What’s it like to work with editors?

When readers pick up a book, they see a finished product. A published novel is set, literally. But friends and family watch me rassling my books into shape. (“Rassling” is a publishing term of art. It describes the writing process, which lies somewhere between “eating bon-bons on the chaise longue while Pablo the poolboy takes dictation” and “steering a flaming gasoline tanker down the highway at high speed while being attacked by barbarians, like Mad Max.”)

Part of the rassle involves working with editors. And I often get questions about what, exactly, that’s like. Do editors tell me what to write? Are they grammar freaks? Do they draw cartoons all over my manuscript?

I am lucky, and immensely grateful, that I get to work with fantastic editors. They know what makes a good novel — everything from pacing and plot structure to characterization and voice. Thanks to them, my novels are the best they can be.

This is from a Q & A with a writer friend who’s working on a debut novel:

What, if anything, does your editor have to say about the length of your books?

Lots. Word count is written into my contract. For crime novels, publishers will expect around 90-100,000 words. Of course they’re flexible, but they don’t want me to go off the deep end. That’s because no publisher wants an author to submit a novel that’s 35,000 words. Or 450,000. Different genres may have different criteria; fantasy and historical are often longer, and YA will be shorter. But any first-time novelist who submits a manuscript that’s shorter than about 85,000 words, or longer than 100,000, is putting themselves at a disadvantage.

How do you work with your editor (what is the process)?

From start to finish: I propose an idea for a novel, usually with a short synopsis. Hopefully, I get enthusiastic approval. Usually I get comments about parts of the premise — is it strong enough? Too complicated? Fresh enough? After getting the editor on board for the concept, I flesh out the story and send a more thorough outline (meaning 5-6 pages); get more comments back. Once we’re on the same page about the story and focus of the book, off I go. Then, after I’ve written the first section of the novel (anything from 70-150 pages), I send it to the editor, who will, I hope, tell me I’m on track. If so, I’ll write the rest of the first draft and submit that.

Not all authors and editors work this way — some send each chapter as they complete it, and get comments back before continuing.

After I submit the first draft, my editor sends me a detailed editorial letter that examines everything he wants me to consider when writing the next draft. Story issues, character issues, pace, subplots, language — all things big and small. We discuss, wrangle, and come up with an agreed way for me to proceed. Then it’s on to the next draft, and the next. And, at the end of a year, I have a completed novel. Fun times.

And here’s a question from correspondence with readers:

Have editors ever told you to cut a scene or chapter? If so, what do you do?

Yes, editors have asked me to cut scenes. Usually this is because I write thrillers, and they have found a particular scene too humorous for the book. When this happens, I’ll think about their request… and generally argue to keep the scene in. Then it’s a negotiation. (“I must keep the scene where the aging rock star nearly gets suffocated by his vintage spandex jumpsuit. How about if I cut down on his flailing and screaming, and Evan slices him out of the jumpsuit with a Swiss Army knife?”) The kibbitzing generally ends with me pulling back on the scene’s elements of farce, and swinging quickly back to suspense.

No editor has ever asked me to stanch the flow of blood.

Sometimes a scene just doesn’t fit the story. The first draft of The Dirty Secrets Club included a scene where Jo was called to the airport to evaluate a passenger acting erratically. The scene showed her in action as a psychiatrist working for the mobile crisis team. But it was unconnected to the rest of the book. My editor pointed this out, and Boom — that scene was gone.

However, I kept the “erratic passenger” idea in the back of my mind. If you’ve read The Memory Collector, you know that a reincarnated version of that scenario kicks off Jo’s involvement in the story. (Yes, books can be like Frankenstein. Cut and stitch pieces on a new creation, and… It’s alive!)

And an early version of The Liar’s Lullaby detailed the victim’s history as child TV star. Her TV character had a beloved hamster. Years later, a vengeful fan caused a hamster apocalypse in the star’s front yard. (This is what first drafts are for. They ask, “Where is the top?” and “How far, exactly, can I jump over it?”) My editor read the scene and commented: “The hamsters must die! But maybe not on the page.”

This was extremely useful. Now, when commenting on any new material, my editor doesn’t have to write, Get Rid Of This Crap Right Now. He simply points to the offending plot atrocity, and notes: “Can it join the hamsters?”

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