I like to think of myself as a process-driven plotter.
On paper, I am. I sit down at the beginning of a project and map the larger architecture: the opening movement, the midpoint shift, the ending. I sketch character arcs, turning points, structural beats. I build what looks like a solid framework from start to finish.
And then, inevitably, I reach the midpoint and everything starts to wobble.
Somewhere approaching the middle of a draft, I begin to feel it: the foundations aren’t as stable as I thought. A character motivation isn’t carrying enough weight. A thematic thread isn’t embedded deeply enough. A key early decision was made too quickly, or for the wrong reason. The further I push onwards, the more strain those weaknesses bear.
It’s like building a house on soft ground. The higher the walls go up, the more obvious the instability becomes.
So I stop.
Not because the story has failed, but because it deserves to stand properly.
Sometimes I take a short break from the manuscript entirely. A few days. Occasionally longer. I think the distance time gives can be useful; it dulls attachment and sharpens perspective.
When I return, I don’t open the document immediately. Instead, I print each chapter individually — two pages to a sheet — and take them somewhere different. Ideally somewhere with good coffee.
I try not to look too much like a creative suffering for their art, but I’ll admit that I don’t always manage it.
change of environment helps. I find it helps me look at the words with fresh eyes
The first read-through is clean. No pen. No notes. I simply read. I let the story wash over me as a reader would, paying attention to where my mind drifts, where energy dips, where something feels thin. Ideas inevitably surface — questions, structural adjustments, missing beats — but I resist the urge to mark them yet.
The second read is more surgical.
Pen in hand, I annotate directly onto the printed pages. I circle weak transitions. I underline lines that carry more weight than I realised. I flag inconsistencies. Most importantly, I write questions in the margins:
- What is this scene really doing?
- Is this motivation strong enough?
- Have I earned this turn?
- What load is this early chapter expected to carry later?
All of those questions lead to the critical one: WHY? Why does this character do that thing? Why does this happen? Seriously, why does that character go alone to the abandoned well at midnight? By the end of that pass, I usually know exactly what’s wrong.
This is not a polish. I’m not refining sentences for rhythm or trimming adjectives. This stage is structural reinforcement. I’m identifying what the rest of the novel is built on — character stakes, thematic spine, plot logic — and strengthening it until it can support the second half without strain.
Only then do I return to the document and implement the changes.
It’s a frustrating rhythm at times. I rarely draft cleanly from beginning to end in one smooth motion. But I’ve learned that pushing forward on unstable foundations only multiplies the work later.
I think it’s important to recognise that midpoint collapses aren’t failures. They’re opportunities.
If the walls start to tremble, it’s not a sign to hurry. It’s a sign to go back, shore up the base, and make sure the house you’re building can actually stand.
Judgement is the result of exactly this process – including the wobble. Martal Strand’s world aboard ELLE4 is built on foundations I had to return to, test, and reinforce more than once before I trusted them to carry the weight of the story. I hope, when you read it, that solidity comes through.
Judgement launches on 15th April.
And if you’d like to follow the process as it continues, including the occasional mid-point crisis – my monthly newsletter is the best place to do that.