You’ve rewritten the opening scene five times. Each version feels different, but none of them feels better. You’ve tightened the dialogue, raised the stakes, added sensory details—all the things the craft books say to do. But something still isn’t working, and you can’t figure out what.

Here’s the thing: you’re treating symptoms instead of diagnosing what’s wrong in the system.

Stories Aren’t Checklists—They’re Living Systems

For thirty years, I’ve worked with living systems as a horticulturist. When a plant shows yellowing leaves, I don’t just spray it with fertilizer and hope for the best. I ask: What’s happening in the soil? How’s the light exposure? Is the root system healthy? What about water flow, nutrient exchange, microbial activity?

A single yellow leaf is never just about that leaf. It’s a signal that something in the greater system is out of balance.

Your manuscript works the same way.

When a scene falls flat, when your protagonist feels passive, when the pacing drags—these aren’t isolated craft problems to fix with technique tweaks. They’re symptoms of something happening at the system level, where all your story elements interact and influence each other in dynamic, often invisible ways.

This is what I call Narrative Ecology™: the study of how story elements function as an interconnected, living system, where change in one area creates ripple effects throughout the whole manuscript.

The Gardener’s Diagnostic Lens

In my garden, I don’t diagnose plants by their leaves alone. I observe the entire organism in its environment. I watch how water moves through the landscape, where sunlight is plentiful, which relationships are symbiotic and which are parasitic. I notice what’s thriving and what’s struggling—and I look for the why beneath the visible symptoms.

When I’m editing a manuscript, I bring that same diagnostic approach.

I’m not just reading for craft execution. I’m observing how narrative energy flows through your story. I’m tracking where tension builds and where it dissipates. I’m noticing which elements are feeding each other and which are competing for resources. I’m looking at the health of the whole ecosystem.

Because here’s what I’ve learned in both gardens and manuscripts: everything is connected, and any one element affects everything else.

A Different Set of Questions

Traditional craft analysis asks important questions:

• Is my dialogue realistic?
• Are my stakes high enough?
• Is my protagonist likable?
• Does this scene have enough conflict?

Narrative Ecology asks different questions:

• Where is narrative energy actually flowing in this story?
• Is conflict generating productive pressure or just noise?
• What’s competing for space and resources?
• Which relationships are sustaining the system, and which are draining it?
• Where is growth blocked, and what’s blocking it?

See the difference?

One approach looks at individual components. The other looks at how those components interact to create something alive.

Technically excellent dialogue can still feel wrong for the scene because it’s pulling energy away from where the story needs it. High stakes that don’t create tension aren’t motivating because they’re not connected to the deeper patterns driving your protagonist. A likable character can still feel flat because their stakes and motivations aren’t generating authentic change.

Craft provides the building blocks. Narrative Ecology maps how they’re supposed to work together.

Why This Changes Everything About Revision

When a story is viewed as a living system, the symptoms become clues to investigate.

Instead of rewriting that opening scene five times with minor variations, step back and ask: What is this scene trying to do within the larger ecosystem? Where does energy need to flow from here? What relationships is it establishing or undermining? Are these the right nutrients at the right time, or am I force-feeding the system something it can’t process yet?

Systems-level thinking means making targeted interventions that actually shift the manuscript’s health. The whack-a-mole revision process, fixing one problem only to create another somewhere else, vanishes in favor of specific changes with clear reasons why.

It works with your story’s natural patterns instead of against them.

The Horticulturist’s Advantage

I didn’t set out to combine horticulture and editing; the connection just became obvious after years of moving between the garden and the manuscript. Both require you to observe complex systems, understand interdependencies, recognize patterns, and intervene strategically rather than reactively.

Both demand patience with organic processes that can’t be rushed.

Both will punish for ignoring root causes while treating surface symptoms.

Thirty years of diagnosing soil pH imbalances, tracking pest pressure, managing microclimates, and understanding how plants allocate resources has taught me to see what’s actually happening beneath the visible layer of your story. Not just what was meant to happen or what should be happening according to craft rules, but what’s actually alive on the page and what’s struggling to take root.

What’s Coming

Over the next year, I’ll be sharing specific concepts from Narrative Ecology™ that will change how you think about revision:

• What “drought stress” looks like in manuscripts (and why adding more words won’t fix it)
• How to recognize when your story is root-bound and needs repotting
• The difference between productive conflict and resource competition
• Why some manuscripts are overfertilized and undernourished at the same time

Each post will introduce a new lens for diagnosing your own work—and a different set of questions to ask when you’re stuck.

Because being stuck doesn’t indicate a lack of craft knowledge.

Being stuck means trying to solve an ecosystem problem with a checklist.~

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