Editors on Editing: What Writers Need to Know About What Editors Do (28 page)

One additional element of the book may be something for the author to consider: the index. It is possible for the author to make the index. The idea may even be tempting, because the author will have to pay for the index preparation if a professional indexer does the work. The author should bear in mind, when deciding whether to prepare the index, the necessary skills for the job. Indexing is a professional occupation—and an art form. A good indexer may be able to give the interested reader access to the author’s material in ways that would not occur to the author. If the author elects to have his book professionally indexed, he may still ask to see the index manuscript, to be sure it reflects all the most important ideas he is trying to convey to the reader. (Of course an indexer cannot put into the index what isn’t in the text!) The author should also take into account that there are constraints of time and space that the indexer has had to deal with.

Is all of this work made obsolete by computerization? Couldn’t the author just give her disks to the publisher and have the publisher send them off to the typesetter? Wouldn’t that save money? Well, yes, it might save the publisher some money in composition costs. But if the author wanted to make changes in proofs, the money saved could vanish in a flurry of EA (editor’s alteration) and AA charges. Does the publisher really want to hire an amateur typesetter (that is, the author) to do the keyboarding? Does the author want to be paid to be a keyboarder or a writer? Is the author certain that he doesn’t need the help of an editor or a copy editor? Well, maybe the editor and the copy editor could work on the author’s disks. Does anyone want a professional editor or professional copy editor to become an amateur keyboarder? Bear in mind that when the manuscript goes to the typesetter on disk, there are no PEs. If author and publisher find themselves editing and copyediting on type proofs, they may well end up paying more for the composition than if the manuscript had been set from the hard copy in the first place. The examples that can be cited are painful to recall. So far as I know, the copy editors who have been doing the pioneering work in this area have discovered one thing for certain: working on the author’s disks does not at present save time. Think twice on the possibility of sending the disks direct to the typesetter. If the disks are sent, send the hard copy too. Let the typesetter decide what makes the best economic sense. We are all facing a path that may be full of potential but is certainly fraught with potential difficulties. The change from hot metal composition by Linotype to computer setting of equal polish took about a decade, but the change has been made. The change from sending hard copy to sending disks only to the typesetter and getting really good results may take that long or longer. Am I a Luddite? No. But I’ve been in the business long enough to develop a great respect for the professional skills that go into making good books and making books well.

Copy editors are, for the most part, unsung. We do this work because we love ideas, we love language, we love books. We don’t expect to see our names up in lights. But if an author thinks enough of our contribution to mention us in the acknowledgments, it is a kindness we accept with gratitude and pleasure. 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.

Drawing Out the Best Book Possible

Maron L. Waxman

M
ARON
L. W
AXMAN
is the editorial director of HarperReference at Harper-Collins. The former executive director of book development at Book-of-the-Month Club, she has taught editing in the publishing programs at both the City University of New York and New York University and has lectured at many publishing and writers’ conferences
.

Ms. Waxman’s clear, practical essay is nothing less than a comprehensive short course in the basic, essential principles and skills of line editing (also known as manuscript editing)
.

A believer in Maxwell Perkins’s dictum that “an editor does not add to a book. At best he serves as a handmaiden…. In the end an editor can get only as much out of an author as the author has in him,” Ms. Waxman offers her own definition of the working relationship between the manuscript editor and the author: “…a long and continuing exchange … of questions asked and answers given until both author and editor believe they have produced … the best book possible … the book in which the author says what he has to say as clearly, as forcefully, and as gracefully as he can. It is the goal of all editing, and most particularly manuscript editing, to achieve this end.”

In the course of her essay Ms. Waxman offers sound advice on such vital matters as the difference between editing and rewriting, questions of clarity, coverage (providing sufficient information), organization (presentation of material in a way that can be followed), and tone (addressing the readers who will be most interested in the book). In addition she explains how to handle such technical aspects of manuscript editing as the analysis of the
manuscript before the editor begins to work on it and the proper and most effective way to query an author
.

Ms. Waxman concludes by reminding writers that “editors are not authors, nor do they wish to be. What the best of editors wishes to be is the perceptive, demanding, energetic, and patient prober who can devote his particular talents and skills to the enterprise of working with authors to publish good books.”

Drawing Out the Best Book Possible

In many authors’ dreams there is an editor who sits at a desk, hunched over a mass of manuscript. The editor leafs through page after page, discarding some, furiously editing and reworking others. Finally, after days of work, a finely wrought book emerges from this mass, much as Michelangelo’s
Moses
grew out of a block of marble. This dream picture is the legacy of Maxwell Perkins, Saxe Commins, and a handful of other mighty editors. The harsh truth is that before we can discuss manuscript editing seriously, we must brush aside this dream. Maxwell Perkins’s own words give us the reality of manuscript editing. “An editor does not add to a book,” Perkins told an editing class at New York University. “At best he serves as a handmaiden. … In the end an editor can get only as much out of an author as the author has in him.”
*

In this process of extraction the editor does not work alone. Manuscript editing is a long and continuing exchange between editor and author of questions asked and answers given until both author and editor believe they have produced a good book—not necessarily the best book ever, but the best book possible. The best book possible is the book in which the author says what he has to say as clearly, as forcefully, and as gracefully as he can. It is the goal of all editing, and most particularly manuscript editing, to achieve this end.

In practice, manuscript editing has very little to do with changing actual words on pages of paper. Weak writing almost always indicates weak
thinking or weak structure. Thus as the editor reads through the manuscript, the questions he keeps in mind at all times are:

Is the author’s purpose evident?

Do the readers have the information they need to follow the narrative or argument or recipe?

Is the narrative or argument or recipe laid out in the clearest manner?

Are the level of information and tone of voice appropriate for the intended readers of the book?

Boiled down, these questions can be stated as clarity, coverage, organization, and tone. They are the principle concerns of the manuscript editor. Once they are right, the problems of language, if any, often resolve themselves.

Like all crafts, editing requires some training and discipline. Here are three points to bear in mind as you prepare to begin editing.

First, manuscript editors do not read for pleasure, no matter what their friends may think. The manuscript editor must train himself to read uncomfortably, to nag, to question, to probe, not to give the author the benefit of the doubt. If you ever find yourself reading for pleasure when you are supposed to be editing, put down your pencil—in fact, you probably already have—and enjoy yourself. See how the book comes out. Then go back, pencil in hand, and edit, noting all the little complaints and comments you withheld for the pleasure of reading.

Second, editing is not rewriting. Many times it would be easier for the editor to rewrite tangled and unclear passages, using the author’s manuscript as a primary source. But that is not editing; rewriting is an entirely different job. Keep in mind Perkins’s words: “An editor does not add to a book.” The editor must find a way to draw the words from the author.

Third, remember that you are the first reader of the book. Your response and impressions are the first chance the author has to see how a reader will respond to the book. This is one of your best tools in editing, so sharpen your ability to read like a reader. If you are confused, distracted, or let down, it is likely that other readers may also be. In the politest editorial manner, let the author know.

Now to the principle concerns.

Above all the reader must be able to understand what the author is trying to accomplish, what her purpose is in writing the book.

A manila folder is a helpful aid in keeping that purpose firmly in mind. Before I begin editing a nonfiction manuscript, I put all the descriptive information on the book into this folder—the proposal, with cover letter if that has additional information; the table of contents; the introduction or preface; the author’s biography or curriculum vitae. This folder stays on my desk throughout the editing, to be referred to when necessary.

I once edited a comprehensive book on attracting birds to the backyard. Each chapter was exhaustive in its detail, but, strangely, all the author’s instructions did not seem to add up to anything. I just could not figure out why anyone should be doing all this. Consulting the manila folder, I saw that the author was an active environmentalist. With great force and sense of purpose, her proposal stated that in this book she wanted to alert homeowners, no matter how little land they had, to what they as individuals could do to preserve bird species and protect the environment for both birds and people. Nowhere in the book, however, was this urgent voice heard. I suggested that the author incorporate the assumptions and values of the proposal into the introductory chapter of the book. When she added this material, the book took on a purpose and offered a powerful reason to get out and undertake the time-consuming tasks the author had described.

In novels, particularly those that rely heavily on plot, editors often reverse this manila folder process and while editing compile a diary for the characters. What was the dazzling young actress wearing when she went for her first audition? Was it the same black Lycra miniskirt in which she was found murdered that evening? In biographies some editors keep the subject’s vital statistics at hand—birthdate, important milestones, names and ages of family members. In this way the editor can be sure that, through some slip, the subject does not marry at age nine or that her children do not change names in the course of the book.

The editor must always keep the author on track. Here, in miniature, is an example of how an author can go astray.

The Sailor
states the two main concerns of the author’s body of work, one of only two novels by Mariner to be written in the second person
(The Wave
is the other); a speculation on the meaning of the sea in coastal countries that grows into a full-blown metaphor; and an examination of the life of the sailor, told in numbing day-to-day detail.

In this paragraph the writer had a very clearly stated idea, but she was distracted and wandered off to another thought, which is decorated with a parenthetical phrase. By the time the reader gets to the first semicolon, he has forgotten what he came for—“the two main concerns” of line 1. As an aside, the punctuation here only adds to the confusion. If the editor tries to fix the sentence by fiddling with the words, clarity is unlikely to result. Without changing a word, however, the sentence can be brought into line:

The Sailor
states the two main concerns of the author’s body of work: a speculation on the meaning of the sea in coastal countries that has grown into a full-blown metaphor and an examination of the life of the sailor, told in numbing day-to-day detail. It is interesting that
The Sailor
is one of only two books by Alice Mariner to be written in the second person, the other being
The Wave
.

In a sentence or two this kind of meandering is fairly apparent, but in a book whole paragraphs and chapters often roam off, abandoning the reader. The editor is the vigilant guide, always urging the author back to the path. This does not mean that there can be no attractive detours, only that they should be clearly recognized as such.

Have you ever read a mystery in which a totally unexpected character, with totally unexpected motives, turns out to be the villain? Most readers find this kind of deus ex machina resolution disappointing. By the same token, a cook up to his elbows in the preparation for a dinner party is none too happy if one of the steps in the recipe calls for an ingredient not mentioned on the ingredient list.

Coverage, or sufficient information, is another major concern of the line editor. I have edited two biographies in which the authors neglected to state the birthdates of the subjects. Now I immediately look for this information. Why was I taken by surprise the first time it happened? Because manuscript editors are too often bound up in the text, busy ransacking it for problems. It is much harder to stand back from the text and look for what is not there. This is, however, one of the most important disciplines the manuscript editor can develop. The primary concern is that all people and terms be adequately identified and defined. Sixth-graders tackle this problem, by starting many papers, “The dictionary defines ‘absolutism’ as…” More sophisticated writers try to avoid this kind of unimaginative opening, but in so doing often omit basic information. The editor must constantly be on the lookout for these omissions.