What to Expect From Your Editor

I hear you’re interested in hiring an editor. Smart move. So what are you waiting for? Grab your checkbook (do those still exist?), your manuscript, and your realistic expectations and get to it.

What’s that? You don’t know what to expect? Here. I’ll help.

Ten Things Your Editor Can Do

  1. Your editor can see what your novel could be someday, no matter what it looks like today.
  2. Your editor can show you all the little pet phrases and words you repeat to distraction.
  3. Your editor can solve plot problems that would make readers want to throw your book into a woodchipper.
  4. Your editor can point out all the ways your characters are acting out of character, and suggest ways to remedy that.
  5. Your editor can help identify, refine, and celebrate your unique writer’s voice, or explain why you don’t yet have one.
  6. Your editor can tell you when your novel is nowhere near ready to share with the world, then point you toward additional resources that could help you change that reality.
  7. Your editor can make you feel like a gifted writer while simultaneously providing ample evidence you’re a hack.
  8. Your editor can listen patiently to arguments about why you made certain narrative choices, then offer wisdom about why those choices suck.
  9. Your editor can remind you that writing is a long game, and that the hard work of re-writing is worth the pain even if the book never finds a publishing home.
  10. Your editor can comfort you when the hard drive is corrupted and you forgot to save to the cloud.

Ten Things Your Editor Can’t Do

  1. Your editor can’t make your book a bestseller. (Editors aren’t in charge of market conditions, sales trends, or readers’ whims.)
  2. Your editor can’t turn you into a brilliant writer. (That’s a function of hard work and genetics.)
  3. Your editor can’t fix everything. (We try, or at least try to identify all the problems, but we miss some things. And frankly, some things just aren’t fixable.)
  4. Your editor can’t write your book for you. (You’re looking for a ghostwriter.)
  5. Your editor can’t pretend your book is wonderful when it isn’t. Okay, we could, but prefer not to. (There is no benefit to the writer when the editor lies.)
  6. Your editor can’t edit faster. (I’m editing as fast as I can, current clients. Like pretty much every available minute. Except for the few it took to write this post, of course. I know. Sorry. I’ll get back to your book right now. Well, not right now, but in a few minutes.)
  7. Your editor can’t get everything right all the time. (Just most of the time.)
  8. Your editor can’t force you to accept all his/her changes. (But a good one never makes a change or suggestion without careful thought, so you might want to discuss those reasons before clicking “reject change.”)
  9. Your editor can’t explain why great books get rejected and awful ones get published. (I mean, we can try, but let’s face it – we live in a crazy, unpredictable world. I don’t need to elaborate on that, do I?)
  10. Your editor can’t move into your basement so you have access to his/her brilliance 24/7. (Not without a decent salary and benefits, anyway.)

You’re welcome.

#amwaiting

When the language gods sat down at their very expensive polished maple conference table to decide which term to use for the art of putting words together to tell stories, “writing” wasn’t their first choice. “Bloodletting” actually had the most up-votes and was likely to get the nod. But then one of the lesser gods – the one everyone mistakenly called Vern – felt compelled to mention how similar “writing” was to “waiting,” which they’d already determined would mean “excruciatingly long pauses where nothing appeared to be happening.”

While he was publically showing his support for the already-popular idea of eliminating “writing” from contention, he was secretly hoping his observation might be clever enough to gain him a little status among his peers. But when the other gods noticed this similarity, they immediately changed their votes. They’d find another use for “bloodletting.” “Writing” was perfect, because, as the god known as Carl V. Clamphammer said, “Writing and waiting are intimately intertwined.” The other gods cheered and nodded and deemed it a done deal and Vern was hailed as a genius.

All this is true. Except the part about Vern being hailed as a genius. Ask any of the gods today and they’ll universally respond, “Who’s Vern?”

By this point, you’re probably wondering if I’m ever going to get to the point of the blogpost. Oh, I will. Eventually.

But first, let’s talk about bloodletting.

Okay. Fine. I’ll save that for another post.

This one is on…wait for it…

[Taps fingers on table.]

[Stares at clock on wall.]

[Goes online to try to understand Tumblr and find out where the missing “e” went.]

Writing and waiting. Carl V. had it right. If you’re a writer, you’re a waiter. (And yes, you might also be a waiter, but that’s not important, so ignore that six-top and rejoin me here at the point. Oh, and could you bring me some water? With lime, please. Thanks.)

Here are some of the ways a writer waits:

  • You wait for the computer to wake up from sleep.
  • You wait for inspiration.
  • You wait for the children to take a nap so you can wait for inspiration.
  • You wait for the Internet to stop offering you pictures of kittens knitting sweaters for their pet sloths.
  • You wait for feedback from your beta readers.
  • You wait for a response (or non-response) from literary agents.
  • You wait for your editor to get back to you with his notes. [Ed: Thanks for your patience.]
  • You wait for someone to buy your book.
  • You wait for the first five-star review.
  • You wait for the first one-star review.
  • You wait for someone to respond to the one-star review by telling the reviewer he should probably read the book before reviewing it.
  • You wait for writing elves to finish your novel while you sleep.
  • You wait for sleep that never comes because you’re worried that the writing elves might steal your idea and give it to James Patterson.
  • You wait for phone calls. Emails. Texts. Ideas. Words. Brilliance. Coffee. Wine. Hope.

There’s a lot of waiting in writing. But it doesn’t have to be an “excruciatingly long pause where nothing seems to be happening.” See, you can still write while you’re waiting. You can brainstorm the next book. You can come up with marketing ideas. You can argue with the voices in your head. You can crawl out of your bed and put on sweats and running shoes and pretend like one day of exercise will make up for the dozen donuts you ate yesterday while you were writing.

Waiting is a great time for pondering things. But here’s a tip – be sure to have paper and a pen (or a laptop, or a smart phone) nearby while you’re waiting. That plot problem you were struggling with? The answer will inevitably come to you while you’re waiting in line at the corner deli.

But it’s not like you have to fill every waiting moment with stuff. That’s insane. Please feel free to enjoy an “excruciatingly long pause where nothing seems to be happening” if that’s what you need. Sometimes doing nothing is exactly what you should be doing.

Then, when your nothing time is over, you can get back to waiting. I mean writing. I mean waiting. I mean writing. I mean…

Bloodletting might have been a better choice.

Thanks a lot, Vern.

In the Company of Strangers

If you want to be a successful (i.e.: published, well-read, income-producing) writer, you’re going to have to get comfortable in the company of strangers.

I’m not talking about the strange fictional people who inhabit your novel, I’m talking about the In Real Life kind. You know, those ugly bags of mostly water* you bump into while standing in line for your half-caff-soy-latte-with-a-double-shot-of-arsenic. If you’re anything like me (and I pray you’re not,  because this could lead to a sudden loss of cabin pressure), approaching strangers, let alone asking them for something, ranks right up there with public speaking, pregnant spiders, and admitting to an un-ironic love for Coldplay on a list of top fears.

But that’s exactly what you have to do.

Let’s say you’ve finished your novel. I mean the sixth draft, not the first. (If you approach strangers with the first draft, they will spontaneously combust and you will choke on their ashes. This is not as fun as it sounds.) You’re going to need some feedback on your masterwork before you take the next step. Mom’s already given her oven-mitt thumbs-up. “One star! Wait, which one means it’s really good? Got it. Five stars and six exclamation marks!!!!!!” Your best friend Louise told you it’s the best book she’s ever read. (Do I need to mention that it’s the only book Louise has read?) Being the wise person that you are, you know those glowing reviews may not represent the opinion of your target audience: everyone else.

What you need is a few strangers. Crit-group members are strangers. I know, I know. You  call them friends, but have you ever told them about your un-ironic love for Coldplay? I didn’t think so. Ask them to read your novel. Then consider their criticism. Use what works, ignore the rest.

Now it’s time to find more strangers. If you’re pursuing traditional publishing, your next strangers will probably be literary agents. Most of them will reject you without even trying to get to know you first. This will hurt because it will remind you of your sad, sorry, single life and the fact that you always dine alone and haven’t kissed anyone since the Bush administration. I mean, that’s one example of what it might feel like. Theoretically.

If all goes well, one or more of those agent-strangers will want to know you better. And then, gods-willing-and-favorable-winds…Representation! Your agent-stranger is now your biggest fan. (Don’t mention the Coldplay thing quite yet, though.)

If you’re self-publishing (and are going about that the right way), or your agent-stranger has sold your book to a publisher, your next strangers will be editors. They tend to be an agreeable sort, despite their fascination with red pens and love for strong drink and crisp bacon. But they’re still strangers. You’ll be trusting your precious baby with people who don’t know you from Chris Martin.

Once the editor-strangers have finished their work (and you’ve finally accepted that they’re not the Devil Incarnate, but rather some of his more talented literary demons), it’s time to face the biggest stranger group of all: readers.  

Reader-strangers tend to tell you what they really think. Some will make you insane. Some will crush your spirit.

And some will make you feel like a writer.  A real writer.

There’s no way around it. Your writing future is in the hands of strangers. You might as well make peace with that today. Then, as always, get back to writing. Don’t worry. There will always be strangers.

You’re counting on it.

 

*Nerd alert. Name the reference and win the satisfaction of having named the reference. I know, Best Prize Ever.