A short primer on fiction editing

By Jennifer Ledoux (pen name Zephyr Trillian), 10 March 2026

When I was asked to write about fiction editing, perhaps reflecting on how it differs from non-fiction editing, I had to laugh – I’ve never edited a non-fiction manuscript in my life. But the prompt itself contains the answer. The fact that fiction editing is its own distinct discipline, with its own rules, instincts and particular brand of chaos, is precisely the point.

So, forgive me if I tell you what you already know, or if I review ideas you find tiresome or self-evident. I live less in the real world and more between the clouds, under the ocean, or on a spaceship to the Andromeda Galaxy. But perhaps your understanding of fiction editing mirrors my foggy understanding of non-fiction editing. Perhaps I can bring yours into focus.

Fiction editing is typically divided into distinct service levels, each with a different scope. Beta reading evaluates the reader experience: what’s working emotionally, what’s confusing and where momentum lags. Developmental editing zooms out further to assess structure: plot, character arcs, pacing and whether the story holds together as a whole. Copyediting and proofreading then work at the most granular level, cleaning grammar, consistency and accuracy only after the larger structural questions are resolved. These tiers exist because the focus required at each level is fundamentally different. Trying to complete all three levels of editing simultaneously usually means doing none of them well, so instead each manuscript must journey through the whole three-tiered process, one level at a time.

These service levels seem to structure fiction editing into a macro-to-micro format. However, when working within any level, it’s still useful to consider the work from both the macro and the micro at once. Does each word and sentence clearly communicate a point? Does each scene and character drive the story forward – or at least deepen immersion? Does each chapter matter? Every element should earn its place. The nature of this complexity means a good fiction editor must function as both a technical editor and a reader simultaneously – always asking not just whether prose is correct, but whether it’s working to serve the story, and in what capacity.

Editing fiction also requires the ability to judge the difference between stylistic flair and choices that obscure communication. There are fundamental English rules such as tense consistency, basic grammar, and subject-object agreement, but all rules can be bent and broken in service to a story. Consider ‘Flowers for Algernon’ by Daniel Keyes, in which basic spelling and punctuation rules are deliberately shattered to showcase the protagonist’s lack of mental acumen. The story wouldn’t be the same without that stylistic choice, a circumstance the editor no doubt had to work around – maintaining enough spelling and grammatical errors to showcase the protagonist’s state of mind, while simultaneously maintaining enough clarity to allow the story through.

The fiction editor is therefore always charged with considering what rules have been broken on purpose, what rules have been accidentally or needlessly cracked in half, and how to explain all of this respectfully to their clientele. Sometimes they’ll even be tasked to act as an unofficial mentor to their clients, who often express a deep wish to improve and will ask questions. I’ve spent many hours explaining fundamental concepts to authors who have learnt their craft independently of any school or study programme. It’s common for authors to be very skilled in some areas, such as character development, and to lack in others, such as action scenes. It’s important to remind authors that writing is a learnable skill, just like playing piano or baking.

Here’s a small sample of issues I regularly flag:

• Overuse of individual words (e.g. ‘gently’, ‘smirked’, ‘eyes’, ‘fingers’, ‘whispered’)
• Tense confusion (present tense slipping into past tense and vice versa)
• Portraying the same concept repetitively (e.g. ‘Her lips were rubies, almost crimson red, like ripe cherries’)
• Overpacking sentences with modifiers (e.g. ‘His gray, crumbling, ivy-coated castle in the west of the country, along the coast, was set against the golden, shimmering, and life-giving air of the wheat-covered Great Plains’)
• Weak verb choices (e.g. ‘walked’ vs. ‘strode’ or ‘cried’ vs. ‘sobbed’)
• Weak adjective choices (e.g. ‘Her legs were perfect’)
• Spatial continuity errors (e.g. a character leaves to go inside, but later on is then still present in the car without explanation)

Interfacing with authors is perhaps the most difficult part of the job. Authors are often compelled to write stories due to strong emotions or beliefs that flow from their innermost identities. This means that many authors feel like they’re exposing their hearts and are uniquely concerned about their work’s reception. Some authors understand that even the most brilliant writing can always be tweaked, polished and adjusted based on artistic preferences. Others meet any mention of edits with argumentative behaviour, defending themselves against what they perceive as an onslaught of criticism rather than the recommendations of a professional they hired precisely to recommend improvements. I’ve learnt to get ahead of this by providing a disclaimer at the top of my deliverables. It sets the tone, both reminding the author that I’m there to help them and that they’re welcome to discard all recommendations if it suits them. This has proven to help anxious authors keep their feet more firmly on the earth, where we can work together successfully.

Fiction editing is a strange discipline – part technical analysis, part emotional intelligence, part diplomacy – but that strangeness is exactly what makes it worthwhile. Every fiction manuscript is a leap of faith, a heart unlocked for the world to see. It’s my privilege to polish those hearts and then release them, shining, back to their keepers.