Self-loathing and Vindication

“How often we recall, with regret, that Napoleon once shot at a magazine editor and missed him and killed a publisher. But we remember with charity that his intentions were good.”
~ Mark Twain

I have a love-hate relationship with my job. I adore words and I have great affection for writers. The problem is that this particular pair of loves sometimes feels like it was modeled after God and Mammon.

Some weeks ago I was sent a book to review with the idea that we would print an excerpt. I opened it expectantly. I had not read more than a page or two before the dreaded realization hit me that the book had not been professionally edited before publication. That, or it had been poorly edited and somebody had been ripped off. I hate that. I especially hate it when I deeply want to like the book on its other merits.

Here's where the realist in me sits myself down for a firm talking-to. I can't seem to manage to write a single blog post without some infelicity or error, so what business have I meddling in other people's writing? I suppose the answer is principally economic: I get paid to meddle.

I imagine the authors I work with have a rather love-hate relationship with me, too. I sometimes get the "That's perfect - it is exactly what I was trying to say!" response. I've even been told that I am the best editor a particular writer has ever worked with. The pessimist in me wonders if that statement hinges on a single fact that makes anything said in that particular form true, much the way my dear husband's admission that I am his "very best wife ever" is just as true as the statement he never utters that I am his "very worst wife ever." Meanwhile, the cynic in me starts looking for whatever it is the author wants from me. Perhaps, in my short career, I already feel I have dodged a bullet or two.

I very rarely get the feeling that an author hates my guts. The pragmatist in me believes this is principally because authors are so skilled with words and so clever in general that they can mask their venom and simply decide to never work with me again. However, I am sometimes struck by the conviction that what I have done in daring to touch someone's work is somehow reprehensible, whether or not the writer comes out and says it.

Oh phooey, I'll be out with it!
I hate editors.
I am an editor.
My logic classes at UCLA notwithstanding, I suppose that means I have some degree of self-loathing.

In my volunteer library job, I am sometimes asked to "weed" books that have a high number of "circs." This means that I get to find a designated book on the shelf, look at it briefly, and decide whether to consign it to the shredder or grant it a reprieve. I talked with one of my fellow volunteers about the feelings this particular job evokes. We tend to come up with the same sort of words to describe what we become when we do what we must do: inquisitor, executioner, tyrant ... In short, we become firemen worthy of Bradbury's dim future. Sentencing books to death makes us animals.

Sometimes (when I am NOT giddy with the power -- who am I kidding? I am seldom giddy with it, I am more often sick with it) editing evokes the same feelings. I must juggle the righteous indignation provoked by would-be words and sentences that affront the reader and the those unshakable feelings that creative efforts just oughtn't be touched.

I sat down early this morning to craft an email to the author before I started my day officially and, more to the point, before I lost my nerve. I had put it off for several days. Basically, my assessment boiled down to four words: Great material, terrible editing. Conflicted as I was, I couldn't bring myself to just come out and say it in those words.

The book has printed. It is already selling. My summation of the editing situation is likely to be as welcome as a hairball on the new beige carpet.

I eventually wrote a rather apologetic and lengthy email essentially asking if I can edit the heck out of a passage and call it an "adaptation." I sat and rewrote and reviewed and revised and revisited my message for a good 20 minutes. I read it out loud, imagining how my words would sound to me if I had written the book and found this message sitting in my inbox. Finally, I pressed send and squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, waiting for that lightening bolt to hit.

When I realized I had been spared God's immediate vengeance, I got back to some of the things I needed to do, such as buying a few groceries for dinner. I walked into the store -- the nice boutique grocer with upscale products and uptown prices that happens to be conveniently located -- and was greeted by a sign: "Try Are Clementines." My coworker from Tennessee reminded me that it could have been worse. If he had written the sign the way he actually says those words, it would have read "Try Air Clementines."

In a moment it dawned on me: I am an angel of mercy. I have a purpose. I can do more than cause writers pain. I can bring grammatical light to the darkness of modern prose. Besides... I am right, darn it!

I got home to find an email waiting for me. The author was very gracious and was perfectly willing to let me adapt the material. The message closed with a few words in parenthesis:

(And you're correct -- the book needed editing and we should have had it sent out).

The editor in me is vindicated.