Letters From the House
An editor’s salon on story, craft, and the courage to revise.
I believe editing is a craft — a discipline learned through years of apprenticeship, trial, and curiosity. I came up studying under people who had done the same, and what they passed down wasn’t just technique; it was respect for story, for the author’s intent, and for the invisible labor of learning what you don’t yet know.
Today, that craft feels like a dying art. Too many people rush into “helping writers” without first learning how to sit inside a story. They leap before they understand what they’re changing — and that does a disservice to both the work and the writers who trust them.
This is my answer to that. Letters from the House is where I slow the process down, honor the craft, and share what I’ve learned — and what I’m still learning.
I don’t believe editors exist to fix stories; I believe we’re caretakers of them. We help authors think more deeply, make intentional choices, and find the heartbeat of their own work.
If there’s one truth that runs through everything I teach, it’s this:
You don’t know what you don’t know — until you do.
And that’s the beauty of it.
Letters from the House is the editorial journal of House of Braus—where we slow down, think deeply, and talk honestly about the art and emotional architecture of revision.
A quiet corner of the publishing world for authors who are tired of quick tips and ready for craft with context.
You Don’t Owe Anyone Access to Your Bandwidth
There was a time when I thought being responsive was the same as being reliable.
If someone emailed, I replied immediately.
If a client messaged me late at night, I felt guilty for not being available.
If I saw a red notification dot, I couldn’t rest until it disappeared.
But that’s not professionalism.
That’s panic dressed up as purpose.
You Are Not a Verb
I used to think being a good editor meant never letting a story fall apart on my watch.
If a writer was drowning in doubt, I’d dive in after them.
If a manuscript was slipping through the cracks, I’d grab the edges and pull.
If something needed to be done—anything at all—I did it.
That’s what good editors do, right?
We care. We show up. We save the story.
Until one day, I realized I wasn’t saving stories anymore.
I was trying to save everyone—and losing myself in the process.
Saying No Is a Craft Skill
There’s a line I used to hear a lot early in my career:
“You’re so good with people. You always say yes.”
It was meant as a compliment.
And for years, I took it as one.
Because I was good with people. I said yes to everything—extra calls, unpaid hours, last-minute requests, emotional support, manuscript rescues, marketing advice, you name it.
But somewhere between the yeses, I stopped hearing my own voice.