May
- June 2004
By Tim Myers
Sometimes the truest things are the simplest – and since struggling writers tend to see professional writing as inherently complex, we can miss certain basic realities. I think some writers’ attitudes towards editors fall into this category.
You’ll hear people talk about editors as if they’re powerhungry despots, or mercenaries, or unforgiving literary critics,or even arbitrary simpletons. But the truth is they’re “human readers” – and unless you start with that idea, you’re liable to react to them in unfair and ineffective ways.
I can’t claim to speak for editors, and I’d be happy to be corrected. But the more I learn, the more I understand that writer and editor are partners (though of course it doesn’t always feel like “partnership,” especially during rejection). And I can’t understand my partner unless I fully accept that she’s as human as I am.
Being a “human reader” means, of course, that editors make mistakes. I love the honesty of a form rejection I got recently from a major house: “And finally . . . it’s quite possible that the [editor] simply got up on the wrong side of bed and therefore had neither the sensitivity nor sense of whimsy necessary to truly appreciate new work.”
An editor from Cedar Rapids once criticized a story I’d written by noting sarcastically, “As far as I know, there are no palmettos in Iowa . . .,” when in fact my own story featured a magic cornfield which included polar ice, tropical swamp, and Saharan dunes – none of which turn up in Iowa either. But there wasn’t any point in getting huffy; people make mistakes. I’ve also had editors kindly point out legitimate errors in my work, and purely for my benefit – which was quite “human” of them.
What took me longer to understand was the “taste” any editor works from is also human – that is, individual and particular to some degree – and that this is exactly how it should be. Publications for writers often include the latest information on what specific editors are interested in – “highend literary,” “unique picture books with comic elements,” “ coming-of-age realism,” etc. Many writers, I imagine, feel pressure to research such preferences in hopes of targeting the right editor with the right manuscript. And this works, to some degree – of course. But that doesn’t mean a writer should commit utterly to the idea that all editors are arbitrarily individualistic, and submission only a game of cat and mouse.
“What do editors want?!” The exasperated cry goes up wherever unpublished writers meet. I love the old line that implies editors themselves aren’t always sure: “Give us the same – but different.” In other words, what sold before – but don’t merely imitate (though God knows that works sometimes too). How, you might ask, are writers supposed to know?
The answer is to back up and ask different questions. Editors don’t represent some machine-like infallibility when it comes to knowing what’s good or what sells – though most of them are a hell of a lot better at such assessments than the rest of us. I used to think of them as somehow constituting impeccable literary judgment, an Olympian group operating with the certainty of higher knowledge. No. Again, they’re human readers – their reactions have to include professional savvy, obviously, and their talent and experience in that regard usually improve them tremendously. But it’s still far more of a crap shoot than most people realize. An editor’s most precious skill, it seems to me, is being able to read not as an industry professional – but as an ordinary person. That’s who we market books to, after all; that’s who we write for.
So when I send out a manuscript, I try to think of the editor as an ordinary reader I’m trying to reach – who just happens to have degrees of expertise in literature, marketing, and the rest. I have a couple of powerful advantages here. First, I know the editor loves to read, is someone attuned to the power of good writing. And second, I know the editor really, really wants to find something good – he’s tough, but at the same time he’s begging to be captivated.
I know too that no two “human readers” are exactly alike, so my manuscript may not work for this person. That’s okay. It doesn’t mean the editor is a narrow-minded dope who didn’t “understand my concept,” or a market-crazed business predator who can’t see literature for its own sake. By the same token, it doesn’t necessarily mean my manuscript is weak – but it may. I can’t afford not to pay attention to reader’s reactions – and editors are usually the best readers going.
And there’s a final advantage to learning this simple truth too. Once I began to see editors as human, I got a lot more relaxed about my own humanity, and, consequently, about the submission process. After all, it’s not pitiful little me proffering a manuscript to some beetle-browed god of literature. It’s an exchange between partners. If we both do our parts, we may really be able to put something together. That's how humans usually work.
And if not this time, maybe next time. That’s human too.
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