Editors and their Writers; Writers and their Stories
The longer I work with writers, the more I am beginning to understand the relationship between a writer an editor--the clearer I understand my role as both a writer and an editor, two often conflicting roles, yet this is the kind of conflict every writer should experience. Let me attempt to explain.
As an editor, I am not trying to destroy your story. Why would I? I do this out of a love for stories: I want to witness the birth of many masterpieces. But I am guided by the empathy for fellow writers' efforts, which then guide me not to simply flatter you, but to make sure your story comes to life. The story, whether we know it yet or not, is why we are here.
The time we--writer and editor--must spend on the story may seem wasted, especially when we create chunks of text, only to destroy them in another editing cycle; the time we spend is an investment, to build something about which we will be confident and happy thirty years from now. I see the story not for what it is today, but for what it may become, and then, we both must allow it to become the best approximation of what it ought to become. Lots of time will be invested. In one reading I may be impressed by our work, in another, I may be disponded, when I discover language, our medium, has let us down again. Or, in our previous efforts to bring a character to life, we actually dragged him into the ashes. So then we try again. And again.
There is much more I can say about the process, but I have stories waiting for me right now, stories that have been simmering, after their writers spiced them a bit, marinated them, slow-cooked them, grilled them, et cetra. And we might as well think of the process in terms of cooking and eating nice things because we have to feel good about doing it. Or, okay, think about it as excercising, first warm-up, then go to weights, then cardio. Tomorrow we warm up again, then we go to cardio, then weights: each time not stopping until we have broken a sweat, and have lost our breath, regained it and finally felt the burn. We, both editor and writer, together, like John Eppel and Julius Chingono of Zimbabwe.
Now, where are we with this? Oh, yes, you don't have to like what I suggest, but if you are going to work with me for a while, you better. In other words, enjoy the working relationship, seek to discover yourselft out of it, to strengthen your voice. Question my decision, but don't waste my time by complaining and giving excuses. I too would complain and give excuses, while the story festers or dries up in the sun like Langston Hughes's raisin.
Editor and writer, we have a responsibility towards that story, to discover what it wants. In short, if as editor I succeed to make you think of your story in new ways, if you tell me you have discovered something you could change, or something you could keep, if you understand that you are no longer in a hurry to publish that story, and you are willing to invest more time in it, to distance yourself in order to reacquaint with your story, to see it for the tenth time as if you are seeing it for the first; that, writer and editor, would be the beginning of a productive working relationship.
As an editor, I am not trying to destroy your story. Why would I? I do this out of a love for stories: I want to witness the birth of many masterpieces. But I am guided by the empathy for fellow writers' efforts, which then guide me not to simply flatter you, but to make sure your story comes to life. The story, whether we know it yet or not, is why we are here.
The time we--writer and editor--must spend on the story may seem wasted, especially when we create chunks of text, only to destroy them in another editing cycle; the time we spend is an investment, to build something about which we will be confident and happy thirty years from now. I see the story not for what it is today, but for what it may become, and then, we both must allow it to become the best approximation of what it ought to become. Lots of time will be invested. In one reading I may be impressed by our work, in another, I may be disponded, when I discover language, our medium, has let us down again. Or, in our previous efforts to bring a character to life, we actually dragged him into the ashes. So then we try again. And again.
There is much more I can say about the process, but I have stories waiting for me right now, stories that have been simmering, after their writers spiced them a bit, marinated them, slow-cooked them, grilled them, et cetra. And we might as well think of the process in terms of cooking and eating nice things because we have to feel good about doing it. Or, okay, think about it as excercising, first warm-up, then go to weights, then cardio. Tomorrow we warm up again, then we go to cardio, then weights: each time not stopping until we have broken a sweat, and have lost our breath, regained it and finally felt the burn. We, both editor and writer, together, like John Eppel and Julius Chingono of Zimbabwe.
Now, where are we with this? Oh, yes, you don't have to like what I suggest, but if you are going to work with me for a while, you better. In other words, enjoy the working relationship, seek to discover yourselft out of it, to strengthen your voice. Question my decision, but don't waste my time by complaining and giving excuses. I too would complain and give excuses, while the story festers or dries up in the sun like Langston Hughes's raisin.
Editor and writer, we have a responsibility towards that story, to discover what it wants. In short, if as editor I succeed to make you think of your story in new ways, if you tell me you have discovered something you could change, or something you could keep, if you understand that you are no longer in a hurry to publish that story, and you are willing to invest more time in it, to distance yourself in order to reacquaint with your story, to see it for the tenth time as if you are seeing it for the first; that, writer and editor, would be the beginning of a productive working relationship.
Comments
Having been tasked to do it in the past, I can tell you that reading manuscripts can be arduous. At one time I was given a raw manuscript that, before long, I found re-writing pretty much from scratch. I was on the third chapter when I realized it. It was taxing, too.
Since I had other commitments, I decided to be as honest about my thoughts as I could, id est, I suggested that the author retain a professional editor. It worked.
What you have done, I greatly fear, will make people think twice before they ask you to edit their work.
I often say that a writer’s literary work is to the writer what a child is to its mother. Every mother genuinely believes that her child is cute. I have tried to keep this in mind every time I have to proofread someone’s work. So, I tend to make suggestions and remind the writer that they are mere suggestions.