Things I Will and Won't Say to My Clients

Sometimes when I’m interacting with a client, I notice them feeling hesitant, vulnerable, even anxious. My job is to constructively evaluate their writing, but they might see me as having the power to tell them whether they are a good writer, whether they have potential, and whether they've wasted their time on the current project.

It makes sense for clients to take my opinion seriously. Otherwise, why would they hire me? But, in the end, no other person—not even an editor—can definitively assign value to what someone has written. That’s actually up to the author!

What I can do is offer feedback that helps you recognize the strengths and weaknesses in your writing and feel motivated to keep moving toward your writing goals. Perhaps I can relieve you of some initial anxiety by listing certain things I would never say to you as my client, as well as things I will likely say as I work with you.

“You’re a terrible writer.”

I will never say this to you because I simply don’t believe it about anyone. Every writer is different. Some have perfect mechanics. Others play fast and loose with grammar and spelling. Some have carefully cultivated styles, others are simple and direct, others haven't learned their voice yet. Writers have quirks, sometimes unpleasant ones. But while some writers may have more to learn than others, there is no such thing as an intrinsically bad writer, in my book.

“I hate this story.”

I will never say this because I’m a sucker for stories. I even laugh and cry at TV commercials. So getting to read and edit your story is a privilege. Being an editor is like having my own secret library of stories that almost no one else has read! There may be elements in your story I don't like, and there will certainly be things I suggest you change, but trust me, if I hated your story, I wouldn't be putting all this work into it.

“This manuscript is worthless.”

Hardly any piece of writing starts out perfect. I can think of very few pieces of my own writing that I haven’t carefully revised—from emails to Facebook posts to this blog entry to that short story I’ve been working on since 2018. So I don’t see worthless manuscripts, only manuscripts to revise. When editing your manuscript, I look at it through the lens of all the hard work (and hopes and dreams) you’ve already poured into it. I approach it with the goal of making it become what you want it to be—no matter where we’re starting from.

Here’s what I will say (and if I’m not saying it, I’m thinking it):

What are your writing goals?

Some writers dream of their work being traditionally published; others haven't figured out what they want to do with their final manuscript. I've edited manuscripts by authors who never wrote a word of fiction until that project, and manuscripts by authors who have been writing copiously since they were teenagers. Some authors have a specific story to tell. Others have a specific audience in mind. How I interact with you and your manuscript is guided by an awareness of where you've come from and where you want to go. I do my best to move you a step or two closer to your goal—no matter what that goal is.

Here are some ways to develop the strengths and solve the weaknesses in your manuscript.

I carefully review your manuscript to evaluate what’s working and what isn’t. Then I offer you actionable ways to cultivate your strengths and improve your weaknesses. No manuscript is perfect, and that means there will always be things that an editor thinks should be changed. On the other hand, isn’t it great to have someone identify what you’ve done well? If I’ve done my job effectively, then the practical suggestions I offer will help you feel encouraged, motivated, and empowered to revise.

Keep writing! Your voice is unique and valuable.

Everyone deserves to have their voice heard. Some people choose to use their voice through writing. Having a voice and saying exactly what you mean so that people can respond to you as you truly are is integral to the human experience. That is why I will always tell you to keep at it (if you want to do so). I will always care about what you want to say.

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The Story Is What Happens, Not Your Interpretation of It

Show, don’t tell. If we’ve heard it once, we’ve heard it a thousand times—and it’s still a difficult concept to grasp.

Reading Kusamakura by Natsume Sōseki several months ago, I was caught by a scene in which the protagonist witnesses two people encountering one another on a hillside. The following version of the scene is from the 2008 Penguin Classics translation by Meredith McKinney:

This swarthy, thickset, bearded man; that delicate form, with her long neck and sloping shoulders and firm, clear features. This wild figure twisted harshly toward her; that elegant shape, sleekly graceful even in her everyday kimono, leaning gently forward from the waist. His misshapen brown hat and indigo-striped garment tucked to the thigh; her elegant curve of hair, combed to a gossamer glint, and the captivating glimpse of padding deep within the glowing black satin of her obi folds—all this is marvelous material for a picture.

The man puts out his hand and takes the purse, and at once the beautifully balanced tension in their mutual poses disintegrates; the woman’s figure ceases to draw him, while he in turn has broken free of that force. Painter though I am, I have never before realized just how powerfully psychological states can influence a picture’s composition.

The scene reminds me of one of my favorite movie lines ever, from My Best Friend’s Wedding. The protagonist, Jules, has just tried to convince Michael, the man she’s in love with, to cancel his wedding to another woman. The fiancée discovers them together and runs away, and Michael takes off after her. Jules pursues them in a stolen van, calling her friend George en route. George says bluntly, “Michael’s chasing Kimmy? You’re chasing Michael? Who’s chasing you?”

Both scenes illustrate a concept that is fundamental to both life and writing: the things that happen are just as powerful as our interpretations of them. In the scene from Kusamakura, the positioning of the man and woman on the hillside tells the narrator everything he needs to know about the two people’s positions in the world and their feelings toward each other. In the scene from My Best Friend’s Wedding, the fact that Michael is chasing Kimmy tells Jules who her best friend will be marrying that evening.

Portraying versus interpreting

An easy pitfall for authors is explaining the significance of a plot or character element rather than portraying the element itself. If a story’s plot and characters are too weak in themselves to keep the reader’s interest, interpreting the story will not make a difference. And if the story happens to be strong already, excessive interpretation will weaken it.

Fairy tales and fables stand the test of time because there is nothing like cold, hard, surprising “facts” to catch our attention and make us wonder what’s coming. When the jealous queen was unable to get her stepdaughter killed, she took matters into her own hands and gave the girl a poisoned apple. One woman who will stop at nothing to supplant another? Little interpretation or explanation is needed.

Your story needs good bones; don’t waste your energy or your readers’ on a story that looks pretty on the outside but is full of sawdust.

Scrutinize your story’s elements. If the events of the plot follow logically on one another, you won’t have to explain why they happen. If they are intrinsically interesting, you won’t need to add dramatic exposition to convince your readers of their significance. How about your characters—do their actions express who they are and what motivates them? You can spend less time explaining what they feel and why they do what they do.

Things I Love about Being an Editor

I didn’t start out wanting to be an editor. As a kid, I planned on being a famous fiction writer. Then, halfway through college, I landed a summer job that involved editing. It turned out that I was excellent at this, and I enjoyed doing it. The rest is history.

Sometimes my clients are surprised when they find out how delightful editing is for me. They see things from the writer side, and I know how that feels. Writing is emotional, expressive, and creative. It can transport you. In comparison, editing may seem stodgy and unglamorous.

While it’s true that the experiences of authors and their editors are qualitatively different, both are equally fulfilling. Editors can say this with authority because many of us are writers as well.

Here are my favorite things about being your editor.

Reading your story for the first time

I was that little kid reading cereal boxes at the breakfast table, and I still come home from the library every few weeks with a stack of novels even though I haven’t finished the books I borrowed last time. I love reading, and I love stories!

I read your manuscript for the first time with the same curiosity and openness as when I read a published novel—eagerly wondering what happens next, and noticing the places where I’m caught by emotion because of a well-worded phrase or exciting plot turn. Even if your manuscript needs substantial revising, my intention is to help the entire work fulfill the promise of those instances where my heart skipped a beat.

Hearing and honing your voice

When editing your work, I listen carefully for your unique voice: the word choices and sentence structures, as well as the themes and tones, that compose your writing style. I edit away style problems that affect the clarity and beauty of your writing, propose revisions that match your voice, and offer guidance for honing your style. This challenging aspect of editing makes me feel like an expert art restorer, whose work should be invisible.

Hashing out edits with you

Writing and editing are highly subjective, which means you and I won’t always agree. Some of the most fruitful interactions in the editing process occur when a client disagrees with, is puzzled by, or doesn’t know how to implement an edit I propose. Not only does this afford us the opportunity to ask clarifying questions, express our points of view, discuss compromises, and come to understand each other better, but it often gives rise to unpredicted creativity and growth—for both of us.

Reading each revision of your manuscript

Some of my favorite feedback from clients sounds like this: I cut character X because I realized he didn’t contribute anything to the plot. I turned chapter 5 into the opening scene. I did something totally different with the plot at point Y and I’m curious what you’ll think . . .

Part of my response to this is purely selfish: it means I get to read a whole new story and ask What happens next? all over again. And partly it’s because I enjoy seeing your creativity at work—your willingness to ask What if and allow an even better version of your story to emerge.

Seeing you work through challenges to achieve your goals

My clients amaze me. The process of bringing their writing to an audience demands hard work, difficult decisions, and bold risks. I don’t see you succumbing to self-doubt or giving up when you hit a roadblock. Instead, I watch you recommit to your story (or start a new one) and figure out fresh solutions to your challenges. You, writer, inspire me. It’s an honor to help bring your voice to the world.

Banner photo by Fadi Xd on Unsplash

How to Motivate Your Reluctant Protagonist

A reluctant protagonist is a main character who doesn’t actively choose their objectives and behaviors. While they might fit very well into your brilliant plot, they also make it less compelling. Here are four ways for you to prevent and remedy reluctant protagonists. Choose what works best for you and your manuscript.

Scrutinize each action your protagonist takes.

Does it result from who the character is or wants to be, while responding naturally to the plot? If the idea for your plot arrived before you fleshed out your main character, don’t simply force the character through the plot’s paces. Imagine in detail the kind of person who would do what the plot demands. Accept that wherever your protagonist and plot diverge, either you must allow the character to change the plot or you must alter who the character is.

Jazz up your protagonist.

You may have developed a main character who is naturally fearful, skeptical, or hesitant—perhaps one who tends toward observation and introspection. Let’s be honest: it’s difficult to interest readers in a protagonist who exercises little power over their circumstances, and it’s difficult to develop a compelling plot around such a character. Consider making changes to this person’s nature. Otherwise, dig deep so you can find what makes this person tick—the thing that drives them to act—and bring that to the surface of the story.

Focus on who your protagonist is rather than who they are not.

If you and your readers know more about what your main character doesn’t do, doesn’t like, and doesn’t want than what they want, choose, and freely do, then you need to reframe this character in positive terms. Does the protagonist hate mint chocolate-chip ice cream because it led to her grandmother breaking her hip? Ask what kind of ice cream she does like (Neapolitan) and why (she likes the contrast of simple flavors). Explore the positive motivations (fierce love and loyalty) that would cause someone to swear off an ice-cream flavor after one childhood incident.

Remove explanations.

Try deleting any conversations or thought processes in which your protagonist must be convinced (or convince themselves) to do something. Notice if your plot and protagonist are stronger as a result. Perhaps your main character isn’t so reluctant after all! Is it possible that you are worried readers won’t take your plot seriously, and that’s why you’re trying to convince your character? Be bold! Tell your story—no holds barred.

Photo by Courtney Cook on Unsplash

What Can Your Character See?

In The Magic Mountain, Thomas Mann sets many scenes in the dining hall of an Alpine sanatorium for tuberculosis patients. He describes the hall in careful detail: size, architecture, furnishings, arrangement, and where people are seated. In one scene, protagonist Hans Castorp’s nerves are jolted by a slamming door. He looks about for the source of the noise—a young woman:

Hans Castorp saw only a little of her profile—almost nothing, in fact. In quite marvelous contrast to her noisy entrance, she walked soundlessly, with a peculiar slinking gait, her head thrust slightly forward, and proceeded to the farthest table on the left . . . . As she walked she kept one hand in the pocket of her close-fitting wool jacket, while the other was busy at the back of her head, tucking and arranging her hair. Hans Castorp looked at that hand—he had a good eye and a fine critical sense for hands, and it was his habit always first to direct his gaze at them whenever he made a new acquaintance. The hand tucking up her hair was not particularly ladylike, not refined or well cared for, not in the way the ladies in young Hans Castorp’s social circle cared for theirs. It was rather broad, with stubby fingers; there was something primitive and childish about it, rather like the hand of a schoolgirl. Her nails had clearly never seen a manicure, and had been trimmed carelessly—again, like a schoolgirl’s; and the cuticles had a jagged look, almost as if she were guilty of the minor vice of nail-chewing.

Hmmm . . . did you catch that, too? Based on Mann’s prior descriptions of the hall (not quoted above) and his account of the woman’s path through it, the reader knows that Hans Castorp couldn’t possibly be close enough to see her fingernails in such detail.

I was surprised by Mann’s point-of-view slipup. But then he steadied me: “Hans Castorp only surmised all this, however, more than he actually saw it—she was really too far away.” Clever!

While many writing rules are made to be broken, this one is not: never deviate from your story’s point of view. Point of view maintains the reader’s illusion that your story is really happening or could happen. In appearing to veer off-viewpoint, Mann reveals his main character’s mental workings while at the same time reassuring us (like magician’s patter) that The Magic Mountain is somehow true.

(Note: The quotes in this blog post are from the Everyman’s Library’s 1995 translation of The Magic Mountain by John E. Woods.)