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As a writer, you want things to go wrong. In your story.

Having things go wrong in your narrative is one of the best things you can do for your story. New challenges popping up right as your characters think they’re getting out of a tough spot, or better yet, while they’re still dealing with a challenging situation, really adds to the excitement level for the reader, keeping them squirming on the edge of their seats as they keep turning the pages to see if the characters can survive the latest hurdles. It’s like adding the right spice to cook the perfect meal.

As readers, we want to see the characters we’re following overcome the obstacles before them. But make it too easy, and the experience is just…bleh. If every encounter is easily won, what’s going to be memorable about your story?

One of my favorite books, Watership Down, does this constantly (if you haven’t read this novel, do yourself a favor and find a copy of this masterpiece).  The story starts off with its main characters, two rabbits named Hazel and Fiver, living in the Sandleford warren, establishing them to be on the smaller side compared to the other rabbits due to Sandleford’s governance. Fiver, who can experience very accurate premonitions, senses that the fields they live in will grow red, and we the reader understand that construction is set to begin on the field shortly.

As a reader, through Fiver’s premonition, we understand that the story has established a countdown. If Hazel, Fiver, and the rest of the warren are meant to survive, they must abandon Sandleford as quickly as possible. But when they bring Fiver’s vision to the leader of the warren, they are ignored. What’s more, it is believed they’re trying to cause dissent against authority, forcing them to be secretive about how they recruit to escape, as anyone they speak to can turn them in. One of the rabbits they talk to does turn them in, causing the larger rabbits that make up the guard of the warren to ambush them as they try to escape. They’re pursued as they flee, only to find their escape is cut off by a stream too deep for them to scurry across.

This is all just in the opening chapters. With Hazel and Fiver being on the smaller side, and without the protection the numbers of Sandleford provided, being outside the warren is fraught with peril throughout the novel. Richard Adams never passes on the opportunity to make life hard on the rabbits of Watership Down.

The story masterfully weaves obstacle after obstacle the rabbits must overcome to survive, and the dangers they face flow so naturally. Each choice by the characters, whether its Hazel and Fiver, or even the opposing forces they square off against, makes sense and leads to new, logical avenues of conflict, as well as new challenges that arise from the decisions they make. I may not remember everything about this book, but I remember how nervous and excited I felt whenever Hazel  and company had to deal with a new challenge.

So, if your story feels like it’s missing something, go through and see how many times your characters face adversity. Are they constantly being pushed to the brink, or are their sections that feel like it’s a walk in the park for them? If it’s feeling like the latter, start thinking of ways to liven this up a little. Your story will be richer for it.  

Sven had to accept that he wasn’t getting anymore sleep on the flight. He expected there was only had another hour or so before they touched down in Stockholm, so it wasn’t like his whole night was ruined, but he’d been away in America on business for two straight weeks, and his wife was sure to let him have it about how much she’d had to deal with being left alone with their four daughters.

He would’ve preferred having the extra amount of rest before the inevitable fight, but that jackass across the aisle from him in 1B kept hollering if the stewardess made him wait for another drink.

It was amazing. Sven didn’t think the man had slept at all on the flight, even though he seemed to struggle as he drunkenly found his seat when they were first boarding. Sven judged he must’ve had at least another three whisky sours since they’d been in the air, and yet the man in the cowboy hat looked even more alert than when he’d first stumbled onto the plane.

The jerk swiveled the ice around as he spied to see if there was any whisky left. When he determined there wasn’t any, he began to fish out his wallet while he jabbed the service button again and again.

Oh my. He’s going to order another one.

The stewardess, who seemed to have aged a decade since the flight first started, stormed over, grabbed his wrist firmly, and settled it down along the side of his lap.

“Where are we?” he asked. The man seemed to have reached a state of drunkenness in which everything sounded muted to him, because he practically shouted his question at her.

“We’re over Ireland,” she seethed. “Perhaps it’d be best if you took this opportunity to get some—”

“Ireland!” he exclaimed, then winced playfully and giggled as he put his finger to his lips, mocking the stewardess as she did the same. “I love Ireland,” he whispered, practically mouthing the words.

His eyes caught sight of Sven watching him. “Bring a pint of Guinness for me and my friend here. I’m buying.”

“We don’t have pints,” the stewardess replied.

“Well, bring what you have then.”

“It’s a little early for me,” Sven said.

“I’ll have his then.”

“I’ll bring you one,” the stewardess reluctantly conceded before storming off.

The man in the cowboy hat snorted and gave a shrug, content that he was getting served another round. He didn’t seem to notice Sven staring at him.

Sven didn’t mean to gawk, but he couldn’t help study the man. Ignoring the man’s impeccable ability to remain conscious after an overnight, overseas flight filled with heavy drinking, it intrigued him what could possibly be waiting for him when they landed that he needed to drink as much as he was to face it.

The man’s cowboy hat had been pulled down low, obscuring his eyes, but Sven didn’t doubt that they might look a little withdrawn and misty. Sven doubted that it would’ve all been attributed to the drink.

For the first time during the flight, he pitied the man.

Suddenly, facing an angry wife didn’t seem so bad.

I was a little fearful when I reached the point in writing Dig Down that I needed to find an editor. I’d written plenty of stories, most of which I’d never shared with anybody, but all of which I’d worked on by myself. I knew that if I wanted to go the publishing route, I’d need to hire an editor, but I was still a little apprehensive.

Everything I’d ever worked on had my voice because I was the only one who worked on it. But would that still be the case if I shared it with someone?

I’d submitted my manuscript to a consulting agency. There was one editor who’s bio I read who I thought would be a good fit for me, but the agency passed it along to another editor as well in case my top choice passed on the project. This other consultant’s notes were that they were really intrigued by the setup, that my opening avoided the trap of many first time writers by just providing tons of exposition up front….but that a standard novel was between 70 and 80 thousand words, and that because Dig Down was half that, we should work on beefing up the word count.

As I’ve mentioned before, brevity was key to Dig Down. It needed to have that quick pace so that it felt like Rob was constantly in danger. I knew the tradeoff I was making. Focusing on the pursuit left little in the way of character development for all the characters, but it was something I was willing to sacrifice so that I could make the escape is great as I could, believing that this would make the story stand out among the rest of the vast number of reading options out there.

I stared at that message blankly when I read it, thinking “You haven’t even read beyond the first two chapters (what even is that…3, 4 pages?) and you’re already proposing a vast overhaul to the story? You have no idea why those choices were even made, and you’re proposing a change based on the way other books have been written.”

Luckily for me, my first choice also responded later that day. She was also intrigued by the premise and impressed by the first few chapters. There was no suggestion to immediately double the word count because that’s how long most books were. She even outlined her process: reading the story through once to understand what was happening in it and what sort of story I was trying to tell, before reading it a second time to suggest revisions.

This. This was exactly what I needed to feel comfortable working with an editor. This was exactly how I felt the editing process should go. She wasn’t interested in taking my story and stripping away everything that made it mine. She was about finding out the best way to make everything work and still sound like I was telling it. A lot of her comments were about keeping the point of view consistent and pointing out where more of an explanation was necessary because it was confusing, and one thing she kept saying was “I don’t know what the answer to this is, but, that’s your job, to write it.” This always assuaged my fear that my story was being taken away from me and molded into something else.

So if you’re writing a story that you want to publish one day, but are worried that sending it to an editor will change the story you’re trying to tell into something unrecognizable, don’t be. You might get a response similar to the one I got from the first editor, but you’ll know that that one isn’t for you. They’re not trying to take your idea and rewrite it to the point where it’s their book but has your name on the book jacket. They’re doing what they can to make your story as polished and excellent as it can be.

Crystal wanted to knock the hat right off his head. In her fifteen years as an airline stewardess, she’d never had a more obnoxious passenger.

As she’d attended to the other travelers, she stole quick glances of him out of the corner of her eye. She would’ve thought he’d be too bleary-eyed to notice her, but he seemed to catch her every time during the past half hour, glancing over the back of his seat each time she looked over at him. And each time he did, he made a point of tapping his watch. Not to indicate it was luxurious. To let her know he was still keeping time, counting down the “time out” she had essentially given him before she would serve him another drink.

Crystal wished the U.S. Marshal aboard the flight would intervene, but what could they do. He was just being loud. He may’ve been bothering the other passengers, but he was staying in his seat. He wasn’t breaking any rules.

She was handing a blanket to a woman when he began pressing the service button. Only he wasn’t so much pressing it repeatedly as he was stabbing it with his finger.

“Yes?” she asked, testily, as she approached his seat, even though she already knew what he was after.

“It’s been thirty minutes,” he answered with a sly grin, once again showing her his watch.

“I still think you’ve had enough for one flight,” she said through gritted teeth.

“I only had one,” he started to bark before he caught himself and lowered his voice to a quieter tone. She saw some of the passengers sitting behind him in first class spring awake, then glare at the back of his ridiculous hat as they tried desperately to fall back to sleep.

In retrospect, she probably shouldn’t have even served him the one. She had an inkling he’d already had a few at some of the airport bars before boarding, and hadn’t seen the harm in him having one more, possibly needing to take the edge off while flying. She’d thought it would help knock him out, and that he’d sleep across most of the Atlantic. But the whisky sour only seemed to bolster his vitality.

And the volume of his slurred speech.

“Maybe it’d be better if you got some rest,” she suggested, and made a move to fetch him a pillow and a blanket. Then he couldn’t accuse her of being rude to him.

“I ain’t tired,” he said, his voice rising. The passenger next to him flickered their eyelids, and tossed unpleasantly in their sleep.

“Shh!” she hissed at him. “You’ll wake the other passengers.”

“They’ll be the least of yer troubles if you don’t wrassle me up another sour,” he spat back. “Now, I’ll be good and quiet fer ya, if ya do that – make it a double –” he blared this last part, causing some of the nearby passengers to bolt wide awake, only to sneer at him as they fought to drift back to sleep again. He took no notice, continuing in a softer tone. “But if you refuse me, I swear, within an hour – maybe thirty minutes –” he blared again, “you’ll be getting a personal phone call from Mr. Harvey Winthrop. You know who Mr. Winthrop is, don’cha?”

She nodded. And gulped. Mr. Winthrop was the CEO of the airline. He flashed her a serpent’s smile as he tipped his cowboy hat at her. “And he knows me,” he said before he hooted with glee. “Oh, just try me if you don’t believe he knows Axel Forsberg.”

You need an editor. You may be able to imagine the greatest stories ever told. You need an editor. You may have such mastery of language that you never make a spelling or grammatical error. You need an editor. You may be able to craft your story with the perfect structure every time.

You need an editor.

I feel like this was such an invaluable part of bringing Dig Down to life. It gave it that polish that it needed  so that it actually looked like it was professionally written, instead of something just slapped together and thrown onto Amazon.

Without an editor, the line spacing and format would’ve been so difficult to read, because I would’ve kept the margins the same as everything I typed in Word, with a once inch margin along a page meant to be 8 ½ x 11. How many books do you read that are that size?

Do you know how many times the word “towards” was originally in Dig Down, even after multiple drafts? No, you don’t, because a) my editor corrected the word to “toward”, and b) after seeing how many times I used that word I took started taking some of them out.

In the final version of Dig Down, the sicarios explain that the reason they knew where to find Rob in the end was because Vicky called one of their dealers looking for a fix. It was a logical reason for how they arrived at a home in another state, and also, for the little Vicky is in the story, reinforced she was a junkie. Originally, I had them just showing up.

As you can see, I’m not any of the things I mentioned in the first paragraph. It’s beyond presumptuous to believe the first book I published is among the greatest stories ever told. I clearly am not a master of spelling and grammar. And I’ve outlined over the past few weeks the amount of changes the structure to Dig Down went through.

I’m not perfect. And neither are you.

That’s why an editor is so vital. They’re a fresh, and second pair of eyes on a story. They’ll see things you’ve turned blind to, (like the number of times I incorrectly used “towards”), and because it’s not their story, they’ll spot gaps in logic or notice when things need an explanation and clarification (the sicario example wasn’t the only time I had characters just show up when they were needed).

So if you’ve finished writing a story, and think you’re ready to publish it, do yourself a favor. Hire an editor first. You’ll still be close to the finish line. The last leg of the race will just be a little more uphill than you were thinking.

Bruce found his bench had been claimed by a derelict twice his size. He shrugged it off. That’s what he got for stopping at the soup kitchen first.

It had been the first time in almost a year he’d opted for a belly full of food over the cheapest liquor he could buy. Bruce didn’t regret his choice, even after seeing his bed had been taken.

He fished through the garbage until he felt he had an adequate amount of newspapers to keep him warm for the night, discarding the obituaries and sports sections, selecting the business section as much as he could. These were going to do more than keep him warm. In the morning, when he’d have enough light to read, he’d use them to stay informed.

Bruce found it hard to settle down for the night. Maybe it was because he hadn’t consumed half a bottle to help zonk him out. He suspected it was because he was brimming with optimism.

Life, more accurately, those Moore bastards, had really dealt him a vicious haymaker. He’d had a promising future all mapped out for himself, and they’d stripped everything away from him.

Almost everything.

Today, he’d discovered something in himself he’d thought he’d lost. Pride. Dignity. That bulldog determination that made him Hadley’s problem solver, and convinced him he was the prince of the financial district. From now on, every day he woke up, he was going to remind himself that the Moores may have ruined his life, but he was still here, still that guy who could solve any problem that came his way, whereas those two fuckfaces had been dead for almost two years now.

Bruce surveyed the park from his vantage point on the ground underneath one of the maple trees. It wasn’t much, but it’d be a start.

I’m strong. I’m a survivor. I’m the world’s greatest problem solver.

The problem before him today, and tomorrow, until he solved it, was how to get back on his feet, get a job, and get a change of address.

He had ten dollars to his name, and he was determined to make that last as long as he could. His goal for tomorrow was going to be finding a way to trim his raggedy beard. There would be no more wallowing in self-pity, no more accepting his status as a bum. After that, he would start collecting enough bottles and cans to afford a meal at the end of the day. With the weather improving, more people in the financial district would take their lunches outside. It wouldn’t take too long with a little hustle to earn a couple dollars.

The following day, he’d be out there even sooner, and his goal would be to earn enough for a meal and have some extra change left over. He’d keep up the routine until he could afford to go to the dollar store and buy a cheap toy wagon, so he could haul even more bottles and cans around. In the mornings, he’d read the business and real estate sections, looking for opportunities. He’d go to the library and set up an e-mail account. When he had enough money, he’d open up a bank account, and then head to a brokerage firm and open up an investing account. There were opportunities everywhere, you just had to know where to look and have the determination to see a plan through.

Bruce wanted to fall asleep so he could get an early start to tomorrow, but couldn’t bring himself to shut his eyes. He was smiling nonetheless. His eyes drifted to the pond, where the ducks were nestled besides each other along the shore.

He wasn’t the prince anymore, but right now, being the Duke of Ducks didn’t sound so bad.

The thought comforted him, and finally got his eyes to grow heavy. He drifted off picturing himself at the precipice of a new empire, incapable of failure.