There was something vaguely familiar about a story I read the other day.
And I’ve been noticing it more often.
I’ll read a manuscript—sometimes just a paragraph—and it’s technically good. Clean. Clear. Easy to follow. And yet … it feels familiar. Not in a bad way. Not wrong. Just … like I’ve heard that voice before.
At first, I wondered if it was AI. That felt like the obvious answer. But the more I paid attention, the less convinced I became. I’ve noticed the same feeling in fiction I know was written by a person. Writing that’s been revised, thoughtfully edited, and polished with great care. So I started wondering if what I’m noticing has been happening much longer than we’ve realized.
We learn to write by reading. We absorb rhythms, sentence structures, and storytelling techniques from the books we love. We revise. We grow. Along the way, we also learn what “good writing” is supposed to sound like. Clear. Smooth. Easy to read. Editors encourage those qualities. Publishers value them. Writing books teach them. None of that is a bad thing. In fact, they’re part of what helps readers disappear into a story.
But here’s the question I can’t seem to shake: When so many of us are aiming for the same qualities, do we sometimes become afraid to leave behind the very things that make our writing unmistakably ours?
As editors, we’re constantly making decisions that help a manuscript communicate more clearly. That’s our job. Good editing shouldn’t replace a writer’s voice; it should help readers hear it more easily. But I also think it’s worth asking whether, in our pursuit of polish, we sometimes become cautious. We smooth. We tighten. We revise. Sometimes we remove distractions. And sometimes—without realizing it—we remove the little fingerprints that remind readers a real person is behind the words.
I’m not talking about quirks that confuse readers or sentences that need work. I’m talking about the small turns of phrase, the unexpected observations, the moments of personality that don’t fit a formula but quietly tell us who’s speaking. Because I’ve realized there’s a difference between writing that reads well …
… and writing that feels like someone sat down and wrote it.
As an editor, I don’t think my job is to polish away those fingerprints. I think it’s to help them come through more clearly.
Maybe that’s what I’ve been noticing all along.
Not that writing is starting to sound the same.
But that the writing I remember most is the writing where I feel like I’ve met the person behind it.
