Category: Copy Editing

Comic book cusswordsAs a writer, I have a love-hate relationship with my first published novel. I’m proud I wrote a solid PI tale set in my hometown of Cleveland. But I published badly, alienated an agent because of it, and also…

There is too much damn swearing in that book. It’s out there now, still with Clayborn Press, but if I were to go to, say, Down & Out Books to republish it, I’d do a complete rewrite. 

“Wait. Because of swearing?”

Yes and no. There’d still be swearing in it, but especially after taking on editing duties, I’ve found a lot of manuscripts have little swearing in them. And Marcus Sakey, an author with whom I was acquainted for a time, told me about his “F Bomb Check.” He took out every other F bomb, or every third one. I started doing that with my crime fiction. In scifi?

The Children of Amargosa was initially presented as a YA novel. By Storming Amargosa, that had gone into the rearview mirror. The moment it changed, however, came when I wrote Suicide’s rant to JT Austin about disobeying orders and joining the mission to find a fallen starship (a very Harry Potter thing to do in a story more like Lord of the Rings. With aliens. And dirty polygamists.*) JT, still reeling from his wife’s death, pleads a promise he made to take back her family’s farm. Suicide explodes, “F*** your promise, little boy! We all lost someone in this war!” It’s actually the only F bomb in Second Wave, but writing it was the moment I stopped pretending this was a YA series and JT forced himself to become an adult.

Meanwhile, Nick Kepler, my original PI character, needs a bleep button in his pocket. So, how much swearing is too much?

Most newer writers–That would be me in the early 2000s–use profanity to sound tough or earthy. But like Ralphie’s dad in A Christmas Story, you have to learn to work in foul language like some artists work in oils or water colors. It didn’t help us crime writers religiously watched The Wire, which had a writing staff composed partially of the cops the characters were based on, along with some of the criminals they tangled with. Cops and gang bangers tend to swear a lot, though having witnessed two less-than-pleasant encounters with police in the past year, I’ve noticed they tend to yell more than swear. At least in the suburbs. 

So how do you handle swearing?

  1. Know thy audience. Yes, you’re free to say what you want how you want. You are not free from the consequences. No one is obligated to like your book or buy it. If your audience is primarily Sunday School teachers, you may want to avoid swearing altogether. But even hardened veterans who have been to Afghanistan or Syria tend to back down from the language. One veteran I know who writes scifi had a book where a female soldier was brutally raped by her captors. Leaving aside the question of how to handle such a scenario, the book had very little swearing or graphic depictions of violence (except in the sequel, where a corrupt admiral came to a sticky end. Don’t think he will ever mend.**) 
  2. If you’re going to swear, do it on page 1, or at least in the first three pages. You don’t have to drop an F bomb. A mild profanity like “shit” will do. (Editing tool PerfectIt repeatedly tries to edit that out but doesn’t seem to care about F bombs for some reason.)
  3. Swear in the first draft. Clean up in revision. The rough draft is where your tough guy protagonist finishes fighting bad guys and stops off at the vet to pick up his pet unicorn because you were feeling goofy that day. Revision is where you might want to change that unicorn to a cat or a dog. The same with the language. Write whatever you want in the rough draft, even swearing so thick it would scare off Quentin Tarantino. Edit it out in revision. First draft is for you. Subsequent drafts are about the eventual audience.
  4. The F Bomb Check – Start with yanking every third one. Or every other one. You’ll find most of the time the prose and dialog are stronger for it.
  5. Don’t overthink it. If you put rules on it, you’ll just end up with stilted, flat prose. If you take the audience, the publisher, or even your own preferences into account, you can easily modify what you’ve written in revision. Revisions should not be scary. They should be making your story better.

 

*It’s a lot more complicated than that. Even polygamists who bathed often didn’t like these guys.

**Apologies to the late John Entwistle

Wadded paper“We’re developing a situation where a whole group of young people is growing up having no real sense about how our system of justice works.” – Chief Justice John Roberts

That line’s been quoted in several news sources and is included in a lot of Facebook rants about the Supreme Court’s performance of late. Without getting into what I think of the current Court, I do want to point out this showed up in someone’s latest rant. Before launching into why the poster thought Roberts was out of line, he stated even the grammar is wrong.

This is an editing blog. Did you think I was going to waste space on the undeserving crooks in Washington? Specifically, he said it should have been “a whole group of young people are…” instead of “is.” Actually, the poster is wrong. But you can’t fault him. The sentence looks wrong. It has “people” and “is” next to each other in the sentence. But “people” is not the operative word. “Group” is. And group, by definition, is a singular object. The members of a group are plural. And “people,” in most cases, is plural. But the subject of the clause is “group.” Therefore, the correct verb is… Well, is.

Bill Clinton must feel vindicated. (Google it. I remember that incident, and I’m still scratching my head.)

Roberts is, before anything else, a lawyer. I learned to edit from a lawyer, and believe me, it’s a great way to learn how to clean up your prose. However, the law has its own quirks and sticks to rules even corporate writing no longer recognizes. Like capitalizing every other noun in a sentence and not using contractions outside of quotations. I’ve had one editor flag that in my manuscript and stetted the hell out of it. But the bottom line is lawyers almost always get their grammar correct. So while it took me a decade to shed the legal habits of editing, the core of what I learned remains.

So why bring this up? Well, first, I needed a topic this week. And odd noun-verb pairings seemed obvious when I read the chief justice’s quote. Yes, they slip by sometimes when I edit. One could make a case for AI taking over the job, but having had some recent experience with ChatGPT for a project, make sure you stamp your passport for the frying pan on your way to the fire. AI is worse at it. Go Google “Hallucinations” and “AI.” Some of the results are hilarious.

But why is this so hard? Your brain sees “people” right next to the word “is” and goes, “That ain’t right.” But before “people” in the above quote is “group.” The group is growing up, but the people aren’t. “People” is only a descriptive noun telling the reader what group this is. So do I ever let this slide knowing the right way will hurt some people’s heads? Yes, actually. 

A good editor can forgive a lot of rule-breaking in dialog and first-person. The person is talking, and I don’t give a damn what your English teacher told you (unless it was Mr. Murphy, whom I had in the 11th grade. He was cool!) People break rules speaking. They mismatch tenses. They swallow words and syllables. They use the wrong words. They even use the same word to start too many consecutive sentences. Your goal is to make it readable, not please Mrs. Chaucer (not her real name, but suck it, Clara.)  

But once in a while, the right way is going to sound wrong. Leave that to third person narrative. (Send me second person, and I’ll print it out, shred it, and send back the shreds. I am not an avant-garde editor.)

Sentence fragments. Annoy some people. Found in Dickens, though. Bad writing? Or stylistic choice?

Why not both? Girl meme social reaction | StareCat.com

It’s both. My current assignment comes from a writer who breaks a lot of rules. And it’s clearly done on purpose. He writes present tense, which drives a lot of readers batty. And he writes almost completely in sentence fragments, especially when his story gets going.

“Wow, TS. It must take you an hour just to get through one page!”

Not really. The point of editing is to make sure the writer not only gets their point across but also doesn’t get in their own way. In other words, cutting out all the writing for the sake of writing. Mind you, I edit mostly fiction. Non-fiction requires a different set of rules, and let’s not get started on corporate editing, which means the Chicago Manual of Style is a polite suggestion when the company has a style manual to be treated like the Bible. (Which most translations probably violate. ‘Cuz, yanno, God never went through the mandatory employee orientation.) 

So occasionally, you get people who break rules on purpose. Is this bad writing? Well, it depends. Your ultimate audience is your reader. However, reviewers may or may not get to your work first. So guess what? The lady on the beach might think you’re just swell, but the reviewer will be leaving a two-star review because you insist on ending every sentence with a preposition. While I think that’s a fake rule, it is annoying when writers do that too often. They should check out the Elements of  Style from the library, assuming they know where the library’s at.

Where were we? Sentence fragments.

Much of what a writer puts down is dictated by rhythm and cadence. Most of us who write hear the words in our heads. That’s why that last sentence occasionally gets out in the wild as “Most of us who write here the words…” Sometimes, the brain just picks a spelling and runs with it. So, as in the case with my current author, you sometimes get long blocks of prose written in punchy, short phrases. And yet in context, it works. It might not get over the transom, but it works. (This one, by the way, did get over the transom, or it wouldn’t be on my desk.) Now, if this person wrote bestsellers, one of two things would happen: hundreds of acquisitions editors would be flooded with similarly written stories (most of which would be badly written) or publishers, smelling a buck, would insist their writers adopt the style (also resulting in a flood of bad imitations.)

Fragments are the more readable version of the run-on sentence. The difference is, writing in an age of declining attention spans, where it’s hard enough to get people to cue up a book on a Kindle, never mind a print book, run-ons are an abomination that should be weeded out. An argument could be made for chopping up that last sentence, though technically, it’s not a run-on.

 

My current project has em dashes in place of quotation mQuotation markarks, which is a challenge. Em dashes (or for the more pedantic, dialog dashes. Hate to burst your bubble, nitpickers, but the readers who pick up on this don’t care. Neither do I.) are generally used in Romance languages like Spanish, Italian, or French. I’m not sure why writers in English–any dialect of English–choose to do this, but then Cormac McCarthy dispensed with quotation punctuation altogether.

But having to adapt to a different style of quoting dialog underscores another issue: You still have to follow the rules of dialog. And to follow said rules, the reader has to know who’s talking and when. Even the great Lawrence Block, whose books taught me to write novels long before Stephen King graced us with On Writing, munged dialog once. If the greats do it, you need to watch out, too.

So, let’s review, shall we?

  • “Said” is an invisible word. It takes less than second for the reader to blow by a “said” phrase to pick up on whose talking.
  • That said, the old chestnut of not using any word but “said” (except maybe “asked”) needs to be put down like Old Yeller. (Um… Spoiler alert?) In an age of audio books, it is absolutely nerve-grating to hear “said” twenty-six times in a thirty-second passage. Yes, you can use mild alternatives like “shouted,” “mumbled,” even “intoned.” Just don’t get fancy with it. There’s a reason more old-school editors insist on “said/asked.” “‘Well,’ he queried” is still bad writing no matter how much you’re bored with “said.” </rant>
  • Action beats are your friend. You don’t have to tag every line of dialog. In fact, don’t. Dialog-heavy scenes have the disadvantage of encouraging “white rooms.” Two characters are talking. Where are they talking? What’s going on? Half the time, it’s just exposition, and exposition is death in our era of short attention spans. Sorry, but that’s the reality we’re working in today. Have your characters eat a salad or lift weights or knit a sweater. Anything to convey where the conversation takes place.
  • When exposition is unavoidable, put the Pope in a pool. This is one of my favorite storytelling tools from Blake Snyder’s Save the Cat. He talks about a movie where a bunch of cardinals have to set up the movie and can only do it through rambling dialog. So the screenwriter put an old man in a swimming pool listening to the cardinals. It takes the viewers a minute or two to figure out the guy swimming is the Pope. They get an infodump, but their attention is held because they’re forced to figure out who’s in the pool. (I loved that so much, I put a character named “Mr. Pope” in a swimming pool in one story. Then I killed him in that same pool in another story. Yes. As an author, I’m mean to my characters.)
  • Untagged dialog: No more than five lines before you insert a “said/asked/pontificated” (Don’t use that last one. The reader will throw your book in the trash, and for good reason) or an action beat. The reader needs to keep track of who’s talking. And so do you.
  • Tagging or adding beats: If two people are in the conversation, unless they are the same gender, get their names out quickly and stick with he/she/they*. Once you’ve established who and what they are, the reader can pretty much follow along. More than one person? Or two of the same gender? You’re going to need to drop names a little more often. 

*The common use of singular they today is not political. It’s the means by which I get to spike the football on a pedantic English teacher’s grave. My favorite English teacher, who just turned 90, would heartily approve.

Wadded paperI’ve had people ask if I’m harder on the books small presses send me than I am ones where the author pays me. The answer: I’m harder on the author as a client.

Now, why is that, since the client usually pays more and is paying me directly? Simple. As an author, you expect certain things of the publisher from all but the smallest presses. This book should already be vetted. The publisher will likely flag any major issues. In one case, I had a tale with supernatural elements that probably should have had a developmental edit, but I was able to meet with the author in person. Going back and reading that book just as a reader, I now have a better understanding of what to ask and what to flag. (Plus, that guy sent me notes for the next one.)

So why be harder on the writer as a client? Simple. I write indie. So I know the writer chasing an agent or a publisher or even going indie is flying without a net. So my edits are going to be deeper. I’m going to cut (and add) more if I don’t think you’re getting your point across, and a bit less lenient on tangents. (I know. As an author, I love my tangents, too. Hurts to kill your darlings, but we can’t all be Stephen King. And even Steve and his editors cut a lot of stuff.) Why? There’s no one, except maybe beta readers, who will tell you when that pronoun should have been a name because you have more than two people in the same conversation. “He said…” Okay, if there are two hes in the conversation, which “he”? If it’s a man and a woman, and they’re the only two people in the conversation, then we’re fine. 

It’s the writer clients who get the long-winded explanations about drive-ups. I’m harder on run-ons with them. Most clients I get for copy editing are newer writers, so I need to help them put their best foot forward with an agent or an acquisitions editor. Yes, experienced writers break the rules, but we’ve been following them for years. So we know when coloring outside the lines looks artistic (We hope!) vs. looking like your two-year-old niece or nephew savaging a coloring book with whatever Crayola they grabbed first.

That’s not to say I don’t get some challenges from Down & Out or other publishers. My very first client I like to say has been doing this longer than I’ve been alive. And I’m just barely old enough to remember when Abbey Road was new. (I also was a toddler. Make of that what you will.) His original editor was Ruth Cavin at St. Martin’s Press, who is still considered a giant in the crime fiction field. My initial client’s manuscripts are not as clean as, say, Jim Fusilli’s, who writes for The Wall Street Journal. Editing Jim is basically moving commas around, half of which I’m pretty sure Jim stetted. The other client is used to pushing it to the deadline, so there’s an expectation (as expressed in feedback) that I’m going to have suggestions how to clean it up. So far, it works, and he’s put out some pretty good books since I started working with him.

And then we have the anthologies. Usually, they’re as much fun to edit as they are to write for. (Okay, I actually prefer writing for them. Less time, except less money.) But even that’s a challenge. Half of mine have Michael Bracken as the main editor, and Michael has sent me several “Go with God” emails after learning I got the copy edit assignment. Why? Short story author A will submit a story with almost no corrections. Yes, that actually happens. Author B can’t consistently capitalize or lower-case a proper noun. Author C is a lawyer. They capitalize EVERYTHING! (Sidenote: My last author was actually a district court judge. He did NOT capitalize everything.)

In the end, it’s what serves the reader best. Sometimes, I’ll leave an entire passage as nothing but sentence fragments because that’s how the author writes, and the reader will just get confused if I try to fix it. Plus, you try to fix every damn sentence in a book. Usually, by page 2, you have the writer’s rhythm and cadence. As an editor, don’t mess with it unless it’s unreadable. Because isn’t that why you hand off to an editor?

Grim ReaperI once read an email to another writer from a zine editor about how he handled manuscripts. “The first thing we do is cut. We cut and cut and cut.”

The more I edit, the more annoyed I get with that comment because that’s how the editor led his message. Editing does involve cutting, but bragging about it is not the best way to instill confidence in a writer. It reminded me of a college professor I had who bragged he failed 80% of his students. If you’re a college instructor doing your program’s capstone course, and 80% of your students fail, maybe you should consider another line of work. I look at editing the same way. 

Now, I’ve known my share of great editors over the years. Ellen Campbell (who gleefully calls herself “the Cutter,” but I’ll get to that in a minute), Jim Thomsen, and Stacy Robinson, my first and still only developmental editor. All three of them make suggestions. And they have good instincts when the writer will have anxiety over a change. Ellen, in particular, wants to be challenged. To her, that’s an opportunity to both teach the writer and learn something. 

But going back to my early days writing, I can recall a rather well-respected freelance editor who admitted she felt she had to be openly hostile to a manuscript. Two years into this job, and I still ask myself, “Why?” 

Of course, anyone who writes begins with the attitude of red ink and red track changes are “a dagger to the soul.” I’m not making that up. A would-be writer from my days of cosplay (when it was just weird grown-ups in costumes) said that as we made a go of a Klingon-themed fanzine. It’s fine in the beginning. We all get precious about our work. It’s our passion. But there comes a time where, if you’re serious, even if you’re just throwing books up on Amazon, you have to start shedding your artistic pretensions. Everyone thinks it’s cute when you walk around the house clutching the manuscript to that first novel, muttering, “My baby! My baby!” I did that, and I have a rather…complicated attitude toward my first novel. You also have to quit being precious about the prose. Sure, Anne Rice once openly bragged about how “Every word is perfect!” No, it’s not, Anne–May you rest in peace. I’ve read a couple of your books.

 

In his classic writing book, On Writing, Stephen King outlines what I’ve modeled for novels. First, write with the door closed. King says this is so you can focus on the story. Now, having been the inspiration for a couple of other writers, I can honestly say it’s also so your friends, relatives, and coworkers won’t kill you. Too many writers want everyone else to read excerpts from whatever they wrote today. No one wants to read an unfinished story because you haven’t finished it yet. Trust me, I got burned in the fanfic days for not having a long-ass trilogy fleshed out ahead of time. (I was a notorious pantser until I got into original scifi.)

King suggests cutting 10% of your first draft. Why? You’re throwing in everything because you don’t know what you need. I describe what I do in a copy edit as trimming the fat. In a dev edit or a story analysis, I trim a LOT of fat. But those changes are structural. In a copy edit, I look at it this way: Was is not your friend. Run-on sentences are bad. Droning on and on about some side detail just bores the reader. King is emphatic about zapping anything ending in “-ly.” Some editors get livid about describing eyes moving, though I’ve always found that to be more annoying than helpful. 

My personal pet peeve are the walk-ups, first pointed out to me by television writer and producer Lee Goldberg. Lee got annoyed when the star (and executive producer) of a show he wrote for insisted on “walk-ups” or “drive-ups.” Since this actor started out in sports, memorizing dialog was more of a challenge than, say, Henry Winkler, who made up a Shakespeare soliloquy on the fly when he forgot his lines in an audition. It was more training than skill as I recall the guy being a fair actor in action roles (and a couple of turns in comedy.) The star wanted scenes where his character drove to the scene, got out of his car, walked up to the door, and knocked. Like this explanation, the walk-ups took up a lot of space.  I’ve noticed them in quite a few manuscripts. 

Cutting is trimming the fat. Bragging about cutting is just showing what a bad ass you think you are to the writer. Cutting and explaining why you cut is in service to the reader and helpful to the writer. That 10% King talks about can be trimmed organically and without rancor. All hostility does is instill fear or a strong urge to get away from a person. If it’s the editor, trust me, they’re not going to have a lot of work. If it’s the writer, well, having a few diva moments of my own on that front, I can attest to the backlash you get for it. 

Open journal and pen.Originally posted to Reaper Edits

You hear the terms developmental and copy edit bandied about. I talk a bit about the former here. These days, a lot of developmental editors are calling themselves “story coaches,” and that’s probably a more accurate term. Especially because, when the developmental edit is done, you will most definitely need a copy edit. All that adding, shifting, and deleting creates even more typos than you began with. I know. I went through a handful and… ouch.

Not every story requires a developmental edit. Most stories require some form of copy edit. Every story should be proofread. But what is a copy edit?

The term is a blanket one for three different types of edits that address the prose itself. It may drift into developmental territory if a structural problem is minor enough. For the most part, though, it’s there to get rid of repetition, maintain consistency, and, as I like to point out, trim the fat. But it encompasses three terms that blur into each other.

  • Scene Edit – This is a term I’ve not heard very much and sounds more like developmental territory. Scene editing is taking each scene and editing for consistency, clarity, and, most importantly, place in story. One thing I always do that falls under the scene editing umbrella is POV checking. Head hopping is a no-no in modern prose. There are four authors I’ve read who can get away with shifting the POV character within a scene, but they’re so smooth at it, you don’t notice. So, unless you’re SA Cosby, Stephen King, George Pelecanos, or Frank Herbert, stop that! (And Herbert should have stopped before he wrote God Emperor of Dune.) But also, I look for “drive-ups,” a term I got from a screenwriter who did away with a certain star’s demands for establishing scenes of him getting out of the car, locking the car, walking up to the house, and knocking on the door.
  • Copy Edit – This is more in-line with consistency. Are they Steve on Page 3 and suddenly Gwendolyn on page 98? Either there’s a gender identity issue you left out or Gwen’s messing with Steve’s stuff, and Steve (not to mention the reader) needs to know why. Also, this is where we look for repeated or overused words and that bane of all readers, the run-on sentence. Copy edits are a deeper dive than a simple proofread, but a lot of the basics of proofreading are covered in this process, as they are with…
  • Line Edit – This is more focused on the text itself. What’s the difference between line and copy editing? Line editing is more basic. You’re less likely to cut whole paragraphs at this point. It’s still more in-depth than a proofread as you’re still attacking repetition and overuse, but the editor will know if you’ve already done a lot of the more in-depth work.

So why the blanket term copy edit for all these? Well, when you get into a manuscript, you don’t know what’s going to be needed. Sometimes I “move commas around,” as I did for one author who works for a major national daily. Sometimes, I have to add a lot of comments, as with my first author for Down & Out, who’s been writing longer than I’ve been alive. It was obvious he expected a lot of notes back and thrives on working on deadlines. Those are extreme cases. (And I’ve done two more for that writer, so I must have done something right.)

Another thing to consider is where the manuscript is coming from. Down & Out sends me most of my manuscripts. So already a certain amount of work has been done, and having been edited as a writer by them, I know some of what they expect. But I also get a handful of manuscripts on referral or direct inquiry. I’m a little more strict on those as the author is frequently shopping for an agent or a publisher. So The Chicago Manual of Style must rule. That said, if a writer can send me a style sheet, it helps keeping things consistent.

The copy edit is the most common type of edit. Usually, the author knows their story, so it’s a matter of streamlining prose.

 

Wadded paper

Originally posted to Reaper Edits

So what is it I do for a writer?

Nothing. I do it for the reader. That is the writer’s ultimate client. Sure, they have to consider bookstores, distributors, agents, and acquiring editors, but whether the author is writing independently or going traditional, my job is to get them closer to the reader. A publisher’s copy editor might have a whole new round of red ink after I’ve worked on it. That’s to be expected. I recently edited a book for Down & Books I did not know was a rerelease. (I also did not realize the author was from the UK making a slight adaptation for a US audience. That’s another topic.) So I treated it as a new book, a little caught off guard by references to recent events. As it turns out, the book was not only a best seller fourteen years ago, but it won awards. So, did I disrespect the previous editor?

The average book is about 80,000-90,000 words. That’s a lot of words. A short novella can go as low as 20,000, as my most recent project did. There, a writer with some skill in self-editing can get most of the glitches that pop up in every manuscript.

But what does a writer need?

I do three kinds of edits, though one is not technically editing and not something I offer as part of Reaper Edits. I do developmental, copy editing (a blanket term that can mean line editing, actual copy editing, and scene editing), and beta reading.

Developmental Editing

If you’ve ever been through one of these, and I have, you know they can be absolutely brutal. They take a long time and should either include a copy edit or a referral to someone who copy edits. I get referrals quite often from a developmental editor. Many of them call themselves “story coaches,” and that’s pretty accurate.

The old saw says to “Kill your darlings,” and every major writer from Hemingway to King says that. Douglas Adams would have you destroy the space-time continuum killing them, but I’ll save that for my author blog. Developmental editing is where that happens. That scene you thought was hilarious? Or an emotional tour-de-force? Yeah, the reader’s probably going to lay down your book or delete from Kindle and move on to something else. It’s not that these scenes aren’t important. It’s that they may have served their purpose, which is to allow the author to get into the characters’ heads. They now know something they didn’t know.

But it’s more than that. Scene shuffling to improve flow. Keeping character names consistent, as well as their voices. Grandma Burns might be a foul-mouthed old lady, but unless the story requires it, she’s not going to suddenly sound like Ian McKellan reading the Magna Carta to a roomful of kindergartners. Steve had better not become Gwendolyn, not without an operation or some gender identity issues the reader’s going to want to know about. Otherwise, the reader will ask, “Who is this? And why is she messing with Steve’s stuff?”

Many editors brag they cut and cut and cut. Too many, if you ask me. Yes, you need to trim the fat on your story, but bragging about cuts basically says, “It’s about the editor, not the writer, not the reader.” And a dev edit may also add material. How about a chapter to explain something? How about expanding that scene to show instead of tell? Maybe a recap (without hitting us over the head with it) of earlier events or even previous entries in a series? These are things a developmental editor looks for.

Do you need a developmental edit? I have an editor friend who swears every story needs a dev edit. It’s the old saw of “Well, I have a hammer, so it must be a nail.” At the same time, his writers are pleased with him and his colleagues. So, who needs a dev edit?

Is it a new type of story for you? Are you an inexperienced writer, especially one who wants to traditionally publish? Also, it’s 2024. You may want to do a sensitivity check. As an author, I’ve generally had good beta readers point out where things went over a line. Remember, it’s your story, but you have to eventually find an audience. Also, an editor versed in the genre can steer you toward audience expectations, even if you plan to subvert them. You need to know what expectations you are subverting and why, as well as what they won’t tolerate.

And a dev editor can help you find your own voice. It’s a lot of work. It can be ego bruising. I had one potential client send me three abusive emails when I declined to rework his manuscript. Editors are not there to pat you on the head for your genius. (Except mine. I’m a friggin’ god! Aaaaand my wife is rolling her eyes at me.) They’re there to make you better, and they don’t have a stake in the story. But it’s worth the effort if that masterpiece you finished three months ago suddenly looks like an episode of Hoarders.

Copy Editing

Copy edits involving trimming and streamlining the prose, getting rid of repeated words, and minimizing passive voice. This is what I do. So what do I do?

First, I use a tool to look for inconsistencies in spelling, abbreviations, capitalization. Those are quick hits. Then I do what’s called a crutch word check. Every editor is different. One editor, whom I consider the queen of copy editors, has a lengthy list of words she does not want to see in a manuscript. And the list grows. Some look for adverbs, but most writers these days are so adverb-averse that I hardly see them. I start with three words: Very, suddenly, and just. Very and just are two of the most overused words in manuscript. They just annoy me very, very much. Since I utilize track changes in Word, I can go through and put back instances I struck out when I read them in context. Suddenly is a word which must be driven out of a manuscript like snakes out of Ireland. (Yes, I know. That’s a myth. St. Pat had good marketing. And probably introduced stout as a replacement for mead. Okay, that’s enough faux Terry Pratchett.) I actually am bummed out when I end up leaving more than one “suddenly” in a manuscript, even in an anthology. It’s usually a useless word, though I find the odd case.

Occasionally, I get an anthology where the senior editor is Michael Bracken, a short story writer and editor I’ve known for many years now. As an editor, Michael’s pet peeve is “got.” So, the last antho he put together, I decided he’s the client. (Actually, his publisher was the client, but I ask Michael questions as I work.) I thought I’d do him a solid and go after got. One story had it every other line in dialog, and the writer of that particular short made it work. I gave up. So, Michael, if you’re reading this, I tried. (It happens.)

After that, with another tool, a go through the manuscript line-by-line looking for passive voice, repeated words, misuse of “that” (when separating clauses. You usually don’t need it.), sensitivity checks (not as common as social media would have you believe), and my personal pet peeve, the run-on sentence. Boy, do we all write a lot of run-on sentences. I’ve occasionally gotten (Sorry, Michael) a “Yikes!” back from an author. But as a writer, I can sympathetically respond, “I know, right?” (Works best if you read that in the voice of Bruce from Family Guy.)

If a sentence can’t be reworked without rewriting it, I flag it in the comments with an explanation. If it needs rewritten, the writer is the best judge of that. Also, I don’t flag every instance of passive voice. Sometimes, active just sounds stupid, especially in description. She may have pouty lips, but the reader’s likely to throw the book across the room if her lips pout.

Is/was is not the writer’s buddy. Neither is “started/began to…” when the action is not interrupted or doesn’t intensify. Water may start to boil, but he should walk toward the door, not begin to walk toward the door. Unless she stops him.

Drive-ups: I’m probably the only editor who calls it that, but it’s an old concept. If you spend a lot of time describing your character’s habit of grabbing wallet, keys, and phone, getting in the car, starting the car, and pulling the car out of the driveway/parking spot, I am so going to flag that. They reader does not care. I also get the impulse to do that. I came up with the term after hearing Lee Goldberg, an author and television writer since the 1980s, describe a producer’s need for “drive ups.” The producer was also the star of the show and demanded each scene start with his character getting out of the car, walking up to the door, and knocking on it. This actor came from pro football and didn’t like having to memorize a lot of lines. So he would inevitably ask, “Where are the drive-ups? The walk-ups?” (I also noticed that show improved when Lee got promoted on the staff.)

Beta Reading

Beta reads. The poor man’s edits. Usually done for trade between writers. A finished story should have at least one beta read. I want four, but I have regulars who will do it for me. There are no rules for beta reading. One will tell you, “It’s good” or “It sucks.” If that’s the end of it, it’s a waste of time. Hopefully that beta reader tells you at least why. Most will make notes. Some will copy edit and find typos earlier edits missed. (Remember that reissue I did? And that originally came out through a major publisher.)

While there are some beta reading services, and one I know of fills out a standard questionnaire, usually, they’re free. Which means it’s a volunteer effort. The reader might infuriate the writer, but remember, you asked. Occasionally, you get a dud. For me, one did not, apparently, ever see The Martian or watch an episode of the many Star Treks with their captain’s/personal logs. Also, I think they were trying to backdoor sell me a dev edit. (Editors, don’t do that. It’s hard enough to market what we do without someone being an overbearing ass about it.) We parted ways, though I did get a suggestion that became a core part of one of my series characters. I have a cadre of three readers who are good about asking me if I’m out of my mind? Or flagging where I assumed the reader knew about this minor event mentioned in chapter 5 from a much earlier book in the series. Or just because one character is a bigoted scumbag does not mean I have to use his loveless language. Beta readers can help with or without an editor. We’re all human. And every edit can cause or reveal more glitches to be fixed. We all want to be perfect, but I even found a glaring problem in a Lawrence Block novel. And I learned to write from his books on writing.