Why Editing Can Ruin (or Save) a Romance

Writers are world-renowned for their romantic whims and emotional dramatics, but editors are lovers too. Though we may grapple with the muses far less often or simply be saner than our creative counterparts, our craft can just as easily be the downfall (or the saving grace) of our romantic relationships.

How Editing Ruins Romance

Besides the fact that editing is far less romantically appealing than writing, there are other editorial character traits that can easily foil a relationship with a non-editing significant other:

• Editors are trained to nit pick. Our job is to find every single problem in the copy set before us. We start out assuming errors exist, and it’s our job to find (and correct) them. We’re well intentioned in our pursuit (we want the best possible outcome), but when applied to a partner, our tendencies create frustration, dissatisfaction and feelings of inadequacy.
• Editors strive for consistency. We do things by the book and sometimes even write the rules ourselves. It’s our job to make sure that copy fits, to the letter, a specific set of guidelines and expectations—the kind of standards you simply can’t apply to human beings themselves.
• Editors are often better tellers than doers. While editors should also be writers in order to truly appreciate the full creative process, the fact is we’re simply better at editing than writing; we’re better at giving direction than executing it. A healthy romantic relationship, on the other hand, is a balance of discussion and implementation from both people.

How Editing Saves Romance

Though editing can be a murderer of love, good editors have another set of traits that just might save relationships from the clutches of constant criticism:

• Editors can see potential. We buy into a writer as a creator, not necessarily based on his first creation. We understand that imperfection doesn’t mean unworthiness and that sometimes promising spirit, more than precise execution, should be an initial point of focus.
• Editors appreciate the role of emotion in communication. When communicating what seems like purely factual information, it’s important to take feelings into consideration in both writing and non-writing relationships. There may be major plot problems in your author’s novel, but you consider the best way to communicate this because how the writer responds to your comments shapes the progress of the work, for better or worse.
• Editors understand loyalty in the midst of difficulty. We come to our author relationships with the understanding that at some point there will probably be a melt down or at least some whining. Maybe they’ll yell at us or simply completely dismiss what we think is relevant guidance. We accept this and honor a commitment to the creative relationship.

Anyone who cares about their profession at all sees elements of their work habits creep into their relationships. Fortunately for editors (and those who love them), we’re not afraid to make revisions as necessary.

Battle of Words: Do Contests Make Better Writers?

When I was younger, I was one of the most competitive dorks around. In fact, my love of literature was a by-product of simply wanting to win a reading program called Accelerated Reader. The idea was the more I read (and the more advanced books I read), the more points I earned. I finished as AR champ of my elementary school. (I was subsequently teased for this throughout middle school).

That same competitive drive led me to win a few essay-writing contests as a young student as well. Both earned me word nerd bragging rights, but one earned me a little money as well. Then, as a high schooler, I wrote my way to funding my entire college education through scholarships that required an essay. So did competition make me a better writer in the long run?

Simply put, contests led me to read and write across broader topics and in greater depth.

For me, the prospect of being named the best was a huge motivator. At the same time, I wasn’t motivated by the prospect of winning with absolutely everything I did. For instance, as a member of the top choir group in my high school, I was required to compete in certain singing contests every year. I hated this. I didn’t mind competing as a group, but I hated doing it as a soloist.

I was good; I was trained by a professional opera singer, and I had a solid voice that could easily stand on its own. But still, I hated being subjected to contests, even if I was only judged independently.

I sang because it was fun and made me feel good, and turning it into something to be judged made it less enjoyable work for me. I didn’t have aspirations of attending music school or winning American Idol; I just wanted to be able to belt it in the shower.

I’m not sure how to reconcile these two experiences because, like singing, I get a lot of inherent enjoyment from writing. I’m not the only one with this sense of tension.

One of my writers recently vented some frustration about these contests. He was irritated that it seemed that he had to have some short story publications (isn’t that really just a contest?) under his belt before literary agents would consider representing his novel. Since the two forms are drastically different, he found it absurd that the former credential was linked to the latter potential.

So it is: when I read through the slush pile as a lowly editorial intern, I was trained to look for credentials accompanying author submission cover letters. And those who had been published before were considered more seriously.

Unfortunately, I think this reveals a typical human tendency: the domino effect of credentials. The first to buy into an idea is the critical tipping point, and each successive validation makes the next all the more likely.

But that doesn’t make it good writing.

Just because a piece is published or praised doesn’t mean it’s actually worth its salt; it just means someone bought in. Many times it means they bought in purely because they knew others would too (i.e. the market potential of writing).

Likewise, just because a piece of writing is rejected doesn’t mean it’s bad. It means it’s not the right fit. Or won’t sell. Or comes at the wrong time. Or the acquisitions editor was having a shitty day. None of those factors have anything to do with the actual quality of the writing, and yet they often determine how many pairs of eyes ever read it.

Thus, with the exception of purely peer-reviewed contests, I generally think the main purpose of writing competitions is merely that of discipline for the all too often unstructured writing life. Writers should look for contests that stretch their skills in form, topic, deadline.

(And why the hell have I never come across an editing competition?! I’ve taken editing tests, and I think they’re fun – someone should put up some prize money for that!)

Bottom line: If you win a contest or publication, put the accolade in your encouragement folder and the money in your dwindling bank account, then sit down and write something better.

If you’re feeling particularly ballsy, hop into the fray that is the 80th annual Writer’s Digest contest. The deadline is June 1 and the top prize is $3,000 and a trip to their conference in NYC (read: one-on-one time with editors and agents).

Mommy Me: An Editor’s Take on Parenting

In the April/May 2011 issue of Bust magazine, Liv Tyler said this when asked about the job of mothering as a creative endeavor:

Well, [kids] just come out who they are! You're so quick to judge parents. To judge humans on how they were raised, to judge parents for what they did. But you see when you become a parent yourself, children are really born with this innate sense of themselves. They come out that way from day one. It’s interesting to figure that out: how to nurture and guide them but also to allow them to be who they are. To see in them what they are naturally good at and interested in and encourage them in those ways.

I’ve always thought of writers as the mothers in the doula analogy, but reading this interview made me think to myself, “Hmm, cultivating existing talents? Sounds like an editor. Maybe I can be a good mom after all.”

I love this perspective on parenting because it isn’t the narcissistic brand of trying to turn your children into stars of something of your choosing. Everyone has seen the parent trying to live vicariously through their children, and rarely is it something we’d like to replicate.

My parents allowed me to express my own interests, then worked to help open doors for me in that direction. For example, I loved playing sports as a kid. So they signed me up for gymnastics, swimming, soccer, softball, taekwondo – anything I’d go for, which was usually something that included physical contact. (What can I say? I was a rough tomboy.)

The heart of Liv Tyler’s parenting perspective is great: “nurture and guide them but also allow them to be who they are.”

My two and a half year old nephew AJ has a Mom that understands this idea. One day when we were having a picnic lunch at the park, he was fascinated by the volleyball pit and squatted down to feel the warm sand. He picked up a handful and we both knew where this was going: his hair.

He happily continued to drop sand in his hair, and his Mom just let him have at it. Why not? Nothing a bath wouldn’t fix, and he was having a great time playing Sand Man. This is not a life-shaping experience, but it’s an attitude that’s reflected in the general parenting mindset of AJ’s Mom.

Over controlling parents end up with children that resent them just like over controlling editors end up with writers that shut them out. Does that mean all hands off? Of course not.

The best parents – from the viewpoint of someone who’s only ever been a child, not had them – are partners with their kids. They are there to support, give advice, console, defend, engage, correct. They can see the world from their child’s point of view, but also have the bigger picture perspective to help guide them.