Editors on Editing: What Writers Need to Know About What Editors Do (31 page)

Mr. Paine details ways in which a helpful manuscript editor can stimulate “a creative response” in an author. “This is what an editor truly wants, that an author consider a point and fashion her own original response. This is what leads to a better book.”

The Art of the Reasonable Suggestion

A line editor performs a useful role as an author’s critical first reader. Rare is the manuscript that does not profit from the benign shaping and trimming that hands-on editing provides. On the other hand, even an author eager to please his publisher cannot help but be dismayed when a manuscript returns with page after page of marginal notes, sentences reconfigured, lines crossed out, and—who is this guy?—entirely new words or phrases introduced into a work he had considered finished, pristine. Because of this, a line editor has to learn early on an essential asset: the art of communication.

Before proceeding to the different levels of suggestions a line editor makes, I’d like to point out two features in any editorial note that are paramount in building editor-author rapport. One is that an editor state, continually, what she
likes
about a work. This is essential, for any author is going to be sensitive to criticism, and blast after negative blast raises the specter of the editor as arrogant, know-it-all jerk. Second, the language employed should be that of a helpmeet. My suggestions are rife with such phrases as “it seems,” “you may want to consider,” “perhaps a better tack is,” etc. In this way an author does not feel threatened, leading to a wary but open-minded assessment of the note, which is precisely what an editor desires.

Conveying to an author why his material may be better emended takes various forms. Starting at the broadest level, changes of the sweeping structural variety are often best suggested at lunch or over the phone. This gives the author the chance to toss back and forth possible new avenues for larger-scale revisions. Sometimes an editor decides that writing an overall letter will work better, since the full scope of an idea is often better conveyed when written down. In this sort of letter, general observations of perceived problem areas can be followed by open-ended suggestions of remedies. The word
open-ended
is key here, since an author almost invariably is going to have fresher, more creative solutions than her editor.

A more in-depth approach may be better yet. The fact is, sometimes an editorial letter setting forth general ideas has the effect of leaving the author in the lurch. Yes, now I know what you don’t like, but you haven’t shown me, really, how to go about making it better. An author may go off in a wholly different direction that does not help the original problem. For this reason, I usually adopt a more detailed approach. Problems discussed in
general in a cover letter are then supplemented by notes written on specific ms. pages throughout the manuscript. In this way an author can attack an overall problem step by step—if he so chooses. For instance, let’s say a political writer uses too much interview material, to the point that the lengthy quotations swamp the narrative’s direction. In this case, a series of editorial notes could point out specific places where interviews could be cut to short excerpts backing up a narrator’s summary of a point. In this system the author can still disregard any given suggestion. But at least she has the chance to consider if a detailed suggestion will help a larger problem.

This secondary type of note is useful especially for building stronger characters. Brief suggestions—two to four sentences—are typed at the top or bottom of a manuscript page, with arrows drawn to the specific action that has spurred the note. Weakly drawn characters constitute one of the most common failings of fiction writers, and continual notes from an editor can go a long way toward helping the author face what in fact he wants from a character. Egged on by the sheer number of innocuous suggestions, an author can not only insert new material in these places, but go on to recast a better-rounded figure altogether. Seeing an author fly off on his own wing like this is, of course, an editor’s ultimate desire.

Such marginal notes also help in trimming a manuscript. Unfortunately for authors, one of a line editor’s primary functions is cutting away dead-wood. This area ranges from simple trimming of unnecessary adverbs and adjectives all the way to deletions of entire paragraphs and even pages at a stretch. Obviously, an editor had better be ready to supply cogent explanations for such large-scale action. And if a few sentences in a margin won’t be enough, a half- or full-page note can be clipped to the ms. page, explaining why the deleted section is hindering the narrative’s drive. One genre in which such block cuts are often made is true crime. Most of these authors are newspaper reporters. Their strength is in gathering information (as in “hunter-gatherer,” I’m afraid); their weakness is in composing cohesive, well-constructed chapters, let alone parts or the book as a whole. Whole pages of minutia, often courtroom related, have to be stripped away so that the story of the leading detective, say, or murderer, maintains strong forward momentum. Continual editorial suggestions pointing out the need to concentrate on narrative threads help these authors see the forest for the trees.

Another form of suggestion is helpful in a lesser field of line editing, that of large-scale grammatical work. Early on in a manuscript, a series of long notes can pinpoint specific stylistic deficiencies that will be corrected throughout the book. The note could address the first instance of passive construction, say, or redundancy or excess verbiage—to name several common problems. Taking the length needed to inform the author fully, the
editor sets forth the principle(s) of stronger style on which she is acting in making these changes continually. After reading such a prefatory note, the author may not agree to this sort of change in every instance, but at least she understands why it is being repeatedly made. For instance, let’s say an author is drawn to using participial phrases rather than indicative verbs. The manuscript reads: “He turned his head, lifting the blackjack from the low shelf and slamming it on the counter.” With a note—“See attached page”—I would explain why such construction is weaker than the use of active verbs, the engine of strong prose. The stronger sentence is: “Turning, he lifted the blackjack from the low shelf and slammed it on the counter.” This relegates the minor introductory business to its place and stresses the tension of the twin pieces of connected action. Such changes don’t have to be made inflexibly in the manuscript, but in this case the author went along with 98 percent of these changes—because the reason why was explained up front.

On an even smaller scale, finally, a common notation that lets the author know why an editor is making emendations concerns word or phrase substitution. Even a careful author can fall into a common trap: words and phrases used too often to describe similar actions and especially emotions. If an editor lightly circles the word at the point he feels it is growing stale and then marks “overused” in the margin, then every time this word is substituted for, the author knows why. If he is sloppy enough to use a distinctive word twice within a given section, two light circles and checks in the margin explain a substitution. As always, the purpose is simply to make the author realize that his editor is not interested in rewriting the book.

If a line editor employs enough communication to assure the author that the criticism raised again and again is meant to help, not belittle, her prose, a creative response is stimulated. This is what an editor truly wants, that an author consider a point and fashion her own original response. This is what leads to a better book.

Casey Fuetsch

C
ASEY
F
UETSCH
began her career as an assistant to three very patient editors at the Literary Guild. She has since become a senior editor in the trade division at Doubleday, where she has acquired and edited a variety of books, including
When Heaven and Earth Changed Places, A Special Kind of Hero, After the Ball,
and
The Sound of a Miracle.
She works with novelists Valerie Sayers, David James Duncan, and Sarah Bird, among others
.

The answer to the question “What does an editorial assistant do?” is “Everything!” Everything from being first reader of almost all submissions to finding shortcuts through the corporate bureaucratic maze, keeping track of production schedules (and telling the authors about them, too), line editing, locating missing unsigned contracts and misplaced manuscripts, requesting payments for authors, and just about anything else a harried editor might need. In return, a wise editor will train the editorial assistant in the intricacies of building a list until one beautiful day the editorial assistant becomes an associate editor with a list of his or her own
.

Wise authors who want to advance their careers should realize that working well with an editorial assistant is just about as important as working with the editorial assistant’s boss. “The day I began working for [the editor], seventeen authors called to welcome me. They asked about my background, they said they hoped to meet me soon, and generally they showed me so much respect and consideration that I thought for sure they were mistaking me for someone important. These people were
awfully nice.

“It took me a day to realize (was it really an entire day?) that these authors knew precisely on which side their proverbial bread was buttered. I wasn’t simply working
for
an editor, I was working
with
him. My job was an entity unto itself, not merely an appendage of his important title.”

From this master-and-apprentice relationship comes the next generation of editors. And, as Ms. Fuetsch says so insightfully: “As apprenticeships go, the one that publishing offers is, perhaps, the last of the great equalizers. Since experience counts for everything, virtually everyone begins at the bottom.” Ms. Fuetsch instructs the editorial assistant how to rise from that bottom to the loftiest of publishing heights in an essay rich in wit, charm, and great good sense
.

Typical of most editors in the book world, I began my career in trade publishing as an editorial assistant. My first boss was a hip, energetic senior editor who acquired books about popular culture and rock ‘n’ roll. Looking like the industry’s equivalent of Pigpen in the
Peanuts
cartoon, he was usually attired in an untucked shirt with a badly knotted tie, and traveled in a cloud of creative enthusiasm, leaving laughter and not a little befuddlement in his wake. While some editors were content with publishing fifteen hardcover titles a year, he wasn’t remotely satisfied unless he had thirty on his list. If all thirty books had two authors, a free-lance photo researcher, and a foreword written by a major authority (complete with separate contracts for each), so much the better. His was the “fun” office, where ideas were tossed out like coins to be picked up by any colleague or writer who stopped by to chat.

The day I began working for him, seventeen authors called to welcome me. They asked about my background, they said they hoped to meet me soon, and generally they showed me so much respect and consideration that I thought for sure they were mistaking me for someone important. These people were
awfully nice
.

It took me a day to realize (was it really an entire day?) that these authors knew precisely on which side their proverbial bread was buttered. I wasn’t simply working/or an editor, I was working
with
him. My job was an entity unto itself, not merely an appendage of his important title. I was his reader on almost all submissions, as well as office manager, wending through the bureaucracy for the smooth operation of his mini-empire. This included
clearing permissions, keeping track of production schedules (and informing the authors of such), knowing the whereabouts of unsigned contracts, line editing various manuscripts, getting coffee, and requesting payments for authors. To his enormous credit, my boss fetched an equal amount of coffee, acknowledged my accomplishments willingly and openly, and, when an author called screaming about a late payment, he never, ever blamed the delay on my inefficiency. He helped me acquire my own projects, too—a time-consuming effort on his part, a veritable boon to my career.

Over time we discovered where our strengths lay, and we shared the labor to the satisfaction of us both. His passion was for photography books and, hence, he cared deeply about each book’s “package,” the look of the jacket, the quality of the paper. As a consequence, I learned much about paper and binding, the kind of details that are essential even when publishing a novel.
My
favorite task, however, was line editing, and my boss allowed me to tinker with his writers’ prose under his vigilant guidance.

The tradition he was employing, and the one his authors so readily accepted, was that of master and apprentice. As apprenticeships go, the one that publishing offers is, perhaps, the last of the great equalizers. Since experience counts for everything, virtually everyone begins at the bottom. The number of university degrees earned, the names of the colleges bestowing the degrees, and the extent of world travels or family lineage are only as valuable as they are applicable to the job at hand. Exactly how much responsibility is given an editorial assistant depends heavily on the talents and experience of the assistant, on the work load and temperament of the supervising editor, and on a particular house’s attitude toward grooming its employees for the future. Few entrants into publishing—fresh out of school, idealism intact—aspire to spend their days transcribing their boss’s editorial letters to, say, Joan Didion. Most would prefer asking Joan themselves whether nausea is an apt symbol for urban angst. But in order to rise to the level of lofty literary conversation over lunch at the Four Seasons (a common myth among the idealists), an assistant must log a lot of hours at the Xerox machine.