Real(ist) Story

Genre can mean different things to different folks. We commonly use it to describe subject matter in nonfiction (e.g., biography, history, memoir, personal development, religion) or types of stories in fiction (e.g., fantasy, historical fiction, romance). Meanwhile, academic folks sometimes invoke genre to differentiate forms of writing, like news reports, poems, short stories, novels, letters, emails, dictionary entries, Bible commentaries, marketing copy, monographs, and research studies. In any case, genre boils down to the idea of sorting writing into different categories.

All of these categories have conventions, or norms, that create expectational baggage. Readers associate subcategories, called subgenres, with more particular conventions and expectations.

Translated into the gaming world, a genre (or subgenre) is like a class (or subclass) of character. Fantasy gamers expect warrior-class characters to have impressive physical strength and carry big melee weapons. Characters in the barbarian warrior subclass tend to wear more leather (or bare skin) than steel. Wizard-type characters (sorcerers, mages, and the like) cast spells, usually wear robes, and often carry a staff. Rogues are sneaky and stabby. Warriors or rogues armed with longbows are frequently slender of build, whether because of the mistaken belief that drawing a bow requires minimal physical effort or because high fantasy associates longbows with elves.

The first step to editing for genre conventions is to understand which categories apply to the writing that you’re editing (or self-editing). Reading the manuscript in question and doing a bit of research will probably suffice.

The second step is to understand the expectations that come with those categories. Research is helpful, but there’s no substitute for reading (as widely as possible) in the relevant genre(s).

And the third step is to make sure you’re either (a) in line with those expectations or (b) have a good reason for deviating from them. This creative responsibility rests heavy on the author’s shoulders—with the editor as a trusty advisor.

Story Time

For better or worse, here are some common, genre-based reader expectations:

The protagonist of your young adult novel is a young adult. Thanks to a regrettable variety of audience pandering, this youth is smarter and more capable than most of his or her elders. If it’s a young adult fantasy or sci-fi novel, the protagonist may be the most important individual in the history of the universe. Regardless, he or she probably acts as if this were true.
Characters in your historical fiction novel speak contemporary English, maybe with a few archaic expressions thrown in for good measure. But the dialogue and narrative avoid anachronisms—expressions with technological or cultural points of reference that didn’t exist in the historical setting.
A military sci-fi story includes at least one actual battle scene, please.
Your cozy romance has an uplifting resolution. (Fine, I’ll say it outright: a happy ending.)
In a grimdark fantasy, multiple someones die violently—and there’s nothing cozy about it.
The mystery in a detective novel ceases to be mysterious by the end of the book.
A sword and sorcery novel may not feature a protagonist with a sword, but he or she wields some variety of medieval or pseudo-medieval weaponry.
Your epic fantasy is long, preferably multiple volumes, and sets the protagonist against a big, bad personification of evil with world-threatening intent.

The thwarting of reader expectations can be brilliant, the stuff of pleasant surprises. But it can lead all too easily to utter disappointment.

Godspeed and happy rewriting!

Livestream Debut on Tuesday (March 18)

M. B. Heywood — Sat, 15 Mar 2025 15:32:00 GMT

Brace yourselves, folks—I’m emerging from my comfort zone and taking Substack’s livestream feature for a spin just a few days from now. All the cool kids are doing it. But more importantly, I want to connect with y’all in real-time and find out what would be helpful to you as writers, editors, and self-editors. I always envisioned this site as the start of a community, so let’s find ways to built it and make the whole endeavor worthwhile for everyone.

I’ll go live at 1 p.m. U. S. Eastern (noon Central, 11 a.m. Mountain, 10 a.m. Pacific) this Tuesday, March 18, 2025! You’ll find the livestream by visiting Substack in the app or your web browser.

This inaugural livestream will be available to all subscribers, free and otherwise. I’ll field editorial questions if you have any. Otherwise, I’ll introduce myself and fill the space with my preferred editorial (and editorial-adjacent) topics and goings-on. And I’ll post the recording afterward for anyone who can’t make it.

I truly hope to see y’all there, as witnesses to my first-time livestreaming hiccups. In the meantime, I’ll be breaking out my office decor to remedy the blank white wall behind my desk.

Godspeed, and happy (re)writing!

What is a comma splice, and why is it an abomination?

M. B. Heywood — Fri, 14 Mar 2025 14:38:36 GMT

The Short Story

A comma splice is when you connect two independent clauses (complete thoughts) with a comma but leave out the connecting word. Either add a suitable coordinating conjunction to make it a complete sentence or swap out the comma for a semicolon, em dash, period, or set of parentheses.

The Real(ist) Story

Sometimes, the creative inspiration pours out of the writer’s mind with such ferocity and speed, the minimal separation of a comma between thoughts seems apt, or at least the best to be done, in the moment. I think this happens frequently. No personal judgment on the writer who commits such an infraction, but it highlights the need to copyedit afterward.

Or maybe a speck of dust on the screen makes the writer think he or she has, in fact, typed a semicolon. This sounds a bit like “the warg ate my homework,” but I’ve been there (the speck, not the warg).

Then again, perhaps the writer is a literary hipster trying to mess with the rules ironically or, worse, push the buttons of stodgy grammarians.

Or the writer may suffer an overwhelming feeling of oppression at the thought of more authoritarian punctuation marks. The milquetoast ambiguity of a comma seems less offensive.

Of course, it could be that the progressive educational system of the past century has failed our society utterly (a verdict not incompatible with some of those other hypotheticals).

Whatever the root of the evil, comma splices are chaos. They’re abominations spawned in demonic laboratories, which you’ll find in the deepest pits of the constipated bowels of linguistic hell. If you think otherwise, I submit that it’s time you review the acceptable uses of the various punctuation marks—and edit your gorram sentence.

These three things are true: 2 + 2 doesn’t equal 5. You can’t decide unilaterally to pronounce a like z. And a comma is a versatile, respectable punctuation mark with many uses, none of which includes, on its lonesome, connecting two independent clauses.

Levity aside, conventions exist and are maintained for a reason. Most of us, as readers, are trained to recognize the normal uses of a comma. Therefore, putting a comma where a harder break is called for will make many of your readers stumble unnecessarily. The comma may signal their brains may to look for a continuing series (list) of clauses that doesn’t exist. When the sentence ends after the second item, they may question themselves and feel compelled to reread the whole thing.

May I suggest these fine, decisive alternatives that fit neatly within the conventions of written English and human decency:

a comma with a coordinating conjunction (and, or, but, for, yet, so). A, and B.
a semicolon, which resembles a (spliced-together) comma and period but is an entirely civilized, elegant option for combining independent clauses. A;B.
an em dash, to indicate a break in a sharper and less formal way. A–B.
parentheses, if the second clause could be more of an afterthought or aside. A (B).
a period, establishing two separate sentences for the two thoughts. A. B.

Story Time

Let’s pretend medieval monks wrote in English (today’s English, even) and used modern (or any) punctuation.

One day, the practical jester of a scriptorium (you know there must have been a joker in every scriptorium) peered over the shoulder of the most faithful scribe, hard at work. “Behold, a griffin!” the jester cried, whereupon his diligent brother spared a curious glance out the arched window.

The imp seized the moment. He produced a quill from the folds of his robes and with one swift stroke, perverted a full stop (period) on his brother’s vellum to a comma. The manuscript, thus desecrated, read as follows:

Godwin and Gytha went up the hill to fetch a pail of water, Godwin fell down and broke his crown and Gytha came tumbling after.

Upon dusting off this manuscript many centuries later, we may redeem it with one of these revisions:

Godwin and Gytha went up the hill to fetch a pail of water; Godwin fell down and broke his crown and Gytha came tumbling after.
Godwin and Gytha went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Godwin fell down and broke his crown and Gytha came tumbling after.

In this instance, an em dash or parentheses would be valid options, technically speaking, but they wouldn’t make for sound logic.

Godspeed and happy rewriting!

Is it "centered around" or "centered on"?

M. B. Heywood — Sun, 09 Mar 2025 01:05:45 GMT

The Short Story

The common phrasing error centered around may simply be a confusion of centered (which relates to a fixed location) and revolved (which relates to circular motion, hence revolved around). Or maybe the blame lies with the bullseye, in the center of a round target, many of us imagine when we write about the focal point of something. Instinctual logic associates focus with circles, which have centers and are round. But a circular target is focused on the middle of the bullseye—a specific, central point that helps us get a fix on the circle’s location, yet exists independently of the roundness all around it. Centered on is thus the logical, grammatically accurate phrase.

The Real(ist) Story

Sometimes, editing really does involve simple problems with straightforward answers.

Centered on may refer to the middle point of a literal circular space—on the surface of the earth or on a map, for instance. It may also refer figuratively to the main point of a discussion, the primary focus of a larger effort, or so forth. Either way, the erroneous phrase centered around goes to show we can’t always rely on our instincts when editing. We professional editors spend inordinate amounts of time pondering the mechanics of the written word because we have similar linguistic habits to the rest of humankind. It’s our solemn duty, however, to spot, circumvent, and dismantle the traps those habits set for our writing.

The gist of centered around is clear, but on reconsideration, it suggests that the center of something (a single point) is located within the radius of something. If that were the case, the center of X would be located some distance from the center of X. Centered around isn’t just imprecise; it’s nonsense, or near enough.

If you don’t know (or remember) what a compass is—the tool for drawing circles, not the navigation device—I recommend a quick bit of research. The drawing compass illustrates my point well. (Puns abound. Y’all are welcome.) The foot is placed on a specific point that becomes the center of the circle, so as you rotate the (drawing) arm of the compass, the result is a circle centered on the foot.

Next time you encounter centered around, you can chuckle, shake your head ruefully, correct the mistake, and move on with your editing life.

Story Time

An example from my Vaporous Realms story-world:

Most cartographers in the Redeemed kingdoms centered their maps on the Fledgling World. Their counterparts among the Waveborne more often centered on the Sea of Livyat that lay betwixt the Fledgling and Elder Worlds—and understandably so, because the Nordling and Southron ways of life revolved around the ocean.

Godspeed and happy rewriting!

Do you use a comma before a "who," "which," or "that" clause?

M. B. Heywood — Sat, 01 Mar 2025 22:02:41 GMT

The Short Story

We sometimes use who, which, and that to introduce incomplete thoughts called relative clauses, which provide additional information about someone or something earlier in the sentence (whatever previously mentioned person, place, thing, or notion who or which or that refers to). If it’s a person, use who (or a variaton thereof). If the relative clause is absolutely necessary to pinpoint a place, thing, or idea, it’s best to use that without a comma. If the relative clause conveys optional, nice-to-know details, always use which with a comma (or alternative) beforehand (and some kind of punctuation afteward, too).

The Real(ist) Story

Who, which, and that are words capable of wearing a few different hats. That can serve as a pronoun, an adjective, an adverb, or a conjunction, for starters. Here we’re concerned with these words’ use as (relative) pronouns introducing (relative) clauses. Relative clauses have subjects and verbs, like any good clause, but they’re dependent (subordinate), unable to stand on their own independently as complete thoughts—if only because of the pronoun itself.

A relative clause, which conveys information about some person or thing the relative pronoun refers to, may be restrictive or nonrestrictive. Counterintuitively, the nonrestrictive version gets fenced in by a comma or two, while the restrictive version doesn’t. That’s because the “restrictive” bit has to do with meanings, not punctuation. The extra information in a restrictive clause narrows (restricts), or clarifies, our understanding of the person or thing the clause refers to. Because the clause is essential to a clear understanding of who or what we’re talking about in the first place, we keep it joined at the hip to the previous part of the sentence—without the divider of an extra comma.

The information in a nonrestrictive clause elaborates in a nonessential way; it could be plucked out and whipped into a separate sentence without changing the “what” or “who” of the original sentence in any critical way. Because the clause provides extra, elaborating detail rather than essential, clarifying detail, we bracket it off with a comma at the beginning and another comma, or end punctuation, at the finish.

I speak of commas here, but substitute em dashes or parentheses if the situation calls for it. To tell you true, I find it helps to think of the bracketing commas (or comma and end punctuation) as parentheses. That way, the nonrestrictive clause seems more like an aside or afterthought—in other words, optional. (When you read it aloud, you’re also more likely to pause before a nonrestrictive clause.)

All of these grammatical underpinnings help explain my advice on commas before who relative clauses, which relative clauses, and that relative clauses. It’s less a matter of which words get commas and more a matter of which words can be used in comma (nonrestrictive, nonessential info) situations or no-comma (restrictive, essential info) situations.

Who (or whom or whose, as the case may be) means the relative clause provides information about a person. Never use that to refer to a person—have a little respect, y’all. You’ll have to make the judgment whether it’s a nonrestrictive or restrictive clause to know whether or not to use a comma with who.

Which almost always means a nonrestrictive clause, so it usually gets a prefatory comma. Double-check, because every so often, someone will try to be clever and sneak which into a restrictive clause. Doing so may not be wrong, but I’d argue it’s less right—less natural-sounding for most of us. Besides, where there’s a choice, I’m partial to using distinct words for distinct purposes. Call me precise.

That leaves, err, that. If that begins a relative clause, don’t use a comma. That is only used in restrictive situations; since it’s a specialist in this regard, I find it’s the clearer choice.

If you take nothing else from this post, stick these guidelines in your editorial toolbelt: Use who to refer to people. Otherwise, if you pause before you read the clause aloud, or if that would sound funny, use a comma and which. And don’t use a comma before that.

Story Time

Below are a few examples pulled from my Dustsong novella.

Who clause (nonrestrictive)

The barbarian glanced at the other woman present, who hovered close by the stone-beast.

Here, Egwae was the only other woman (loosely speaking) present besides Kaelii (the barbarian). The detail that Egwae “hovered close by the stone beast” was therefore additional information, not necessary to distinguish betwixt multiple candidates for “the other woman present.” Nonessential means nonrestrictive, which in turn means a prefatory comma. And Egwae was decidedly a who.

Who clause (restrictive)

“But I don’t recall offending anybody, let alone the storm-tamer who bested Livyat.”

Here Len referred to the Wright (a who) and his victory over the primordial chaos serpent, Livyat. It may seem like we’ve stumbled into a grey area with this example. Unless the Vaporous Realms story-world exists in your head the way it does in mine, you might be unsure whether it contained “storm-tamers” other than the Wright. So, “to comma” or “not to comma”?

Note that Len said the storm-tamer instead of using Storm-Tamer as an epithet. Potentially, Len thought his brother Sceg, to whom he was speaking, wouldn’t immediately know who the storm-tamer was without the clarifier who bested Livyat. But an alternative, more likely explanation of why it’s a restrictive clause is that in context, Len used the entire phrase the storm-tamer who bested Livyat (not merely the storm-tamer) as a way of naming the Wright. You wouldn’t put a comma in the middle of a name.

Which clause (nonrestrictive)

He paused for a respite under the diminutive pear trees, which had taken up residence on a flat, especially green tract of mountainside.

The diminutive pear trees were the only pear trees around, so the additional details about their location weren’t necessary to identify the trees in question. If a relative clause isn’t for essential clarity, it’s nonrestrictive, hence the bracketing commas and—given that pear trees aren’t people—the use of which.

Note that it wouldn’t sound wrong if you were to remove the comma and replace which with that. However, it would change the meaning of the sentence subtly, suggesting the presence (or possibility, at least) of more pear trees in the vicinity, beyond those at the specific spot described.

That clause (restrictive)

Len’s cheeks warmed in a way that had naught to do with the wastes. He hadn’t a notion what was so funny.

Len’s cheeks might have warmed in any number of ways, so it’s necessary to narrow the possibilities with a restrictive clause. The way in question was one having nothing to do with the desert sun—which is an indirect clarification, but it counts. In context, the clause clearly suggests Len was embarrassed. Therefore, we omit the comma. Though Len was a person, his cheeks were not, so that (not who) is appropriate.

Godspeed and happy rewriting!

How do you connect complete thoughts in a sentence?

M. B. Heywood — Wed, 29 Jan 2025 23:37:56 GMT

The Short Story

Complete thought is the layman’s term for an independent clause, which can stand on its own grammatically and makes sense doing so. Yet, sometimes it’s beneficial to combine complete thoughts into a compound sentence. You can accomplish this with a specific kind of connector word, called a coordinating conjunction, or with certain kinds of punctuation. But for all our sakes, abandon the notion that a comma (on its lonesome) is one of your options.

The Real(ist) Story

Writing doesn’t work well if the writer doesn’t communicate his or her complete thoughts to the reader. Complete thoughts need an actual subject and an actual verb, not decoys lurking in prepositional phrases. Sentence fragments (partial thoughts that may imply complete thoughts) aren’t out of the question, but use them sparingly to avoid choppiness.

The highfalutin name for a complete thought is an independent clause. It may be a complete sentence, or it may be attached to another clause. A clause is a group of words with a subject (which may have others words hanging off of it, like little grammatical gargoyles) and a predicate (which is a fancy name for a verb and any words hanging off of the verb).

But don’t be too hasty, Master Took: some clauses, called dependent (subordinate) clauses, still aren’t complete thoughts. Moreover, a noun isn’t always the subject of a clause. Decoy subjects abound! A decoy subject is often:

a direct object—a noun that’s the focus or “recipient” of a verb’s action or state of being

The warrior’s comrade handed him his shield.

an indirect object—a noun that’s the focus or recipient of a direct object

The warrior’s comrade handed him his shield.

an object of the preposition—a noun that’s the focus of a preposition

The warrior’s comrade returned his shield to him.

an appositive—a word (or phrase) that puts the actual subject in different words (so at least you’re getting warmer)

The warrior’s comrade, a stout fellow, returned his shield to him.

There’s no shame in finding it tough to spot decoys. These matters require a certain level of grammatical understanding. A knowledgeable copyeditor or proofreader is like a blacksmith examining a sword, or an engineer or architect looking at a building, and perceiving how it was constructed—how it works under the surface. With pointers, practice, and perseverance, you can get the hang of grammatical analysis, but some sentences are tricksy. That’s why each editorial pass, and each pair of eyes, helps.

Let’s return to the fray. If you choose to combine independent clauses, you’re forging a compound sentence. There are relatively few ways to go about this properly.

The most popular method is with the coordinating conjunction as a connector word (preceded by a comma to mark the separateness of the clauses):

A, and B.
A, but B.
A, or B.
A, so B.
A, yet B.
A, for [because] B.

The alternative method, to be used selectively because it’s more noticeable to the reader, is punctuation without connector words:

A; B. The semicolon is oft maligned by full stop (period) fetishists and those with low expectations of their readers’ attention spans. This is due to guilt by association with long-winded narrative styles. The reputation may hold a grain of truth, yet the semicolon remains an understated, elegant option for fusing two complete thoughts. The trick is, it works best when the second clause logically follows the first clause very closely, whether in a causal sense (like so), as a restatement, or as a closely related addition (like an extra-strength and).
A—B. I’d recommend the semicolon, or keeping the two independent clauses separate, before resorting to the em dash, because the latter is so obtrusive that better options almost always exist. Technically it’s permissible, as a more in-thy-face version of the semicolon, but I’d try to reserve the em dash for attaching sentence fragments.
A: B. You can use a colon when the second clause offers an illustration or other clarification of the first clause. But before using a colon this way, double-check that it’s necessary to connect the clauses in the first place. Is the relationship between the two thoughts any clearer with the colon, or would a period serve just as well?
A, “B.” It’s a stretch at best to call this scenario—the kind of thing you encounter with dialogue or a direct quotation—a compound sentence. The B clause functions as a direct object of the introductory A clause. (The diminutive creature [subject] told [verb] the woman [indirect object], “I thought you’d be taller” [second clause, direct object].) Strictly speaking, the sentence comprises two independent clauses and naught else, yet it doesn’t make sense standing on its own without the B clause to supply the object. Semantics aside, this option applies only in limited situations involving quotation marks.

Splicing two independent clauses together with a comma, as if it were a semicolon, is a mark either of a grammatical novice or of a fiction writer playing fast and loose with punctuation rules as a style choice. (Commas separating three or more independent clauses in a series, or list, doesn’t count. Just hold tight and wait for that coordinating conjunction right before the last clause.)

If you’re considering a comma to connect two complete thoughts, let me help you: don’t. Please, don’t do it. Find your editorial backbone and lay down the law with a conjunction, a semicolon, or—brace yourself—a humble stop in the form of a period.

Story Time

Take these examples from my Dustsong novella:

The sheep had scattered without a trace, but the sun wasn’t long in its descent.[coordinating conjunction]

The moment passed; the hedge held. [semicolon]

“I’m a fool—I know it.” [em dash]

Yet they dressed more like his mother: each was clothed in a hide tunic that covered neck to knee. [colon]

Godspeed, folks, and happy (re)writing!

How do you make sure your writing is sufficiently well edited?

M. B. Heywood — Wed, 29 Jan 2025 01:46:43 GMT

The Short Story

Editorial quality is about setting expectations and using a combination of available resources to get there, or as close as possible. Those resources include time, knowledge, and skill, whether yours or someone else’s. Even if you’re outsourcing editorial quality control, it’s best not to do so completely: not all editors are equally skilled (or equally skilled at all kinds of editing), while AI tools don’t always get it right. Authors who aren’t professional scribes need to be able to distinguish good from bad (or better from worse) editorial suggestions, as well as make sober calculations about expectations and resources, to ensure sufficient quality.

The Real(ist) Story

Quality, in the realist school of editing, is about judging when a piece of writing is good enough for its intended purpose and audience right now. But how’s an author to know his or her book is “good enough for now”?

Mind you, a realist approach to editing does not mean low-quality editing. It’s a flexible standard dependent on expectations—yours and your intended readers’. “Good enough” means a quality of editing appropriate to the situation. When you’re talking about a book manuscript or an article for print publication, expectations run reasonably high because most books aren’t cheap—and post-publication fixes are problematic or impossible. In those instances, quality should probably be as high as you have time and budget to achieve.

That brings us around to the notion of limited resources. Editing is a function of time, knowledge, and skills, and maybe the money to hire others’ time, knowledge, and skills. The less you have of any one of those resources, the more you need of the remaining options. Beyond my deep reservations about AI, that’s ultimately why I started this community: to help folks with the knowledge and skills parts of the equation. The better you understand how written English works (without asking the robot brains that overthrew our search engines), giving you a structured framework for making editorial decisions, the more you can edit yourself—and the more confidently you can make use of help, whether it’s human or machine. That helps you make better use of your time and money, and it makes for better writing.

Now, when it comes to outsourcing your efforts to make writing good enough for now, you have two main places to look for help: human editors and toasters—err, AI. Of course, human editors and their computer-based counterparts are not all equally skilled and knowledgeable when it comes to recognizing and fine-tuning the intricacies, nuances, and creative expression of written English.

It’s quite the conundrum, really. Non-professional and novice writers, including those writing in a genre in which they’re not widely read, know they need help. But because they’re non-professional and novice writers, they don’t know how to tell which help is “good enough,” both in general and when it comes to specific editorial advice. So either way, knowledge and skills are good to have, and I do what I can to assist in that area.

Here are some questions you can ask yourself whenever you think a manuscript might be good enough for the moment:

Does it meet your / the author’s basic expectations? Will you / the author feel good about others reading this? Alternatively, will you feel embarrassed by the quality?
Does it achieve your / the author’s basic intended purposes?
Will it meet the audience’s basic expectations? Alternatively, will the intended readers likely be disappointed in some way?
Have you reread it at least once (aloud, ideally) to ensure no glaring errors or likely points of confusion? If you tend to reread along the way, “editing as you go,” a start-to-finish reread may not be worth your while for something low-stakes, like a casual text or email or a rough draft.
How long would another pass of editing take? How much do you reasonably expect the manuscript to improve with another pass? Experience helps in answering those questions, especially the latter. But you can get some notion of room for improvement by beginning another pass through, as a sample, and seeing how dense your edits are. Does the incremental improvement seem worth the time?
If you don’t have time for a full pass through, are there specific aspects in need of improvement that you have time to skim or spot-check for?
If you’re editing for someone else, do the terms of your work require further editing? Is there budget available to support further editing?

These sorts of questions help you to recognize the real-world constraints on your editing and make reasonable, defensible choices. Of course, to answer these questions, you need an understanding of the purposes, audience, and expectations involved. Be reassured that, as with so many things in life, editorial discernment tends to come quicker with experience.

Story Time

On the Vaporous Realms site and elsewhere, I’ve shared early drafts of numerous stories, in snippets and chapters. (My older Songs of the Vaporous Realms series and current Annals posts are good examples.) Readers’ expectations for free or inexpensive, short-form, self-published work are frankly low. Subscribers to my fantasy fiction don’t expect the Great American Novel, ready for publication, to show up in their inbox. As a Substack reader and observer, I suspect most of my Vaporous Realms subscribers—if they open my emails and read my posts at all—are casual readers who expect a quick diversion to sparks their imagination and maybe offer some sense of connection to me as the author.

For my part, I expect my posts to be well enough written and self-edited that they won’t embarrass me or waste my subscribers’ time. I aim to give folks a glimpse of what I’m up to, in hopes that my snippets and author notes will encourage my writing habit overall, brighten my readers’ day a bit, intrigue them enough to stick around until I publish another book, and periodically add up to a book’s worth of story.

I don’t expect any weekly post to secure paid subscriptions sufficient to compensate me for the time I spend writing and lightly editing it, let alone the time for more self-editing or the money to hire another editor. So my snippets need not be fine-tuned and polished any more than I have time and inclination on a given day. A bit of copyediting is in order, but seldom any deep-dive developmental editing or fine-comb proofreading—because “good enough for now” is far better than the alternative, which is abandoning the effort altogether.

Godspeed and happy (re)writing, y’all!

How do you make sure writing sticks to the point?

M. B. Heywood — Wed, 22 Jan 2025 22:02:11 GMT

@2016 Clonefront. Duly licensed.

The Short Story

To ensure writing sticks to the point, edit for cohesion, or the effective functioning of all the parts of the structure, and possible the phrasing and style choices, to achieve the author’s overall purposes. Cohesive writing looks different in fiction than in nonfiction, yet it’s always intentional, consistent, and focused in the ways relevant to the genre. If all the bits and pieces of a manuscript don’t support each other by tying back to a common argument, theme, or plot, the work as a whole won’t be focused—and probably won’t make clear sense, either.

The Real(ist) Story

Cohesion describes how well the different elements of a piece of writing come together. A writing style or written voice may be cohesive if it exhibits a reasonable degree of consistency, without erratic elements. In fiction, it may describe how well the various plot threads are interwoven into a sensical whole, without loose ends. Nonfiction achieves cohesion mainly by ensuring all the building blocks of its structure—like chapters, sections within a chapter, paragraphs within a section, and sentences in a paragraph—support each other and an overall focus on the main argument (thesis) or theme of the piece, including any key supporting points or subtopics.

Cohesion carries with it a connotation of being intentional and, perhaps, economical. No word is wasted, even if the voice is wordy, because the words point back to the main thing (or the subsidiary things that hold up the main thing).

Coherence is different from cohesion, yet they may go hand in hand. Being coherent boils down to making clear sense. Writing that lacks cohesion (unity and focus) probably won’t be coherent (clear and sensical), either.

Try thinking of a written manuscript as a medieval castle. The tactical purpose is defense; the strategic purpose is control of the vicinity or of an entire region, especially if the castle is located in a vital harbor, mountain pass, or the like. Cohesion means encircling the castle with fortified walls that provide ramparts, towers, and a reinforced gate, all of which relate directly or indirectly to the defensive purpose of the castle. All the parts of the castle operate together effectively to that end. Stone is used wherever possible for superior protection, which further ties the whole of the castle together in appearance and function.

All of these consistent, intentional elements that make the castle cohesive also make its design coherent. Coherence may also entail situating your castle keep on a hill or other elevated position, with a commanding view to watch for the arrival of unwelcome visitors.

Lack of cohesion, by contrast, might look like walls that don’t connect. Maybe a different construction material was used for every wall and the gate—the part that should be reinforced due to its inherent vulnerability—was built of hay bales. The various parts of the castle don’t join together architecturally or functionally.

Further incoherence would arise from placing the keep directly under a cliff, where attackers could drop things easily on the defenders’ heads. So would building the thickest walls around the ornamental gardens instead of the keep. Such design decisions don’t add up or make sense, certainly not with respect to the castle’s purpose. (Unless the notion is to befuddle attackers with its sheer incoherence.)

Put another way, incoherent conception or design tends to produce lack of cohesion in the execution and the end result. So it goes with writing.

Keep nonfiction writing cohesive and coherent by asking these sorts of questions:

What is the main point, argument, or theme? If there are multiple such arguments or themes, do they connect, and which is primary?
What are the subtopics? Do they relate clearly to aspects of the theme or secondary points of the main argument?
Do the chapters and sections support the main or key points?
Do the paragraphs and sentences support each other, the chapters and sections, and the overall argument or theme?
Are all of these connections clear throughout? Does every piece point back to the main thing?
Are there logical transitions throughout the manuscript?
Does the manuscript include extra stuff that doesn’t relate to the main point directly or indirectly? Whether or not it’s well written, does it belong in this piece?

When practical, get second opinions on questions of relevance, focus, and general cohesion. Unless the subject matter is obscure or esoteric, readers who aren’t professional editors may shed light on questions of cohesion (and coherence) more readily than on the nitty gritty of grammar and punctuation.

Story Time

For an example from nonfiction, let’s say I had inserted a lengthy tangent into this post about my utter disdain for the word cohesiveness. An extended diatribe regarding the lack of daylight I perceive between cohesiveness and the far more concise cohesion would’ve been an obnoxious bit of editorial snobbery. It also would’ve undermined the cohesion of this article. Good thing I mustered some self-restraint!

By contrast, the snippet below, from the Eastsong setting of my Vaporous Realms story-world, exhibits more than the usual cohesion:

Griivuh's heart thudded with every oar-stroke pulling the canoe upriver. He knelt in the aft, cradling his long-toothed scythe and peering vainly into lingering night. The high, cloud-enshrouded city wall loomed to his left. A shield against the moon, who would betray us to enemy eyes. None of his warriors, hunched over their oars in the midsection, uttered a word—neither prayer nor curse, on pain of death.
The enemy lurked upstream, a little further. Foes. Neighbors. Kin-folk. Rhecah skittered across his memory, chasing a yearling aurochs gone rogue. Her sandy tresses streamed behind her, like her pony’s tail. I left thee with so many words. But so few I truly meant.
He turned his mind to counting oar-strokes, which steadied his breathing. Cricket-song made an eerie prelude to bloodletting among brethren.
Thick summer air lay heavy on the river. Griivuh swatted a blood-sucker that assaulted his face, crushing it in his thick beard. Mugginess and anticipation soaked his tunic through, under quilted deerskin armor.
The first predawn light peeked from the east across hills and river-plain. He stopped his silent count and clapped the shoulder of the man in front of him. It was time to disembark—onto the grassy eastern bank, into the rising sun.1

The rhythms of the language work together with the imagery and the plot point—an early morning sneak attack—to reinforce each other and produce a mood of anxious, ominous dread befitting the scenario.

Godspeed and happy rewriting!

Article: Story for resonance

Article: Content for purpose

Heywood, M. B. “Prelude to Bloodletting.” The Vaporous Realms (web). February 9, 2024.

What is the significance of theme in story development?

M. B. Heywood — Fri, 17 Jan 2025 22:22:42 GMT

The Short Story

Theme gets at the big-picture human significance of a story—the "so what?" that we always hope sticks with a reader long after plot points fade from memory. It describes the main idea(s) or message(s) underlying or permeating the narrative, mostly in implicit ways if the story is a yarn well spun.

The Real(ist) Story

People can get persnickety about their preferred definition of theme. For instance, it's common in colloquial parlance to identify an abstract noun like love, faith, or hope as a theme in a particular story or poem. Other folks may object that these are potential subjects of a work of prose or verse but that the theme, properly, is what the words seem to say about the subject.

For my part, I reckon it's not a grievous error to declare, "Death is a main theme of The Lord of the Rings." But where does Tolkien's epic differ thematically from Harry Potter on the matter of death? Or from Dune? Any of several plausible, relatively specific statements of theme may shed more light. Tolkien's tale, I could argue, suggests that an honorable death upholding good is a natural part of a virtuous life. And that Rowling's YA epic presents death as a tragedy born of wicked actions by mean and cowardly folk. Frank Herbert's epic imagines death as a necessary catalyst and byproduct of collective survival.

That said, never feel ashamed for framing theme ~~lazily~~ broadly in passing or casual conversation. As an author, maybe you can't rightly pin down themes of your story—and maybe that's for the best.

Truth be told, it's usually a mistake to start with a pointed theme and proceed to build a story around it. From Terry Goodkind's objectivist fantasy to "literary" novels putting on airs, ideologically driven stories are prone to being clunky, patronizing, obnoxiously self-conscious, or otherwise less than genuine. Storytelling tends to go better if themes arise organically from the author's development and exploration of the characters and plot.

For an editor, conversely, clear and specific notions of the themes at play in a story can prove useful arrows in your editorial quiver. Not that it's advisable to aim every element of a story directly at a theme, approaching fiction (or creative nonfiction) like a persuasive essay. But where the opportunity arises, you might prod an author to lean into apparent themes in ways that may resonate with readers.

Now, where to find these themes? To the extent a story is character-driven, you may discover themes tied to truths that the character is learning (or not) in part or full. In a more plot-driven story, themes may emerge from the unfolding of events. (Emphases on character and on plot are not mutually exclusive, of course. We can only hope that the characters get caught up in interesting goings-on.)

Plumbing the depths of meaning in a story, you may also identify generalized themes connected to the human condition or to broad, culturally rooted experiences and aspirations. Such themes tend to speak to readers' personal desires. For example, amid the homogenizing, atomizing forces of twenty-first-century society, readers may latch onto themes of belonging (to a distinct tribe), romantic love, and extraordinary purpose.

Story Time

The child fidgeted with a lock of her dark hair and watched droves of shaggy, hump-backed steppe-beasts drift across the horizon. They were wanderers, like her.
After a spell, she asked her father, “How come we’re always on the move? Can’t we stay put for a while?”
He looked down at her with his kindly eyes, great long beard, and tattooed cheeks. “When our folk had a city, little one, we made our tents of stone and planted them in the ground like trees.”
Her tiny brow furrowed. “What happened to our city? Did we lose it?”
“Indeed,” he said softly. “And then we lost ourselves, too. But we’ll have another city, someday, if we keep looking—”
“Under the rising sun?” she blurted.
Her father nodded with a smile and gave her hair a tousle. “Yes. Then we’ll be lost no longer.”1

In this standalone snippet from my Eastsong Cycle, the simple themes include loss, displacement, hope, and faith.

I'd posit as a specific theme, “What is lost may be regained with faithful persistence.”

And I’d suggest that the generalized, deep-seated theme is yearning for home or a sense of place.

Godspeed and happy rewriting!

Heywood, M. B. “The Lost-Folk.” The Vaporous Realms (web). December 30, 2022.

How does written voice shape editorial decisions?

M. B. Heywood — Fri, 10 Jan 2025 21:34:35 GMT

The Short Story

Voice is shorthand for an author’s written personality. In analytical terms, I’d describe it as the sum and confluence of several aspects of phrasing. Sometimes referred to as the author’s “style,” voice is significant because it’s the way he or she connects to readers.

The Real(ist) Story

Not much angrifies an author like getting a manuscript back from an editor only to discover that it doesn’t “sound” or “feel” like the author anymore. That’s especially true if the person is an established writer or a professional speaker of some sort.

As an editor, you may not care for the voice in a piece of writing. Then again, you may not be one of the author’s intended readers. Consider that the world of words would be a boring place, indeed, if every author were to write the same way. Editors best serve readers and writers by honing an author’s voice on its own terms.

I can’t stress sufficiently the importance of taking special care with those professional speakers. True, some expressions and rhetorical patterns that are effective in speech don’t translate well to writing. Repetition and humor often miss the mark without editorial adaptation for the page. Speech is also more forgiving of loose grammar than writing is. No matter how ornery an author gets about you tightening up syntax or insisting, “I do not think it means what you think it means,”1 he or she won’t thank you when reviewers start complaining about the unprofessional, poorly edited style. Sometimes you may have to save authors from themselves in these respects.

But choose your battles. Compromise, where you can stomach it, to preserve the distinctiveness of the author’s written personality. Though an author’s written voice should rarely be identical to his or her spoken voice, it should be a recognizable translation.

Here are some of the main (and heavily overlapping) aspects of written voice:

Diction. The writer’s vocabulary and patterns in word choice, including word length and the relative frequency of certain parts of speech.

Structure. Tendencies in syntax (word order), sentence type, sentence length, number and arrangement of syllables, verb tense, and punctuation, all of which contribute to the sense of flow and pace.

Devices. Reliance on literary techniques and flourishes like visual imagery and the repetition of sounds (i.e., alliteration, assonance, and end rhyme).

Tone and mood are distinct from written voice, being more situational, but it’s fair to consider patterns in the use of tone and mood as part of voice.

Keep in mind that an author’s voice may differ from piece to piece, especially in fiction or across genres. A person may communicate a bit differently in different contexts; readers get that. But no matter what theories flit about the lit crit world, most readers reckon situational differences in voice are variations on one human being’s way of writing.2 A reasonable degree of consistency is in order.

Story Time

Take, for example, these selections from three of my Vaporous Realms stories:

Snippet 1

Year 1. The king of the heaven-realm had vanquished the Mother of Serpents; his scions had scattered her minions. Now the Wright brought the first-folk into being upon the earthly realm. The man Ghrem and his wife, Lae, dwelt in a verdant sanctuary high in the Fangs of Livyat. There, at the foot of the heaven-bridge, they minded the creatures, the flowers and trees, and one another.3

Snippet 2

Egwae rose and smoothed her pleated tunic. She returned her focus to the verdant wall and the fiery haze of pale yellow light enveloping it. Wall and shield together obstructed all but the midday glare of the winter sky above. Those subtly curved barriers stretched nearly the length of the vale, from eastern heights to precipitous western descent.4

Snippet 3

Silver-tinged clouds fell across the low-hanging half-moon in smoky tufts, like unspun wool feeding her father’s wheel. Already the late-summer air gathered thick about her. It would be another muggy day; the quietly stirring horses knew it, lethargic despite their humans’ palpable tension. Between cinching her bedroll and lashing it to the saddlebag she used as a pillow, Zshurii picked out Cactus’s familiar silhouette from their horse-line, nearer the perimeter.5

These snippets vary in their point-of-view character and the narrative distance employed. Yet, they also have common features that point to my written voice across particular stories or genres.

The lengthy sentences and words6 contribute to a measured, unhurried storytelling pace that’s my default outside of action sequences. Look at all those polysyllabic monsters: sanctuary, vanquished, enveloping, precipitous, obstructed, lethargic, palpable. I’m not using big words to show off, and in truth, I’m leery of being misunderstood that way. I simply prefer my phrasing to be precise and memorable, and I read a lot of old historical fiction and fantasy early in life.

Other words and phrases, like verdant, fiery haze, and feeding her father’s wheel, are indicative of my imagery-heavy narrative voice. Some of these examples I’ve mentioned—and others, like minded the creatures, upon, earthly realm, and folk—are also somewhat archaic, meant to lend a poetic or bardic glow. The grammar and punctuation tend to be precise, with few fragments and little bending of comma rules.

You may have noticed that a lot of these observations generally hold true with my nonfiction writing, too. My nonfiction voice may feature less imagery. But the tendency toward longwinded and unusual phrasing, leavened with archaisms and regionalisms (including reckon and leery), and the occasional spurt of alliteration or rhyme, persists. Even if my writing here is more “folks” than “folk,” it’s all a bit folksy.

Godspeed and happy rewriting!

Article: Phrasing for audience

Princess Bride, y’all. Or, for a more formal citation:

Reiner, Rob, dir. The Princess Bride. 20th Century Fox, 1987.

The amount of alliteration, assonance, and end rhyme in this sentence is ridiculous. Not intentional, but I’m leaving it as an example of literary devices in action.

Heywood, M. B. “Year 1.” Annals of the Vaporous Realms.

Heywood, M. B. “Watchers.”

Heywood, M. B. Daughters of the Rising Sun.

Note that I chose two-syllable lengthy just now, over single-syllable long.

How do you find typos and missing words?

M. B. Heywood — Tue, 17 Dec 2024 14:24:36 GMT

[An earlier version of this article was published in February 2024.]

The Short Story

Typos and missing words are the first and most obvious kind of error to hunt for. But don’t trust yourself to find them all by skimming on a computer screen, especially in your own writing.

The Real(ist) Story

Typos and missing words are the most straightforward errors to catch, and they’re the most obvious to your readers (i.e., the most embarrassing if you miss them).1 Think of hunting typos as the editorial equivalent of hunting trolls—snow trolls in a blizzard, that is. They can be especially tough to see in your own writing. Oh, how well I know this, as an indie author! Your brain likes to fill in the word it knows ought to be in a particular spot—because most folks don’t focus on each individual word they read.

We need new tactics, and maybe additional brains, to even the odds. Finding typos and missing words is one of the best, low-risk uses of the mechanical brain hiding in your word processor. Don’t take spell-check’s word for it,2 of course. Be skeptical. (I find only five to ten percent of suggestions helpful.) But if you can’t get another pair of human eyes on your writing, at least have a look at whatever’s on spell- and grammar-check’s mind.

Reading aloud—even mumbling under my breath to save time—helps immensely with finding these kinds of errors, too, especially missing words. Just be prepared for passersby to stop and ask whether you’re quite all right.

For writing that really matters, like a print book, consider going old-school and printing out a hard copy to read through (or aloud from). The tactile experience of tracking and marking things up with a physical pen is a pleasant change of mode. Morever, a printed manuscript forces your brain to look at the words in a new light, which makes life difficult for those grammatical trolls that prefer to lurk in shadow.

If you balk at the resources required to print a lengthy manuscript, consider the horrific alternative of slaying trees and spilling ink to produce a stack of typo-laden books. One sacrificial hard copy seems noble by comparison.3

If you discover you’ve missed a typo, it’s perfectly natural to groan or grumble. In such moments, remind yourself that it happens to the best of us. You’re only human. Fix it when you can, and search your document for similar instances.4 Then move on—and preferably, send the manuscript to another human being whose trained eye will lend you aid.

Story Time

I produce a blatant typo nearly every time I publish a story snippet. And because I relied only on myself and spell-check when I published my novella Dustsong, it too was printed with this lovely typo:

Like the first, this man carried a pointed stick, but he was clearly younger. as well as rounder and ruddier of face.

I also tracked down a questionable comma, transposed words, a missing word, and a couple of quotation mark errors (because of the font I was proofreading in).

I don’t blame myself too severely for these oversights. Heck, the punctuation typo above was literally small enough, a speck of dust on my screen likely obscured it. In print, though—yuck! I knew I was rolling the proverbial dice by not getting another human editor to check the final manuscript, and it’s a risk I won’t take again.

Godspeed and happy rewriting!

I’d generally lump duplicate words in with typos and missing words, but consecutive instances of the same word are relatively easy to spot yourself. Maybe they awaken the part of our brain that knows how to play word-matching games?

Pun by happenchance.

At the very least, I’m confident we all do worse things.

The “Find” function in word processors. Be wary of “Find and replace,” or especially “Find and replace all.” The latter often requires more delicacy and editorial awareness to avoid creating as many problems as it fixes.

Formatting for consistency, audience, and purpose

M. B. Heywood — Fri, 06 Dec 2024 20:12:13 GMT

The Short Story

Formatting is a distinctive category of editorial work in that it’s least concerned with the substance of writing. Yet, contrary to popular assumptions, it’s not primarily about aesthetics, either. Above all, formatting ought to be consistent so it doesn’t distract readers from, well, reading. Beyond this “do no harm” principle, consider how each formatting decision could help meet the intended audience’s needs and expectations and otherwise further the author’s purposes.

The Real(ist) Story

On the whole, good formatting is stealthy. If the reader doesn’t notice it, at least not in its discrete components, the formatter probably knew what he or she was doing.

Or you might think of manuscript formatting as the design of the friendly local tavern in your nearest fantasy-medieval town: it should make a favorable overall impression and facilitate, not impede, the adventures of those who step inside.

Formatting, more so than the other categories of editorial work (grammar, punctation, style, phrasing, and so forth) requires an amalgam of principles. It’s mostly an offshoot of style, hence the importance of consistency to avoid distraction. It may also entail concessions to the audience’s needs (in selection of font size, for example) and expectations (for instance, that a new chapter should begin on a new page).

Again, do no harm to the reader with your formatting. If you can do positive good, all the better—and that includes aesthetics, which aren’t unworthy of consideration. Other things being equal, authors and readers prefer books that are pleasing to the eye inside and out. Yet, there’s little point in a book whose pretty-looking font is whimsical verging on illegible.

Below is a list of our current posts on editing for content. Each indexed topic links to an article with practical guidelines and tips.

[coming January 2024]

Godspeed and happy rewriting!

Article: Style for consistency

Which style guide is best?

M. B. Heywood — Thu, 05 Dec 2024 00:47:57 GMT

[An earlier version of this article was published in February 2024.]

The Short Story

Points of style are mostly a matter of druthers—that is, preference. No ancient editorial law mandates that you choose a style guide. Nor must you follow a given style manual on every point, unless you’re beholden to an overly zealous client or publisher (in which case, it may be time to rethink that relationship). Yet free will is no license for chaos. Be deliberate about your style choices (and guides), and apply each style decision consistently in relevant situations. Some style guides are geared toward particular genres or audiences. I’m partial to Chicago Manual of Style for general purposes because I find that its reasoning and tendencies align closely with mine. The ability to provide your rationale for style decisions, and grounding that reasoning in what’s best for the intended readers, will carry you far in your editorial journey.

The Real(ist) Story

AP or APA? Chicago or MLA? What about publishers’ house rules, niche guides like the Christian Writer’s Manual of Style, and individual authors’ stylistic quirks? To champions of the rule of law, the realm of style may seem like madness. What’s the right way to do things, editorially speaking?

The sage answer: whichever way you can best defend (within the scope of any firm rules from a publisher or client). At the end of the day, the path forward may come down to your individual aesthetic preferences, because editing is more an art than a science.

This is why consistency is tougher to achieve than you might think. Many a well-intentioned writer has taken an equally well-intentioned teacher’s stylistic “rule” in hand like an oversized, double-headed axe and proceeded to lay indiscriminate waste to the countryside. Written language is complex. Grammatical situations, the battlefield scenarios of the editorial world, may appear similar at a glance yet differ subtly. The more you learn by study, practice, and reading, the more refined your systematic and intuitive understanding of grammatical tactics. That helps you make deliberate choices when editorial principles like accuracy, clarity, consistency, consideration of audience, and purpose butt heads.

Truth isn’t relative, but editorial decisions aren’t often a matter of truth. Sometimes there’s clearly a better or best way, and sometimes there isn’t. Different folk can reasonably, justifiably arrive at differing editorial decisions. What matters most is that you’ve thought about the choice you’ve made—and that you considered the reader in your judgment.

For my part, I take an organic approach to style preferences. I don’t swear entirely by any of the style guides. MLA, traditionally, is associated with English classes and literary studies, while APA reigns in the domain of the social sciences. Journalism is a bastion of Associated Press (AP) style. But the Chicago Manual of Style (CMOS) guidelines usually make sense to me as someone who edits and writes more narrative, less technical nonfiction and fiction. Their latest edition, in fact, made some updates that bring it more into line with my preferences, like capitalizing lengthy prepositions in title case and doing away with city of publication in source citations. I try not to let such things go to my head, but to be sure, they keep CMOS in my good graces.

Story Time

As an example, I’ll go for the low-hanging fruit: the Oxford (serial) comma beloved by many a book editor and spurned by many an AP-wielding journalist.

After all, they weren’t just any Waveborne. Their blood, blades, and souls belonged to the eternal empress. They were Southrons. (”Southrons,” Delfii’s Song, Snippet 0)

The serial comma is the one between blades and and souls. Here’s the paragraph without that final comma:

After all, they weren’t just any Waveborne. Their blood, blades and souls belonged to the eternal empress. They were Southrons.

Is the Oxford comma worth an editorial civil war? Probably not. If there were such a conflict, would I be the last, axe-swinging Viking to deny the enemy that comma? Maybe, if I got a good night’s rest first. But I have my reasons for preferring the Oxford comma.

For instance, would a “warrior, a rogue and a barbarian” mean “a warrior who is also a rogue and a barbarian” or “a warrior and a rogue and a barbarian”? Such ambiguity is the stuff of editorial nightmares.

“Very well,” you may concede. “Why not use the serial comma only when crucial for clarity?” Because inconsistency risks distracting the reader—and that’s why we edit style for consistency, y’all.

Godspeed and happy rewriting!

How do commas separate the essential from the nonessential in a sentence?

M. B. Heywood — Tue, 26 Nov 2024 20:11:04 GMT

[An earlier version of this article was published early in 2024.]

The Short Story

One of the main ways we use punctuation is to separate groups of words. Commas, and sometimes other kinds of punctuation, can set apart nonessential words—those that leave intact the main thought you’re getting across.

The Real(ist) Story

A word (or group of words) that makes a critical difference to the meaning of another word (or group of words) in the same sentence is essential. If the first word (or group of words) is only a helpful or interesting elaboration—an add-on, so to speak—it’s nonessential.

If a sentence were a house, the essential clauses and phrases would be the structures and features built into the house itself: the frame, the roof, the walls (load-bearing and otherwise), the flooring, the plumbing and electric, the HVAC, and so forth. Some of these elements may be more decorative than functional, but removing or changing them would alter the house itself. You’d have to edit the real estate listing if the house were on the market.

The other, nonessential stuff isn’t unimportant. If it were, you’d probably leave it out completely. But it’s fundamentally decorative. It elaborates on the essential stuff in ways that may transform the personality of the sentence, yet the gist remains intact. A change in paint, decór, furniture, or landscaping may affect the appeal and value of a house, but it constitutes redecorating, not remodeling.

In writing, the words themselves aren’t always enough to tell your readers which words are essential and which are nonessential. Commas are the default, least obtrusive way of fencing off nonessential bits, like the picket fences of punctuation, though occasionally a chain-link fence (parentheses) or barbed wire (em dash) may be called for.

If you use commas, parentheses, or em dashes to separate groups of words unnecessarily (for instance, if those words are essential to the meaning of the sentence), you might interrupt the flow of the sentence (how rude!) or create room for confusion.

On the other hand, if you don’t use commas (or other appropriate punctuation) to distinguish the nonessential stuff from the essential, you’re playing with editorial fire. Your sentence may technically mean something very different from what you intend. Maybe the misreading is so ridiculous that it won’t trip up most readers. But why take the chance?

Story Time

The sea-folk warrior who had drawn the short straw was expected to carry the banner into battle.

In the sentence above, the clause who had drawn the short straw is essential because there’s no punctuation to set it apart. The implication is that there are many sea-folk warriors, so it’s essential to specify the one who drew the short straw.

The sea-folk warrior, who had drawn the short straw, was expected to carry the banner into battle.

In the sentence above, the clause who had drawn the short straw is nonessential because of the commas setting it apart. The implication is that of all the sea-folk in existence, only one is a potential candidate for the subject of this sentence. The fact that he or she drew the short straw is simply extra info or a helpful reminder to the reader.

Godspeed and happy rewriting!