Traditionally publishing a novel is, historically speaking, a great way to develop eye twitches and a complex relationship with rejection.
Truly phenomenal authors have spent decades collecting rejection letters like cursed Pokémon cards only to never see their books make it onto a shelf in a bookstore. So let’s all begin from a place of emotional realism here: the odds that my own novel becomes a commercially published book are… not robust.
But unfortunately for my nervous system, I have a very persistent little story idea and an even more persistent desire to see where it goes even if that happens to be a trash can.
And somewhere along the way, while trying to figure out what exactly I’m doing, I realized something:
If I’m going to do this, I want to wring every possible drop of experience out of the process. Like a toddler squeezing a Capri Sun.
Which brings us to developmental editing.
Now listen. Developmental editing is not cheap. And honestly? It shouldn’t be. These editors are basically literary structural engineers for your weird little brain child. They’re looking at pacing, emotional arcs, character motivation, scene order, tension, themes, narrative flow… all the invisible architecture that determines whether readers become emotionally devastated in a fun way or simply put your book down and go alphabetize their spice cabinet.
As a first-time fiction writer, I also possess the deeply humbling awareness that there are probably many things I do not yet know that I do not know. Which is honestly the most dangerous category of knowledge.
Sure, there are software tools that can help identify pacing issues or repeated phrases or moments where your protagonist apparently shrugs seventeen times in one chapter. But they are not human beings with human instincts and years of experience.
So I reached out to an author friend and asked who she used.
Of course her editor is retired now because apparently all roads in publishing eventually lead to heartbreak.
But she reached out to another writer friend who recommended someone else, so I contacted that editor and after some back-and-forth she very kindly told me:
“Respectfully, I think you need a developmental editor with more of a coaching approach.”
Which honestly was what I had told her so... fair.
She gave me another name, I reached out, and then me and this editor absolutely clicked.
She had only read a small excerpt from my book but we ended up talking for TWO HOURS on Zoom and by the end of the conversation I was completely convinced I wanted to work with her.
Unfortunately, this realization was immediately followed by me discovering her rates.
Now to be clear: her pricing is fair. The amount of labor involved in developmental editing is enormous and editors deserve to be paid well for their expertise.
But was I briefly staring into the middle distance calculating which organs I could live without? Also yes.
So naturally I began trying to brainstorm ways to afford this.
And then my parents stepped in and suggested covering the developmental edit as a gift which is honestly an outrageously generous and deeply meaningful thing to do for me. Like genuinely one of the best gifts I’ve ever received.
Unfortunately this also means:
I now have a deadline.
And as an ADHD girlie, let me tell you something:
nothing motivates quite like a ticking clock and low-grade panic.
So now I am simultaneously:
Sleep has become more of a loose philosophical concept than an activity.
BUT.
The rewrite is going incredibly well.
And honestly? Even if this book never ends up traditionally published, I already feel like I’m learning so much through this process that the journey itself is becoming valuable.
Not in a cheesy inspirational mug quote kind of way.
More in a:
“Wow, I really did voluntarily choose a hobby that involves emotional devastation, sleep deprivation, financial consequences, and several existential crises.”
kind of way.
And because developmental editing is such a huge financial investment that many writers understandably can’t afford, I’m hoping documenting this process might help other writers decide whether it’s something worth pursuing for their own goals and circumstances.
So stay tuned.
Because once this rewrite is finished, I’ll officially be working with my very first editor.
And I am currently oscillating between:
“I’m so excited.”
and
“She’s going to discover I’m three raccoons in a trench coat pretending to understand story structure.”
This didn’t start as a novel. It started as a brain worm.
I listened to Devil of Dublin by B.B. Easton, and one tiny detail in that book lodged itself in my brain. That was all it took to birth Ralph.
At first, it wasn’t a story. No plot arc. No characters. Nowhere to go.
Just… a thought.
Until I couldn’t think about anything else.
I found myself staring at walls, a story slowly taking shape. The more it formed, the more distracting it became—like it was demanding to be written down.
The Friday before Thanksgiving, I gave in.
I sat down to draft for one reason and one reason only: I expected my severe, unmedicated ADHD to save me from Ralph.
Because here’s how that usually goes—
I start writing, hit awkward dialogue, a plot hole, a timeline inconsistency… and suddenly my brilliant idea becomes tedious.
And tedious is the nemesis of ADHD.
My brain abandons it faster than a toddler melts down in Target.
Except… that didn’t happen.
Less than two weeks later, I had an entire draft.
So much for relying on ADHD superpowers.
I’ve hit plot holes. Timeline issues. Awkward dialogue. All the usual suspects.
And my brain still refuses to let go.
I’m over halfway through my first rewrite, and I’m still absolutely feral for this story.
Ralph is fat and happy, chewing through my grey matter and leaving better ideas in his wake.
So… this is a thing now.
Ralph made me write a novel.