Kristen Arnett Tells Writers to Trust Editors, and Their Guts, in Latest Advice Column

Kristen Arnett’s latest installment of her bimonthly advice column, Am I the Literary Asshole?, turns to two familiar anxieties in the writing life: how to read an editor’s notes, and how to tell when a single novel may actually be two books.

In the column, Arnett opens by noting that she has made it to Austin for her teaching gig at the Michener Center and jokes about the city’s heat, humidity, and her newly serious relationship with water. From there, she dives into reader questions with the irreverent, conversational tone that has become the column’s trademark.

The first question comes from a writer who has already had a piece accepted by a publication but is facing substantial editorial feedback, including comments and sections marked for deletion. Arnett draws a distinction between edits that strengthen a manuscript and edits that distort it, describing a good editor as someone who helps the writer’s own vision come through more clearly rather than reshaping the work to match the editor’s tastes.

She says substantial cuts are not automatically a warning sign, since removing extraneous material can sharpen a piece and make its arguments or narrative more effective. At the same time, she warns that a poor fit can happen when an editor seems unable to understand what the writer is trying to make. For Arnett, a key test is whether the editor can articulate the piece’s meaning and priorities; if not, that may be a sign to ask more questions.

Still, she urges caution before assuming the edit itself is the problem. A large number of notes, she says, may simply mean the piece needs more work than the writer expected. Her advice is to approach the feedback in good faith and recognize the value of editorial labor, which she characterizes as especially important in a time when artistic practices are under pressure.

The second question concerns a novel that has been in progress for several years and now seems to the writer to be two separate books. Arnett does not pretend to know the manuscript’s structure from afar, but she encourages the writer to examine why that conclusion has emerged. The question, she suggests, may reflect a genuine structural split, or it may reflect fatigue, fear, or the temptation to move toward the fresher, more exciting part of the project.

Rather than advising the writer to abandon the work outright, Arnett frames the problem as one that calls for patience and honesty. Novels, she says, can develop lives of their own, and that can be a sign that the work matters. If the project truly has two distinct threads, she says, the writer may need to choose one and set the other aside. But if the impulse to divide it is driven by uncertainty or intimidation, she recommends staying with it a little longer and listening closely to instinct.

Across both answers, Arnett’s column offers a practical message for writers at different stages of uncertainty: good editing can be clarifying rather than threatening, and a difficult manuscript decision may require more time before it becomes clear. Her guidance balances skepticism with trust, both in collaborators and in the writer’s own sense of what the work needs.