When I tell people what I do, I sometimes see their eyes widen at the idea of paying for an edit.
Especially developmental editing. Especially if they’re planning to query.

“I thought publishers took care of that,” they say.
Or, “I’m just not sure I can justify the cost right now.”

And I understand that. Truly.

Because when I needed help training my dog, I had the same thought.
Do I pay for a personalized training session? Or do I sign up for one of the national chains offering slick packages, guarantees, and a hefty price tag that starts at $2,500 for a 3-session plan?

Do I go boutique—or do I follow the program?

Not so long ago, writers had hubs. Conferences, workshops, local critique groups at the library — places where you could meet other people who were just as obsessed with story as you are. You’d swap chapters, trade notes, and slowly learn that writing doesn’t have to be lonely.

But these hubs are disappearing. More conferences are virtual. Local groups are harder to find. And in a world where everyone is supposedly more connected than ever, authors are more isolated than I’ve ever seen.

Here’s the problem: writing requires community.

The idea for this has been simmering for a while — in scraps of conversations, quiet frustrations, and half-formed dreams. It started the moment the lightbulb of House of Braus went on.

But the catalyst? That came just the other day — through a newsletter forwarded by a dear friend and author I’ve been lucky enough to work with. The newsletter offered a six-week pitch course. A thousand-dollar course. One that promised to all but guarantee a successful query, and sweetened the deal with a “$700 value” of two query reviews… if you signed up right away.

And I just — stopped.

I was comforting an author recently after a tough round of contest results. She was discouraged, frustrated, questioning her talent. We’d worked together before, so she sent over the judge comments—and there it was. That same line I see again and again: “Show, don’t tell.”

It was part of a contest rubric, graded like it was an objective measure of skill. I rolled my eyes.

There are good reasons to enter contests. But this is the downside: anonymous feedback that treats subjective craft choices like hard-and-fast rules. And of all the advice passed down to new writers, “show, don’t tell” might be the most misunderstood—and misapplied—of them all.

Let’s be honest: it was never meant to be a rule.

When I first started building my website, I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

So, like so many others, I signed up for every newsletter that promised clarity. I downloaded every free resource I could find. “Build a homepage that sells.” “10 words you need to use in your author bio.” “How to triple your freelance income.”

All of it sounded helpful. All of it sounded like it was coming from people who knew better than I did.

But over time, I realized something that completely shifted how I view the online writing and publishing world:

Anyone can make a download. Anyone can launch a newsletter. Anyone can build a website and claim to be an expert.

And very few of them tell you how they got there—or whether they’ve ever done the thing they’re telling you to do.

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.