I've been an editor for a long time and I'll be the first to tell you it can be a bit tough on everyone. But having someone edit my work is a joy to me. This week I'm starting the first round of my own edits on a sequel, re-working a finished book for re-release, tinkering with a manuscript that's done, done, done... and responding to edits on a short story I've written for an anthology. Yeah... pretty heavy editing week.
In some ways editing is a restful break from the pressure of creative writing. Whereas the creative mind needs that energy to make intuitive leaps, spark new directions, make marks on a trackless plain, editing requires a calm centre and deep focus.
My process always requires a first read before I edit. Not always an easy ask if you're on a timetable, but I try. Early this year I finished editing a 120,000 word science fiction manuscript which I'd seen at various stages over two years. Okay, it was a labour of love, but even so, the single most important tenet still held, did I connect with the author? As an editor I have to be constantly conscious of the author's voice. I must not change or alter the flavour or tone of that voice. Although there was major structural editing required in the science fiction manuscript, my job stopped where I saw the edge of the plot hole. It was up to the author to figure out how to bridge that gap. That's not to say we didn't have some interesting discussions about direction and what was working and what wasn't. The joys of being on the same wavelength.
So when choosing an editor for myself, that's the first thing I look for... are we a good 'fit'? I have high hopes for my short story. If the fit is good, then you don't despair when you see the field of yellow highlighting (or red pen, or margins of comment boxes), it means growth and opportunity. Embrace the change(s).
PS The 'funs' in title is a joke and 'fun'.
PPS I write Australian English hence 'flavour' and 'centre'.
Image by Stocksnap on Pixabay
A small dancing troupe of pink twirls up the orchid spike. Their pretty unscented frocks speckled in earthy browns. Cherub faced, chubby cheeked, they peek and play between the long green shadows, untroubled by grand visions, their small alien bodies smiling at the silver sunlight. Then one stops its happy bob. Snapped alert, it holds motionless, its awkward face stares at me. I have been noticed - the stranger in their garden. Now discovered, I cannot look away. We stare at each other - we have a silent conversation full of questions without answers. How grotesque your features, how short your life, how fragile - we both think. Then the breeze calls it back to play and the link is broken. I am forgotten - just another shadow, left behind to my noisy cast of sunshine and the well explained.
There were a few interviews and spots in the February launch of The Soldier's Woman. I shared them dutifully on social media but failed to add them on here, a fact I am trying to remedy. I find dealing with Facebook like dealing with a toddler, it has a short attention span, messes up your things when you aren't looking and you have to be careful not to put anything too hot or spicy within its reach. I'll put up things as I find and remember where I put them last. Trying to get back to book 2 in the Bladewood Legacy, but have been distracted by community theatre (not acting, faffing about with costumes even though I'm not a seamstress) and my 'day job' convening the biannual Sustainability Day charity event (a labour of love). Words are bouncing about in the old brain but not anything worth writing down yet.
With abandon the tree in our yard has dropped its round yellow leaves to paint the grass in Monet dapples. After rain and damp the wind has brought Autumn. The ground, still so smugly brown and soft, has loosed the dry life of seed and root. In chaotic joy all underfoot the green spears and jostles aside the yellow. Here, where we live long months under the heavy fist of Summer, the change is delightful. Brief, transient clear and perfect as the moment before the mirror pool ripples. The fallen leaves are already crisping brown. The Autumn light laughs between the mellow leaves, cool and light, warming itself in the bright sun. But the warm day has halted the tree’s leaf fall. Hesitant, it holds its half-shed canopy like a dressing gown on a startled bather. Is the season on the change or not?
I was interviewed in February by Teresa Smith for the new Sunday Spotlight author A&Q on the Australian Women Writers Challenge page. A site responding to the question "Are male authors more likely to have their books reviewed in influential newspapers, magazines and literary journals than female authors?". Well, yes. Hence the site. Visit their page at australianwomenwriters.com/about-2/background-to-challenge/ for more details on who they are and how to join.
There were a few challenging questions I can tell you, like
Q: How has being Australian AND a woman impacted on your writing and/or writing career? or
Q: Have you ever had to deal with a situation where someone feels they recognise traits of themselves in one of your characters? or
Q: If you could sit down for an afternoon with an iconic person from history, who would you choose to spend that time with?
For the full interview and my (well considered) answers visit australianwomenwriters.com/2017/02/sunday-spotlight/
Thank you Australian Women Writers Challenge for the opportunity and for being the first of your Sunday Spotlight authors.
The Soldier's Woman is going on tour - a blog tour, on the 9th of February with the marvelously named Goddess Fish Promotions. I shall now learn what this means and attempt to sound intelligent should the call arise. This is the tour banner and I think I put it up in places, so I shall start here.
My Big Fat Book Launch is coming together, from somewhat more humble beginnings it seems to have grown on it's own. What fun! Looking forward to nibblies and a glass of something to toast Maximillian and Charlotte's story.
Now that I am some way into the second of my Bladewood Legacy books I am researching a whole new area of Napoleonic warfare - naval battles and navy life of the 1800s. Imagine my envy when I read a blog post from someone who happened to pick up a tatty notebook which happened to be a signals diary of a Captain of the line during that time period. They lived in England and had found it in a jumble market or some such. Sigh. Here on the other side of the globe such finds are rare and unaffordable even if you should find such an item. Anyway in a wonderful act of generosity she has scanned the pages for the viewing pleasure of her readers. Yay. So in a synchronous moment I was able to find some great background colour for my main character just when I needed it.
Character development is moving more slowly but the relationship between the two main characters is slowly finding it's feet. This week is full of distractions though, so even when I should be writing I am shamefully not in the moment. Never mind, even words which eventually find themselves orphaned from the book have done their magical work of inventing and populating the imagined world.
The blade of grass was a clean soft spear between her toes. How many times had they walked this path and never noticed the fresh wonder under their feet? Shoes. What a ridiculous impediment! To never feel the velvet crush between your toes? The discomfort of sharp small stones and vicious prickles. The danger of poisonous barbs or slicing glass shards. Never jump away squealing at mystery wet squelshes against your naked arches. Never feel the anarchy joy of oozing mud over your toes. No, none of those things were possible in shoes. Black shiny shoes and bleach white socks. To feel the grass you have to take off your shoes and risk all the joy, pain, happiness and danger the grass has to offer.
In a world made of colours it was white. Like snow, like parts of clouds, like small round pebbles, like the stab of sunlight on a naked eye. In winter places where ice and snow prevail, where my beginnings lie, white is the colour of camouflage, the colour of hell and death. In the damp green heat of always-summer where life bursts from the ground and grows up walls in hued frenzy, white is a conspicuous uncoloured spot. I cupped the frayed wings against the glass, the tiny protesting feet tickling against my palm. Only for a moment I murmured. The darkness is only for a moment. Then freedom. The white wings erupted from their prison out into the singeing glare. White is made of all the colours. I let the sun pinprick my skin with all of its colours while the butterfly flashed against the deep dark greens. How could it hide its brilliant self in the safety of the shadows? Then in only seconds worth of time the little white creature vanished against the blue sky. I forgot, white is also the colour of ghosts.
Tea-drinker, writer and editor. Ecologist, environmental scientist, futurist and student of irony.