Before we get to anything else, I am delighted to announce that after much brainstorming, revision, and beta reviews by generous colleagues, I’ve published An Indie Narrative Revision Journey.

This is a revision roadmap that I designed to help writers who eventually want to self-publish and who want to refine their manuscript as a first important step to achieving that goal … but who feel overwhelmed by all the editing terminology and service offerings that are available.

This project came about because I have met many writers who are eager to take their manuscript to the next level but who don’t know where to start. Editing is an important land to pass through on the way to publishing, and An Indie Narrative Revision Journey is designed to help writers navigate it with confidence and effectiveness.

The roadmap I’ve composed isn’t the only editing path an indie writer can follow, but I’m confident it will help writers understand their basic revision options and the benefits and risks of taking—or skipping—various steps on their way from writing to resonating.

I invite you to check out the article. If you find it useful and you want a higher-res version of the roadmap, send me an email and I’ll be happy to provide you with a download link.

I’ve been under the weather for a few days. Despite living alone and not getting a ton of face-to-germ contact, I managed to catch one of those beloved seasonal bugs most of us enjoy quality time with at this point in the year.

I suspect I picked it up while visiting my parents (they are currently hosting two family members from out of town, and I was there twice last week, so plenty of opportunities for infection). But it’s also possible I caught it at a tiny social gathering I attended. Or else at the monthly Southern Wisconsin American Pilgrims on the Camino chapter hike I led Saturday at Holy Hill, which is a beautiful piece of land that intersects with my state’s Ice Age Trail. That event was entirely outdoors and I wasn’t in anyone’s face, but who knows. Then again, maybe I picked up something up at every one of these get-togethers, and right now there’s a microbe gala going on inside me.

When I get sick it’s a rollercoaster ride. I feel awful one day, fine the next, then that evening, hopped up on hopes that it’s over before it started, my body plummets again. Rinse and repeat for several days. Or I’m in bed for a couple of days, then seem to bounce back completely, then I’m laid up again for a week in a game of sick-well leapfrog.

Anyway, today I felt close to great when I woke up and for the better part of the afternoon, so after a productive day of communing with fellow editors and potential clients, I decided to stretch my legs. I aimed toward the road under construction (which I mentioned a few weeks back). The city’s work is almost finished. The new road is mostly paved, and to my delight they’ve narrowed it considerably and installed an eight-foot-wide pedestrian track that follows the undulating line of tall, autumnal deciduous trees which grow along the hidden creek. An added enhancement is that the city has erased a three-to-four-block section of the former road. The plan seems to be to give most of that stretch of land back to nature. In a year or so, other than the new pedestrian track, I imagine there will be a good deal more wilderness along this stretch.

It was while I was enjoying visions of new trees and wildflowers, wide, quiet expanses of grass, and much more bird- and cricket-song, that I smelled a campfire. Or a firepit. And I felt wistful, remembering camping trips as a kid and staring into the flames while exchanging with fellow teenagers the sorts of sensitive thoughts and feelings that only a campfire can coax out of the inner vault. As I walked I peered into the vast yards of the homes that back up to the south side of the pedestrian track. I hoped to spy that firepit.

There it was—with three men lounging around it. They were too far away for my weak eyes to resolve their features. I could just make out their faces and that one of them might have had a beard. One lifted an arm, and I instinctively turned away in embarrassment. Then I realized he was waving, and I looked again, and he lifted his arm a second time.

I lifted my own hand in reply, and the man beside him now also waved. Did I glimpse a smile on one of their fuzzy faces? The whole universe seemed to dangle and twirl from the fingertips of our shared gesture of benediction. All was connected, everything glowed in the light of that simple wordless statement, I see you. You, stranger, matter to me in this moment.

It reminded me of the Camino de Santiago, which was for me a life-changing experience of the compassion and togetherness and curiosity that are possible among people who want those qualities in their hearts and communities.

It reminded me of what writing is for—at least to me, and to many of the people I’ve worked with. For writing is a different sort of camino: a way to venture inward and venture outward at the same time; a path toward gentle collision with the unknown, the strange, the other; an opportunity to lift a hand in greeting.

And at the risk of being maudlin, it reminds me right now of one of the core reasons why I am an editor: to encounter, to assist, to inspire, to listen. To facilitate and celebrate other people’s ability to explore and express the love that is found when we earnestly, creatively seek it with our lives and words, and even with something so simple as a wave.

Ultreia et suseia on your own quest for discovery and connection,

Adam

P.S. - As always, if something struck you in this newsletter or you just feel like saying hi, I welcome replies.

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