Editing Pieces: The Role of the Editor and the Author

If a writer desires a preview to how the public may receive her work, she should submit it to an editor. I definitely was unprepared for the response I received. I found my editing company online. It wasn't the cheapest company by far, but it also wasn't the most expensive. The owner of the company, a current university associate professor, kept in constant contact with me. He seemed as if he was hungry for my business. I liked his approach. Some of the editors I contacted came off as pompous as they read me their tiresome professional resume as an answer to whether or not they'd be willing to negotiate on their price. I needed someone who I could have a working relationship with. Someone personable. The proprietor of the editing company I selected requested a sample of my work to determine the cost for services. He sent me an original response, not some template, and gave me a brief critique of my writing. He said that he saw my message as timely and necessary. From there, he assigned me to one of his associate editors who specializes in biographies.

For ten days, I did not allow my phone to leave my side. I checked my email icon every several minutes. The anticipation of waiting for the editor's feedback surely minimized my life expectancy. My husband and I were laying in bed watching a movie one Saturday afternoon when the "1 New Message" icon suddenly appeared on my phone. I pushed the symbol in hopes that it would be an email from the editor, but when I saw that it was, fear and nervousness suddenly overcame me. I laid there, unknowingly biting off my fingernails, one by one. I excused myself from our movie and walked into our home office, closing the door behind me. I needed to be alone to face what I feared--criticism. This editor didn't know me, he never met me; all he knew of me came from the substance of my writing. The email he sent me contained two attachments-- 1) his five page, single spaced report and 2) my manuscript coupled with his editing markings. The first attachment I opened was his report. He gave a very thorough breakdown of the book. He summarized the chapters, commented on the books readability/flow/organization, commented on whether he thought it had a chance at publication, commented on my writing style, commented on my character development and main idea, and finally he interjected his overall opinion as a reader. I completely agreed with everything he advised, but I had a personal problem with his outlook on me. I felt like with all of his education he still completely missed the most obvious point of the book. It wasn't about me trying to list every single wrong that every single person ever did to me and use the book as a platform to shout them out about it. No. The point was to show how I processed things. How I internalized them. How I had these social mishaps because of my early experiences with being subjected to witnessing family violence. It was about how I struggled to fight against my natural inclinations in order to be honorable. To say the least, I was very emotional after reading his comments. But, his comments helped me. He helped me to get prepared for the public's reaction to my work. And, if he wasn't getting my message, it was my job, as a writer, to make my message more clear.

I opened up his second attachment, my edited manuscript. I quickly scrolled through all two hundred pages of it and quickly became overwhelmed. There wasn't a single page that did not have a suggested correction. It was like reading and writing my story all over again. I honestly believe that I spent more time editing my book than I did actually writing it. While I read his editing remarks, I cussed and fussed all the while following much of his advice. By the time I finished, I never wanted to read a single page of my own book again. I was sick of seeing it. I had memorized many of the pages. I was ready to get it off of my computer and send it directly to the publisher's printer. Little did I know, that even required proofing!

Until Next Week,


Flora