Books for Writers: "Self-Editing for Fiction Writers"

In the world of writing there are writers and editors, editors who write for others to edit and writers who edit others. In their book, Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, writers/editors Renni Browne and Dave King claim to seek the creation of a new species: writers who can edit themselves well enough that their hearts and hopes won't be dashed when their work goes before an agent or publisher. “In other words, you can edit yourselves into print,” they say in the introduction. (Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, page 4)

God love 'em for trying, for, as United Press International bureau chief Donald Davis once said, “Anyone who edits their own copy has a fool for an editor.” Writers of any stripe tend to have a blind spot when it comes to their own work. Often they are too familiar with it or, perish forbid, too in love with it to provide the objective review productive revision needs. In an age where, as Renni Browne said in a May 2010 interview, fewer and fewer publishers provide in-house editing, this poses a problem.

“This is the reality of the publishing landscape today,” Browne told Bonnie Grove, part of the crew at Novel Matters,  a writers' blog and workshop site.  “Huge numbers of published writers, including ones that hit the bestseller list every year, hire their own editors. Many writers who are fortunate enough to have editors at their publishers who give them feedback still hire their own editors. Agents and publishers say they want 'pre-edited' manuscripts. And as I've often said, really good writers still need editing. Your book is your child, and who among us can be 100% objective about our own offspring? “ (NovelMatters.blogspot.com)

Browne is a founder of The Editorial Department, a professional book-editing company based in Arizona. Browne's son, Ross, runs the show. One note of caution, and perhaps a lesson to copy editors everywhere, the company's Web site is not, as offered on the back cover of Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, www.editorialdepartment.net. That site is home to purveyors of testosterone pills and other next-to-the counter supplements. The actual site is EditorialDepartment.com; the firm also has a FaceBook page. Browne's  partner on Self-Editing is Dave King, a contributor to Writer's Digest and a professional editor who works out of Massachusetts.

Self-Editing for Fiction Writers is now in its fifth printing and second edition with Harper Collins, according to Browne's interview with Novel Matters. “Many years have passed since we launched Self-Editing for Fiction Writers into the world to take its place (Please, God!) next to classics for writers such as On Becoming a Novelist, On Writing Well, or The Elements of Style,” one of the duo writes in the introduction to the second edition of Self-Editing.

The question must be asked: Why would this pair, whose livelihood depends on writers paying them for professional editing services ($35 for an “Introductory Critique,” according to EditorialDepartment.com), give their tips and secrets away for $13.99 (the cost of the book) a pop? Can the would-be writer trust the advice found in the book when Browne and King admit to misleading them in the first edition?  “For instance, we spent a lot of time in the original edition telling you where your characters' emotions did not belong (in dialogue mechanics, for instance) and not enough time telling you where they did. As a result, we've seen a lot of overzealous writers strip their manuscripts down to an emotional minimalism that doesn't fit their story or natural style.” (Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, page 2)

Browne and King profess the second edition of Self-Editing, published in 2004, is “stronger than ever.” (Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, page 2) Only time, and perhaps a third edition, will tell if they have led another decade of writers into emasculating their copy by following the advice contained in edition two.

That said, the saving grace of Self-Editing, and the feature that makes me want to trust it with my mind and manuscript, is that it shows me how to spruce up my work, rather than telling me how to do it. Every chapter has some kind of  before-and-after feature where the authors show a piece of writing before their advice is applied, and how it looks afterward. Even better, the authors provide a handy checklist and sequence of exercises at the end of each chapter, nearly guaranteeing readers can fully grok the lesson offered. This may explain why so many authors stripped their stories of emotion after reading the first edition of Self-Editing; the book is so damn easy to follow and the application of the authors' process produces results.

In the chapter entitled “See How it Sounds,” Browne and King laud the virtues of reading dialogue aloud to find problems and solutions to make your character's speech sound more natural. “In addition to helping you overcome stiffness, reading a passage aloud can help you find the rhythm of your dialogue. Speaker attributions, when to insert a beat, when to let the dialogue push ahead – all of this becomes clear when you hear your dialogue being spoken.” (Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, page 107).  For years I've told rookie journalists and students to read heir work aloud to find punctuation and wording mistakes; it never occurred to me that the practice would still prove helpful 15 years into my writing career. Yet, it does, and recently has.

My favorite chapter in the book was the one called “Sophistication.” Cleaning out the “-ings” and “as” phrases, as well as the reduction of verb-adverb combos, is something I've practiced for years but I've never really understood why it worked.  The chapter offered clear and telling examples that I likely will use in my short-story classes. “Sophistication” also reminded me that I've never written a sex scene and that it might be time to give it a try.

It is entirely possible Browne and King wrote Self-Editing for Fiction Writers as a scheme to get me and my peerage to write poorly so that the only published writers are the ones who paid for professional editing. If so, Self-Editing is such a well-presented, clearly illustrated and accessible road to hell that I can't help but take it.

Books for Writers: "A Master Class in Fiction Writing"

I could not begin to tell you how many books I've read over the last 35 years. The first book I remember is a Dick and Jane primer, from which I read in front of my entire morning kindergarten class. I still remember the embarrassment I felt when the teacher realized I was making up “f” words to cover my inability to puzzle out “Funny. Funny.”

In later years, the library became my babysitter. On school breaks, I'd go to work with my Dad and he'd drop me off at either the Maine State Library or the Lithgow Library across town.

Lithgow had a children's fiction section. The State Library had mostly nonfiction. I read anything I could get my hands on at both, including every Tom Swift book, all the variations of The Joy of Sex and a self-help book for women called Becoming Orgasmic.

I was probably eight when I read C.S. Lewis' Narnia books. My Mom would pick them up for me at the Gardiner Library.

When I went into town with my Mom she'd usually give me $2 to spend at LaVerdiere's, a local drug store chain. In those days, comic books were 40 cents each and I either could get two of those, with a candy bar and a soda pop, or spend $1.99 for a paperback from the Trixie Belden series. I usually picked the paperback because I knew the comics and candy would be old news in 30 minutes but I could spend the better part of weekend with Trixie. Trixie had red hair, and I've always been a sucker for redheads.

In my early teens, when I started making my own money, I made it a practice to get the biggest bang for my buck. Charleston Chews lasted longer than Three Musketeers, so I gnawed away at Charleston Chews. The bookstore in Augusta was called Mr. Paperback, and I usually made my literature purchases based on length. I devoured books back then and I wanted to make sure I squeezed as much reading time as I could out of every cent.

Even now with an adult job and a wife and a kid and and a grad program and cable television, I get through at least two books each week, start to finish.

With this sort of reading history behind me, is it any surprise that my reaction to Adam Sexton's Master Class in Fiction Writing was something akin to “Well, duh”? Sexton's central idea is that you can learn to write by reading. He breaks his book into chapters on the various narrative modes, story construction, point of view, etc., and models each through the works of authors he believes get it right. The “Style and Voice” chapter, he gives to Ernest Hemmingway. James Joyce gets “Story Structure.” “Description” goes to John Irving, and so on. At the end of each chapter, Sexton lists other authors and books writers should read for additional modeling.

I got more out of Master Class than I expected, especially after spitting in disgust through Sexton's “Introduction.” In it, the author rehashes the debate over whether writing can be taught or if writers just spring, fully formed, out of God's inkwell. The correct conclusion, by the way, is that writing cannot be taught, but it can be learned – and teachers and mentors can help.

Sexton's examples are clear and his discussion of why his select authors belong in their assigned chapters is illuminating. I enjoyed “Rabbit Run,” for example, but now I better see why and how it works. My father gave me “Lolita” when I was 15, but Sexton's inclusion of the book in his chapter on story structure made me appreciate it more for its craftmanship than for its creepiness. (It also made me want to read it again, looking at it now from my perspective in middle age.)

I respect Master Class for the same reason I respect Francine Prose's Reading Like a Writer. Prose and Sexton are absolutely right; writers can learn a lot from close reading of the so-called masters of the craft. Treat each turn of the page like an autopsy. Dissect each paragraph until you understand how and why it works.

It's great advice. But it's not for me.

I have a different method. I refuse to pore over each page (unless it's called for in, say, a third semester essay) until all I see are the mechanics, nor will I ever get to the point where, as a writer, I “do not read for fun.” (John Irving, Master Class in Fiction Writing, page xx). Reading and I have been lovers too long to let the romance die that way. Instead, I will continue to read with abandon, pouring books through my eyes and ears until I leak a slime trail of words wherever I go, and moisten everything I touch with digested letters. I will grow fat on story and bloated on other people's research and experience. Along the way, I'll probably learn a few things about writing. Maybe I already have. If that means I'm not a real writer, John Irving, even a real reader, John Irving, so be it. I'd rather die fat and happy, kicking books off my bed in my death throes, than be skinny and right.

So, Mr. Sexton, Ms. Prose, let's join hands and celebrate our commonalities. We agree on one important point: Writers should read. Let's just leave it at that.

On Writing: A Tribute to My Year in Writing

I go to work early in the morning, most times leaving the house by 6 a.m., and I often stop at Starbucks for my caffeine fix. I order a tall bold, bring my own travel mug, and pay cash. Sometimes, I get a breakfast sandwich, too: reduced-fat turkey-bacon when I’m on good behavior, or bacon and gouda when I’m not.

This morning the barista filled my mug with “Tribute,” a special blend celebrating Starbucks’ creation way back in 1971. Tribute is decent, but I prefer the Christmas blend. One of my students bought me a pound of the holiday stuff after I wrote her college recommendation and I silently pay homage to her whenever I dip into it.

Coincidentally, my creation harks back to 1971, too, and I was a bit alarmed to learn something of that vintage is worthy of a tribute. I’ll be 40 in October, and, according to the Starbucks model, at a notable milestone. I suppose I’ll be expected to look back on my life on that day, and decide whether I’m satisfied with its progress.

It sounds like a big job, perhaps too big, so I’m scaling down.  I’ll look back at the past year instead, one I’ll let historians call “The year he decided to do fiction” or “Writing, Year One.”

A year ago, after 10 years of journalism, five years of teaching and a few random detours, I decided to get serious about the writing thing. It was just time: the stars were aligned, Career 2.0 was going well, I had a house and a wife, my car was running well, etc. I wrote a bit of fiction in college, mostly short stories, and banged out a couple of NaNoWriMo novels with my students, but I hadn’t really put my head into it. I’d talked about doing it for years but I remained on the pot.

Last spring, I applied to grad school, using a piece of a NaNoWriMo novel and half of a short story (the only half completed) I’d written as an example for my students.  I got in and received the syllabus: 30 pages of new fiction a month, plus two craft essays.  As a warm up, I sat down after school got out in June and started doing reps; four short stories resulted. After the MFA summer residency in July, I used one of those short stories as the origin of my thesis, my first serious attempt at a novel.

In August, I joined Critters and started submitting and critiquing stories. I bought a Moleskine notebook and started jotting down the random ideas and observations I make. On Oct. 4, I started this blog, as a way to get some of my writing into the public eye.  I started submitting work to lit and genre publications.

It’s March, early days of spring: a year after this journey began. What do I have to show for it? Two-hundred pages of novel, five short stories, 30 blog posts, 1,205 “hits,” dozens of conversations about writing and publishing, several new friends, 40-odd critiques, 18 graduate credits, eight rejection letters and a renewed appreciation for the craft. I also find myself wanting more: more time to write, more discussion, more feedback. I’ve started fantasizing about quitting my job and turning my whole brain to writing (I won’t, Brenda; not yet. Don’t worry. Much.)

Can I call this writing year a success, sans sales and deals? I think so. I’m further along than I was, with full awareness of how far I have yet to go.  I’m excited about my work, my projects and my potential.

Maybe I’ll celebrate with another mug of that Tribute coffee.