Battling the Red Ink Blues

Editors aren’t schoolteachers. We’re not here to handhold, or praise, or encourage, or assign an opinion or a grade to the manuscripts we receive. We’re here to correct, to polish, and to be professional.

But, when someone’s life’s work is sent back to them covered in red ink, it can be more than a little disheartening to them. Intellectually, your writers know that you’re their partner in this. You’re on their side. Your job isn’t to tear down their work, but to make it the best that it can be, and any criticism or questions you return with, or corrections you suggest, are only offered in the interest of making their work stronger.

Intellectually, they know that. But find a non-patronizing way to remind them, anyway. Emotionally, when writers open a file to find their “baby” marked up with a sea of red ink, it can be hard to keep rationality and objectivity at the forefront.

That’s their problem, you might say. They need to learn to accept criticism and develop a tough skin if they want to make it in this industry.

Well, yes. Yes, they do. But at the same time, they’re not paying you to tear them down. They’re paying you to help them. It’s their responsibility to take corrections in the proper spirit, but it’s equally your responsibility to offer them in the proper spirit, with professionalism and sensitivity.

In my intro letter when i contact a new author, I usually take a moment to explain how I work and what my style is, and to mention the kinds of changes I’ll likely be suggesting so that they’ll know what to expect. Within the file, I make a point to keep a lighthearted tone in my comments if there are items that I question, or places where I feel the need to explain the rationale behind my suggestions. I’ll occasionally add humor to my comments if it’s appropriate, but I won’t tease or criticize. One of the authors I work with has been a close friend since college and I feel comfortable joking with him at other times, but when it comes to his manuscripts I’m very careful with the sarcasm. I want to develop a rapport. I don’t want to critique anything in a way that might feel like an attack.

Editors are often the first audience for a manuscript. We’re being entrusted with it, and our responsibility as substantive editors is not only to fix the little mechanical things that are obviously broken, but to be honest about what the manuscript needs.

If a sentence or a concept or an image really stands out to me as being exceptional, I’ll leave a comment in the margin to say so. If I’m really enjoying a project or if a cliffhanger gnaws at me so sharply that I find myself wanting to go back to work at 10pm just to see what happens next, I’ll say so. I’ll check in from time to time and offer a reader’s opinion on a plot twist or a joke, or an observation on what, at this point, I’ve been led to predict will happen with a certain character or plot thread. All of these sorts of observations are invaluable to the writer: they’re the first indication they’ll have, in some cases, as to whether they’re leading the reader down the intended train of thought: whether a plot twist is too obvious or a twisting trail of clues is too confusing. Whether that joke is actually funny.

Strike a balance. Don’t handhold or head-pat constantly. You’re not their schoolteacher or their cheerleader, and it will hurt your credibility with them if you come across as if you think you are. But remember that positive feedback is important feedback, too. It encourages good behavior, like parallel construction or vivid showing-not-telling imagery. A simple “this sentence is perfect”, or “I love this image” or “I laughed out loud right here” reassures the author that their words are coming across as intended. It reminds them that you really are reading instead of just slashing away with the red pen, and that you really are on their side.

Tagged as: advice, editing