You see, in the far-distant reaches of my brain, I’m also a writer. I
truly love the written word—and when those words were written by me, I tend to
love them even more. I find myself obsessing over the way I’ve turned the
perfect phrase, and thinking that I will never change anything ever again.
Ever.
Then I force myself to sit back and look at what I’ve written, and to
consider what other people will think of it. And I start to think “Gee, maybe
it’s not quite perfect. Maybe I need to just tweak this one little word.” The
next thing I know seventy-two minutes have gone by and my Track Changes history
shows that I changed the word “said” to:
commented
replied
offered
shouted
stammered
suggested
mumbled
laughed
and—yes,
finally—back to said.
That’s not—I repeat not—editing.
Okay. Yes, it is, technically. But when you look closer, that may be tweaking,
fussing, thesaurus-izing, or any number of other things, but it’s not really editing. And it’s not going to
turn my maybe-not-so-bad writing into a Pulitzer prize-winning novel.
If fussing with your word choices is all your editor is doing—giving
different names to the deck chairs on your personal Titanic—then your editor isn’t actually editing, either.
A true editor will look at the whole phrase that included that “said”
(for the sake of argument, let’s pretend the sentence was: “You know, I love you,” he said.). Then, with that sentence in
mind, try to figure out how else to convey the same meaning, without being too
literal.
Don’t get me wrong—depending on the context surrounding that declaration
of love, any of those speech tags would drastically alter the meaning. “You know, I love you,” he stammered.
offers a completely different meaning than “You
know, I love you,” he laughed. And it’s important to have an editor who can
tell the difference.
At the same time, however, a good editor might recommend something
different. Maybe moving the speech tag to the center of the sentence to add a
dramatic pause: “You know,” he said, “I
love you.” or changing the punctuation “You
know I love you?” he asked.
Action might be involved. It could be vaguely romantic: “You know,” he said, pulling her toward him,
“I love you.” It could be violently creepy: “You know, I love you,” he said as he tore one last piece of duct tape.
Or it could be a heart-wrenching scene of loss: She held him close. “You know,” he said as his eyes began to fade, “I
love—“
But, until you start working on editing that one simple phrase—really editing it—and seeing what it
has to offer you, you’ll never know. If you simply sit there and stare at your
perfect words, you’ll never know what potential they—and you—have. This is
where a good editor comes in.
A good editor will show you how to make your writing come to life. She
can change your off-hand romantic gesture into a grand, sweeping moment. Or he
can dial back your drama and turn it into a rom-com. Either way, your words
deserve the chance to grow and discover what they can be.
Stephen Sondheim, in the musical Into
the Woods, summed up potential in this way when looking at Jack (of
Beanstalk fame) and the cow he traded for questionably magic beans: “The
difference between a cow and a bean is a bean can begin an adventure.”
Your words, by themselves, are the cow—comforting, but not worth much on
their own. Your words, with an editor, are the beans—full of potential, thanks
to someone helping you grow.
You’ve put a lot of work into your words. Don’t they deserve an editor?
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