Editing

Divorce Your Words; Save Your Story

KWhipkey 4 Comments

Revision. For many writers, I may as well have said Root Canal. They dread it like they do a jury duty summons. They know it’s necessary but hate every second of it.

I’m not one of those writers. Revision is actually my favorite part. There’s something so satisfying in tearing apart a story to reassemble it in a better version, polishing and cutting and rearranging it like pieces in a puzzle until everything finally clicks. I don’t fear the delete button, I wield it proudly. That 6 page scene I slaved over for three weeks still isn’t working? Buh-bye! Two-thirds of my story is riddled with plot-holes, superficial characters and overall stinkage? Adiós! The word count is too high for the magazine I want to submit to? No problem, let me grab my scalpel.

How am I able to freely chop my manuscripts into little mutilated bits? I don’t marry my words. Maybe that’s a perk of writing like a film director. I don’t see words on a page, I see the scenes themselves. The words are just a way for me to communicate those scenes to my audience. They’re my camera. So when what I’m trying to convey gets lost in translation, I have no problem chucking them and trying again.

I know, I’m extreme. Cutting an entire section is most writer’s worst nightmare. But sometimes, that’s exactly what needs to happen in order to save your story. Sometimes, you have to strip it down to it’s bare bones before you can build it back up. Sometimes, you have to hit delete.

Similar to “kill your darlings,” which tells us our favorite phrases are also the cancer of our manuscript and should be instantly removed, you have to divorce your words before you can successfully revise. Easier said than done, right? I know how hard it is for some of you to disconnect from those precious patterns of words and beautiful phrases, to see past the letters to the plot itself. Which is why I decided to write this post. I’m going to teach you my method of revision in the hopes that it helps some of you become less afraid of the process. :)

Step 1: Remove the Rose-Colored Glasses of Creation

Let’s face it, when we’re wrapped up in a love affair with our muse, we think everything we write is brilliant. There are days when we know it isn’t, because we’re having a lover’s spat with the fickle biatch, but deep down, we still think our manuscript can do no wrong. Everything is tinged with the rosy glow of creation.

You’ve heard of the runner’s high, yes? The rush of endorphins that provides runners with a euphoric moment in paradise? Well, I believe creative people feel a similar burst of euphoric pride, a creator’s high if you will, that prevents us from seeing our work the way the rest of the world will. So the first step in my revision process is to disconnect from the piece. Set whatever you’re working on aside and wait for the creator’s high to wear off. This can take anywhere from a day, to a couple weeks. But once you’re no longer creatively invested in the piece, you’ll be able to see it through the harsh lens of reality and objectively assess it.

Step 2: Strip to the Bare-Bones

Once our judgement is no longer clouded, we can easily spot flaws, the scenes that just aren’t quite right, the wonky phrasing, the plot holes. Don’t get discouraged though, that’s exactly what we want. Because now you’re in editing mode. One of an editor’s jobs is to see past the words to the skeleton beneath. So that’s exactly what step 2 is about.

Read your manuscript again, ignoring the small things, the weird word choices, the rocky sentences, the missing punctuation, and focus on the scenes themselves, the flow of the story. (Click here if you need an explanation on what I consider “flow.”) Channel your inner film director and watch your story unfold in your mind. Kind of like one of those computer generated posters that contained a 3-D image if you crossed your eyes and stared long enough, (Yep, fads from the ’90′s for the win!), the words should fall away and you should be left with just the visuals they contained.

Those visuals are what I consider the skeleton of a piece, the bare bones. Once you have stripped away all the clothing, fat and useless fluff that masks the underlying architecture, you can analyze that skeleton, looking for cracks and weaknesses and in some extreme places, breaks. Much like a doctor examines x-rays, devising a strategy to repair the damage, an editor uses the bare bones of a story to identify and repair problems with the overall flow and structure. Which brings us to step 3.

Step 3: Divorce Your Words

This is where a lot of you are likely to rebel, because it’s where you’ll move from simply identifying the issues to becoming the surgeon that fixes them. And that’s a transition a lot of you might not like. (Warning, it involves heavy use of the delete button.)

Keeping the visuals from step 2 in mind, read your manuscript again. This time, compare what you’re reading to what’s in your head. Do they match? Do the words accurately convey the emotional content, the action, the details of the scene? If not, can it be fixed with a few minor tweaks or smoothing? (Not all editing has to be dramatic, after all.) Sometimes it just takes a minute shift of a single word or phrase to make everything perfect. But if the gap between the scene as you imagine it and what’s on the page is as large as the grand canyon, then you’ll have to do something more drastic– rewrite.

This is what it means to divorce your words. Highlight the trouble passage and say, “sayonara!” No alimony, no visitation, just rip it off like a band-aid and hit delete. (If that terrifies you, you can cheat slightly and copy/paste the original passage into a different file. That way you still have it if you don’t like the new version. But trust me, you’ll never need that safety net.)

Now that you have a blank slate, picture the scene as clearly as you can and try to recapture it. You’ll be surprised how often the second, (or third, or fourty-fifth), attempt is dramatically improved over the original. My theory is that the original acts as a dry-run. In film, they’d call it blocking in the scene. It’s essentially a rough draft placeholder meant to provide guidance for the real thing in terms of lighting, mood, choreography, etc. It helps the director organize their thoughts so that when the time comes to film it for real, it’s smooth sailing. Plus it’s cheaper to work out the kinks without the actual actors.

A similar thing happens when you rewrite. Rather than try and force the original to behave, you are free to start over. But because you’ve already practiced, it’s easier to write this time, and the result is a closer translation of the scene in your head.

That’s really all there is to it. Three simple steps that can take you from laboriously beating a broken carcass of letters into a semblance of what you hoped for to a liberating experience that gets you closer to your original goal. This method might not be for everyone, and that’s quite OK. But if you find yourself dreading the revision process like you would going to the dentist for that root canal, give it a try. Kick your words to the curb and you might just save your sanity as well as your story.

How to Work With a Freelance Editor

KWhipkey Leave a comment

The writer/editor relationship is an interesting one, built on trust, open communication, honesty…things which, let’s face it, most of us suck at. So it’s not surprising that for a lot of writers, it can be one of the more intimidating steps on the road to publication. It’s scary to send your manuscript, your baby, off to an agent or editor– otherwise known as Total Stranger Whose Sole Purpose is to Rip it to Shreds. But editors are not the enemy. In fact, they’re your best ally. And, as someone who toes the line between writer and editor, I can tell you that the process is just as nerve-wracking from the editor’s side of the fence.

Yes, our job is primarily to pass judgement on something you’ve slaved over for years. But it’s also our job to polish, refine, and help you present your work to the real jury– the readers– in the best form possible. Like jewelers honing an uncut diamond into the sparkly perfection adorning someone’s engagement ring, we hack and chop and tweak your manuscript until it shines like the brilliant gem you knew it was. We invest in your work, not nearly to the level that you did, of course, but enough that we care about it’s success. We want to see it make the bestseller’s list almost as badly as you do. Because the reality is, it’s success reflects on us as well. Which is why it can be just as scary for us to take on a client as it is for the client to hire us.

What if they don’t like our work? How will they react to all the changes that need to be done? What if the book flops because of me? These are just a few of the anxiety-producing thoughts that can run through an editor’s head. Not so different from the nail-biting that ensues while you wait for our verdict, is it? But this relationship doesn’t have to be a stress-producing, hair-graying, fear-fest. It all depends on the approach. This is the part you will be hard pressed to find information about. There are plenty of other posts that explain how an editor works, what the average rate is, how horrifying a process it is for the writer, etc. But very few will tell you the best practices for actually working with a freelance editor. Until now.

Things That Make a Writer/Editor Relationship Work Smoothly:

  • Open Communication. Yep, there’s that phrase again. But this is the heart of working with an editor. Be clear in what you expect from us. Do you just need a proofreader? Tell us that. Do you want a full, comprehensive, brutal strip-down type of edit? Tell us. If you have specific areas of concern in your work, yep, you guessed it, tell us. We’re not psychics, so don’t be afraid to provide directions. It helps ensure that we meet your expectations for the level of editing you wanted.
  • Ability to Accept Critique. So often, writers hire an editor thinking there’s nothing wrong with their manuscript beyond maybe a few typos, and that they’ll get to bask in the editor’s glowing review of their brilliance. And then they find out they’re wrong. They take the criticism of their work personally, bristling on the defensive and completely discounting the editor’s opinions. But no manuscript is ever perfect. That’s why you hire a second, or third, pair of eyes to look it over. So expect feedback. Harsh feedback. I’m sure you’ve heard that you need a thick skin as a writer, and this is why. Try to remember that as much as it stings to be told that your favorite scene really should be cut, that it’s not an attack on you personally or your ability to write. It’s a suggestion that will strengthen your story the way liposuction strengthens self-esteem.
  • Payment. This probably seems like something that shouldn’t have to be said. But sadly, it does. Editors don’t work for free. If you want that kind of superficial feedback, then what you really want are Beta Readers– people that will read your manuscript and offer the bare minimum of feedback in exchange for a free copy of something unreleased. Don’t get me wrong, Beta Readers provide an invaluable service too, and I firmly believe that any work should be read by as many willing eyes as possible before it faces the gauntlet of publishing. But they’re not editors. An editor will spend hours of detailed work, reading and re-reading passages, reorganizing and honing the text on a word-by-word basis, working with you on trouble areas and answering questions. Depending on the length of the manuscript, this can take a significant chunk of time. Time they couldn’t devote to other means of bill paying. Would you expect a lawyer to work for free? A contractor? An accountant? No? Then why would you expect an editor to work for free? Suffice to say that if you plan on hiring an editor, expect to pay a decent wage for that person’s work. Or expect it to very quickly become a point of contention that can ruin an otherwise working relationship.
  • Provide a Reference. Think of this like a review. You know how important those are to the success of your book, right? Well references are equally as important to an editor’s continued success. If you were happy with the result of your time with the editor, let them use you and your work as a reference. It actually benefits you both. It will boost the editor’s portfolio, allowing them to attract new clients, but it also acts as free advertisement for your book. Win-win, no?

Those are the basics. A lot of them are really just common sense, or should be. The writer/editor relationship is just that, a relationship. It involves two human beings, and is subject to all the follies that implies. Realize that, and you should be able to conduct yourself in a manner which generates professionalism, mutual respect and even friendship.

But there’s one thing I haven’t covered, and I would be remiss if I didn’t– how you go about finding that perfect editorial partner. Since you aren’t working with a traditional publishing house, it’s your job to vet their qualifications. And as Dr. Gregory House used to say on Fox’s House, “Everybody lies.” Especially in job interviews. So here are a few things you can look at beyond the obvious resume and references.

Things to Look for When Hiring a Freelance Editor:

  • Samples. I mean samples of their own writing. A lot of freelance editors are also authors in their own right. So see if you can find a sample of their work. It will give you a more solid feel for their understanding of the craft, as well as a sense of their particular style and voice. The second can be a good indicator on whether or not you will work well together. If someone’s writing is too dissimilar from your own, you might end up with a clash of vision. But if they are similar to you, then chances are good they’ll be able to see your work the way you do. Plus, you don’t want to hire someone whose own work is riddled with typos and errors, do you?
  • Willingness to Listen. Just like you should have an open mind when it comes to receiving criticism, your editor should be open to listening to your concerns, opinions and ideas. So pay attention to the way they correspond with you initially. Are they respectful? Do they seem open to what you have to say? Or do they seem pompous and full of themselves, coming off like you should be honored they’d be willing to work with you? There is a fine line between arrogance and confidence. You want someone that seems sure of their abilities, but not someone that seems like they know everything about everything. A good editor will take your directions into account and add them to a list of things they already look for.
  • Contract. Always work under a contract. Always. This is a no-brainer for serious freelance editors, so if the candidate you’re considering doesn’t seem interested in talking shop over the details of a contract, you’d be wise to save your money. Contracts are the easiest way to keep everyone on the same page. They should detail not only what the editor will provide, but how much they are charging, the payment terms, the deadline (if there is one), and a clause protecting the author’s rights to the work. Any editor worth their salt will negotiate the terms of the contract well before any money changes hands or any work is started.
  • Gut Instinct. First impressions are often correct, so listen to your gut instinct when considering candidates. Oftentimes, something intangible will warn you away from someone who won’t be a good fit. The same goes for finding that perfect editorial soulmate. If you find yourself being drawn to one person over the others, go with it. There’s probably a reason and you might even end up with that coveted writer/editor relationship every author dreams of. And if not, hey, that’s why there’s a termination clause in that contract you signed. 😉

I hope I’ve helped demystify the process of working with an editor at least a little bit. It really isn’t that hard. All you have to do is remember that the editor isn’t out to get you; isn’t hell-bent on destroying your work and watching it burn in a massive bonfire while they laugh at your misery. Quite the opposite. Your editor believes in you, in your work. They wouldn’t have taken you on as a client if they didn’t. So trust that they’ll make your work the best it can be. When everyone behaves with respect and professionalism, the end result could easily be the bestseller both parties hope for.

Introducing REUTS Publications

KWhipkey 2 Comments

I’m very excited to announce that I have joined the Editorial Staff at REUTS Publications. And I felt it was only right to celebrate with a shameless plug for my new employer. 😉

REUTS Publications is an independent Publishing Agency created by authors for authors. Our goal is to redefine the author/publisher relationship by shifting the balance of power to the author. In essence, when you join our family, we work for you, helping to realize the vision you see for your work. Which is why we offer higher than industry-standard royalty rates, and why we only get paid when you do. We’re not a vanity press; you never pay up front for our services. Rather, we’re like your support staff, people who are equally invested in the success of your project and can help shoulder the burden of publishing.

Our staff is experienced in a wide range of services, from editorial, to design and marketing, and most importantly, publishing. All of our staff members are authors themselves, and are well acquainted with what it takes to succeed in this ever-changing world of publishing. We’ve been through the agonizing process of querying, waiting and waiting for responses that never came, or letters that only contained rejection. We’ve experienced the joy and frustration of finally landing a book contract, only to realize we’d no longer have control over our work if we signed it. And we think there should be a better way. We believe that authors should direct the show. It’s your work; you slaved for hours and hours, months and years over it. You should reap the benefits.

We offer one-on-one feedback from one of our editors, (like me!), author-driven design elements, including cover design, interior layout and an author website hosted on REUTS.com, and marketing assistance to authors who don’t want to travel the daunting road to publication alone. Whether you’re tired of trying to catch the attention of a traditional publisher, or are interested in self-publishing but have limited funds, we can help.

For more information on who we are and what we do, including our submission guidelines, (we can’t accept everything unfortunately), check out our website, our Facebook page, or our Pinboard on Pinterest. And in honor of our launch, we’re giving away a Vintage Book Safe to one lucky recipient on Dec. 10, 2012. Click here for details.

This is an exciting time in publishing with many avenues to success. Help us redefine what it means to be an author.

Revising Previously Published Work

KWhipkey Leave a comment

Every author has that cringe-worthy first piece. That manuscript that, when looked upon years later, makes them scratch their heads in consternation and think, “Dear God! How did this ever get published?!” And usually, there’s nothing they can do about it. It marks their first victory in publishing with a pseudo-embarrassing reminder. But what if there was a chance to go back and fix those previously published works? A moment when, maybe, they aren’t printed in stone, and you can erase the flaws that haunt you? A publishing loop-hole, as it were.

I tried Googling this topic, and literally found one article, which wasn’t really so much an article as a discussion thread arguing over the merits of changing previously published novels. It was distinctly unhelpful, so I didn’t bother to save it. For every person that had a reason to do it, there were about six that disagreed, claiming it was akin to sacrilege.  So I moved on, looking for anything resembling helpful advice. I ended up posting my own thread on one of the literature sites I frequent, and finally got some interesting insight.

The general consensus is that no, you should never revise previously published work. Once it’s been published, leave it alone, because what can you really do with it at that point? Any attempt to republish would have to go up against the fact that it had been previously published, and most publishers aren’t looking for sloppy seconds. (Unless, of course, you’re self-publishing the second time around, in which case it returns to a philosophical debate rather than a practical one.)

But there was one exception to that rule: Re-branding.

I spoke about Author Branding previously, so I won’t go into detail about it here. Essentially, re-branding involves creating a new perception around your work, your name, and your Author Persona. But why would anyone ever want to do that? Creating an Author Brand is hard enough the first time! Why would you want to throw that all away and start over?

In my case, and probably a lot of other women out there, re-branding happens because of a name change. I was fortunate enough to accrue three publishing credits under my maiden name, and I will be forever grateful to Sam’s Dot Publishing for seeing potential in my work. But then I got married. Which pretty much negated those publishing credits and put me back at square one, trying to build a new brand under my new identity, and presenting me with a interesting conundrum. How could I tie my new brand to those previous works and save what little evidence of my awesomeness I had?

Eventually, I realized I had been given a rare opportunity to re-brand my previous works, which was instantly pounced on by my perfectionist side. If I was re-releasing them, what would be the harm in fixing them first?

Those first three stories aren’t horrific; they did, after all, pass the experienced eye of an editor. But they’re also not true representations of my ability now. Looking at that first story in particular, I can see all the places it comes up short. Which begged the question, why put this back out into the world if it doesn’t put my best foot forward? I could just let it fade away into obscurity, collecting dust in a drawer somewhere while the 5 people that read it completely forget about it.

But I don’t really want to do that. For one, self-publishing relies on being prolific and ignoring those three stories cripples my already bordering-on-pathetic offering of available products. Second, all three are precursors to larger bodies of work. And everyone loves extra content, right? That’s basically the whole reason Director’s Cut DVD’s exist and why they cost four times as much for the same movie. And three, they still represent my style and genre of choice, which makes them completely relevant additions to my backlist of available works.

Except that the quality isn’t up to par.

Now, I know what you’re thinking; there are lots of reasons why revising is a bad idea. And you’re right. Here are a few of the major negatives I came up with and how I justified my way out of them. 😉

Doesn’t revising previously released work ruin the integrity of the piece? You’re basically declaring that your first version was crap and everyone who read it wasted their time.

It does feel kind of wrong to essentially negate everything I’ve done before. But I don’t think it really ruins the integrity of the story. I’m not planning on doing a complete overhaul, just another layer of polish to bring the quality up to the level I am now. So if the story structure is the same, is it really that different?

Now, if I was planning on rewriting the entire thing from scratch, changing everything from character names to sequence of events, sure, this argument would definitely apply. At that point, it’s not so much a revision as a completely new piece based on a previous one.

What’s the point? If you’re spending time working on old stuff, then you aren’t creating anything new.

It’s true, if you’re working on old stuff, chances are, you aren’t working on anything new. There are only so many productive hours in a day, after all. But writers have a tendency to chase perfection like dogs chasing their tails. And it’s about as futile.

The hardest thing to learn as an author is when to let go. When to declare something done, finished, and untouchable. Revising published work goes against that. It says that it’s OK to linger in the past, tweaking and perfecting into eternity. And that’s a dangerous line to walk. Nothing will ever be perfect. You’ll continue to grow as an author, and with every progression, all your previous work will suck in comparison. But I still think it can be done if you put restrictions on it. For instance, I know this is my only chance to do this. Once I re-release them, that’s it. I’m not allowed to touch them again. If it weren’t for the fact I was in the process of re-branding myself, I wouldn’t have succumbed to the temptation at all. But for the sake of presenting my best work, I’m choosing to play with fire. I may get burned, but as Walter on The Finder would say, “I’mma risk it.”

They’re short stories, why even bother? The reader market for short stories is small, and you’ve already said they’re part of larger projects. Why not just write the full versions and forget about the shorties?

Honestly, the reason I’m not willing to just set them aside is simply because I don’t want to. (Picture that with a four year old’s petulant foot-stomp and crossed arms.) I spent nearly a year refining each of them, and I don’t want to throw away three years of my life. Plus, I’m a super slow writer, as evidenced by the fact I just admitted to spending a year on a short story. So writing the full version of each will likely take me eons. And really, what else am I going to do with them? There’s virtually no market for republication of short stories. At least this way, they’ll get to have a longer shelf-life and maybe reach more than the 5 people who read them the first time.

As you can tell, I’ve had quite the long argument with myself over this, at times feeling like I was battling a split personality. But the conclusion I’ve drawn is that, like everything surrounding writing, it really comes down to the individual author and what’s best for their career. In my case, I feel the pros outweigh the cons. I’ll get to erase all the little things that irritate me in each story and re-release them with a feeling of confidence instead of resignation. For now. I’m sure later on, I’ll wish I could fix them again. But by then, my brand will be established and that would be like diving head first into the flames of perfectionist hell. I’d probably never get out alive.

But what about you? What do you think of revising previously published work? If you were presented with the opportunity, would you do it?

What is “Flow”?

KWhipkey 4 Comments

Stop the snickering and dirty jokes, I’m not talking about that type of flow. 😉

I stumbled on an interesting and rather heated discussion this week, (as most conversations involving the dissection of writing tend to be), about the use of “flow” as a literary term. The forum seemed pretty evenly divided between writers that absolutely despised it and felt it should never be used in a critique, (an argument that instantly smacked of stereotypical writer pretentiousness), and those that felt it was a valid descriptor (instantly hailed as amateurs by the snobby residents of the Anti-Flow brigade). And it got me thinking. What exactly is literary flow?

Technically, “flow” isn’t recognized as a legitimate literary term– go ahead, Google it. I did. You’ll find it’s omitted from nearly every list of valid literary terms. Yet it’s probably one of the most frequently used words when discussing someone’s work. I know I’m guilty of using it– you can find it’s offensive four letters listed among the things I look for when freelance editing. So how did it become such a firm presence in our literary vernacular if it doesn’t technically exist? And why is using it tantamount to dropping another four letter word starting with “F”?

My theory is that it’s because no one really knows what it means. Is it referring to the structure of the piece as a whole, the “flow” of the words themselves, the pacing, what? It’s this vagueness that makes feedback including it seem awfully similar to:

“I loved it!”

“This sucks. I hated it.”

While those are, I suppose, acceptable reader responses, they fail to tell the writer anything useful, namely– why? In order for any critique to actually help the author, it has to explain why the reader felt the way they did, and what they would have liked to see different or not. Telling us that our work is lame, that you think it’s utter crap, or on the flip-side, that it’s the most amazing thing you’ve ever read ever, really doesn’t help us improve or repeat the success. Telling us why you hated it, or loved it, is like feeding a starving man– it’s what we really care about. Nothing will get your opinions ignored faster than failing to quantify your experience as a reader. I believe this is why “flow” causes such a divide among writers– it gets thrown around like it’s a brilliant little gem of insight when really it’s just unhelpfully frustrating.

I don’t agree that it’s a bane to literary terms though. Actually, I think it’s a perfectly valid starting point for a critique, as long as the reviewer goes on to define it. The definition is crucial, because “flow” is one of those terms that can mean about a million different things to different people.

For me, “flow” is synonymous with “smooth.” When something flows, it should have an effortless feel that allows me to forget the words and really immerse in the story. It’s a visceral sensation of rightness that you only really notice when it’s disrupted. I tend to imagine storyline as a thread running through the center of a piece. Ideally, that thread should be smooth and straight, holding everything tightly in place. When that happens, the story “flows.” But if the thread gets crinkled up in a tangent, veering away into a knotted section of confusion, or frays into several disjointed, broken paths, the story’s flow feels off. Much like the way a river flows toward the sea, everything in the story should flow toward the final goal. This is part of why you need an editor, or critique partner, or random-person-off-the-street to read your work. Authors are usually too close to the story to be able to catch these flaws in the thread. But your readers sure will. They may not know exactly how to define it, but they’ll feel it.

I use “flow” to start a conversation about the structural integrity of a piece, but I can think of at least two other ways in which it could be defined. Let’s put that to the test, shall we? In the comments below, tell us what “flow” means to you. And please refrain from derailing this into the gutter. This is a serious, (ok, semi-serious), literary discussion, and I do have the power to decline your comments (Mwahaha!). So family-friendly only please. 😉