Should I Be My Own Editor?

You’ve finished your magnum opus. Congratulations! Take a moment to savor but only a moment. You need to edit the manuscript so it flows as you would wish. And ask yourself whether you should be your own editor. As I’ve already mentioned, editing while you’re writing the story is a bad idea. But I think the question is not so much should you be your own editor as can you.

Can you be your own editor?

There are some obvious things you need. Being a good proof-reader, knowing what you are looking for, etc. But can you also do it psychically? Ask yourself:

Are you in love with your novel?

Of course, you can (and should) love it but are you in love with it? It’s hard to do a good edit if you are convinced that every word is a pearl, and any change would destroy the whole. You need to have enough perspective to edit effectively.

How do you react to criticism?

If your automatic reaction is Of course I welcome criticism, I’m talking to you. When others critique your work, do you consider or spend most of your time explaining why the comments are (a) wrong; or (b), if correct, irrelevant; or (c) if relevant, not useful.

A critical part of editing is stepping back to view the novel more objectively. If you don’t react well to others’ comments, it’s hard to imagine you’ll engage in effective self-critique.

Can you be fairly ruthless in editing?

Clint Eastwood directed Bridges of Madison County, starring himself and Meryl Streep.

They fall in love while dancing. Lovely. Then another dance sequence establishing the same thing. Also delightful. But then another and another and another. A total of five dancing-falling-in-love scenes.

Each scene established the intent and did it well. But five were not needed. It felt as if Eastwood was so in love with them, he couldn’t cut any.

Can you be ruthless and cut even excellent writing when it impedes the forward motion of the plot? A tough but necessary qualification.

If your answers to the questions above are largely positive, then upcoming posts will help you be your own editor. If the answers tend to the negative, you might consider

Using friends/writing as editors

Well, it’s possible but it can be a problematic route.

Honestly, unless you have exceptionally good friends/relatives or members of your writing group are willing to do a quid pro quo, I’d be disinclined to tap them for this somewhat onerous task.

I am assuming that you’re not paying them so the edit has to be on their time, in their style, and incurs a huge you-owe-me-one. This may not suit your sense of urgency.

If you are paying, you have to be sure they have the editing skills before you hand it over. Being a good and enthusiastic reader of your work doesn’t cut it. This is a technical job which needs technical skills.

Hiring an editor

This of course costs and you need to decide whether it’s a good investment. If you do, make sure that you have re-read, revised, and fixed up the manuscript first. You want the editor to come up with new insights, not pick up on things you should have caught yourself.

With all of its caveats, I have to say, I tend to prefer being my own editor (with some exceptions I’ll note in later posts). Yes, it’s a lot of work but it can also be fun and most importantly, you can take the novel in the direction you want. Next post: Should I Edit as I Go?

March 13, 2020January 27, 2020

He Uttered! He exclaimed!

“You almost always know when you’re reading a novice writer,” she uttered, “Because the dialogue goes something like this:

“I hope this works,” Sheila whispered.

“Of course it will!” Norm shouted.

“Well, no need to get shirty,” she uttered.

“Then stop second-guessing me,” he barked.

“I am not!” she exclaimed.

“You are always interfering!” he roared.

“I am not.” she protested.

What is wrong with this? Well, in the sins of the world, it’s not really high up, but consider this revision.

“I hope this works,” Sheila whispered.

“Of course it will!” Norm shouted.

“Well, no need to get shirty.”

“Then stop second-guessing me!”

“I am not!”

“You are always interfering!”

“I am not.”

Reads better, don’t you think? Even though all I did was remove most of the speaker attributions. Why is it more effective? Let’s talk.

Uttered, etc. is preening

A while back, in a post called Creating the Continuous Dream, I discussed how writers must create a world into which the reader can be totally immersed. And how even small things can kick the reader out of the dream and thus out of your story.

The use of fancy-dancy dialogue tags is an example of breaking the dream for the reader. You want her to be engrossed in your story and not pulled up short (i.e. ejected from the dream) to pay attention to the variety of your speech attributions.

But isn’t variety good?

Normally, yes. With most of your writing, you want to vary your terms. Look at this example: It’s important to understand the importance of not being a name dropper of important people. Clunky. It’s more readable to say, it’s important not to name-drop. So typically, you want to avoid repetition.

The one exception is speech attribution where using ‘said’ frequently or exclusively is the way to go. When characters are talking, you want to highlight the fascinating and insightful conversation without at the same time, implicitly communicating Look at me! Look at how erudite I am!

The emotion or manner of speaking needs to come from what the characters say, not how the writer tells the reader they are saying it. Look at the revised dialogue above. The feeling comes from the characters’ interaction; the reader doesn’t need the writer to tell her that.

Can I never use other tags?

Well, as in all writing, things are rarely cast in concrete.

For example, it’s okay to vary the tags if the reader needs additional information. In the above example, the reader probably should realize that Norm responded to Sheila’s whisper with shouting. You will undoubtedly explain why as the story progresses.

But often with a two-person dialogue, you don’t need tags at all once you’ve established who is speaking (as in the example above).

If you want to communicate how a character is speaking, substitute an action for an appellation. Let’s do the example once again.

“I hope this works,” Sheila whispered.

“Of course it will!” Norm shouted.

“Well, no need to get shirty.”

“Then stop second-guessing me!”

“I am not!” Sheila poked him in the side.

“You are always interfering!” He brushed her hand aside.

“I am not.”

Actually, I don’t love this iteration. I prefer to let the characters’ personalities speak for themselves but if you need to convey a reaction, use their actions to do so.

(Yes, I know I used ‘dialogue’ a lot in this piece—I think I can add another exception—technical terms).

February 28, 2020February 7, 2020

How to Show Emotion

Showing emotion is often one of the toughest things to do—in the sense of having the reader feel and identify with the feelings of the character.

You can do it by “He was sad,” but that’s not showing the emotion—that’s just telling the reader your take on the character’s mental condition. Look at the image above. If you describe what the person in the middle picture is doing rather than labeling it, you might come up with, “He dabbed a handkerchief to one eye.”

While that description doesn’t necessarily tug at the heart strings, it could be the beginning of a more effective scene.

“I can’t believe she’d do that.” He was sad.

Versus

“I can’t believe she’d do that.” He dabbed a handkerchief to one eye.

See, there is a subtle difference. It is easier for the reader to connect with the character’s action than with the writer’s description of it.

Emotion is tough

Here are some thoughts about how to get better at emotion in your characters.

Be specific. As in the example above, describe the action rather than your interpretation of it. Not He was pissed but His lips straightened into a thin line.

Don’t name the emotion. In one of those perverse things that is just life, the most effective way to show emotion is never to use the name of the feeling you are going for. That is, you don’t say he’s bewildered, you show how a person would act in that state. It’s not always easy to do but if you can’t picture it enough to describe it, how can you expect the reader to get it?

Differentiate between you and the character. In order to have fully realized characters, you need to depict how the character feels in the situation not how you would feel. Your villain might chortle with glee when the heroine falls off the cliff; you might gasp. You want to avoid having your characters acting/feeling as you might—it makes for a homogeneous emotional landscape and is therefore boring.

Be in touch with your own emotions. This one follows on from the previous point. If you don’t have a visceral connection to your feelings, its lack will show up on the page in a mysterious way. If you are hiding you from yourself, it’s harder to create characters that have access to the full range of emotions. I know this is a big thing to lay down and then walk away from, but how you get truly in touch with your feelings is outside the scope of this blog. But is nonetheless very worthwhile pursuing, quite aside from the benefits to your writing. See, I told you this is hard.

You don’t need to do it all the time

When the characters’ emotional state is an important part of the story, then you’d probably be better off showing than telling. But when it is not, and this is likely to be the majority of the characters the majority of the time, you don’t need to. And in fact, an exhaustive description of how everyone is feeling will likely slow down the action and bore your readers.

February 28, 2020February 8, 2020

How to Turn Told into Showed

As I showed (sorry about the pun) in a previous post on the difference between show and tell, this is a tricky concept. But as part of your toolbox of skills, you need to be able to turn tell passages into shown ones when you think it’s important to do so. So this post is about practicing this operation.

From ‘told’ to ‘showed’

Let’s take a couple of pieces of tell and convert them.

First example: Luke is a nice guy

Told: Luke is a nice guy. Nobody would disagree with that. He’s a volunteer firefighter, he cuts the grass for Mrs. Blanchard next door, and he’s very active at his community center.

Telling the reader what to think about Luke and then providing proof to back up the statement is still tell. Showing can go any number of ways. Here is one:

Shown: Luke called into the house. “Mrs. B., do you want me to move the big planters?”

Mrs. Blanchard came out of the house, carrying a tray. “Lemonade with lots of lemon, just the way you like it.”

Luke took a big gulp. “Hits the spot. So what about the planters?”

“Oh, you’ve done so much. I hate to ask for anything more.”

Luke laughed. “Hey, I do it for the best lemonade in town.”

You could have shown any of the other actions described in the told sentence. Not only does this scene establish that Luke is a nice guy but we get other useful information: he does this regularly and is modest in that he de-emphasizes his good deed by the last line. Tell can be more efficient but show gives you a richness you often want.

Second example: Nancy is afraid

Told: The noise was eerie. Nancy was afraid but she steeled herself to investigate.

Again, the writer tells the reader how to interpret the environment and what Nancy’s reaction is. It is the writer saying, “Trust me, this is how it was.”

Shown: The floorboard creaked as she stepped on it and Nancy whirled around. Nobody. Her shoulders were coming back to their position when they shot up again. Far in the distance, maybe outside, maybe upstairs, a moan. Nancy strained to hear. Not quite a moan—lower, more like an animal.

She tried to breathe but all that came were short, jagged bursts. She turned to the front door and made a first step towards it when, again, the sound. Upstairs, definitely. She closed her eyes. I can’t! And then stood up straighter. I have to.

See? Because you are describing what is happening rather than summarizing it, the reader can experience the eeriness and fright himself rather than getting it filtered through your interpretation.

Doesn’t show take longer to do?

Yes—both for the writer to write and the reader to reader. So, are we in a race I don’t know about? As I have discussed in other posts, the point is not to get to the end in record time; the point is to create a story which has the reader enthralled all the way there. Show is often a more effective way to achieve that.

By the by, as with many of the things I am discussing, you don’t need to go overboard. Keep show for the bits which are important to your story. You can often get away with tell for the other parts.

February 21, 2020February 21, 2020

Creating a Page-turner when the Ending is Known

The stage musical, Come from Away shares a phenomenon with movies like Titanic, Apollo 11, and Argos. That is, from the start, you know how the story is going to turn out. The ship will sink, the astronauts will land safely, and the American diplomats will be rescued from the 1979-1981 Iranian revolution. In Come From Away, the airline passengers get safely home.

The problem is that a story often gets a lot of its uumph from the reader wanting to know how things turn out. Will the villain get her comeuppance? Will the lovers get together? Will Mary find her lamb? Who killed Cock Robin? (Sorry, got carried away a bit).

It’s tricky to write a plot with a known ending because you lack the element of surprise/satisfaction/ etc. at the climax. Readers can get impatient because they think they know where things are going.

This happened to me with Titanic. By the mid-movie, I was thinking, “Yeah, yeah. Sad story. Boo-hoo. When is the sucker gonna sink?” Also cut down on my empathy for Leonardo DiCaprio’s watery fate, as you can imagine.

So, it can be a difficult task to keep reader interest with one hand effectively tied behind your back.

Writing a page-turner with one hand tied behind your back

First off, you need all the regular story-telling skills I’ve been talking about in this blog. But now, you need to put in special effort to keep the reader entertained until she gets to the ending. Here are some ways to do it.

Tension in every scene.

You can focus on how difficult it was to achieve the end goal and/or how easily things could have gone off track. You can ratchet up the tension and rivet the reader by detailing these trials.

Fate of (fictional) main character unknown.

Often, even in a true story, the main character (let’s call him Tom) is fictional—inserted in the story as an anchor for the reader to identify with. This allows you to play with that Tom’s fate. He can be instrumental in achieving the end (rescue, safe landing, etc.) and still himself come to a sticky end. Thus, assuming the reader identifies with him—and if she doesn’t, we have a whole different issue—but assuming she does, she is going to want to know how things work out for him. And thus you have a more typical story with an unknown climax. ‘Course, doesn’t work as well for memoirs.

Surprise ending.

Quentin Tarentino did this in Inglorious Basterds. The commandoes plan to kill Hitler in a cinema by igniting the flammable nitrate film. Knowing that Hitler did not die this way, I was intrigued to see how Tarentino would pull off a satisfying ending given this reality. And then Hitler dies in the fire! Despite a niggle that millions of Tarentino fans will have a distorted view of history, changing the ending does perk up the reader/viewer.

Surprise interpretation.

In my novel, SCAM, four out-of-work Canadian actors pretend to be an intact British acting family to win roles on an American sitcom. It took on the feel of a heist movie—i.e. it isn’t one unless you have a heist. Similarly, there is no novel if they don’t get the parts. Since the reader knows this, I interpreted the events in what I think was a surprising way. Please read it to see if you agree! (ADV.)

So, writing a story where the ending is known by the reader before she starts the novel can be tricky. But it is possible to do so if you are aware of the special challenge you face.