Editors on Editing: What Writers Need to Know About What Editors Do (26 page)

At the other extreme, there’s the time when a novelist and I went from the initial idea to a fully developed concept in only six hours. His handling of the material was so assured, comprehensive, and vivid that we skipped the outline, and he began writing immediately. We were able to accomplish this feat because of the marvelously harmonious working relationship we’d had in the past.

Our challenge was to imagine the basic story for a second book in a two-book contract, which meant there wasn’t the usual pressure of developing something I was trying to buy. Because the author’s suspense novels featured a continuing character, an American submarine commander, the biggest question was what should happen to the hero this time. I had been concerned that he was
too
perfect, handling every situation with unnatural assurance. I thought he’d be more interesting if he were more human, sometimes beset with real doubt, and capable of occasional error. I proposed that we break him down totally in some way, push this paragon of leadership ability to the edge of suicide, shattering his confidence and sense of self so profoundly that it would be a real question whether he’d be able to rebuild himself enough to function at all. This would give the novel an element of psychological suspense that would parallel the ongoing adventure plot.

The writer at first hesitated to do something so radical and potentially dangerous to his traditional heroic protagonist. The risk, of course, was that the hero’s fans wouldn’t accept him as flawed and very vulnerable. But after further discussion, his wonderful novelist’s imagination began to explore the dramatic possibilities. He envisioned a critical U.S./Soviet mission
that would get the hero away from the navy’s rumors about his stability and would give him a fresh start. The hero would have to take command of a Russian submarine with a hostile, defiant crew. The pressure would be enormous and the price of failure even more so. Both filled with creative excitement, we kept talking that day until the entire story had been outlined in memorable detail. The author went on to write the first three-quarters of the book with only one suggestion from me, and the editing I had to do on the complete manuscript was light.

On another occasion, I began working with an author on a second book, although this one hadn’t yet been acquired, nor had the subject been decided on. As I expected, this smart, veteran author had several possibilities in mind. I liked his ideas but thought that, after decades of writing about the intelligence community, it was time for him to take on the biggest fish of all: the modern CIA in its entirety. I wanted him to do what hadn’t been done before: explore it from the inside, showing how the whole operation worked from top to bottom, directorate to directorate, and interweave revelations about the ways in which the agency and these directorates had failed and succeeded, modestly and colossally.

Blessed again with an author of generous receptivity, I got a good reaction, we discussed the idea in more detail, and he wrote an outline. Both because we wanted to save editing and revision time later by making the outline as refined, focused, and complete as possible, and because we wanted the proposal to sell itself, we went through numerous revisions of the outline, each time making it tighter, stronger, and more interesting. Because of the author’s reputation, it wasn’t necessary for him to write sample chapters, but the proposal had to communicate exactly and potently the full vision of the work. After an overview, the book would analyze deeply the CIA’s four directorates—Operations, Science and Technology, Intelligence, and Administration—and the Office of the Director of Central Intelligence. Throughout the outline we had to make it evident that these various parts were connected by the major themes of evaluating the agency’s performance and explaining as never before its veiled inner workings.

I finally presented it for acquisition at our editorial meeting with great success. Afterward, there wasn’t much to change. We had a final discussion and the author went to work on the actual manuscript, sending it to me in chunks as he wrote it. As with the suspense novelist, the developmental work the writer and I had done in the concept and outline stage had been so thorough that the manuscript progressed perfectly, with the author getting—and needing—nothing more from me except appreciation.

I wish it always went so well. There are times when I plain fail. There was a terrific, gentlemanly author whose first two novels I’d edited and published.
I had the arrogance to think I knew what would be the best way to help him create the story line for his third novel. We agreed that we should try to imagine a story that was bigger in scope and number of characters than he’d attempted in the past because he was ready for the challenge.

His first plot had American armed forces engaged in a single foreign country. “One country isn’t enough,” I said decisively. “Let’s stretch the military by having them fighting in three countries in various parts of the world. That makes it easier to have more characters too.” He struggled nobly to make the expanded story work but the disparate parts wouldn’t come together. We kept revising the outline but progress was painful. Understanding finally kicked me in the head. A good thing too, because the author had never complained.

I had forgotten that good creative ideas cause chain reactions, with one idea leading explosively to the next, and the next. The same is true of editorial approaches. If they are what they should be, the author’s thinking and writing will be rolling, not dragging. Obviously I’d chosen and stayed with the wrong approach.

I thanked the writer for his thoughtful cooperation, and as we talked about why we weren’t getting anywhere, I remembered that one of his greatest strengths was character, and that for him, story and plot flowed from the people, rather than the characters somehow evolving from an overall structure with foreign countries, etc. As soon as we went back to his main character and considered what situations would engage him, the ideas exploded from the author’s stimulated imagination. Fortunately for this bedeviled writer, I’d gotten it right at last.

I followed a different path with a potential novelist who presented a difficult double challenge: he had never written a book of any kind before and there was no manuscript. All we had was a brief outline. Potentially catastrophic situations like these are what good editors thrive on. The novelist was riddled with doubt, but fortunately he combined real talent, an open mind, and dedication. We revised and expanded the outline of his semiautobiographical Vietnam novel, and after he began writing, we would discuss every chapter at length before he wrote the next one, weaving in ideas about the characters and the rest of the story.

After about a hundred pages, I felt it was time to edit in depth, so I prepared a set of notes and the author revised. We did the same for the second hundred pages. One of the aspects at which the author worked hardest was simplifying his technical explanations of naval aviation. I try to be representative of the general reader, figuring that if I can’t follow it, others won’t be able to either. Sometimes the author had to revise passages several times, but as he kept writing, the need for that effort decreased.

After receiving two hundred revised pages, I started all over again. This
triple process of discussion, editing, and revision continued to the end of the complete manuscript, which I then edited comprehensively from the first page to the last. A testament to the value of that intense collaboration is that as we work together on the second novel, the author still sends me a chapter at a time, but he’s learned so much that, happily, I have little to say.

These stories can only begin to suggest the many possibilities inherent in the development stage of the writing and editorial process. Keen enjoyment, satisfaction, friendly harmony, and a double sense of achievement are among the rewards of creative collaboration. The ultimate accomplishment is that the writer, because of what he has learned, has increased his independence over the long term and realized further the potential of his talent. Equally important, the author-editor partners have produced the most fully formed and finished manuscript possible under the circumstances, requiring the least amount of editing and revision before being published and providing enduring and perhaps best-selling pleasure for its readers.

Gypsy da Silva

G
YPSY DA
S
ILVA
is a production editor in the copy editing department at Simon & Schuster, where she began her publishing career twenty-five years ago. She has had the pleasure of working on fiction and nonfiction, both as a copy editor and supervising the work of staff and free-lance copy editors. Although the
Chicago Manual of Style
on her desk more or less falls open to certain sections, she wishes the University of Chicago Press would publish a thumb-indexed edition
.

Ms. da Silva asks and answers the question “What is a copy editor and why do we need them?” in her concise but comprehensive essay on what a copy editor does “to preserve the author’s natural voice.” She illuminates for the writer the various roles a copy editor plays in perfecting the manuscript first developed and line edited by the acquiring editor. These include, among many more, corrector of spelling errors, grammarian, fact checker, resolver of inconsistencies, fine-tuner of the author’s style, sometimes researcher, etc., etc
.

Ms. da Silva calms the anxious writer whose work is returned with a blizzard of query flyers by pointing out that “they are a sign that the manuscript has been read closely and with care” and shows how to handle them swiftly and effectively. The query flyer is the way the copy editor communicates with the author, and Ms. da Silva recommends that “the easiest way an author can let a copy editor know about preferences or ask for assistance is to draw up a memo and send it in with the manuscript.”

Quite properly proud of the multiplicity of their skills, Ms. da Silva concludes her essay by admitting that “we copy editors know what we contribute—silently, almost always anonymously—to the finished book, but we do not fool ourselves. The author is the hero.”

(In affectionate remembrance of Vera Schneider and Pat Miller)

What is a copy editor and why do we need them? A copy editor is that person who, after the author has written the manuscript and the editor has edited it, examines that first sentence, thinking: Would it be better as two questions? What is the antecedent of “we”? Should “them” be “him or her”? Or should I make it “copy editors” so the pronoun agrees in number with its antecedent? And does it matter? All these questions cross the copy editor’s mind because the sum of the copy editor’s task is to help the author (and the editor) shape this book into the best possible expression of the author’s ideas. Yet while deciding whether or not to “fix” the author’s grammar (et cetera), the copy editor must first take care to preserve the author’s natural voice.

The division of labor between editor and copy editor begins with the fact that an editor’s first responsibility is finding and bringing under contract books the publisher deems worth presenting to the public. The editor may then help the author with the general shaping of the book, suggesting some pruning here, some expansion there, perhaps some rearranging of the parts into what the editor sees as a more harmonious whole. Some editors may even focus on the details of finding the
mot juste
, fixing spelling errors, tidying up grammar and punctuation. But these last items are often left to the copy editor. Some editors send along covering memos with their manuscripts, detailing any special considerations for the copy editor. “Author overuses ‘as a matter of fact.’ I’ve pruned many. Feel free to prune more.” “Author very sensitive. Query
all
changes.” “This is a British author writing about a British scene. We want American spelling, but stet Britsh idiom unless hopelessly obscure.” Other editors call ahead to alert the copy editor to what is wanted or to discuss the best way to proceed. The copy editor will also double-check the author’s consistency of detail and style, and accuracy of fact.

But in the beginning, there is the manuscript. And every manuscript should be typed double space. An author preparing a work of nonfiction should bear in mind that even quotations from other books, footnotes (or back matter notes), and the bibliography should be typed double space,
regardless of the likelihood that these elements will be set in smaller type than the main text. Copy editors need room to work. Double-spaced manuscripts provide that room. The copy editor’s ideal author knows exactly what elements go into a bibliographical entry and how they are assembled, and there’s very little marking the copy editor needs to do. But many authors need help getting notes or bibliographical style into shape. In either case, it’s a lot easier to read double-spaced copy. The copy editor and the designer of the text will also bless the author who provides generous margins on all four sides of the page. The author will see how the copy editor keys (that is, ranks by means of letters or numbers) the various heads and marks extracts, lists, and other elements. But what the author may not realize is that after the copy editor does the keying, the designer who crafts the interior typography also needs room in the margin to indicate the typeface and width to which the element is to be set. What the copy editor labels “A,” the designer translates into, for example, “12/14 Baskerville x 15 pi.” More room is needed for the typesetter to insert computer codes that must be keyboarded with the copy so that the specified type size and style appears in the proofs—and the final book.

Copy editing for consistency of detail may be especially helpful to novelists. Does the author absentmindedly describe the heroine’s hair as blond in
chapter 2
and red in
chapter 16
? The copy editor will point out the discrepancy on a query flyer attached to the manuscript and ask which color is wanted. Chronology can get scrambled sometimes in a novel that covers many years or several generations. The copy editor keeps notes of dates and ages, querying the author about, for example, the aboriginal who rescues the woman who falls off her horse into the raging river: “Could a nine-year-old boy have lifted a grown woman?” Sometimes a copy editor will notice a detail mentioned early in the story that is never used again and might enhance the story in a later reference. A man is trained in techniques of silently dispatching enemy spies. The knowledge gained by the character was never put to use in the story—until the copy editor suggested that when the character later attempts a murder, he reach into his pocket and finger the piano wire hidden there. A nice addition to the suspense that the author incorporated into the action.