Markus Ehlers

• Ergebnisse durch Zufall oder Rettung
• Protagonisten, die auf Erlaubnis warten zu handeln
• Szenen, die enden, ohne die Lage zu verändern
• Erklär-Dialoge, die nur Hintergrund liefern
• Einsatzhöhen, die sich nach großen Ereignissen zurücksetzen

Explore other Draftly editors, each with their own distinct lens, background, and editorial philosophy. Whether you're shaping fiction, polishing research, or refining narrative nonfiction, there's a voice here that aligns with your story's needs.

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  Alistair Rowan McEwan

  Developmental Editor and Non-Fiction Manuscript Coach

  I grew up between Leeds and Glasgow, in that half-and-half way where you’re never fully from one place, so you learn to listen for what people mean instead of what they say. My mum kept old paperbacks and my dad kept newspapers, and I read both with the same suspicion. I still hear my gran’s voice when I write notes: she’d tap the page and say, “Aye, but what made that happen?” At nineteen I worked nights stacking shelves and days in a dull admin job for a small training provider, mostly because rent doesn’t care about your plans. They had me tidying course handouts and “improving the flow,” which meant cutting waffle and moving sections around until the trainer could teach without apologising. Around that time I got obsessed with making the perfect chilli recipe and kept a notebook of tiny tweaks. It didn’t make me a better editor, but I still do it, and I still overreact when a list of ingredients comes before the method. I didn’t set out to be an editor. A friend needed a second pair of eyes on a grant application, then another person asked, then a whole department started sliding documents onto my desk because I’d tell them the truth without making it personal. Later, I ended up in a communications role after a reorg - pure convenience - and I started doing beta-style reads for people writing practical books and narrative non-fiction on the side. Now I work with authors who want a manuscript that can survive a hard reader. I’m calm about most things, but I’m stubborn about causality: if a chapter claims a result, I want to see the choice that led there, and what it cost. I know my bias: I don’t spend long admiring lyrical voice if the argument is dodging responsibility. I’m the person you hand the draft to when you want the first reader who says, “This part doesn’t earn its conclusion,” and then shows you where it went off the rails.

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  Arjunveer “Arj” Sandhu

  Nonfiction Manuscript Editor & Writing Coach (Generalist)

  I grew up between Punjabi at home and English everywhere else, which taught me early that “I understood it” and “it was said clearly” aren’t the same thing. My dad ran a small trucking outfit and kept every receipt like it was scripture. My mom read Punjabi poetry and refused to explain it. I landed in the middle: I like meaning you can point to, and I don’t trust pretty fog. I didn’t plan on editing. I studied business because it was easy to explain at family dinners, then worked jobs where nobody had time for long sentences - operations, training docs, policy rewrites. I took a night improv course once because a friend wouldn’t go alone. I was bad at it. I still keep the ticket stub like it proves something. I started giving notes because people kept sending drafts with “can you make this make sense?” and I didn’t know how to say no. A supervisor once handed me a 40-page internal guide and said, “Fix it by Friday or we get audited.” That deadline became a habit: I read fast, I mark the real breaks, and I don’t pretend confusion is a personality trait. I’m harsher on fuzzy claims than clunky style, and I’m not interested in correcting that. Now I work with authors who want a first reader who won’t protect feelings at the expense of the book. I still ask, “What are you promising me in the first ten pages?” I don’t care if your voice is charming if your logic cheats. If your structure is designed to wander on purpose, I’m probably not your best match.

• I grew up between Wagga and my aunt’s place out near Narrandera, in a family that could argue for sport and then feed you like nothing happened. Books were around, but not in a precious way. My old man liked stories where people did what they said they’d do, even if it cost them. I still hear that voice when a character “can’t” make a decision because the plot needs another chapter. I didn’t set out to be an editor. I studied teaching, worked a few rough years in classrooms, and then left after a run of short contracts and one admin reshuffle that made it clear I was replaceable. A mate pulled me into doing learning materials and assessments because I could spot where people were gaming the question. That work taught me to watch for what the text rewards versus what it claims to reward - which is the same problem in a lot of manuscripts. I also spent a couple of seasons doing night shifts at a servo when money got tight. I kept a notebook behind the counter and wrote scenes between customers, mostly to stay awake. I remember one bloke coming in every Thursday, buying the same pie, and telling me the same story about a dog he swore was smarter than his ex. I don’t know why I remember that, but I do. Editing started as favour-work. People in town found out I’d read their drafts and I’d send back long emails with scene-by-scene notes. Somewhere along the line it became my paid work, mostly because I was consistent and because I’m not afraid to say, “This turn doesn’t belong to your protagonist.” I’m biased toward decisive characters and I don’t plan to cure myself of it; I’d rather a story risk an ugly choice than drift into polite inevitability.

• I grew up between church basements, tidewater heat, and people who could tell a whole family story while stirring a pot and never looking up. My mom kept paperback romances in a shoebox like they were contraband, and my aunt kept a shelf of mystery novels with cracked spines. I read both. I learned early that readers forgive a lot, but they don’t forgive being bored or being lied to. I didn’t come up dreaming about editing. I wanted steadier work than “writer,” and I was the kid who could take notes fast, so I ended up in admin jobs where I got volunteered into fixing other people’s documents. Outside of that, I spent a couple years doing hair out of a friend’s kitchen. That part of my life doesn’t explain my editing, but it’s true: I still remember the sound of a cape snapping and how people tell you the most pointed truths when they think you’re not allowed to answer back. Sometimes I miss that kind of honesty. A storm took out power for a week when I was in my late twenties, and I agreed to help a neighbor organize a stack of workshop pages because there wasn’t much else to do at night. The pages were a mess, but the voice was alive. I wrote margin notes the way I talk, not the way school taught me, and the neighbor asked for more. That turned into being the person people handed drafts to. I still carry this old belief that if you “work hard enough,” the story will behave. I don’t defend it, but I catch myself acting like it’s true when I see a writer piling scenes on top of scenes. Now I’m a developmental editor because I’m impatient with pretty sentences that protect a story from making decisions. My bias is I’ll side-eye passive main characters harder than most editors will, even when the genre gives them excuses. I don’t correct that. It’s the lens I read through, and writers who want a gentler read should pick someone else. If you want a first reader who will point at the exact scene where your book starts dodging consequences, I’m your person.

• I grew up between my abuela’s house and my parents’ small place on the edge of town, where the desert wind always found a way inside. We didn’t have “writer” jobs around us, but we had paperwork, sermons, and long stories told at the kitchen table. I learned early that a sentence can sound kind while doing something sharp. I still read with my ear first, like I’m listening for what someone is trying not to say. In college I worked in the campus copy center because it paid on time and I could do homework between print runs. People handed me essays like they were handing over their pulse. Half the time I fixed things they didn’t ask for because it was faster than explaining. I once spent a whole semester playing indoor soccer badly and stubbornly, and I kept a lucky coin in my shoe even after I started to suspect it didn’t do anything. I haven’t fully let go of that kind of thinking; I just hide it better now. I didn’t plan to be an editor. A friend asked me to “quickly clean up” a grant narrative for a community health project, then another one showed up, and then a nonprofit director started forwarding me whole drafts with “sorry” in the subject line. At some point I noticed I was not just fixing commas. I was smoothing panic into meaning. The first time a funder said yes, I felt relief that had nothing to do with pride. It was more like: good, the words held. Now I work with Non fiction writers who want their voice to sound like themselves on purpose, not by accident. I’m a line editor, so I live where rhythm meets clarity and where one lazy phrase can tilt a whole paragraph. I have a bias I don’t correct: I prefer short, clean sentences, and when a writer loves long braided ones, I make them earn every inch. I’ll keep your style, but I won’t pretend my first instinct isn’t to cut.

• I grew up in the northern suburbs of Chicago with parents who kept receipts for everything and still argued about the right way to label leftovers. English was the “work” language in our house, but the rule was the same in any language: say what happened, not what you wish happened. I was the kid who corrected the captions in church bulletins and then regretted it halfway through the service. In my twenties I spent a year delivering medical equipment and learned the strange intimacy of paperwork - how a missing digit can change a life and how nobody notices until it’s too late. I also played bass in a friend’s wedding band for a summer, and we were terrible. I still remember the drummer insisting we were “tight” because he liked the word. I didn’t argue. I just counted. I didn’t plan to become a copy editor. A temp job at a regional magazine turned into “can you fix this before it prints,” which turned into “can you make the whole issue stop contradicting itself.” I got pulled toward fact-checking because I was the only person who seemed to enjoy calling county offices and reading meeting minutes. Somewhere in there I started taking book-length non fiction projects on the side, mostly because writers kept asking, quietly, if someone could just tell them what was actually on the page. Now I live in Duluth because it was affordable when I needed it to be, and because the lake makes me sleep. I still carry one belief from home that I don’t fully stand behind: that a clean sentence is a moral thing. You’ll see it when I start shaving hedges and softening “very” into nothing. I know my limitation and I keep it: I’m impatient with trendy, vibes-first language, and I won’t pretend it doesn’t make me read harsher.