7 Ways Your Prose May Not Be Elevated Enough for Upmarket Fiction
My last two posts shared highlights from my 2026 mid-year analysis of the debut fiction deals (here and here). One thing that was clear? Upmarket fiction is dominating right now. But there’s still a lot of confusion around what makes something upmarket fiction.
The news last year that many agents have pivoted away from positioning books as women’s fiction, and instead position them as upmarket or book club fiction has, understandably, further confused writers since women’s fiction and upmarket (or book club) aren’t always interchangeable.
I’ve written about 3 common missteps I see in manuscripts that are missing the mark for upmarket for just this reason. Today I want to dive a little more in depth into one of those missteps: The prose is not yet elevated enough.
I occasionally share this editorial feedback with writers who are working on an upmarket or book club fiction story. And this is not meant as an insult.
Lyrical and more complex writing is a key element of upmarket and book club fiction. As you’ll see, many of these are elements we expect to see across all genres, however, it’s a key defining factor in upmarket or book club fic, which marries the propulsive rhythms of commercial with some of the craft techniques of literary.
But when I refer to language as not being elevated enough or even not lyrical or complex enough, it sounds rather vague, doesn’t it? Elevated language also doesn’t mean the language is inaccessible. (And, really, should language ever be inaccessible??) That’s why I wanted to drill down specific elements that contribute to elevated language…or the lack thereof.
One important reminder before we dive into this, a commercial book is not less than an upmarket book. In fact, upmarket to commercial is really more of a spectrum than a binary.
Here are 7 ways your prose might not yet be elevated enough for upmarket or book club fiction…
1. There is limited or no richness of language.
We’re not merely talking about “big words” but also how you string them together—language that is often described as lyrical.
I shared examples of the opening pages of Go As a River and Funny You Should Ask previously to show a contrast (again, with the important caveat that one is not better than the other—both of these were delightful and received well-deserved accolades).
Here’s another example from what might be my favorite book this year, Go Gentle by Maria Semple: “I recognized the silent rage. The black anvil of depression. The inexhaustible self-pity. The mouth, grotesquely pinches from the violent and punishing thoughts ceaselessly circling, his only source of comfort” (45).
An overly simplistic description might state something like, “He looked angry and depressed.” Not only would this be devoid of lyricism, but we also miss so many layers in this overly simple statement. In the original example we are viewing the man through our POV character’s perspective and immediately recognize that she, too, must have familiarity with this state of angry depression.
2. There is an overreliance on simple sentence structure.
Often many of these factors overlap, and this is certainly the case for limited richness of language and an overreliance on simple sentence structure. And, remember—not an insult! In many cases it comes from writers trained to make language accessible for all. I not only see this with writers who are crossing over from kidlit, but also from writers who have made the jump from nonfiction to fiction who are used to adhering to plain language guidelines that often translate to simpler words and concise sentences.
Keep in mind the key word here is “overreliance.” There is plenty of room for simple sentence structure in upmarket as long as you balance it. For example, this passage from Lily King’s Heart the Lover certainly contains simple sentence structure that speeds up the pacing: “We meet at the Student Union. He’s already bought my ticket. They’ve set up a row of metal chairs and a screen on a stand. We sit and wait for the lights to go out.” (7)
But she mixes this up with more complexity as we move down the page: “We head down a campus path that isn’t in the direction of my room on Pye Street or toward town, where I thought we might get a drink. He points out his dorm from freshman year and I point out mine. The movie has made these buildings, these quads, these years of our lives seem unbearably naive. I want to say something about it, but that feels naive too.” (7)
There is no exact formula, of course, and you have to find the right balance to suit your story and your voice. But too much simple sentence structure deprives a story of needed depth and layers.
3. There is limited or no sensory detail.
All stories should include sensory detail to immerse the reader in the story, but this is an especially glaring oversight when the story is meant to be upmarket.
Again from Semple’s Go Gentle:
“Approaching the Imagine mosaic and its unceasing soundtrack of buskers: my ears peeled through the din of car horns and helicopters to name that tune. Today, a deep cut, “Savoy Truffle.” Not even a John song! Descending the dogwood-flocked path: the majestic clomp of distant horse hooves sent a reliable thrill. Beholding the crazy quilt of budding magnolias blossoms lime-green chutes and cutesy crocuses beginning their annual prison break: spring had sprung, baby!
The reflexive next move would be to stop and breathe it all in. But I’ve learned the hard way. Central Park, no matter how fresh-smelling it may look, you take one whiff and it’s piss all the way down.” (8)
I love the way Semple uses the sensory detail here to lead us into the scene. Weren’t you right there with her in the freshness of spring and then had that rudely though humorously interrupted by the distinctly unappealing smell of urine?
4. There are limited or no metaphors, similes or analogies.
This one could probably be categorized under richness of language (#1), but I think it deserves its own call-out. Not only do literary devices like metaphor, simile or analogy help to pull the reader deeper into a scene, but they often showcase a distinct narrative voice. When I evaluate a manuscript I often call out and praise an author’s fresh turns of phrase that highlight their distinct voice.
Here’s another example from Go Gentle: “Lucien was forlorn, his face the tragedy mask turned to flesh” (17). Not only can we immediately imagine what this looks like, but this also gives us deeper insight into the protagonist, whose choice of the tragedy mask speaks to a cultured background steeped in the arts. Whereas if you had a tween character describe the exact same face, he might compare it to a Pokemon character. (Ask me how I know!)
5. There are limited or no vivid scene descriptions.
We’ve certainly moved away from a lot of long, flowery passages in modern storytelling, but we still need specific details to ground the reader in the scene. A few, well-chosen details are important to help set the scene across any genre, but again this feels like an especially conspicuous omission in upmarket or book club.
In this passage from Tom Lake author Ann Patchett doesn’t overdo the scene setting, but she gives us specific details that create a clear image:
“A plush vegetation is knitted over the graves, and I think of how meticulously Joe’s aunt had kept things here, but this is not the summer for weeding. The cemetery is the highest point on the property and would have been the logical site for a house, the way it overlooks the trees and the barn and all the way to the edge of the lake, but those first settlers gave the best land to their dead, the very first a two-year-old named Mary.”
6. There is limited or no interiority to provide emotional context.
Interiority is what gives us the most direct access to the emotional context of a scene, i.e., how the POV character is filtering it through their beliefs, perspectives, and lived experiences. This is also how we understand how a protagonist’s internal realization or decision builds and results in taking external action. But if we readers don’t have access to the character’s interiority, we don’t fully understand what happened and/or why the character is taking that action on the page.
Another reason this is so important is the POV character’s emotional context is our window to understanding how the internal plot, or their character growth arc, is progressing. Without access to this, we readers will struggle to understand if the protagonist completes an arc of transformation by story’s end. As much fun as the external plot can be, it’s this internal plot that ultimately delivers an emotionally satisfying story ending. We don’t merely want to know how the story resolves; we want to see the protagonist grow and change.
Here’s an example of this from The Wedding People by Alison Espach:
“So perhaps they aren’t going to be friends. Perhaps they are back where they started, Lila obsessed with making sure that nothing ruins her perfect wedding, and Phoebe, always just about to ruin it. Perhaps there is no such thing as friendship, just as Phoebe thought on the darkest nights back at home.” (312)
7. There are limited or no “postcard” scenes.
Coined by author and literary agent Donald Maass, postcards show up as interiority but they go beyond a character’s internal reflection. Postcards are those moments that don’t move the narrative forward, but rather pause us in the narrative to deepen our understanding of the significance of the unfolding scene. Maass actually calls this out as one of the clear factors that differentiates commercial from literary, and as upmarket blends both, we expect to see some of these in upmarket stories as well.
Postcard scenes are generally steeped in interiority but take us a layer further. The excerpt from The Wedding People above continues on to sink us into a postcard moment…a moment that deepens our understanding of the scene and Phoebe’s place in it.
“But Phoebe can’t let herself fully believe this. It seems truer to say that friendship is just hard. It requires radical honesty. A kind of openness that Phoebe felt for the first time in her life that night she arrived at the hotel, so free and unburdened by anything. So ready to leave this world. But now she is no longer free—she is a person at this wedding, and the responsibilities of being a good friend have already started to change her.” (312)
Of course, there is no straightforward formula for any of these—and there shouldn’t be. But, if you think of commercial to upmarket as a spectrum, the more of these elements your narrative is missing, the closer your story will fall to commercial than to upmarket.
Psst…looking for more on upmarket? Check out Should You Stop Pitching Your Manuscript as Women’s Fiction? or Can You Call Your Manuscript Upmarket? or The Genres in Demand Now.
This is great, something I know I'll return to as I edit my (hopefully) upmarket manuscript. I appreciate all your specific examples, taken from books I've adored.
This is a really great list!