Six Problems Nonfiction Authors Have

At its simplest, nonfiction is meant to inform. Whether ruthlessly practical (say, a how-to guide to house painting) or shamelessly entertaining (say, a tell-all by Joe Exotic), all works of nonfiction ultimately seek to impart information to the reader. The way(s) in which they do this can vary tremendously, but that’s the core task.

As a nonfiction book editor, I’ve helped shape and patch up books in a wide variety of genres, including sports, business, history, law, self-help, memoir/autobiography, criticism, general nonfiction, and prescriptive nonfiction (the publishing industry term for books that provide a solution to a problem, like how to paint houses). I’ve been hired by both traditional publishers and indie authors ranging from total novices to previously published authors. Despite their different backgrounds, and the disparate topics they’ve covered, many of these authors have struggled with the same sorts of problems—problems that have prevented them from succeeding in their core task and thus meeting their readers’ expectations.

What follows is a list of six common problems I’ve come across while editing nonfiction manuscripts. This isn’t a definitive list, but it’s a good place to start. If you can successfully resolve—or at least minimize—these issues, you’ll be on much stronger footing once it comes time to submit or self-publish your manuscript. (Note that much of this advice also applies to long reported essays, journalism features, and criticism.)

1. Lack of focus. Many of the manuscripts I see nail the macro. The book idea is compelling (or merely useful, which may be good enough for niche prescriptive nonfiction), the chapter titles sing, and the cover art is meticulous. All of this, though, is the easy part—the real work lies in the execution. (But you knew that.) Many of these same manuscripts are also completely sprawling, attempting to cover every last inch of a topic haphazardly instead of covering a smaller, important section of it satisfactorily. Or the manuscript feels misaligned or incoherent, with sections, paragraphs, and/or sentences that feel disconnected from the book’s thesis or main topic. An unruly manuscript is often a tell-tale sign that an author isn’t completely sure what they’re actually trying to say—which is why having an additional set of critical but constructive (and ideally, trained) eyes can be so valuable. There are only so many dead-ends a reader will follow you down.

It can be painful, but when you’re building an argument, holding forth on a topic, or telling a story, you have to keep the bigger picture in mind, looking ahead as you look down. The term “scaffolding,” frequently used in educational design contexts, is a good metaphor here. The more you support the reader through deliberate editorial choices, the more they will reward you by staying engaged and progressing through the book. When your draft is complete, and you go back over it, after every sentence you (the author) should ask yourself: How does this connect to the rest of the paragraph, chapter, book? If it doesn’t, it’s worth rethinking—and probably cutting.

2. Lack of vision. By “vision” I don’t mean something grandiose, like a belief that your book will singlehandedly heal the world and bring you fame and riches. (It won't, most likely.) I just mean a unifying idea as to what your book is trying to do or say. In fact, a lot of my time is spent helping authors figure out exactly that: what they really mean to say. At the beginning they may think they know, but once I start pointing out contradictions, how much weight they give certain ideas over others, and how much more developed some sections are, their vision shifts, sometimes substantially. Ideally, a vision is simple but expansive. Business books, which often peg dozens of anecdotes—and hundreds of pages—to a single conceit, offer an extreme example; think of Made to Stick, Outliers, or ­­­­any similar book that turns an old saying into a metaphor for business and life. But your vision doesn’t need to be reduced to a pithy or newly coined phrase—it just has to be clear, comfortable, and (hopefully) original. The best part is that once you settle on a vision that feels intuitive, it will be much easier to focus (see above).

3. Lack of transitions. That writers often neglect transitions isn’t exactly news. But even if most people have been tsk, tsk’d about their weak or nonexistent transitions since middle school, that doesn’t make it any less of a problem. Transitions are the glue that holds a book together, alchemizing it from a collection of disparate thoughts to an organized, purposeful, unified whole. Too often, though, authors jump from one thought to the next without any connective tissue, leaving any sense of natural progression—and the reader—in the dust. If a paragraph or even section just can’t be made to fit snugly, and you can’t figure out a way to tie it gracefully to what comes before and after, you might be much better off moving it elsewhere—or cutting it altogether.

4. Trying too hard to be clever. Too many authors are too in love with a pet turn of phrase. If deployed judiciously, clever wordplay can delight, but usually it just irritates. Far from being ingenious, just-so wordplay usually comes off as grating or trying too hard. I think of it as a lower-intermediate mistake; having gotten some confidence and decent writing chops under their belt, the author has grown cocky. Some authors think being ostentatiously clever is a quick way to show they have a strong style. But this sort of “style” isn’t a demonstration of a superior intellect—more like the signature of an exhibitionist. The author, and their readers, would be far better served if they focused instead on cultivating an authentic voice. For sure, a pithy pun or an expertly placed allusion can add a much-appreciated bit of spice to a passage. But repeated attempts at too-clever wordplay suggest the writer is getting in the way of the writing and needs to stand down. (The exception here is humor books, which are supposed to be excessively clever. Are you writing a humor book?)

Even veteran writers too often succumb to this temptation. Gratuitously “witty” writing seems to be a particularly bad affliction among columnists at the New York Times. Take this opening line from an October 30, 2019, column by Kara Swisher: “That’s one small step by @jack, one giant leap for tweetkind.” You can practically feel the self-satisfaction as you read. It needn’t be this way; Swisher is one of the most respected tech journalists working today, and as a writer and editor at the Wall Street Journal and Recode she helped set the standard for reporting on tech. Columnists Timothy Egan, Frank Bruni, and Tom Friedman (among many others) are often just as guilty, but this tendency seems to be especially pronounced among opiners who have more recently joined the Times, like Swisher. As they’ve been getting their footing, their writing often feels much more stilted, as if their true personality is being held back. It’s likely that this affliction is mostly confined to columnists, since I see it far less in the Times’s reporting. “Kill your darlings”? Maybe. Kill your too-clever wordplay? Absolutely.

5. Not following your genre’s logic. From cookbooks to damning exposés to works of self-help to CrossFit guides, every genre and subgenre exists within its own logical universe. A book on spirituality will assume certain premises that would immediately be challenged in a work of investigative journalism (i.e., where hard facts and rigor are expected). A business book probably assumes that capitalism is good, or at least okay. And an aw-shucks inspirational story will proceed as if cynicism and snark don’t exist. Because if they do, and they make their way into the book, it will inevitably become something else (this isn’t a value judgment—it’s a technical one). No one expects Chicken Soup for the Soul to include essays arguing that love is a futile, worthless pursuit and we all inevitably die alone. At least, I don’t. Authors can get into trouble when they disregard the assumed logic of their genre. The result may be a book that confuses readers, or, worse, unintentionally undermines itself.

6. Lack of clarity. Those ideas made perfect sense in your head . . . but when you put them down on the page, not so much. I spend a lot of time trying to interpret what I think an author means to say. If I’m reasonably confident in my interpretation, I’ll take a stab at rewriting the sentence to make it clearer while still maintaining the author’s voice. But if I can’t make heads from tails, I’ll query the author and ask them to clarify. Some books I’ve worked on have ended up with hundreds of queries. My editing approach, which has served me well thus far, is to always put myself in the shoes of the target audience. As a stand-in for the reader, I can point out where they might get tripped up and offer the author ideas for fixing any logical, organizational, or stylistic shortcomings. “Clarity,” of course, is a moving target dependent on context and audience. A lawyer writing a book for other lawyers can get away with dropping lots of professional jargon and terms of art. But if they’re writing a book about divorce meant for general readers, many of whom may not have even graduated college, they’d better keep the jargon to a minimum. And where they do use it, it should be explained at a basic level.

That’s it. Successfully navigate these common hazards, and you’ll wind up with a book that's much more appealing—and useful—to readers, potential publishers, and reviewers.