I really thought I was ready. Criticism is nothing new, and criticism of things I’ve created are part of my life. How could sending a manuscript to an editor be any worse than that? What could an editor possibly say that is worse than what my colleagues and I say to each other every day?
Well, funny thing about that.
I expected a sea of red all over the manuscript when I got it back. Verb tenses were inconsistent. Word choices were clunky and needed some smoothing. Sentence structure was too consistent. My editor pointed every last one of them out, and I duly made all of the updates. Those were the painless ones, because they were purely mechanical. This is how the language works. These are the rules. Follow them. The scientist saw the flaws, and the scientist corrected them. He owns the words, and he cleaned up his mess.
But there were a few things in there, a few comments, that somehow bypassed all of the calluses from decades of peer reviews, that circumvented every last defense to cut to the quick. These weren’t missing commas or extra periods. These were deeper questions like “Why does so-and-so have to die here? What purpose does her death serve?” Those didn’t go to the scientist. Those went to the artist.
The answer to the question, of course, is that the character died in my head when the artist was spinning the story. The death didn’t have to mean anything in my imagination. It’s just what happened. The artist paints the pictures and spins the stories. He doesn’t require there to be a reason behind it, and I think that he’s the reason that the comment hit me so hard. The scientist doesn’t see the comments as criticism: it’s either right or wrong, and if it’s wrong it needs to be fixed. The artist, on the other hand…that dude is seriously sensitive. You come after his story, his art, and it crushes him. There is no right, and there is certainly no wrong.
I was destroyed by that comment. It took me months before I was even willing to open up the file again, let alone try to write anything. Finally, I talked to an author friend of mine, and the conversation we had is probably the only reason I ever went back to it. It’s a debt she probably doesn’t realize is owed, and one I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to repay.
She convinced me to try again, and to look at the death as a reader instead of the writer. It turns out that the editor was right all along. The death was out of place. Not only did it not serve a purpose, it actually detracted from the rest of the scene. I figured out how to change it and forge ahead. I dreaded every new page, hoping not to find other comments like that. There were more, but I found it easier to divorce myself from the artist and solve the problem. I even came across one comment far later that said “That took an unexpected (and totally awesome) turn.” I let the artist have his moment there. He earned it.
So where does that leave me? The first book is in the can. Done. I need to find people to read it now. I’m writing the second one now. I’m about halfway through the first draft. I’m going to go back to the same editor when I’m ready for it. Or rather, when I think I’m ready for it. As much as her comments stung, and as much inner turmoil they churned up, she was amazing. I can’t imagine sending this to anyone else.
Comments are closed.