PJ’s Rules for Editing
Twice a year, I go through the house from top to bottom and clean it out. Junk drawers, things hiding in the backs of closets and under beds. I’m not talking about a deep clean, although I do that too–and also more than twice a year–but a complete reorganization. Because, however organized you think you are, there’s always room for improvement. I have a house rule: with the exception of holiday decorations, if you haven’t used it in six months, throw it out or give it away. I don’t resell things; there are enough people in need that charity never goes to waste. If I could afford to buy it the first time, I can afford to give it away, now. And, each time, this process usually takes about a week. Sometimes a little more. After which point, I have to call it a day and move on with my life. Because I have a life.
Still, I move forward with the knowledge that my house is more inviting and, more importantly, easier to use.
Editing is very much like this.
You’re doing it for a functional reason or, rather, a series of them. Which is vital to remember: otherwise, you can end up dicking around with your manuscript, moving commas back and forth and agonizing over word choice, until the exercise has long outlived its usefulness. Make the corrections you need to make, to make your manuscript the best it can be, and then move on. So that’s my first rule of editing: remember why you’re doing it and remember, too, that good editing is functional editing. It’s not about honoring your own personal esthetic so much, or navel gazing about what that esthetic is, but producing a book that’s functional to its purpose: entertaining people.
And, depending on what you’re writing, maybe also enlightening them. Or scaring them. Or teaching them how to code. But the most useful instruction manual on teaching people how to code won’t serve its purpose if its too dull to read.
Then we have:
It’s not “your writing style.”
Don’t fall in love with words (and phrases).
Don’t use words interchangeably.
Don’t be afraid to take criticism.
Listen to reader feedback.
All the other rules are in service to the first one. Which isn’t so much of a rule, per se, as a guiding principle that should apply to all editing decisions. When my husband was the editor of his college newspaper, he had writers telling him all the time that “that’s my writing style.” “No,” he’d say patiently, “grammatical errors are not your writing style. They’re not anyone’s writing style.”
There’s a big difference between vomiting words onto the page and getting it right. Yes, you can at points make a conscious choice to deviate from the rules of grammar–but you have to know those rules, first and, more importantly, know why you’re ignoring them. And I’m talking in one specific case, not in general. Mastering the English language (or whatever language you’re writing in) isn’t “having no creativity.” If you equate learning your craft with failing at it, you’re not creative enough. The truly creative artist, whatever his medium, sees the rules as a chance to explore. They help, rather than hinder. Because part of honing your skills in your particular craft is understanding how to use the rules to your advantage. They’re there to help you: as a writer to communicate.
A big problem, though, is that people do fall in love with their own prose. They develop certain favorite words, phrases, or even paragraphs. To which I tell them: if you really love something that everyone else is telling you needs to go, take it out and paste it into a separate document. You can always add it back in later. Usually, however, people discover that by the time they’ve finished editing their manuscripts they’ve forgotten it was ever there. There’s no one word or phrase that’s so magical, you need to use it exhaustively. Conversely, there’s no one word or phrase that, if removed, will ruin your story. If you’re so in love with one particular thing, you need to ask yourself: why aren’t you equally in love with everything else?
This may, indeed, be an opportunity to reorganize (but more on that later).
Words are not interchangeable. Even synonyms aren’t interchangeable; each word has a subtly different meaning. And if you’re doing it right, you won’t want to use words interchangeably, or for them to be interchangeable. Part of writing is honing in, with laser-like focus, on exactly what you’re trying to communicate in each sentence: not on how it sounds to you, but on what specific imagery you’re trying to give the reader. On what feelings you’re trying to provoke. On what thoughts.
Once you realize that, the issue of word choice becomes a lot easier.
There’s an old adage, attributed to Stephen King although it’s been around a lot longer, about whether as a writer you’re writing for others or writing for yourself. Which is, unfortunately, mostly taken grossly out of context. Because, ideally, you’re doing both. You should always be writing for yourself; this, whatever this is, should be an idea you can’t help but share. Something completely, utterly, and totally authentic to you. And, when giving your vision life, you should remain true to that vision. But part of remaining true to that vision is communicating it successfully, so that others can share it. This is true whether you’re writing or painting or sculpting or doing anything else. Art is in the feelings it provokes–and successful art provokes the feelings you want it to. Mastery over your craft means mastery over how it’s received. Because, you see, your craft is in the receiving; is in its release into the world.
A fellow writer–the same one who plagiarized me–stopped talking to me because she “wasn’t talking to me to be insulted.” This in response to a mild criticism I’d made. Which…don’t join a writing group if you don’t want to hear criticism. Or, better yet, don’t leave your house. But, most importantly, don’t equate receiving criticism with being insulted. Going through life with the attitude that the only way people can interact with you is by praising you to the skies in all things is a recipe for disaster–and, in my mind, calls into serious question what you want from other people.
Someone I follow on Twitter observed yesterday, quite accurately, that the same people who spout “be nice” all the time are often the same people who do so while attacking others…and then turn around and sob that they’re being bullied when people tell them to cut it out. Others asserting boundaries isn’t “bullying” and people having criticisms is a fact of life. As a professional editor, I’ve been on the receiving end of more than my fair share of verbal abuse and I can tell you, it isn’t fun.
Nor does it change my opinion of the writer in question–or his writing.
Which brings me to my final point: listen to reader feedback. Sometimes it’s useful, sometimes it’s not. But your readers, more so than any ivory tower excursions into how books “should” be shelved or what rules govern which genre, can teach you what’s really going on. Who your audience is. What you’re actually writing. What’s good, and bad, about your writing; what your strengths and weaknesses as a writer, the whole person, are. This feedback can often be incredibly difficult to take…but can also be incredibly valuable. The example I usually give, from my own professional life, being my realization that The Price of Desire wasn’t science fiction but alternate history. The elements that, technically, did make it science fiction were greatly overshadowed by the fact that the story itself didn’t fit with reader expectations for that genre. It’s been far better received since it was re-shelved.
So, People of the Internet, is there anything I’ve missed?
Anything you wish I’d discuss further?
Any questions?
