Editors on Editing: What Writers Need to Know About What Editors Do (48 page)

Ms. Sale dramatically demonstrates her passionate commitment to her authors and to her editorial art and craft in this illuminating essay
.

She begins with some deeply perceptive comments on the role of the editor: “The process of helping to shape and polish the work of a writer I admire can be a form of an act of love”; “I remind the author as often as I can that any remark I utter or any mark I make on the manuscript is to be taken only as a suggestion”; “What I try to be for the author is the smartest, most sympathetic reader of the manuscript (at least until it becomes a book)
.”

Ms. Sale then takes us along with her on a typically atypical editorial experience: the discovery, editing, and publication of a novel. The novel she discusses is
Sugar Cage
by Connie May Fowler. We share everything about the way Ms. Sale guides the work from manuscript to published book, beginning with learning her first impression of the work (“I did find it immediately readable and I felt compelled to keep reading …”). We accompany Ms. Sale through her negotiations and discussions about the
book with the author’s agent, a telephone and then personal meeting with the author, detailed editorial suggestions, and reading the author’s revisions
.

We are there as she discusses the book’s jacket with the art director, the design of the book with the book designer, as she writes the jacket copy, alerts and solicits reviewer attention, and energizes the sales reps and subsidiary rights people with her enthusiasm for the novel
.

Reading Ms. Sale’s essay is to be in the company of an extraordinarily sensitive and creative editor at work, witnessing the creation of a novel and learning just how productive and deeply rewarding an editor-author relationship can be
.

We leave Ms. Sale as she awaits with interest and enthusiasm Ms. Fowler’s next novel, aware that the agent will want a lot of money for it. “And no doubt we’ll go through the same process … all over again. But that’s what an editor does. And it’s what I love to do
.”

It is very hard for me to write about editing fiction (as the editor of this volume will readily confirm) because it is something I do differently with each author and even with each book by the same author. But more than that, for me editing fiction is extremely personal … and pleasureful. It is true that much of what I have to do in the position of editor (with whatever adjective precedes that title) at a publishing house is drudgery or routine. But the process of helping to shape and polish the work of a writer I admire can be a form of an act of love.

Good writing—interesting use of language, evocation of genuine emotion, revelation of unrecognized truths—is, in my estimation, the highest form of art. And I (as one who could never accomplish it) am proud to be in service to it. So, when I choose to approach a work of fiction, I do so in that spirit. And I remind the author as often as I can that any remark I utter or any mark I make on the manuscript is to be taken only as a suggestion. For I believe unequivocally that the work must end up exactly as the author wishes—“It’s your book,” I insist, even as I beg and plead for a change that I am absolutely certain will enhance the work; “Thank you. I know I’m exposing myself,” I’ve had an author say, “but this is the way I want it”—after having the benefit of my insight or intuition.

What I try to be for an author is the smartest, most sympathetic reader of the manuscript (at least until it becomes a book). This means I must earn the author’s trust, make the author feel comfortable with me and my perceptions, which may be why I find myself taking on various roles, often unconsciously, with the four or five writers I work with in an average year. I have seen myself behaving as mother, sister, niece; as teacher or disciple; as prison matron or nursemaid; as shrink or best friend. And because I regard the relationship between writer and editor as privileged, I do not intend to let on in these pages which of these roles I have assumed with which writers.

For me, “editing fiction” begins with the selection of a piece of writing. If the writer is a first novelist, this is generally a full manuscript; if the writer has been published, it might be a partial manuscript, perhaps a synopsis; a well-known writer can get by with a wispy promise. But my intention always is to enter into a long-term arrangement, as I believe in writers’ careers more than in any one book. I have published eight of Alice Hoffman’s nine novels, seven books of fiction by Lee Smith, four of the late Donald Barthelme’s; I’m working with Amy Tan on her third; and so on. Once I have been captivated by the voice of a novel, I am prepared to do whatever I can to escort that novel to its maximum readership, whether that means simply walking it through successive stages of the publishing process or presiding over total reconstruction and banging heads in-house to get attention for it. When I’m hooked, I’m unshakably committed for the long haul, regardless of obstacles. But I can’t fake it: my devotion to fiction is born more out of instinct than intellect, based more on emotional response than calculated judgment. The moment of connection is the moment I become a book’s (or an author’s) advocate—its nurturer, defender, supporter, mouthpiece, bodyguard. Not infrequently, my dogged protection causes consternation among publicists or sales people or others in the house whose outlook must take in the big picture. They balance and measure, playing give-and-take with the whole list, while I hold out for individual treatment of the one book. I don’t enjoy being in this position with my colleagues, but I feel the book has to be my primary concern.

Having made the decision to take a book on, I must figure out how to convey to the author what I think could or should be done to make the book the best it can be. It never is—because I think it never should be—making the book into anything other than what the author has envisioned. In my role of the author’s best reader, I will express my reaction to the whole or any part of a book and ask, “Is this the way you want your readers to feel? If not, let’s figure out how to make it so they’ll feel the way you want them to.” In other words, what I mean to do is help the author to realize the
author’s
intention.

This necessarily involves considerable discussion, in person or on the phone, if only to confirm that I have correctly understood that intention. I do not write one of those famous “editorial letters” at this (and rarely at any) point. I hear editors say, “Whew, I just finished a twelve-page editorial letter.” And I wonder how they were even able to frame a second question without hearing the answer to the first. A writer I met not long ago (I hasten to admit that this is a writer who gave up books for a lucrative career in Hollywood) reminisced about the wonderful editor who would do up ten single-spaced pages of maybe three hundred suggested changes but who would then cheerfully accept the writer’s making only four of these: “What a good editor!” he said. I don’t regard the editor-author dialogue as a competition or a test or a report card. If I’m doing my job properly, every point I make should cause the author at least to think, if not to act.

To me, the editing of fiction is an organic process, a back-and-forth exchange, in which both author and editor benefit from listening as well as speaking/writing. It becomes a building process, often deepening or enriching what already exists, in the best case making sublime what had been merely adequate, when an author is led to reimagine or create anew, rather than just make repairs. The author and I might come up with a number of possibilities for the shape of a book or a chapter or a scene, for the behavior of a character, for the turns of a plot. But in the end neither of us may remember—or care—which one suggested the solution that appears in the final version.

My concern (beyond being the show-don’t-tell police) may be broadly described as assuring a kind of believability within the fictional setting of a character’s speech—the rhythm, the diction, even the content. Or it might be the order of events or their nature—making sure that nothing is stuck in to make a date come out right, say, or to have two characters end up in the same place at the same time that couldn’t logically occur in the world the author has imagined for this book.

I can’t count the number of times authors have said to me, “But this scene is based on a real accident I once had,” or “My mother and father did in fact meet in that improbable way,” or “I really know someone with that outlandish name who’s a mild-mannered bank clerk,” and so on. I’ve said, “It doesn’t matter if it happened in real life, if it doesn’t work in fiction.” We have all experienced any number of coincidences that couldn’t be used in fiction because they would look like cheap contrivances. “But it’s true” just won’t hold up: the best fiction must be truer than true.

Sometimes just raising an issue will inspire a writer to come up with an improvement neither of us would have thought of if we hadn’t talked about it. This reminds me of John Irving’s description of how the late, beloved
Henry Robbins edited
The World According to Garp
and the early parts of
The Hotel New Hampshire
. “This spot feels a little soft,” Henry might say, and John would go off and dig back in to strengthen the passage—his own way. And that, he claimed (at least at the time), was the best “editing” he could have. In contrast, one of the most chilling remarks I once heard from an editor went something like this: “Do you believe it? The young author I’ve been working with just made a hysterical phone call to the agent complaining about the ‘horrible damage’ I’ve done to his novel. Well, that’s just too bad. All that work had to be done. I’m just glad the call went to the agent instead of me—I’d have had plenty to say: ‘Damage’ indeed!” This, to me, is unthinkable. I never put pencil to manuscript, except to write questions or comments in the margin, without talking to the author. All of this is a long way of saying that I don’t prescribe revision, I simply locate troubles and, if invited, participate in finding cures.

How an author responds to this part of the editing is particularly interesting—sometimes even scary. The first time I was to edit a Joseph Heller manuscript, I could hardly bring myself to speak to him. This was not long years ago. I was unquestionably what we like to call a grownup. But still, who was I to presume to improve anything this world-class writer had put on paper? And he confirmed my worst fears by saying no to every suggestion I made. Little by little, however, in the course of two- or three- or four-hour phone sessions during several days of each of many weeks, he went back and changed every spot I had pointed to. By the end of the process, he was deputizing me to do whatever I thought was necessary if I couldn’t reach him. That’s the scary part: I didn’t make the smallest change without consulting him, and I wouldn’t. In fact, I worry sometimes when a new author pounces too readily to accept my suggestions. I always say, “Please don’t just do it. It’s only a possibility for you to consider. Think about it to be sure it’s what
you
really want.” I know—and I think I should teach each first-time writer (and remind others)—that there is no such thing as the one right way to fix anything.

The editing process does not end after that first go-round, as far as I’m concerned. I’ll keep reading and keep talking until the author is ready to let go (or until I’m ready to persuade the author to let go). I stand by during copy editing to answer general questions the copy editor may have and to consult with the author about responding to queries. I may put pencil back to paper to incorporate these responses into the manuscript if the copy editor does not seem to me to be altogether in tune with the author. Once the work is set in type, I don’t usually read it again, but it is not at all rare for me to take down the author’s galley corrections, in person or on the telephone, to help make sure that nothing is being done to harm the work in any way. I also look over the proofreader’s markings to ensure that the
author’s style has not fallen victim to a by-the-book grammarian. And I follow along through the further stages of production so that neither the author nor I will discover any surprises in the printed book.

Meanwhile the niggling procedures of publication must be seen to: catalog, marketing, and publicity plans, dust-jacket copy, and so on—all of which I convey to (or in the case of written copy, beg from) the author. Then comes the limbo, the eerie period between the moment when the book is truly out of the author’s reach and the dreaded onset of the critics. Even the most hardened of the self-proclaimed geezers—Kurt Vonnegut, say—quake in anticipation of the public airing of a new work. This may well be the time of the author’s greatest need for nurture/therapy and the time the editor least remembers to dispense any, having become caught up in the early editing, perhaps, of the next writer or the active publication of the one who came before.

I’d like to be able to illustrate all this generalization with one typical case. In fact, in my experience, no one case is typical. But, anyway, here is the story of
Sugar Cage
, a first novel by Connie May Fowler, which arrived on my desk one day in June 1990, having been sent by an agent I admired very much but had never actually done business with. The agent had very high hopes for this book, hopes that she wanted to see shared by a publisher, and she was prepared to submit the manuscript to a number of publishers at once in order to determine which one would put the most money behind it. Still, she said, she was showing it to me exclusively, on her hunch that I would fall for it and see the same potential she envisioned. That’s a bit of weight to put on a prospective editor, I thought, but I started reading the manuscript—which, incidentally, bore the impossible title of
Ave Erzulie
at that time—with my mind as free of dollar signs and other pressures as I could make it. I did find it immediately readable and I felt compelled to keep reading, if only to see what would happen, how the author would resolve a fairly difficult set of circumstances.