I knit when I’m trying to make sense of something and my encounter with a freelance editor last week qualifies – big time. While I’m a big believer in learning, and keep myself open to it, sometimes an experience drops in to remind yourself that your heart is your best counsel.
Here’s the jist: Met her via Facebook. Shared my query and first chapter. She liked my chapter and thought I had a unique idea and knew what I was doing even though my chapter was a bit “squishy”.
Squishy? Wanting to know more, I hired her for an hour’s edit, to ID the squishyness – to understand her perspective.
What’s Latin for Buyer Beware? Caveat Emptor? It applies here.
Her “edit” went well beyond anything I expected and blew my mind for few days – but ultimately, I was reminded that just because someone has an opinion – doesnt’ make them the expert for you.
While she switched out a few words and added a few bits of action, what I objected to most were the following assertions:
- She asserted I had a POV problem, “(Reporting from inside the head of both characters)” seemingly ignorant of third person unlimited omniscience, and asserting I should investigate “DEEP POV” because I wouldn’t want to give an “editor ANY reason to think you are squishy on basic writing rules.” -(!!)- Later on she directed me to a website that asserted there are three POV’s: first, second and third. If anyone reading this thinks there is a second person POV, please contact me. There is not. Never was. Never will be. As soon as the word YOU is written or spoken, there is an I behind it.
- The above point galled me. POINT OF VIEW is a very specific term about the narrator, not the characters. She also sent me a link for “DEEP POV” and I couldn’t believe what I was reading! I guess some people think they can just make it up. Professor Wynne would shudder.
- She added some background on my characters that was incorrect, including a really cheesy action of my little girl putting her finger under her chin and looking up as she wondered. YEEESSH!
- And the coup was her deletion of an entire scene and rewriting the last pages, changing my voice and characters. My husband nicely summed it up: “Oh, I see what she did, she changed it into “Little House on the Prarie.”
|ORIGINAL VERSION||“EDITORS” REVISION|
|Sitting together, they silently admired the hat and each other as the sky’s pink faded to soft gray. Looking up, Gamma tapped Celeste’s legs.“Come now, put on shoes. Time to wear your hat home proud.”
Vigilantly watching from her kitchen window as the sun set, Myrtle let out a big sigh when she saw Gamma and Celeste finally appear on the crest of the hill. Squinting in the waning light, she scrutinized their ambling figures and asked aloud: “What in heaven’s name is on her head?”
Martin rose from the kitchen table and peered beyond his wife, seeing his mother and daughter heading toward the house. He knew instantly. “A bark hat. Made one as a boy.”
Myrtle scoffed. “Where could you find bark on the docks of New York?”
Pulling his ear, Martin shook his head. “Every now and again Mother would take me to the country. When I was around Celeste’s age, we found a creek and made a bark hat together. Took all day.” Martin reached for a glass off the window sill and drew water from the kitchen tap. “She showed me how to curl the bark as we stood in the creek.” He gently inhaled, sucking air through his teeth, still able to smell the mix of grass, mud and bark from that day. “I loved that hat, but it got crushed on the trolley ride home. Never made another.” Keeping time with the jaunty step of his daughter as she crossed the grass toward the house, he recited: “Truth, Courage, Openness, Curiosity, Creativity, Love.” Sighing deeply, he returned to the kitchen table and his opened newspaper.
“So did they live there forever?” Celeste swung her grandmother’s arm.
“Our ancestors, the Bohemians.”
“For long, long time there, until one day some strangers – warriors – attack them.”
“Meanies!” Celeste cried, thinking of the boy in kindergarten who smushed her painting.
“Big meanies! Many of our ancestors run far away, to other countries. But some stay, hiding in mountain until warriors leave and is safe again. That is our family story, which I tell another day.”
Holding on to her hat, Celeste carefully climbed the porch steps and ran into the kitchen, beaming. “Mama, Papa, look what we made today! A birch bark hat!”
Pushing aside his paper, Martin held out his arms, lifting his daughter to his lap. “Ah, you lucky girl. A Bohemian birch bark hat!” Closely examining her work, he named each treasure she’d used. “What a fine, fine job you’ve done, my dearest Celeste. Quite a talent you’ve got,” and he kissed her cheek with a loud smack.
Giggling, Celeste slid off his lap and crossed to her mother at the stove. “And Gamma said she’ll tell me all her story pillows and take me to Bohemia, when I’m older.”
Smiling, Myrtle cooed in return. “Very nice, I’m sure, but you’d best go wash for supper. Martin, would you help her, please?”
|Sitting together, they silently admired the hat and each other as the sky’s pink faded to soft gray. Gamma tapped Celeste’s legs.“Come now, put on shoes. Time to wear your hat home proud.”
As they crested the hill, Gamma caught sight of Myrtle, vigilantly keeping watch from her kitchen window. She sighed.
“So did they live there forever?” Celeste asked, swinging her grandmother’s arm.
“The Boy Kelps.”
“For long, long time there, until one day some strangers attack them.”
“And what did they do?”
“Many of them run far away, to other countries.”
“I would run away, too,” Celeste said, and she dropped Gamma’s hand and began running toward the house. Gamma watched as Celeste flew up the porch steps, carefully holding on to her hat, and then ran through the door into the kitchen, calling out, “Mama, Papa, look what we made today! A birch bark hat!”
Gamma slowed her pace, considering what might happen next . As she climbed the steps, she heard Myrtle say, “What on earth is that?”
“A birch bark hat, Mama! It means things like, truth, and courage and—”
Gamma stepped through the door in time to see Martin, sitting at his usual newspaper-reading spot at the kitchen table, hold out his arms then lift his daughter to his lap. “And openness and curiosity and—” he said, trailing off and cocking his head as if recalling a long-buried memory. “And creativity and love,” he finished, with a touch of triumph. “You lucky girl. A Bohemian birch bark hat!” Closely examining it, he named each treasure she’d used. “What a fine, fine job you’ve done, my dearest Celeste. Quite a talent you’ve got,” he said, and kissed her cheek with a loud smack.
“Do you have one too, Papa?”
“Not anymore. But I made one as a boy.”
Myrtle glanced at Gamma before removing the hat from Celeste’s head. “How lovely. It’s time to get cleaned up for dinner. Off you go.”
“You too, Papa. You need cleaned-up,” Celeste said, pointing at his newspaper-print stained fingers.
- In several follow-up emails she made further suggestions, including giving my girl three different nicknames – which had something to do with her own mother’s experience.
- She also dissed my current editor as a “business journalist” who doesn’t understand literary form or current marketplace styles.(without knowing anything about him and his background)
- She also mentioned that she knew a publisher who might be interested but it would have to be edited in the same way she edited my first chapter, as she would be the editor.
That’s when my lightbulb went off.
Just because a house wants to publish you doesn’t mean they believe what you believe.
Just because an editor takes you on, doesn’t mean he/she will guide you to the manuscript you wanted to present.
Everyone has an opinion. Everyone has an agenda. It’s a fine line between learning and being bowled over.
One of my friends, who had a brilliant singing career, explained it like this: “Oh, you came across a PLUSER. They were all over the music industry. All they can do is add-on something to someone elses work – plus this and plus that – and if you listen to them, your work becomes unrecognizable.” Then she added: “It takes about 4 albums before you get that hit – the one that really reflects you and that’s when the plusers don’t stand a chance of getting in your way.”
ALL of this led me to knitting like a fiend until I finally came back to the realization that just because someone calls themself an editor, doesn’t make them the editor for you.
And just because someone wants to publish your book, doesn’t mean they are going to publish YOUR book.
And just because someone has a website and makes pronouncements about POV, doesn’t make them correct. (Do they not teach DRAMATIC ANALYSIS anymore?)
This lesson only cost me twenty bucks but in terms of getting very clear on who I am and how I write and where I want to be = priceless.
What experiences have you had in this arena?