April Dávila

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How To Know You’re Ready for a Developmental Editor

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There comes a point in revision when it can get really hard to see your own book clearly.

Maybe half of the manuscript feels solid and the other half is in pieces all over the floor. You keep moving chapters around. You cut something, put it back, then wonder whether you’re making the same point over and over. Eventually, the questions get bigger: Why am I even writing this damn book? Is any of this working? Should I just walk away?

If you’ve reached that point, you might start wondering whether it’s time to bring in a developmental editor. In most cases, the answer is: probably.

When it comes to developmental editing, it’s almost never too early.

It’s Almost Never Too Early

A developmental editor doesn’t need a polished, complete manuscript. You can bring one in on an outline. You can bring one in when your manuscript is mostly in place but chapter twelve is just a note to yourself that says: I don’t know what to put here.

That note is exactly the kind of thing a developmental editor can help with. They can make suggestions, brainstorm with you, or read your draft and say: actually, I don’t think you need a chapter here. Ten to twelve flows perfectly without chapter eleven.

It’s big-picture work. If you’re feeling stuck or you’re simply not sure what to do next, that frustration itself can be a sign that you’re ready for another set of eyes.

When Your Confidence Slips

If you’re feeling discouraged, that’s another tick on the do-it-sooner side. Sometimes you simply get too close to a manuscript to see it clearly anymore. You’ve read the chapters so many times that you can’t tell what’s working and what isn’t.

When you keep coming back to the question, Is my story working?, it can help to let someone else take a look. Sometimes the best move is to take your hands off the manuscript for a month, hand it to someone else, and come back when you’re a little less wound up about it.

Ultimately, you want to get back to whatever made you excited about the story in the first place. That little nugget that made you start writing it. A good developmental editor can help you find your way back to it.

Don’t Clean So Much the Cleaners Have Nothing to Do

I like to think about it like hiring someone to clean your house. You probably wouldn’t clean the whole house before the cleaners arrive. That would defeat the purpose. But you also wouldn’t want so much stuff piled everywhere that they couldn’t get to the windows.

The nice thing about editing, unlike house cleaning, is that an editor can look at a messy draft and still understand what you’re trying to do. They might come back and say, I think this is where you’re going. Am I on track?

And maybe they are. Maybe the book doesn’t need a total remodel. Maybe it just needs some cleanup. It’s not a bulldozer job.

That’s the same question you’re already asking yourself in revision when you’re figuring out what to cut and what to keep.

What a Good Editor Will and Won’t Tell You

One more thing worth saying clearly: a good developmental editor will never tell you to walk away from your book.

If they do, they’re a terrible editor and you should fire them on the spot.

There’s always good stuff in any story. Something about it got you writing in the first place, and that thing is still in there. When you send your manuscript out, tell your editor what you think the problems are.

Tell them about the chapters you’re worried about, the places you suspect aren’t working, and the structural questions you can’t answer on your own. They’ll still bring their own perspective, but knowing what you’re already wrestling with gives them a useful place to start.

Finding Your Way Forward

Revision can make a book feel smaller sometimes, like all you can see are the problems right in front of you. But underneath all that cutting, rearranging, and second-guessing is still the story that made you want to write the book in the first place.

Sometimes the next step is simply getting enough perspective to see that story again. If you’d like to talk through where you are with your manuscript, you can book a call here

Why Character Likability Is the Wrong Question

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When I was writing my first novel, I worried for months that my protagonist wasn’t likable enough. She was prickly. She made the same bad choice over and over. She kept her family at arm’s length even when they were trying to help. I kept asking myself: will readers stick with her?

I hear some version of this question from writers constantly. “I’m not sure my character is likable enough.” And what they usually mean is: will readers care about this person? Will they want to follow her through the story? Will they stay, even if my protagonist is flawed, angry, selfish, or sad?

If you’ve ever wrestled with character likability, you’re not alone. But here’s the thing I wish someone had told me earlier: likability isn’t the magic ingredient. Relatability is.

Let’s talk about what readers actually care about, and how you can write characters that feel authentic and emotionally resonant, even when they don’t behave perfectly.

The Myth of the Good Character

Somewhere along the way, many of us absorbed the message that protagonists should be likable. They should make good choices. Be brave. Be kind. Be someone the reader would want to have coffee with.

The problem is, real people aren’t like that all the time. If your character is too good, they risk becoming flat, predictable, and forgettable.

Think about some of the most beloved characters in fiction. Eleanor Oliphant is rude and prickly. Olive Kitteridge is deeply judgmental and sharp. Even Elizabeth Bennet is proud and dismissive before she grows. We don’t care about these characters because they’re likable. We care about them because they feel human. We recognize something in them, even if we wouldn’t always want to be them.

Relatability Comes From Vulnerability

The key to writing characters readers care about is emotional honesty. What does your character long for, even if she can’t name it? Where is she hurting, even if she doesn’t show it? What mistake is she making over and over, and why?

When we see what drives a character and what wounds she carries, we connect with her, even if we don’t agree with every decision she makes. Your character can be a mess. She can be angry, cold, indecisive, or defensive. But if we understand her, if we can feel into her emotional world, we will follow her anywhere.

The Fear Underneath the Question

Often, the worry about writing unlikable characters isn’t really about the reader. It’s about us. We’re afraid people will think we are like that character. That writing a cruel mother, or a dishonest partner, or a resentful teen somehow reveals too much about our own shadows.

But writing isn’t a confession. It’s exploration. You’re allowed to step into messy emotions, to write characters who are nothing like you (or uncomfortably similar) and see what they teach you. The best stories say something true about being human. Whether that truth is pretty or not is beside the point.

A Better Question to Ask

Next time you’re unsure about a character’s appeal, skip the likability question entirely. Try asking instead: Is she interesting? Can the reader understand her choices, even if they disagree? Is she changing over time?

These are the qualities that create emotional investment in readers. These are the reasons readers turn pages, even when they’re frustrated with the person on them.

When I finally let go of the worry that my own protagonist wasn’t likable enough, the writing got easier. I stopped softening her edges. I let her be the person she actually was. And readers responded to that honesty far more than they ever would have responded to a polished, agreeable version.

Likable or not, your characters deserve to be written in full.

Titling Your Book When Nothing Feels Right

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Finding the right book title can feel strangely difficult, especially when you’ve lived with the manuscript for so long. My favorite strategy is to go looking for the title inside the manuscript itself.

On your next careful read-through, or when someone you trust reads it fresh, put up a little antenna for the one sentence that seems to hold the whole book. So often, a line near the end quietly says what the story is really about. Lift it out and see whether it can become the book title.

The search is not always tidy. But starting inside your own pages beats staring at a blank document hoping lightning strikes.

Mind the Three to Four Word Dead Zone

Here is a pattern I noticed once I started paying attention. One- or two-word titles tend to land hard and stick. Longer titles, five or six or seven words, can be lovely and do their own kind of work.

The three- to four-word range often feels strangely flat. It is not short enough to punch, and not long enough to sing.

When you are weighing book title options, it helps to know that middle stretch is a tricky place to live.

The other thing I studied is the quiet power of a concrete noun. A title that hands the reader a clear image gives them something to hold onto, which is why my debut became, in conversation, simply “the ostrich book.” 142 Ostriches gave people a picture. The House of the Spirits does the same with that house.

I once heard an author say one of her novels outsold a later book in large part because the first title gave readers a vivid picture they could remember. The second one faded the moment they heard it.

If you love a one-word title, and I do, just make sure a big current book doesn’t already have it. You cannot copyright a title, so an obscure novel from twenty years ago is no problem. You just don’t want to wrestle for attention with a recent bestseller or leave readers unsure which book they are even looking at.

You Do Not Need the Final Book Title to Query

Here is the part that takes the pressure off.

You do not need your final book title to start querying. You need something real to call the book, something that sounds like an actual title rather than “my first novel.” It does not have to be the one that ends up on the cover.

Agents are focused on the hook and on what the story is actually about. If that grabs them, they will ask for the pages.

Once you are in conversation with an agent, you can simply say it is a working title and that you would welcome their thoughts. Thinking about how to position and market the book is part of their job, which makes them a genuinely good resource for this.

Sometimes the right title surfaces while they are reading, or while the two of you are talking it through. So don’t let a subpar working title hold your whole submission hostage.

The Line You Have Walked Past

The strategy in this whole piece asks you to find one sentence hiding in your own manuscript.

The trouble is that you’ve read those pages fifty times. The sentences have gone smooth in your mind. The one that holds the whole book may now look like just another line you skim.

So make it someone else’s job.

When a trusted reader takes the manuscript, ask them to mark any sentence that seems to hold the story. They meet those lines cold, the way a reader eventually will. They may notice what has become invisible to you.

If nothing surfaces yet, that’s fine. Keep a running list of contenders as you go. Let the bad ones stay on it. Give the right one room to arrive.

You don’t have to force the book title. Sometimes you just need to get far enough away from the book to see the words that were there all along.

Keep writing. The right title is usually closer than the blank page might suggest.

How to Write Diverse Ensemble Casts Without Falling Into Stereotypes

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Writing one character deeply is hard. Writing four, five, or ten characters deeply in the same book is a whole different challenge.

When you’re writing characters from different racial, cultural, gender, or socioeconomic backgrounds, there’s another layer to think about. How do you make each character feel authentic without reducing them to the thing that makes them different?

Here’s what you need to keep in mind: what makes a character distinct isn’t a label. It’s who they are as a person.

Here’s how I think about it.

Start With the Person, Not the Identity

When you’re writing a character whose experiences are different from your own, it can be tempting to begin with the obvious things.

Maybe she’s Latina, he’s gay, they’re disabled, or she grew up rich. Those things may be important to the character, but they aren’t the whole character.

Instead, ask yourself: What does this person want? What are they afraid of? How do they see themselves? What do they desperately hope other people never discover?

Those are the questions that give you a human being instead of a collection of traits.

The more you understand what’s happening inside your character, the less likely you are to rely on shorthand when you write them.

Give Everyone A Distinct Voice

One of the quickest ways for an ensemble cast to blur together is for everyone to sound the same.

Try a little exercise: write a page of internal monologue for each character. What words do they use? Are they sarcastic, careful, or blunt? Do they ramble when they’re nervous, or do they make decisions quickly?

Even the way a character notices the world can be different. One person might notice the noise in a crowded restaurant, while another notices what everyone is wearing. Someone else might be watching the exits.

Those little differences add up.

And be careful about giving characters a particular way of speaking simply because of their identity. A verbal tic or distinctive rhythm is much more interesting when it comes from the individual person you’ve created.

Don’t Let One Character Carry the Whole Group

Here’s another trap that’s easy to fall into, particularly when you have one character from a marginalized group.

You can start feeling like this character needs to represent everyone who shares their identity.

They don’t.

One Black character doesn’t represent every Black person’s experience. A queer character doesn’t speak for the entire LGBTQ+ community. One disabled character doesn’t speak for every disabled person.

That’s an impossible job.

Your character’s job is much simpler: be one specific person.

Let them have flaws and be wrong. Give them opinions that aren’t universally held, and let them surprise you.

The more specific you make the person, the less they’ll feel like a representative and the more they’ll feel like a character.

Give Every Character a Life Beyond the Protagonist

This is especially important in an ensemble.

If a character only exists to help your protagonist, teach your protagonist something, or move your protagonist’s story forward, they’re going to start feeling like a type.

Give them their own wants and problems. What are they doing when the protagonist isn’t around? What are they worried about? Who do they love? What do they want that has absolutely nothing to do with the main plot?

They don’t all need huge story arcs. They just need some sense of movement: they should want something, make choices, and change in some way.

And pay attention to the relationships between your characters. Let them misunderstand each other and disagree. Two characters might become unexpectedly close while another pair can never quite get along.

That’s where an ensemble really starts to come alive.

Specificity Is Your Best Friend

The opposite of a stereotype isn’t a perfectly constructed, universally representative character.

It’s specificity.

Think about a real person you know well. You probably don’t describe them to yourself as “a middle-aged woman with a strong personality.” You know the little things: how they laugh, what they do when they’re uncomfortable, which foods they hate, or the story behind that scar on their hand.

Those details make people memorable.

This is where the senses can be especially useful. What does your character notice when they walk into a room? Which sounds irritate them? What smells remind them of home? Which textures do they love or hate?

A few specific details can do more to make a character feel real than a paragraph of adjectives ever could.

And if you’re writing outside your own lived experience, don’t be afraid to ask for help. Sensitivity readers and beta readers who share that experience can see things you simply can’t see from your own perspective.

That’s not a failure. It’s part of the work.

Give your characters contradictions, desires, flaws, and weird little habits that have nothing to do with their identity.

Write each character as one human being at a time, and your ensemble will become a collection of people rather than a collection of types.

If you want to keep digging into character work like this, it’s exactly the kind of thing we talk through in our community Q&A sessions. Join the Mindful Writing Community and you’ll get free notes on your pages and a coaching call with me, just for being there. Join here

Writing a Sequel and Pitching a Series

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The moment a story grows past the borders of a single book, a whole new set of worries arrives.

How much of the first book do you carry into the second?

How do you keep new readers from getting lost without boring the ones who have been with you all along?

And when it comes time to sell the thing, do you pitch the whole sweep of it or just the first installment? Writing a sequel and pitching a series brings real questions, but most of them are more manageable than they feel when you are standing at the bottom of them.

Let me take the two halves in turn: the writing and the pitching. They ask different things of you.

Book One Is Now Your Backstory

The central challenge of a sequel is that you are writing for two audiences at once. Some readers come straight from book one and remember everything. Others pick up book two cold. You have to serve both, and that is genuinely tricky.

The way to think about it is that book one has become your backstory. The events, the relationships, the world, all of it is now the history your second book sits on top of.

Your job is to drop in enough of that history that a new reader is not totally lost. At the same time, you have to trust that the new reader does not need every juicy detail that a returning reader remembers. You also need to avoid boring returning readers by over-explaining what they already know.

Here is the part that takes the pressure off: do not try to solve this in the first draft.

Just write book two as if everyone has read book one. If you stop every few pages to catch a hypothetical new reader up, you will lose your momentum and your voice. Write it clean. Write it assuming knowledge, and handle the catching-up later.

When you revise, bring in a reader who has not read book one. Let them tell you exactly where they got lost and where they needed a little more. That is far more reliable than guessing at it while you draft.

Writing a Sequel and Pitching a Series Means Selling Book One First

Now the pitching, which is where I see the most unnecessary anxiety.

When you go to query or pitch a book that is part of a series, you do not pitch the series. You pitch book one. You sell that first book on its own merits, and then you add a single line at the end, something like, “This is a stand alone book with series potential.”

That is genuinely all you need at the pitch stage.

In fact, you might not even lead with the series idea at all, because the work right now is selling this one book. When you start working with an agent, they will always ask “waht’s next” and that is your opening to talk about the sequel and the larger arc.

Some publishers will want a rough outline of where the trilogy is headed. But how and when you share that is exactly the kind of thing you and your agent figure out together once there is real interest.

You do not have to walk into the room with the whole map drawn.

A Fun Way to Build a Series

One last thing, because series do not have to be a heavy three-book commitment you map out in advance.

Look at how the romance and mystery genres often do it. They take a side character from book one, someone readers were curious about, and make that person the protagonist of the next book.

It is a lovely model. Readers get to stay immersed in a world they already love, but each book stands on its own. And you are not locked into overriding or continuing the exact story you just finished.

It keeps the series feeling alive instead of obligatory, for your readers and for you.

You Don’t Need the Whole Map

The through line in all of this is that a series only feels enormous when you try to hold every book in your head at once.

You don’t need to know exactly where the whole series is going. You just need to write the book that’s in front of you, pay attention to what it’s asking for, and trust yourself to figure out the next one when you get there. 

That’s how stories grow. 

One book, one character, one scene at a time.