Something else to worry about

Lev Raphael talks about dealing with a, shall we say, overenthusiastic copyeditor. It involves a lot of screaming and resharpening of the pencil he uses to write ‘STET’ (meaning, ‘keep this exactly the way I wrote it’).

Not only did the copyeditor keep editing Raphael’s style, which is not part of the job, but couldn’t get the fact-checking correct, either.

Given that I’m writing about the same general period as Raphael, I’m feeling nervous about this, if only because I have done my homework, and if there’s anything I’ve discovered it’s that research sources contradict each other. Sometimes this is due to perspective – see Hugh Trevor-Roper’s excellent introduction to the 7th edition (I think – the 50-year-anniversary edition) of The Last Days of Hitler – and sometimes because, as a friend of mine pointed out yesterday, no one is standing to one side, holding a clipboard, monitoring troop movements on a street-by-street basis. There are no objective sources – only what individuals see (or historians glean), and interpret.

Even what seem to be simple facts can be tough to pin down. Example: when does person x arrive at place y? I have two different possibilities and no way to verify which one’s correct. As a writer, then, I have to make that call on my own – it so happens that the 7th is a better day than the 8th because of the character’s personal timeline, so I’m going to go with the 7th. But a copyeditor can legitimately come along and say, hang on, this highly respected source says the 8th. (And so can the reader – and when you write about Nazi Germany you know that there are people who will know these things better than you do. I’m just hoping that being able to back up my historical choices will be enough, but I have no illusions about this – people will tell me I’m wrong no matter what.) Meanwhile, I’ve dug into the stacks of several university libraries, and I can only hope that my future copyeditor has the same depth of sources available, because while public libraries are wonderful places, their holdings simply can’t mirror what I used.

Probably some displacement going on here – I am not exactly at the point where a copyeditor is going to start critiquing the manuscript. But I will definitely be hanging on to my folder of research notes. No idea what to do if someone flattens the prose style, but I expect this is the kind of thing it’s nice to talk to one’s agent about.

Things we say that are not really what we mean

What we say to editors, workshop leaders, critique partners, or anyone (other than Mom) who is reading our work and giving feedback:

Of course I want honest criticism. I can’t improve if I don’t learn what isn’t working on the page, or find out that something which makes sense in my head isn’t necessarily clear to the reader. Given that I can trust you not to be criticizing me in order to try and boost your own self-esteem, I know that my work is very likely to be better after your feedback – and even if I end up not editing much at all, I’ll have been forced to think carefully about some of the choices I’ve made, so that will still give me a more confident, solid approach to the work. And of course if I take your suggestions on board, I am going to have a much better piece of writing!

What we actually mean:

1. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH
2. Please don’t say anything bad! Please!
3. *hides under bed*
4. Please just say ‘it’s perfect! Might want to run spell-check.’
5. No, don’t tell me to run spell-check! I can’t bear the criticism!
6. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

(I have a piece with a professional editor and something else nearly ready to go out for critique. So, yes, I’ve been thinking about this.)

But of course, number 7 (or beyond, depending on how much screaming and hiding under the bed occurs) is ‘goes and edits the damn thing.’

Demonstrating that agents are not, in fact, morons (except the ones who reject ME, who obviously are)

I didn’t have a blog when this story broke, but I just found the article and I need something to rant about, so here’s the belated response.

The gist is: this guy submitted the opening chapters of Jane Austen novels to publishers and literary agencies, then decided that no one agreeing to publish/represent the work meant that no one recognized the genius of Jane Austen. Here’s a pdf of an article in Regency News. The guy claims that of 15 returned submissions, only one – Alex Bowler, an assistant editor at Jonathan Cape (guy deserves a mention by name) – wrote back with an acknowledgement that the author might want to revise and maybe this time check his copy of P&P.

All the rest? They failed to recognize genius! Alas, poor Jane!!1!1!

Except…no. There’s an incredibly big logical fallacy here. Like, gaping hole-sized. Go ahead and read the article and see if you can figure it out for yourself. I’ll wait.

*plays hold music*

Back? You found it? Congratulations!

Anyway, so, Thundercat actually did catch a mouse the other day, and I texted a friend to say that Minnie had phoned looking for her husband, but –

Oh.

Here’s the thing. Agents are smart. They are also busy. Check out any of the agent websites listed in my sidebar (under ‘Nuts, Bolts, and Agents’) and have a scroll through their entries. Most if not all will indicate every so often just how many queries stream in through the inbox and the mailbox. HUNDREDS AND THOUSANDS. Only a tiny percentage will even be followed up to the tune of partials, much less fulls and representation. Therefore, most agents (or editors, who are also smart and busy) who recognize plagiarism are not going to send you an e-mail saying that ‘gosh, this is totally the opening of a Jane Austen novel’ because they do not have the time to waste on you.

Also, let’s say that you are not some snarky guy trying to see how Jane Austen would have fared in today’s publishing climate – leaving aside any sense of historical context, of course – and decides as a result (I extrapolate the next bit from the ‘my unpublished novel was not recognized for its genius, woe’ aspect) that you are going to be a champion for downtrodden, unpublished authors and prove that the publishing industry is dumb/a closed market/only likes you if you’re in the in crowd etc.

Alternately, let’s say that you are genuinely stupid, or clueless, or Cassie Edwards, and you actually in all seriousness type up the first pages of Mansfield Park and submit them.

What do you expect an agent to do about it? TELL you that you’re stupid/clueless/Cassie Edwards? See the point above about agents being busy people, and also smart. Someone so idiotic to try and pass off great literature as their own is not going to be a person they want to open a dialogue with. What they want is to ensure that you will never, ever contact them again, whether with a barrage of follow-up e-mails or a poisoned cake.

Also, please note that many publishing houses have Unpaid Interns ™, and I’d guess that a lot of those interns have degrees in English Literature, and those interns are the ones making some initial passes through the manuscripts. If THEY can’t recognize Austen they have to give their BAs back.

Does this mean that every one of those 15 responses did, in fact, recognize that ‘Alison Laydee’ was someone either really messed up, or trying to mess with them? No, that sadly can’t be proved.

What this does prove is that claims that ‘only one person recognised the material for what it was – classic literature written by one of the greatest writers that has ever lived’ and that ‘it seems a fair assumption that if Jane Austen’s reputation had not already been secure, she would have struggled even to find an agent to represent her, let alone have any of her novels published’ are hogwash.

Hats off to Alex Bowler, though, for being willing to write back.

And a search turns up a very sensible Grauniad response.