The art of line editing: How to turn prose into music

How sentence-level editing enhances the rhythm, clarity and emotional impact of your manuscript.

I’m thrilled to welcome Daan Katz to The Story Temple. Daan is the mind and keyboard behind Scribbled in Ink, where he writes about the craft of writing and shares some of his stories and poetry.

Daan and I met up in a Notes boost (I think…) and decided it would be fun to collab and guest-write for our communities. Like me, Daan is a line editor, and I knew his perspective would offer valuable Earth element mastery to the Temple.

Great writing isn’t just about big ideas, mind-bending plots and emotional depth. It’s also about the technical craftsmanship that allows those elements to shine. Writing and editing are two entirely different skills. And believe it or not, line editing is extremely creative (it’s the reason I became a line editor).

I’ve invited Daan to share his expertise on how sentence-level editing enhances rhythm, clarity and emotional impact in your manuscript. Enjoy this guest post, and be sure to check out his Stack for delightful fiction and more insights on the craft of writing.

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A lifelong love affair with words.

That’s what turned me into a writer, poet, and editor. Stories and music shaped my earliest years, and all the years to follow.

Whether I’m writing or editing, it’s this passion for words and music that guides my pen—or more recently—my fingers across the keyboard. Line editing is hands-down my favourite type of editing, because I get to help my clients make their words sing.

But what exactly is line editing, and how is it different from other types of editing?

Line editing is the form of editing that focuses on style and flow, repetition and redundancy, genre appropriate language, and consistency of style and voice, while preserving and strengthening the author’s unique voice.

Unlike developmental editing, it does not look at the big picture. Unlike copyediting, it doesn’t focus on accuracy, consistency in style and formatting, or inconsistencies, and unlike proofreading, it does not correct grammatical, punctuation, and spelling errors.

But that’s in theory. In practice, the line is much blurrier, and I certainly won’t hesitate to point any of these issues out if I find them during a line edit. It’s just that I don’t focus on these things.

So how do I approach a line edit?

First things first: I listen. To rhythm, cadence, and melody.

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Rhythm, Cadence, and Melody

Words are music.

When I’m line editing a manuscript, I approach it as if it were a piece of music. As I read the text, I pronounce every word in my mind, just as if I were reading it out loud. Just as I look at the score of a piece of music and hear the melody in my mind’s ear.

Listening to a manuscript this way helps me catch awkward phrasing, poor rhythm, or clunky sentences. Where do I stumble? Where do the words sound dull and monotonous? Why does this transition trip me up?

It also helps me pick up on repetition—not just repeated words, but also repetitive sentence structures. Reading aloud is also a great way to catch filler words and inconsistencies in tone and voice.

Another thing I pick up more easily this way, is the author’s use of sound devices like alliteration, consonance, assonance, etc. If the author doesn’t use these, that’s a missed chance, but overuse is far worse, as it can really pull the reader out of the story.

And that’s only a start.

Because just as importantly, I look for the larger melodic lines, and ask myself: does this line suit the scene? What emotion does the author want to convey here, and do the sentences work as intended?

Most authors know that sentence length influences pacing. The rule of thumb is: use short, punchy sentences to create tension, and long, legato lines to add depth and slow the pace down.

But it’s not always as simple as that. Because sometimes, like when we want to create a slow burn tension, long lines work better. And sometimes, a few short lines can add more depth to a character than one long sentence.

In the end, it’s really all about variation. About understanding which rhythmic patterns to use where, and when to deviate from them for maximum effect. It’s a tricky balancing act.

Let’s look at an example—deliberately written to showcase bad writing.

It was a dark night. The darkness was like a blanket, but not a soft one, maybe a heavy one, like wool or something. The wind blew, and it made a sound, and then it blew again. The street was empty, and also silent, and nothing was moving. The man walked slowly, very slowly. He thought about things. Things from before. And also some other things.

There’s nothing here to keep the reader engaged. It’s all one monotonous drone. As a line editor, my first question here would be: how do I inject some musicality into these lines?

Let’s give it a whirl, shall we?

Darkness wrapped around him like a shroud as he stumbled down the deserted street. His footsteps echoed through the quiet night. Memories flooded his mind. The wind whispered of things to come.

Isn’t that much better? All I did was vary sentence length, add some rhyme, and remove repetition. Well, that, and I started the paragraph with a metaphor to set the mood.

How would you have edited this fragment?

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Flow

Words are movement.

Our words should flow. But what exactly does that mean?

Basically—or maybe that’s the musician in me speaking—it’s that un-graspable ‘something’ that makes the writing sound right. The rhythm is just as it should be, the phrasing feels natural, there’s a pleasing harmony of sounds…

But there are two major types of flow, and as a line editor, I’m not equally invested in both of these. Let’s quickly distinguish between these types of flow to give you a clearer picture.

• Global flow: As the name suggests, this deals with how well a manuscript works as a whole. Does it have a coherent structure? Do events follow each other up logically? This is the developmental editor's area of expertise.

• Local flow: Here, we’re looking at cohesion on a sentence level. Do the sentences connect to each other smoothly? Is the author using the correct pronouns? Parallel structure? This is where the line editor’s expertise comes in.

Other things I watch for when assessing flow are: choppy or robotic sentences, wordiness, filter words (e.g. she felt, he saw, they thought), purple prose, anachronistic language, and transitions between paragraphs.

Here’s an example of a paragraph that lacks flow.

The sun was shining. Birds made sounds. The garden had many flowers. Then there was a noise. It startled her. The sound was loud. The bushes moved. A cat jumped out. She liked cats. They are soft. She smiled. The moment was interrupted.

Hard to make sense of this one, right? Time for a makeover—but where do I even start?

Let’s see… Our basic ingredients seem to be: a sunny garden, birds, a girl (or maybe a young woman, but the writing feels too immature for that to be true), and a cat.

Sally rolled over on her back and closed her eyes, the book temporarily forgotten. Sunshine tickled her skin, a warm breeze carried the subtle scent of roses, and birdsong filled the air. As drowsiness set in, her breathing slowed.

A sudden sound startled her wide awake. Heart thumping in her throat, she bolted upright. Something moved in the bushes. She gasped. A cat jumped out, and Sally laughed at her own silliness.

Yes, it’s longer now, but doesn’t the whole thing flow much better? Now we have a (mini) story instead of just some disjointed observations. What do you think?

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Imagery and Clarity

Words are paintings.

Well, not literally, but as authors, one of our main goals should be to paint pictures in our readers’ minds. And we only have words to achieve that. As a line editor, it’s my job to help the author paint the clearest pictures for their readers.

Musicians paint with tone and sound. A beautiful example would be Schubert’s Lied Cycle Die schöne Müllerin, with its recurring musical motives of the rippling brook, the miller’s lilting gait, and the ceaseless turning of the mill wheel, to name just a few.

The author paints with words, and one of the most potent tools in the author’s toolkit is sensory language, so that’s what I look for in a line edit: does the author make the words sing?

How, when and where does the author use sensory language? Is it enough? Too much? As with all things writing, it’s important to hit exactly the right notes.

Ideally, the author uses clear, precise language—or, if they use ambiguous phrasing, they should do so intentionally. (Ambiguity can be a good thing, for example, in the detective and thriller genre.)

Verbs should be sharp and crisp. Metaphors should fit within the context of the story’s world. (No band aids in a mediaeval inspired fantasy world, please.) Imagery should strengthen the scene’s tone—either through emphasis or through contrast.

Show more than you tell is not just some tired old writing advice. When we create clear pictures in our readers’ minds, we make it easier for them to connect to our characters and become fully immersed in our stories.

In the example below, vague language, weak verbs, flat imagery, and lack of sensory detail make for mediocre writing.

The hallway was interesting. Light came from somewhere, casting shapes on the floor. It smelled like something she couldn’t quite place. Her fingers brushed the wall, which felt kind of rough. A noise happened behind her, making her turn around quickly.

The revision below is just one way to breathe more life into this passage.

An imaginary fist clenched around her stomach as she entered the gloomy hallway. Ghostly shadows, cast by an undetectable light source, danced across the walls and floor. A strange, musty smell made her wrinkle her nose.

Startled by a noise from behind, she whirled around, losing her balance and scraping the back of her hand on the rough stone wall.

Again, the after is slightly longer than the before, but now we have sensory detail, vivid imagery, and improved flow.

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Between Craft and Art

Words are emotion.

In the end, this is what good writing is all about: emotion. Or, as Robert Frost said, ‘No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.’

That’s the line editor’s ultimate goal: to ensure the author makes the reader feel. We want the reader to live vicariously through the protagonist’s experiences. It’s the author’s job to make that happen, and the line editor’s job to help them achieve this.

This is where line editing crosses the line between craft and art. A good line editor knows the rules. They can rattle off all the technicalities in their sleep. But that’s not enough.

The real challenge lies in feeling what works and what doesn’t. And that’s something no craft book can teach. It’s an innate sensitivity, carefully cultivated over time. It’s like playing a musical instrument: the more you do it, and the more focused your practice, the better you become at it.

To take the analogy ever further: you develop an ear for it. Did the author strike the right tone? Does that ornamentation work? Where does the author’s voice need strengthening? Where should it be more restrained? Does every word carry its weight?

It’s a delicate dance. One faux pas, and the entire scene may come tumbling down. Or, coming back to the musical analogy, one false note, and the entire aria may be spoilt. In writing, this means that one wrong word can ruin an entire passage.

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A Symphony in Black and White

The maestro and the conductor

In the end, line editing is a marvellous mix of technical skill and intuitive art, a dance between precision and creativity. Fixing obvious mistakes, while definitely part of the line editor’s job description, is only the upper layer. The real magic happens on a deeper level.

The line editor listens to the song of the words. To rhyme and rhythm. Cadence and flow. They pay attention to phrasing. To pace. Emotional resonance.

Ultimately, the aim is always the same: to make it look easy. As if the author just sat at their desk and wrote the entire novel in one sitting. Without conscious effort or need for reflection and revision.

Because the reader doesn’t want to see the hard work that goes into the writing of a novel. They simply want to enjoy a work that pulls at their heartstrings. One that’s alive with music, colour, and motion.

That’s why the best books are those where author and editor form a true team: the author as the maestro, and the line editor as the conductor.