Last week, someone asked if I could teach them how to write a novel. I hesitated, not because I don’t love talking about craft, but because novel writing is slippery by nature, especially in the beginning.

That uncertainty is part of what keeps me coming back. A first draft is an act of discovery. The story reveals itself as you go. Characters make choices you didn’t plan. Endings remain hidden until the final pages. If you’re doing it right, you’re curious about your own book.

I’ve always believed the best way to learn how to write is to write. Genre doesn’t matter—mystery, romance, memoir. Growth comes from showing up and putting words on the page consistently. There’s a reason writers say you need to write a million words before you get good. The number may be arbitrary, but the principle isn’t. Skill comes from accumulation.

And from faith.

Fair in the messy first draft.

The first draft is nonnegotiable. Once it exists, everything changes. You’re no longer guessing, you’re revising. You can scrap it and start over, using it as a guide. You can reconstruct it. You can cut, expand, and rearrange it. But none of that work can happen until the draft is written.

Which is why, when I thought about that original question…Could I teach someone how to write a novel?… my answer shifted.

I could teach them something better: How to write.

Revision is where novels are made.

When I rewrite, I reread my manuscript as a reader first, not a writer. On the initial pass, I focus only on the big picture. Does the plot work? Is the structure sound? Are there sagging middle sections, missing motivations, or threads that go nowhere? This is the stage for addressing fundamental problems, not polishing sentences.

On the second pass, I narrow my focus. I look for continuity errors and logic gaps. Details that contradict each other. Timelines that don’t hold. These are small things individually, but they erode trust if left unfixed.

With each subsequent read-through, the lens tightens. Dialogue that sounds flat. Scenes that lack tension or purpose. Emotional beats that arrive too late, or not at all. Each pass reveals a different weakness, and each fix strengthens the whole.

Rewriting a novel is like walking around a painting in a gallery. From one angle, the composition feels wrong. From another, the colors clash. Then, suddenly, you see what the piece needs. You keep circling, adjusting, refining.

Eventually, there’s nothing obvious left to fix.

That’s when you stop, not because the novel is perfect, but because it finally does what it set out to do.

And that’s a skill worth teaching.

Any thoughts on revision? I’d love to hear them!