Ask the Editor: What Editors Do

By Michael Seidman

The question is simple and straightforward; the answer is something else, altogether: "Could you describe the editorial process, please; tell us what happens and how?"

"Sure. Got a minute?"

This should be understood first: I turned down a manuscript once, and in my rejection letter (there are periods when I try not to use form letters; incidents like the one I'm going to tell you about are what bring me back to keeping my mouth shut) I pointed out several problems, indicating that they were among the reasons for the manuscript's rapid trip back to the author. These included length, an overindulgence in subplots, poor use of language and, on a very straightforward note, the fact that the main storyline simply bored me to tears there were just too many drug dealer/vengeful lover/father/stories, and that there was nothing to differentiate between them.

I received a rather nasty letter from the writer. He said he thought it was my job to make the book "right"; that as he understood it, I was supposed to help him get it in shape (and, unstated but implicit: that I should pay him, by acquiring the book, to do that work for him). Then he took umbrage: First, there wouldn't be so many of those drug-related books if people didn't care about it (which ignored the fact that the majority of them were getting poor reviews and poorer sales); that I was clearly lazy and hadn't read the manuscript because if I had, I wouldn't have said the things I said; and that he would never submit a manuscript to me again. (Sometimes, the answer to the prayer is a resounding, "Yes!)

Let's define the editor's job (as editor, rather than acquirer of manuscripts) this way: We help the writer produce the best book she is capable of at the moment. We are not there to teach the basics of writing, to rewrite, ghostwrite; my job is to see to it that when your book is published it is as good as we can, between us, make it. That may involve some of the things we're not there to do we've all done some rewriting, for instance, and we do "teach," at least in the sense that we share our ideas of what makes writing good and hope that the author, while working on the next manuscript, will take those "lessons" to heart. The process is different for each editor and for each editor it may change from writer to writer and also change based on the point at which the work is beginning: if I'm recommending changes on a manuscript that I haven't acquired (with an eye toward accepting it if the alterations can be made successfully) my approach is much broader and, in a way, simpler. Working with a delivered manuscript, however, involves, for me, much more detail.

With the novel you want me to buy, I might say that it should be a little longer or shorter; I won't necessarily tell you how to do that, though; instead, I may be suggesting that a subplot can be gotten rid of, or that a character needs to be developed more fully. Or I might simply say, you're fifteen thousand words over my limit; cut it back and we'll see what happens. We could discuss the fact that, in a mystery, certain clues are too obvious (I never worry about them being too obscure); that the police procedure is wrong or that the sleuth's activities are too unrealistic.

If there are too many problems of that nature, difficulties with the concept(s) of the novel, I won't be talking to you, though, unless the writing itself, the storytelling, the use of language, and the theme are so far superior to everything else that I'm seeing, that I can't risk letting you get away. So, as you've heard time and again, especially over the last few years, you have to have the manuscript in near perfect condition. The competition is stiff and with the number of manuscripts editors are seeing even with the "agented submissions only" guidelines you have to be close to perfect. That doesn't mean, by any stretch of the imagination, that you won't be edited, or that editors aren't doing their jobs. It just means the process begins at a later stage: when an acquired manuscript arrives on the desk.

The terms we use change frequently and haphazardly: I've seen what I call line-editing now being called copyediting; concept editing called editing...so, here are my definitions:
The first editing I described, that broad overview of changes is concept editing: it deals with plot, with structure, with storyline, with character development in their totality but not on a word-by-word basis.

Line editing is, as the name implies, a process during which the manuscript is gone over word-by-word, line-by-line. Concept editing considerations may come into play (though we'd hope not; it depends on how much work was done before the contract was signed; if the manuscript is the third in a three book contract, there may have been no discussion whatsoever, beyond the general idea that it will be an historical romance, a novel of the frontier, the third in a series about a character), but the bulk of the work now involves tweaking and fine-tuning.

Copyediting is a separate process: the copyeditors read the manuscript for continuity (did eye color change, are the dates correct in terms of ages given, can you get there from here in that amount of time). Yes, they'll also think about word usage, grammar, house style (is the preferred usage "toward" or "towards") and design elements (how should an extract from a letter or newspaper story be presented). They do a form of proofreading. And they see to it that neither you, the editor, or the publishing house are embarrassed by the kinds of silly, stupid errors that always creep into a work, and to which heavily rewritten and edited works are particularly prone. So many changes may have been made that not everything is caught by the editor and author.

Let's look at the line-editing process. We have a delivered manuscript, already owned, but with no prior editorial discussion between the writer and the editor. There'll be some minor differences in what happens, based on whether I've worked with the author before: trust has developed he knows I'm not going to make gratuitous changes, just for the sake of making a change. I know that he has certain habits, things I may not like: "Said Book-ism" are high on that list for me. (Said Bookisms are a form of dialogue tag: "he observed," "she hissed," "he retorted.") But it could be too many "he said"/"she said" constructions; it could even be a very simple typo that appears again and again...some people just spell weird, weirdly. Knowing about that beforehand, and knowing that those kinds of changes are not going to affect the structure of the novel, I'm comfortable reading with a pencil in hand, making the corrections ('cause that's how I see'em, as corrections) as I go along. But I have a stack of Post-it Notes at my side, just in case.

In case of what? Well, let's say (because it just did) that as I'm reading, I realize that the author has an opportunity to do something a little different in this book. Because there are two central characters, both revealed through third person, it's conceivable that the author could use two completely different styles: Bill is driven, on a quest, racing time, an almost noir creation. Tom, the target, doesn't know he's being stalked; his life is, right now, relatively simple. (Well, there is "the other woman," but that isn't a problem. Yet. But even seventy-five pages into the manuscript, I'm developing a strong dislike for her; that's the author's intent.) Bill's story, then, might be told with short, punchy sentences, something that speeds up the reading, while Tom's story is more leisurely longer sentences, maybe even more observation: it's a relaxed storytelling, just as the character is, for now, relaxed. The reader may not be aware of how she's being manipulated (most won't be), but we'll create a wave-like story, at least in the beginning. I make a note and stick it on the first page, something to discuss, later.

Hmm...what's this? As we drive along one night with Bill, the forward action is slowed, no, stopped! as we get some background. Can't have that, can't be slowed that way at this point. A note gets put on the page. But, a-ha, Bill, later that night, writes a letter. Okay, back story can be revealed, slowly, piece by piece, through these letters they occur frequently enough. And by revealing it in increments, starting with banalities and moving up through the crisis to the confrontation, we keep the reader in suspense. Back to the previous note, note the suggestion. Keep reading.

Question for author: you say that Bill finds...(well, I'm not going to tell you, here, what it is, but he finds something). Can it be located that easily, in a town such as you're describing, by someone blowing through? (This could be a copyediting question, but having found it early, we may be able to take care of it without causing massive rewrites later.)

Some of what I've described is concept editing, some is line editing: as I continue through the manuscript, I may change words, strike sentences (or add them; I've worked with the writer long enough to know his cadences, his language). If a character isn't strong enough for his role, or too strong for hers, I'll ask the author to look at making the needed change; I'm not going to do that immediately: I could be wrong and won't know until I reach the end of the manuscript and can see how the role played out.

Obviously, if we've discussed these conceptual concerns before acquisition, as I read now I'll be looking for other things, taking it for granted that if the author couldn't or wouldn't make the changes that I thought stood in the way of acquisition, I wouldn't be seeing the manuscript now.

The editorial process at that point, then, is a matter of looking for everything that trips me, that brings me out of the story and, at the same time, considering everything I think will make the book stronger, better.

Once all my notes are in place, and given that I'm looking for some structural changes, a virtual rewrite of certain sections, I'll either write to the author or call him to discuss my suggestions. (They are, for the most part, just that: suggestions. I may be adamant about some, less so about others.) I prefer making a call because it allows for an immediate back and forth; as the ideas are talked about, other ideas flow: "Yeah, I can change the pacing, but how about if we only see so-and-so at night, emphasizing the fact that he's hiding... without saying it in so many words?", "Okay, but that means, doesn't it....?" And so it goes. The author agrees to some, disagrees with others, and comes up with his own variations. At some point, we're in agreement about what we think has to be done, decide on a delivery date, and go on with our lives.

That kind of editing not only goes on with a finished manuscript but can come into play (quite happily) when delivery is being made in increments: if I'm seeing fifty pages at a time (because some writers like to work that way and the editor should adapt his approach to the author's needs); catching a character gone awry, for instance, early, makes the rest of the writing easier: it's like preventive medicine: fix it now and you don't have to do major surgery later.

Some writers like to send their first drafts to the editor so that they can get feedback before they begin their own rewrites and fixes. Again, whatever works for the writer becomes the editor's job description for that project. Or it should be that way: part of your job, when an offer is made to you, is to discuss the editor's m.o. with her and make sure you're comfortable with what you hear because, while some things are supposed to be a certain way, they're often something else.

If you're agented, discuss what you need as a writer before the manuscript starts making the rounds: the good agents, the ones you will want to have representing you, know the editors and the way they work and will use those considerations when deciding who should see your project.

The next manuscript on my stack is not so complex and presents no real problems: it's part of a series, the essential characters are well- established and the others will be playing out their assigned parts. I saw an outline before the author began to works he sends them in, three at a time, and we buy the three books and she's a polished professional.

I read that manuscript, making those changes in text, sentence structure, whatever, without even thinking about it. I know what the readers of this series expect and what they won't stand for, and my job, as much as anything else, is to see to it that they get what they want: that's what the writer wants, what the bookseller wants, so it's what I want (whether I want it or not; if I want the author to go in some other direction, to try something new, we talk about it and then decide on how we'll proceed; if necessary, that's also discussed with the agent. The three players are all committed to one thing: the writer's future and career and how they tie into the business needs of the publishing house).

In the meantime, the first author, the one with the heavy rewrites, has finished his work and sent it on to me. I now read it again, in much the same way I've just worked on the series book: a quick read through for language or any glaring errors, making corrections as necessary.

Both manuscripts are transmitted to the production department, and the copyediting and other processes that guarantee a finished book we're all happy with, begins. Both authors will have the opportunity to see the manuscript, to see what I've done (my marks are in black pencil; the copyeditors, these days, use the infamous blue or green or red. The writers respond to the questions the copyeditor may ask, to the changes any of us may have made to the text, and are free to question any of those decisions. If everything is in order, the manuscript is sent back, and the printing process begins.

Also beginning, the editor's work on whatever is next on her plate and your work on whatever's next on yours. It just keeps on keepin' on...we hope.

Though not part of the editorial process, I want to remind you that your contract should not only offer you the chance to see both the copyedited manuscript and the page proofs, it should require it of you. If it doesn't, you have lost control of your work, changes may be made with which you disagree for any number of valid (or invalid) reasons, but you're not going to know about it until the book is published. And there's nothing you'll be able to do about it but complain.

There are some houses that refuse (or have refused in the past) to give the author this opportunity, usually pleading the schedule as the reason for it. That may be, but it's still something I think you should think about very seriously.

And think about this: there are editors who think you should be writing the book they envision, rather than the one you want to do, and the will either make or suggest changes that dramatically change what you've done. (A friend of mine, a romance writer, discovered that her reincarnation romance had become an angelic romance, because on the day the manuscript arrived, that's what was hot. She didn't care. You may.) If your contract is for a particular kind of book, or if your style and approach were known to the editor before delivery, and you are faced with making those kinds of drastic changes, you're again faced with a choice. And you'll have to make it pretty much on the spur of the moment. So, be certain before you do the deal that you and the editor are looking for the same finished product.

And that's what an editor does, when she's functioning as an editor. As for our other functions, well: you know where to find me.

© Michael Seidman