Know When To Fold
October 6, 2016 § 9 Comments
“Ready to submit” rarely means “doesn’t need any more revisions.” Thankfully, most literary journal editors are able to help refine accepted work until a piece is the best it can be. I’ve gone back and forth for word choices, tonal missteps, and fact-checking/legal ass-covering. Sometimes a magazine accepts a piece with tremendous potential they think is worthy of a deeper edit to become publishable.
It’s often a pleasure to dive back into a “finished” piece with the help of fresh eyes, and fix tiny moments–or even giant structural issues–holding the essay back. It’s also natural to feel defensive, even hurt, when receiving edits. Natural enough that when I send an editorial letter to an author, I always include,
Remember, you don’t have to agree with my diagnosis of a particular problem, but it’s worth examining the section to see if you think it’s a different problem or one that should be solved in a different way.
Even with my longtime editor who has massaged some of my favorite work into being, my process still includes a sulking day before begrudgingly starting the next draft. But then the feeling changes. I have moments of Yeah, I thought I’d paper over that, but I didn’t, and Oh, yes, that will be better!
It’s almost always worth sucking up hurt feelings and moving forward, even if taking a perverse pleasure in rewriting differently from the editor’s suggestions.
Sometimes it’s not worth it.
What if you think an editor doesn’t “get” your piece? If you’ve received edits that make you think, Did you agree to publish the piece I wrote, or the piece you would like me to have written? How can you distinguish wounded author feelings from genuine incongruence of vision?
Don’t be precious. Every writer will be edited someday. Editors do their best to help you realize your vision, but they also need your piece to fit their magazine. Take a day or two to breathe, and come back to revisions in a hopeful mood. You know how your friend shows you their finished essay and you can still see improvements? That’s where you are right now. Let yourself be OK with it. Writing is a process, and editing is part of it.
Weigh the benefits. Where are you in your publication career? How much money is involved? What about prestige? Where are you with this piece? If the New Yorker wants edits, I will be lining up with the scalpel or the axe, whichever they decree. If I’m being paid mass-media rates, or writing work-for-hire, fine, let’s chop and change, no skin off my nose as long as the check clears. If I’ve been submitting this piece for months, maybe this editor finally figured out what’s holding it back. Those trade-offs are harder if the journal is smaller or lesser-known, if they don’t pay even an honorarium, or if the essay is brand-new/without previous rejections.
Phone a friend. Determine your level of touchiness vs. the usefulness of the edits by showing a trusted writer friend. Where do they agree? Where do they shake their head and say hmmmm, I don’t know about that one? Do they agree where the issues are, even if not what they are?
Due diligence. Look up the editor. What have they written? Do you think it’s good? What writing have they championed on their social media? Do you like their taste? Read more of the magazine. Can you see your work fitting in, or is there a disconnect in tone, style, mood, voice, structure or content?
It takes two to make a bargain. As writers, we often feel powerless to influence the publication of our work, and grateful for any opportunity. But not every opportunity is the right one. If this is your dream venue, then even a heavily edited piece is a foot in the door and a nice credit. If not, and you’ve truly confronted your own reflexive defensiveness, and genuinely considered the points made, it’s OK to withdraw your piece. Send a polite note, and take the blame on yourself. You’re out of time this month for the work this journal deserves. The piece needs a bigger rewrite than you’re able to attempt right now. You’ll submit another time with a piece that’s farther along.
I got some edits recently I disagreed with. I gave it 48 hours. I showed two writer-friends for their input on what feedback seemed most useful. I went through and responded to each comment from the editor. Then I sent that back to a friend to make sure I didn’t sound snippy.
A second round of edits came. From the email, the editor had indeed found me snippy (sorry! I really did try!). I still didn’t agree with the edits. I sent the piece to a writer who didn’t know me well (less context to paper over problems) and asked her to specifically address questions the editor had. The new suggestions didn’t hit the same points–but they did give me the Oh, yes, that will be better! feeling.
Then I realized I’d spent six hours agonizing over a piece I wasn’t going to be paid for, for a magazine I didn’t know much about. That they’d seen something in my work I didn’t see, and I wasn’t able to find their point of view. They weren’t wrong, or horrible people–we just had different visions for the essay. And sending an email to withdraw felt like Oh yes, that will be better!
Allison Williams is Brevity’s Social Media Editor and the author of Get Published in Literary Magazines.