Manuscript assessment: going out in style

I had one New Year’s resolution for 2018, and only one: finish this series by the end of January! And here it is, the end of January, and here’s my final post on manuscript assessment, which as I noted way back when is all about style and use of language.

When I’m assessing a manuscript, style and language use are elements I look at on both the large and the small scale simultaneously, if that makes any sense. In reading through a manuscript, I’m always alert in a low-key sort of way to stylistic quirks, and recurring patterns and issues that pull my attention away from the content; at the same time, when I’m looking at any particular scene, I’m paying close attention to the author’s style and how they’re using language at this particular point, and whether it helps to create the effects they want, or accidentally undermines it.


Every author should have a voice of their own—an identifiable style. This sounds obvious, and easy to do—just write like yourself!—but it’s harder than it sounds, in part because we learn to write (both fiction and non-fiction) by imitating other authors whose work we admire, or at least are saturated in. It’s embarrassing how much some of my early academic papers are very obviously trying to sound like they were written by Brian Attebery…

When I’m assessing a manuscript, therefore, one of the things I look for is the factors that make it sound unique and self-coherent. Is this turn of phrase a bit too obviously modelled on David Eddings? Does this one chapter feel less like the rest of the book and more like an escapee from one by Diana Wynne Jones? Do all of the parts of the book not just hang together in a way that makes sense, but feel like they were written by the same person at the same time period—even if they weren’t? Are there any habits, quirks or stylistic elements that detract from that cohesion—excessive repetition, every author’s and editor’s bugbear, or habitual turns of phrase, or consistently misused words? What passage work, and show that voice and style so clearly that the author can use them as a model when they’re editing the passages that don’t work?

Style is always hard to identify, and in some notorious cases has been more of an editorial imposition than an authorial invention (thank goodness the era of the heroic editor is over!). But if you give your manuscript a good long rest and work on something else for a while, and then come back to it with a fresh eye, it can make it easier to spot some of these things yourself, before it gets anywhere near a manucript assessor.

Use of language

Use of language is tied closely to style, but it’s more micro: how are the words on the page working, at this particular point, to achieve the effect the author wants to create? What tools are they using, and are they appropriate/effective? Are there other tools they could use that would have more impact?

I look for things like uses of synonyms and antonyms to avoid repetition and staleness, use of contrasting terms (the technical term is antithesis) for rhetorical effect, repetition that works and repetition that doesn’t, different registers of formality for different situations, colloquialisms and whether they’re understandable (or their meanings guessable, which is slightly different) to the reader from context, use of metaphors and similes, use of varying sentence lengths, avoidance or tactical use of clichés…

The thing is, every single one of the things I’ve just listed can be both a good thing and a bad thing in a piece of writing: it’s all a question of context. Sometimes you need close, exact repetition to create a specific effect; sometimes close, exact repetition will take all the impact out of a moment and leave it dead and stupid on the page. Sometimes metaphors are appropriate; sometimes they stick out like an overly poetic sore thumb. Sometimes the cliché really is the nut or bolt you need from the toolbox of communication (with thanks to Sir Pterry for the phrasing); sometimes it will only convey a fraction of the meaning you want, so you need to search for more, and more specific words.

And again, taking a break from a manuscript and coming back to it with fresh eyes can help you to start identifying these issues yourself. Once you’re seeing what’s on the page, rather than what’s in your memory, it’s easier to spot patterns and figure out how to deal with them if they’re problems, or build on them if they work. But you’ve still got to be ready to kill your darlings, because I can guarantee that at some point, that turn of phrase or image or metaphor that you love more than anything you’ve ever written will come up for review…and you’ll find that it doesn’t really do the job. When it does, take a moment to grieve for it, then cut and paste it into a new file and keep working. Telling yourself that you can put it back in later if you really must will help you to get past the sticking point and go on to the next thing.

And that’s it! The last phase of a manuscript assessment; the last thing to look at with a clear eye when you’re revising your own work.

As I’ve said before, getting a professional manuscript assessment isn’t a sure route to publication, any more than getting a professional structural edit or copy-edit is—I wish we could be that confident, but we can’t: too much of the process is beyond our ability to affect. What it is, is a great tool for developing your manuscript and your writing ability, for finding a way forward when you feel stuck, and for getting a clear, expert eye on your work when you’re too deeply engaged with it to be able to supply that yourself – not to mention one that’s usually cheaper than editing. So think about it…

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Manuscript assessment: show and tell

I don’t even have an excuse for why this post is so much later than planned. Sorry about that. But here I am, nevertheless, and finally on track to write about manuscript assessment and issues of dialogue, description and exposition.

At this point in a manuscript assessment, I’ve transitioned from primarily looking at structure—yes, even point of view counts as a structural issue—to looking more at matters of style. This part of the assessment process can be quite personal, and needs a lot of tact, because as an assessor I’m looking for both what works well in key areas of the book, and what doesn’t, and an assessor pointing out flaws can feel, to an author, a lot like being told they’re a bad writer. That’s not what I’m trying to do, though. It’s just that as a fresh eye, I have more distance from a manuscript than its author does, and I get to see only what’s on the page, not what’s in the author’s memory or imagination. Because of that, I can help them snip away anything that’s hiding their story from the reader, and prune it into its best from.


When I look at dialogue in a manuscript, I want to see it doing three things: revealing character, moving the story forward and dramatising incidents. Dialogue is one of the best ‘show’ techniques there is, when it’s done well, because while it doesn’t reflect exactly how people speak in real life, it does approximate it, and real people don’t always talk about things directly and in full. They leave things out, make assumptions, cut to the chase in an emergency or dance awkwardly around sensitive topics, and writers can use all of these things to reveal character, advance the story and dramatise at the same time. For example, imagine a character who’s so afraid that even in an emergency, with disaster barrelling toward them at a hundred miles an hour, they absolutely cannot speak up and say something critical directly… If you don’t sacrifice this character point for plot convenience, what does the conversation in which they try to speak up give you? Character revelation, and a new mystery (what’s happened to leave this person so unable to speak directly?), plot development (they don’t get the words out in time, disaster happens, and your characters have to deal with the aftermath) and drama (the tension of the conversation and the frustration of other characters).

So when you look at your dialogue, ask yourself if each bit of it shows character, moves the story forward, and dramatises the action in some way. If it doesn’t, consider whether you can trim any of it out, or whether it’s necessary to set up something else. You can also look at how you use ‘tags’ to show who’s speaking. Sometimes a ‘he said’ or ‘she said’ is absolutely necessary and okay, whether it’s for clarification purposes or to create a ‘beat’ in the reader’s mine. Sometimes adjectives are also okay! And action tags are fantastic—another ‘show’ tool. But like dialogue, always check if they’re needed at all…


These days it’s de rigeur to complain about how much description Tolkien included in The Lord of the Rings, but that’s mostly a case of times and tastes changing: both literary and genre fiction is expected to move more quickly now than it was when Tolkien was writing, and the trend for minimalism applies to more than just punctuation. That means that description is expected to serve more of a purpose than just ‘describing the world the story takes place in’.

When I look at description in a manuscript I ask myself what it’s directing my attention to. Is this key to the story, or is it trying to hide something from me (this is not necessarily a bad thing: misdirection is an important tactic for mystery writers, for example)? Is it there because it’s funny, or emotionally significant to a character (or the author), or to pad the word count? Is there not enough description? I don’t need to know every detail of a character’s looks, for example, but I should be able to build some sense of who they are based on what I know about how they look—whether they have big, work-worn hands, or a perm/mullet that looks like it’s just escaped from the 1980s, or crooked teeth and an awkward smile. The same goes for environments: I don’t need to know everything, but I should know something. A few key details will provide clues that let me both follow the story and fill in the rest of the image for myself.

So when you’re reading back over your story and you come across a phrase or passage of description, ask yourself why it’s there. What detail is it directing your reader’s attention to and why? Is it there just because you thought it was cool or funny, or are the cool/funny aspects serving a purpose within the story? And if you have long passages without description, ask yourself why not*? Could description help the reader to track this conversation or understand this scene? If so, you might need to add some in.


Exposition is not evil.

There, I said it. And what’s more, I believe it. Exposition is not evil, and sometimes it’s even necessary. You can’t show every last tiny detail of everything that happens in your story, after all, or your book would never end. Sometimes you have to skip over things, or recap, or time-skip, and that’s where exposition comes in very handy. Imagine that you’ve spent a third of your book having one character painstakingly discover some jaw-droppingly important information…and then they have to tell another character about it. Do you go through the whole rigmarole again, even though there’s no way the reader will have forgotten those points yet? Or do you just write, ‘Elena drew a deep breath and launched into the story, ticking off point after point on her fingers. By the time she reached the end Brian’s eyes were wide, and she realised she’d convinced him’? I’d prefer to read the latter.

What I look for when I’m assessing a manuscript is whether there’s a lot of exposition, and whether it’s telling the reader new information, or recapping old points. If your exposition is telling the reader new information, you may need to reconsider using it. Nothing annoys readers like an infodump—it’s boring, and it slows the story down, and it actually makes things harder to remember. Ask yourself if you can get that information across in a way that’s shown instead of told. Exposition’s job is to move the story forward, full stop; if it grinds the story to a halt, it’s failing at that job, so check if your expository passages move things forward or slow them down. If you really need to lay out a lot of ground rules all at once, you can disguise an infodump by turning it into a diary entry, a letter, an anthropological paper or a police report depending on genre, but whatever you do with it, make it relevant, and make it advance the narrative.

Next time (notice I didn’t say next week, ahem), tune in for the final entry in this series: style and the use of language!


*Long passages of dialogue without any description or tags at all can work…but really only if you’re Alexandre Dumas. Or Steven Brust.

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Manuscript assessment: two points of view

Oh, dear, how long has it been since my last post? Three weeks? Sorry about that—things got busy. But anyway, here we are again, and it’s time to talk about point of view.

When I’m assessing a manuscript, along with plot and character I have to think about the question of point of view—or more accurately, the questions of point of view, because there are two aspects to it. Firstly, there’s the question of which character is telling the story. Secondly, there’s the question of how it’s being told.

Who’s telling the story?

As I read through a manuscript, I make a note of which character is telling me the story in each scene—or which characters are. Can I tell from the text who’s eyes I’m supposed to be looking out of? Do I stay inside this person’s point of view consistently, or are there points where I slide behind someone else’s eyes—and if so, when and why? If there’s no clear answer to the question of why, maybe revise the text to stay in the same point of view all the way through.

Is the point-of-view character telling me things they could plausibly know, or does the extent of their knowledge ring false? Are they a reliable or unreliable narrator? What are the gaps in their knowledge, and how to do those contribute to their story, and their reliability (or lack thereof)? And of course, are they the best character to be showing me this scene? Sometimes, as writers, we try to protect ourselves a little during difficult or complex scenes by retreating—hiding in the point of view of a character who’s detached, or unaffected, or who wasn’t even there and gets told about things by a third party. Sometimes these are good dramatic choices that build suspense or contribute to character development, but sometimes…sometimes there’s a better character to tell that story, and if you want your work to have the greatest impact, you need to find them.

How is the story being told?

Another thing I pay close attention to when I’m assessing a manuscript is which ‘person’ it’s in. Does it use first-person narration, in which your narrator tells the story directly to your reader using ‘I’? Or is it in the second person (‘you’)* or the third (‘he/she’)? Are there parts of the narrative that are in first person and parts that are in third, and if so, are the rules for when you use first person and third person clear and consistent?

If you’re using third person narration, is it third person limited, or third person omniscient? Are you looking out through the eyes of a character in the story, just at a little more distance than you would in first person? That’s third person limited, and it’s the most common form of narration in fiction today, especially genre fiction. If, on the other hand, your point of view is that of an external observer—not a character in the story, nor even yourself, quite, but a distinct point of view that can see everything, know what characters are thinking, and even comment on the action, then that’s third person omniscient, the favourite technique of writers like Jane Austen and George Eliot**. Neither is any better or worse than the other, but they are distinct techniques with distinct rules, so it’s best to figure out which you’re using and why, and keep it consistent throughout your book—and, of course, be prepared to swap to a different technique if you realise there’s a stronger way to tell your story.

Next up—I hope, next week!—dialogue, description and exposition. See you then!


*This is rare, but not unheard of; it tends to work better in short stories than in novels, though, because it does put a bit more strain on the reader than the more familiar first and third person narration.

**Though not so often recognised these days, and sometimes derided as ‘head-hopping’. Good third person omniscient is nothing like the kind of ‘head-hopping’ that results from losing track of where your point of view is, however, because the point of view in third person omniscient always remains with the detached, external observer.

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Manuscript assessment: A question of character.

One thing manuscript assessors look very closely at when working with a new manuscript is the characters and their relationships, because character is what brings plot alive—you can have the most exciting idea and best-constructed plot in the world, but without vivid, engaging characters who make emotional sense to the reader, and a clear sense of how they’re connected to each other and how they feel about each other and the things happening to them, it won’t come alive.

The things I look for most when assessing characters are voice, consistency and connections.


Characters keep the reader engaged in the story, and the best way to do that is through their voice. No two characters should sound identical unless it’s a plot point!

If you have a character whose voice is uncertain, or isn’t standing out as their own, look at what you know about them already to see what you can build on to create an authentic voice for them. Are they based on stereotypes, or do they subvert stereotypes? Are their objectives or their needs clearly defined—what do they want to gain or accomplish? What’s their take on the world—are they a cynic, an idealist, a pragmatist? How does this clash with or support their goals? What’s their background, in terms of ethnicity, class, education, place of origin and income, and how do these factors influence how they speak and act? What does their working life look like, and what does their personal life look like? Who do they talk to most often, and how does that affect the way they talk to everyone else?

Writers are often advised to create a ‘character sheet’ for each character and fill in as many pieces of information as they can before they start writing a story. I don’t know if this is a great tool for character development—a lot of the writers I know prefer to discover their characters on the page as they write—but it’s definitely effective for figuring out what you’ve discovered about a character after the first draft is done, and filling in the gaps to give a character you’re not sure about a stronger voice.


There are two pieces of advice writers often get about consistency of character. One is that consistency is the key to believability, and the second is that if a character does something that’s out of character, they should keep it and see what it leads to, because inconsistency is both relatable and revelatory.

Both of these things are true. At the same time. Of course.

The trick is that for inconsistency to be relatable and revelatory, it has to derive from, and connect to, a larger element of consistency. Is the way in which your character behaves out-of-character in that one moment consistent with their larger character? If so, how? If not, why not—what’s happened to knock them that far off course, and how do they react to their own actions afterwards, as normality reasserts itself? If you can’t figure out the connection, then maybe that’s a path you don’t want to take the character down after all…or maybe you have a game-changing plot point that takes you into a genre you didn’t realise you were writing…*

But at the same time, consistency doesn’t mean eternal sameness. A character that doesn’t grow or change over the course of a story is, at best, boring. What impact do the events of the plot have on your character? Do they change the way they think or feel about things? How they see the world? How they react to stress? How they choose between options? Check in with your character at the beginning, middle and end of your story and ask yourself some questions about them at each point. If you get the same answers to all of the questions each time, it’s a sign that your character hasn’t really been affected by the plot.


No character is an island, entire of itself; each one is a piece of the continent, a part of the main…with apologies to John Donne! But it’s true. Characters don’t exist independently of each other**, so in addition to thinking about how the plot affects a character, you also have to think about how their relationships with other characters affect them.

Ask yourself what you know about characters as pairs, trios or groups. What do they like or dislike about each other? If there are lots of things they dislike, why do they stay around each other? What would be bad enough to change that? How do the characters’ relationships support or hinder them when it comes to achieving their goals, and would they ever be prepared to sacrifice the relationship to achieve the goals—or the goals to protect the relationship? How do the relationships change as the characters change? What would happen to the relationship if one character changed so much that the other didn’t recognise them any more?

Remember, too, that relationships overlap, and they don’t only come in pairs. Your protagonist might have relationships with a romantic partner, three business associates, two children, two siblings, a parent, five friends, eight employees, and one frequent Facebook commenter! So look for the overlap points and see if you can discover some character-revealing, plot-driving tension there. What happens if your protagonist’s best friend loathes their closest sibling, for very good reasons? How your protagonist reacts will say something about who they are, and possibly drive the story forward.

As with individual characters, you can do spot-checks for relationships. Ask yourself questions about your characters’ relationships at the beginning, middle and end of the book, and see if you can figure out what changes happen, or need to happen, to create your story.

And all of these points apply to non-fiction as well as to fiction, although of course in non-fiction you don’t have the option of making up characters or relationships. After all, where would a biography be without its subject’s voice, or their network of relationships, or a sense of when they were acting consistently and when they did something completely out of character?

Next week, I’ll look at finding the right point of view to tell your story from.


*A wizard did it! Alien mind-control! They’ve been replaced by a secret agent in a really good disguise!

**I was going to write ‘in a vacuum’ but if you’re writing SF, you never know…

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Manuscript assessment: What’s up, plot?

When I’m assessing a manuscript, there’s a long list of things I look for. At the top of the list is plot, for one very good reason. Narrative, as Peter Brooks has pointed out, is a form of problem-solving that works by illustration rather than by explication. Plot—one thing happening in response to another thing that happened—is the tool by which narrative shows problems being solved.

So if you don’t have a plot, or if your plot isn’t working as well as it could…you’ve got a problem*.

The three things I look for when assessing a manuscript to see if it has a plot and how well that plot is working are: structure, turning points, and ending.


The most common structure for narratives in English literature—though certainly not the only one—is the three-act structure derived from stage and, more recently, film and TV**, in which Act I is the set-up, Act 2 is the confrontation, and Act 3 is the resolution. When you sit down to work out what’s going on with your plot, it can be helpful to map it out in a linear format, no matter how you actually organise it in your book, and check to make sure that you actually have all three elements.

Does your narrative introduce the situation, the characters, their problems, needs and plans? If your protagonist and secondary characters don’t have problems driving their choices, you don’t have a story.

Is there an extended section in which your protagonist is genuinely challenged by obstacles that prevent them from getting what they need or achieving what they want? Are their challenges too easily overcome, or so overwhelming that the protagonist just stops and wallows until they’re rescued? Does the story divert onto something else altogether? It’s not a confrontation if the protagonist doesn’t actually confront their problems, one way or another.

And does the narrative actually conclude? Is the problem established in the set-up phase resolved in some way? Or does the story just stop? A short story can get away with stopping; a novel, which has far more going on, needs to wrap things up more securely.

Turning points

It’s not enough just to have three acts to your story, though. How does your protagonist get from Act I to Act II? What takes them from enduring their problems to confronting them?

The mechanism for moving your characters from one act to the next is called a ‘plot point’ or ‘turning point’: it’s a thing that happens, often external to your protagonist, that shifts the ground under them and forces them to take action. It could be a murder, a theft, a letter bringing bad—or good—news, a conversation, a sick child, a broken dishwasher…anything at all that shakes things up and makes your protagonist do something.

Most stories have at least two plot points—one that transitions the protagonist from Act I to Act II, and one that takes them from Act II to Act III. When you map out your plot, look for these turning points. Do you have at least two? Are they strong enough to have the effect you want? Is your protagonist’s reaction to them believable, or at least relatable? Does a plot point pass by without the narrative turning at all? A narrative that doesn’t ‘turn’ isn’t really a narrative; it’s just a sequence of events.


Once you’ve figured out your turning points and what effect they have on your narrative, you also need to look at where they take you: the end of the story.

Is your protagonist’s problem solved? Do they have what they needed at the start of the story? Have they achieved their desires? It might seem like the answer to all of these questions should be yes, and for some stories it absolutely can be. But it can be just as effective to complicate the resolution. Can your turning points lead your protagonist to an unexpected solution to their problem? Can the priblem remain partially unresolved, but in a way the protagonist can accept? Can they get what they need, but not what they wanted back at the start of all this? Can they end up somewhere that’s actually better than what they were aiming for—or at least, better for them? The wrap-up is often more satisfying if it’s slightly unexpected in a way that feels right.

But plot is only one element of a narrative, and one thing that manuscript assessors look at when they analyse a narrative. Next week, I’ll look at the element that makes plot come alive: character.


*Which is not to say that there are no books without plots—there are plenty—but they’re out of fashion nowadays and hard to get into print outside of the litfic zone.

**Though TV is more likely to use a four- or even vaguely Shakespearean five-act structure these days, thanks to advertising…



Brooks, Peter. Reading for the Plot: Design and Intention in Narrative. New York: A. A. Knopf, 1984.

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So what is a manuscript assessment anyway?

Yes, the blog is back!

To borrow a phrase from the late great Terry Pratchett, I ATEN’T DED. I’ve just been busy. But now I have a free Monday morning and something interesting to write about, so let’s dive on in!

The topic is manuscript assessments. You may have noticed that I recently updated my website with a page about manuscript assessments, a skill I’ve learned thanks to the wonderful Connie Berg of Sunshine Press. So the question is, what exactly is a manuscript assessment, anyway? It sounds like some kind of a test, or a checklist for authors to make sure that their book meets a list of criteria for publication…but in fact, it’s a lot more useful than that.

What is a manuscript assessment?

A manuscript assessment is a tool to help an author get objective, constructive and detailed feedback on, and pointers for revising, a completed work—fiction, non-fiction, short, long, manuscript assessors work on them all. It’s a global analysis of a text that considers how all the parts of it fit together, which parts work and why, and which need more development to make the whole text cohere.

A manuscript assessment will give you feedback on every aspect of your manuscript:

  • plot and structure.
  • characters and their relationships.
  • point of view.
  • dialogue, description and exposition.
  • style elements and use of language.

This feedback usually comes in the form of a written report of between 5 and 10 pages, and more detailed individual notes about specific points—often these are handwritten onto a hard copy of your manuscript, at least if your assessor has decent handwriting!

What a manuscript assessment is not

A manuscript assessment is not a statement that your work is ready to be published (though your assessor might give you that feedback if they believe it to be true!). That, after all, can only ever be your decision. Nor is getting your manuscript assessed a guarantee of publication—publishers won’t care if you tell them that your manuscript has been professionally assessed, as their editors will still have to look at the work on its own merits and see how it matches with their lists and their needs. Finally, getting a manuscript assessment is not the same thing as having your manuscript edited or proofread (though the good news is that it’s cheaper than either)—a manuscript assessor will give you feedback on language use and issues such as unnecessary repetition, patterns of comma misuse and so on, but will not check for errors or correct typos.

So why invest in a manuscript assessment if it doesn’t guarantee publication?

Every writer I know wants to be a better writer (and to sell books, of course, but that’s a given). A manuscript assessment is a tool for helping you to improve your writing, because of course, everything that you learn from this assessment carries forward to the work you do on your next manuscript, too. It isn’t an investment in the success or failure of a particular manuscript: it’s an investment in yourself as a writer—professional development, if you like. And that’s always worth it.

Over the next few weeks I’ll be writing a series of posts on the various things a manuscript assessor looks for when writing a report on a manuscript. First up is plot and structure, so join me next Monday for some fun with narrative!

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Converting your thesis to a monograph

Back again! And I just remembered that I promised you guys I’d tell you about what I was planning to do for my Masters thesis once I got the details hashed out with my supervisor…so, here goes!

This what I’m doing, and what – so far – I’ve learned.

My thesis is actually going to be a practice-led project – a project/exegesis combination. Partly this is because the ‘practice’ part is valuable for me right now, and partly it’s because it’s new. I’ve already done a large research-centred project, and I don’t feel the need to repeat the experience. Instead, I’m transforming that old project: I’m taking my PhD thesis, revising it into monograph form and self-publishing it as an e-book, and linking that to a research project on how and why self-publishing hasn’t taken off in academia the way it has in trade fiction and non-fiction since the invention of functional e-books (think peer review and impact measures and you’re at least partway there).

What this means in practice is that I’ve spent the last few weeks refamiliarising myself with my thesis manuscript and working through the first stage of revising it.

This is the simple bit – the bit that all the web pages and publisher sites tell you about. Taking out the heavy-handed signposting, as many block quotes and integrated quotes as possible, and as much repetition as you can get away with losing. But there’s more to getting a monograph out of a thesis than that, and this is the phase I’m about to embark on.

It all comes back to reader-centric writing. A thesis, as I’ve said before, has an audience of about four – your thesis supervisors and your examiners. Possibly six, if your parents leaf through it too. It also has a specific set of academic training-hoops to jump through, to show that you’ve mastered the requirements of your discipline. A monograph, however, has a potential audience of your whole discipline, and a lot fewer hoops, but these are people without any commitment to read and engage like your examiners have. So when you come to revise your thesis for publication, it doesn’t just need to be tweaked here and there, and the thesis ‘stamps’ scrubbed off. It needs to be reconsidered down to the structural level to make sure those readers pick it up – and keep reading. Here are some questions to ask yourself, to help you get started:

  • What’s the heart of your thesis – the original contribution to knowledge, the one big thing that makes it worthwhile?
  • How can you make that the heart of your book? Do you need to restructure, rewrite, rethink?
  • Does the monograph really need a dedicated literature review? If it does, where should it go? If it doesn’t, what does it need instead?
  • Are there elements that are distractions? Can they be cut, or reshaped to suit your new argumentative line?
  • Do you need to do more research to bring the book up-to-date?

You’ll need to map out your entire thesis all over again and find the book in it. Be prepared for a lot of structural changes, and a lot of new writing, particularly in the introduction and conclusion.

The hardest bit is that if you’re doing this for formal, scholarly publication, you’ll need to do at least some of it first – before you even submit your proposal. You won’t have much editorial support and you won’t have huge amounts of time. If you’re self-publishing, you’ll have a looser timeframe, but even less support. And you really do have to think about the issue of peer review (yes, book publishers do peer review for scholarly texts right alongside journals, though it looks a little different). The academy uses peer review for quality control, but it also uses it for gatekeeping and to confer legitimacy, especially in the Arts and Humanities – despite the fact that it’s a flawed system. You’ll have to decide whether you want to engage with that system and present yourself as an independent scholar, or step outside of it and take the risk of your work being seen as illegitimate even if it makes your publication process easier.

You’ll also need to think about how you’re going to handle indexing (the answer will be different depending on whether you’re aiming for print or electronic self-publication), getting and giving quote and image use permissions, and which platforms you’ll use to publish and promote your work.

So, this project is going to be quite a ride! I’ll report back from time to time and let you know how it goes…

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