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An Editor and a Writer "To Write or Not to Write"
There are many who would say that a person skilled as an editor is in an ideal position to be also a skilled writer. Is this true? On the surface the answer seems obvious. However, things are rarely that simple. In my own case, I have found that the tendency to be one's own editor has not been a great advantage. How can that be true? I am an editor mostly of fiction. As an editor I need a delicate sense of what makes a good story. The characters must be portrayed in subtle yet effective ways so that the reader develops a feeling for the character, what he will do and how he will react. It is this convincing portrayal, even more than a good workable plot, which makes a story believable. And how about setting? The vivid descriptive narrative that carries the reader right into the story cannot be overdone, yet must have just the right amount of visual clarity. If a good editor can judge that delicate balance, the give-and-play among the various elements of a story, giving suggestions to the budding author about when to put in more, and when to pull back, when to make the character act and when to introduce more human qualities, when the setting is just right to complement the story, then surely he or she knows when it is just right in his own writing. Surely that must be obvious. Or is it? As an editor of fiction, I have associated with writers and found them to be a unique breed. I have to say that the greatest majority of them are large on imagination and some are wonderful crafters of English—but mostly they are not great editors of their own work. Perhaps because of this, they mostly seem to think that the stories they have produced for the professional editor's perusal are the greatest ones written since Moby Dick or Jane Eyre. In fact, they often believe that their work, "if the editor could only fix a few minor weaknesses," would certainly make the bestseller list—a million copies sold would not be too much to expect. They need encouragement, of course, and can be easily discouraged with you, but they come to the enterprise with a strong personal belief in their own work. Now, what about my experience as a writer and an editor? I have several works in progress, too many, in fact. I have published a few short stories, largely because it is possible in a relatively short time to rewrite a short story numerous times and still get it done. I have one novel completed. I use that term "completed" in its very loosest sense, because it is not completed. The characters, though not bad, do not meet my expectations, the setting is still indistinct, and I am unsure of the plot: is it convincing or not? I have rewritten the manuscript about three times, agonizing over every sentence. I have not yet submitted it to any publisher. I have a second children's novel in the beginning stages, probably three chapters "done," and also a collection of stories. Some of these stories actually are finished to my satisfaction; others are not. These projects have been going on for so long that they have seen the demise of two computers already. It is a serious question—one I have ask myself often—"Can I actually develop one of these to the point that I dare submit it to a publisher, or would I just be wasting my time?" Do I think that I can recognize when my own work is good? My personal answer is a resounding yes, especially if I allow some time between writing and a reading for edit. The problem is, my practical, editorial self always find something lacking, or things that need to be changed. What exactly are the problems with this approach? I will address a few that I recognize and offer some solutions, for myself, as well as for other editor/writers who may be experiencing the same difficulties. The first problem is the tendency to have unrealistic expectations. Most editors have a rich background, not only in personal experience and informal reading, but also in formal education. Once you have studied the great novels written in the English language—John Steinbeck, James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway, Charles Dickens, to name a few—and have recognized what makes them great, it is easy to have the same expectations of yourself. None of these authors wrote perfect work; still they were giants and each piece they produced has that certain something, often indefinable, that makes it a masterpiece. Even the best editor can have trouble picking out "that something" in his own work. When does the characterization become effective enough that it ceases to matter that the plot is vague, if it exists at all? When have you portrayed the setting, which you see so clearly in your own mind, to the reader? When is it possible to say, "Good enough"? A second problem relates to that grandiose sense of one's own importance, or at least the importance of one's work, that I mentioned earlier. When one is so unfailingly aware of the shortcomings, it begins to seem futile to try to submit a work so imperfect. So it just does not get submitted, forever waiting for that last rewrite that will make it good enough. I have edited work sent to me by some managing editor that was so riddled with problems that it took a great amount of imagination to see how it could ever be publishable. Yet, as I have made suggestions to the author who did the rewrites and corrected the defects, the work took shape. Soon it stood as something worth reading, perhaps not the Great American Novel, but at least worth reading. Perhaps the confidence to go ahead and submit is the crux of the matter after all. The third problem consists of the nagging fear that perhaps a real author gets it more right the first time and perhaps should not have to do rewrites at all. In taking a university class, I became fascinated by the work of Anthony Trollope, a nineteenth century British novelist. His portrayal of the saintly Mr. Harding was so filled with pathos and sympathy that Mr. Harding, with his violin that he played in a solitary garden to comfort himself, became one of my favorite characters in all literature. The thing that I found most fascinating about Trollope was the sheer size of his output, and it was said that he never rewrote anything. As I read his novels, I was astounded that this could be true and felt that surely this was the mark of a real writer. I just naturally assumed that many others who are geniuses of the English language must have been the same as Trollope. What about Dickens and Hemingway? Some time ago, I heard a modern writer whose works I enjoy, claim that he also does not rewrite anything. I took it as a challenge to read more of his work than just the most popular items, and as I did so, I was amazed, not only by how good his good stuff was, but also by how bad some of his lesser works were. I could plainly see that he had not rewritten some of that and those works might have been better had he done so. Because he had made a name for himself and could get almost anything published, perhaps he thought that rewrites were no longer necessary. Or perhaps he actually had never rewritten anything as he claimed, and I just missed something about the stories I didn't like. So what are my thoughts on these problems? First of all, as I have paid attention to the issue of rewrites, I have come to believe, as an editor, that anything can be made better by a serious rewrite. The mark of a great writer is not this ability to write a great work in one effort. I have also come to the important realization that every writer has strengths and weaknesses. If as a writer, your strength is the exciting plot, then you should write the story with that exciting plot. Let it carry the characters, who may not be perfectly portrayed, through to the end. As you write and rewrite, you can try to improve your characterization skills, but you can let that great plot be the most important thing. Many readers like a story like that. If you are good at characterization, your readers will love your story for its lovable characters. Many great writers focused almost completely on characterization in their books: Virginia Wolff and Henry James come to mind. Even if, in your reading, you can recognize when a setting is brilliantly portrayed, you may not be able to reproduce that in your own work. I know this is a weakness I have. Therefore, I have decided to minimize the importance of descriptive passages in my own works, and go with the great characters. Every writer can focus on what he or she is good at. The third observation I have, probably the most important, is to have a little courage. Take the plunge; submit, submit, submit; stop waiting for perfection. Maybe you cannot be the final judge of your own work, after all. After I have rewritten a story five times, I am so thoroughly sick of it that I am certain that no one in this world will ever want to read it. However, a fresh editor is able to see in your writing that which you can no longer recognize and make suggestions for improvement that can make a rewrite so much more effective. So if we began with the question, "Isn't a person with the skills of a professional editor in a better position to be a great writer?", then we must end with some sort of answer. The answer, in my opinion, is yes, if you mean great English skills; yes, if you mean understanding the elements that make a good story and realizing the value of a good rewrite. However, there comes a time to submit to the judgment of a good editor who is not oneself, a time just to grit one's teeth and send the darn thing in. By Janice Ackroyd, a senior editor for American Book Publishing. © 2005 American Book Publishing™ *All other trademarks used by permission. All rights reserved. Privacy Policy and Trademark Use Policy.
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