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Hello again, gentle readers!

Welcome back to another delightful installment of everyone’s favorite bimonthly drunken advice column, Am I the Literary Asshole? It’s a column designed to bring hope, faith, and a love of happy hour libations to all God’s favored children (that’s us, in case you were wondering). I’m your host, Kristen Arnett, and I’m happy to say that I made it out to Austin for my teaching gig at the Michener Center! The temperatures here are higher than Florida, if you can believe it. My humidity levels are at an all-time low, which means this swamp rat has started drinking copious amounts of water to deal with the heat. I know, I couldn’t believe it, either. Water! Apparently all the most hydrated kids are doing it.

Speaking of water, why don’t we help ourselves to a couple of the ranch variety and crack those open, then get straight to sipping? Some nice questions on the docket today. Let’s jump right in, folks:

1)  Maybe you’ve gotten asked this before and I missed it, but on the off chance you haven’t how can I tell if an editor has sent me good edits or bad and unhelpful ones? I’ve had a piece accepted by a publication, and while I’m excited to have my work out in the world, the person who’s been editing me has a lot of things they’d like changed before it’s ready for pub. Yesterday they sent over a google doc filled with all kind of comments and even big sections that have been marked for deletion. 

Oh, this is a great question! And definitely not one I’ve answered before, so thanks for submitting it.

I know very little about the work in question here (don’t know what it’s about, where you are in your career, how many times you’ve published before, if you’ve worked with other editors on projects in various levels of completion, etc). What I can tell you, however, is that there are ways to distinguish between a good edit and a bad edit, even if we’re talking about writing that might need a little more finessing and time put into it than others.

A good editor is someone who offers feedback and suggestions that enhance the work that you’ve already crafted. They see your vision. They understand what you’re trying to make and want to help your particular voice shine through. They ask helpful questions.

Does that mean making some deep cuts? Occasionally, sure. Deleting extraneous sections that veer away from your chosen topic can tighten the piece and make your points more salient and clear. These large-scale edits happen to everyone at one time or another. When we’re excited and making something we can get lost in the weeds. A good editor holds the map in their capable hands. They keep us fixed on the right path.

Now, is it true there are bad editors? Yes, or at the very least, they’re a bad fit for you and your work. A bad fit editor takes what you’ve made and tries to turn it into something they would write. Instead of helping you build your own thing, they take over the design and try to make it square with their own tastes and ideas. But again, truly, this isn’t often the case. And you can ask follow up question to either confirm or deny this. Do you feel that they understand what you’re trying to build? Can they articulate what the piece means to you and what is most important to the text? If they cannot, that could be a red flag.

But I’d urge you to take a hard look at these edits you’ve received and ask yourself, very sincerely, if they’re really all that bad. Lots of notes doesn’t mean you’ve been given a bad edit. It could indicate that you’ve submitted something that needs a lot more work than originally anticipated. Be honest with yourself. Be receptive to well-meaning feedback and criticism. In a world of steadily diminishing artistic practices, we are so goddamn lucky to have editors. Everyone’s work needs an edit, myself very much included. Go forward in good faith. And unless someone shows you otherwise, trust that this editor has your best interests at heart.

Let’s head back to the ranch for another of their famous waters. Next caller:

2) Hey Dad! I’ve been working on a novel for several years now. As time has passed and I’ve continued drafting, I’ve come to the realization that this is actually two different books. Do I just throw the whole thing out? 

This is a tough one. You’ve spent a lot of time with this project; you’re the one who knows it best. I can’t answer if this is actually two different books because I haven’t spent any time with this work, and I don’t know your writing, or how you talk to yourself about it. It’s absolutely possible that the writing has divided itself into two separate camps. Maybe this is a project that took on too much life and needed to be focused on one idea or the other. But again, there’s no way for me to know any of this because I haven’t read any of it.

However, I have to wonder if you might sit with this for a moment and consider what’s caused you to make this assessment. Is it because you truly feel like it’s two separate projects? Or are you nervous because it feels big and that scares you? Have you worked on one part longer and it’s starting to drag you down? Is one part newer to you, and subsequently fresher feeling, and you want to work on it instead because it feels more exciting?

Listen, novels take on lives of their own. That’s how we know they’re actually doing something important and significant. It should be kinda scary to write a novel, because it means it’s large and takes up space and time and care and a big chunk of our lives. It’s completely possible you’ve discovered that you’ve been writing toward the wrong end. And yes, that means you need to pick up the single thread and discard the other. Only you can be the one to really know the answer. You gut will tell you the truth.

But! Listen to your gut. Does it really feel like two different books? Or are you worried that you must choose a single path to make the project happen?

If it’s the latter, try to stick with it. To sit with it. At least for a little while. Wrangle it a bit, my friend. It can be easier to tell ourselves that we don’t have the chops to do something. Much harder to try. Get excited about being scared. No good art is made in a space where risks aren’t involved.

Okay, last drink? Let’s toast and then have an actual water after we do this last question; for real, I’m incredibly dehydrated:

3) I have a workshop cohort (many of them longtime writing friends from a program) and we share work quarterly. My last submission was a speculative story that leaned more horror, which is a new style for me. When we met up to discuss, there was a lot of talk about how funny the story was. I did not mean for it to be humorous. Like, not at all. The whole thing made me sick. Which then made me embarrassed. I don’t think anyone was trying to be mean (or an a**hole, per your column), but where do we go from here?

Buddy, I’m sorry they hurt your feelings!

The important note here is that you don’t think anyone did this on purpose. We can work with that. Because you don’t have to leave your writing group over it. And you don’t have to stop writing what interests you and what makes you excited about art, either!

What I am going to encourage you to do is have an honest conversation with everyone involved. Notice I said “honest” here, not accusatory. What I want you to do is let everyone know that you’re trying something new out, stylistically, and would love it if future feedback could take that into account. I don’t know exactly how your group runs things—each writing collective is different—but perhaps you could even offer up your own questions at the start of each review. Things that you feel would actually be helpful to know in lieu of a broad sweep of critique.

Mostly I’d like you to take heart. Not everyone thinks the same things are scary. Not everyone laughs at the same things, either! And it’s completely possible that the people in this particular group aren’t your readers when it comes to speculative or horror. But please, before you write them and this endeavor off completely, have this hard conversation. I think you’ll be (pleasantly) surprised how well things turn out.

And that’s our show, folks! Join me next time when I’ll be answering more of your pressing questions (send those anonymous ones HERE) and hopefully I manage to cool down while I continue to hydrate.

Beat the heat,
Dad

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Are you worried you’re the literary asshole? Ask Kristen via email at AskKristen@lithub.com, or anonymously here.