Fran Macilvey

What about editing?

When I write a book, I don’t leave it to an editor to do all the tidying up, the trawling and correcting. The chances are, for every time I write a phrase, I will edit it about four times, and even then, I regret the words that didn’t make it onto the page.

Writing, for me, is at best a compromise, rather like the one that faces a youngster deciding what to do with his or her life: the horizon is so wide, which way should they go? What subjects should they study, specialise in, care about and invest in? What will they do when they grow up?

And as with writing, the blank page is full of potential which somehow, mystically, never quite lives up to the dream. I would make the same suggestion as I would for work. Write what you are good at, write what you know and what you enjoy.

Editing – the second stage, third stage and nth stage tidy up – is so much a part of the craft of writing, that it is hard to know where the line between them is drawn. It is with editing that we discover newer, brighter, wittier ways of showing our thoughts at their best. Editing fills in the gaps between what we think we are writing, and what others take from our meaning: the two can come apart in startling ways. Editing is also polish that makes a work look effortless, and gives it slick clarity.

My sister, who edits, was telling me that a lot of people these days, they either don’t edit, or they expect that mythical editor to do it for them. Indeed, this seems to be a common assumption, based, understandably on the fact that there are those out there who call themselves editors. Writers write, and editors edit, right? In truth, not always, and I find it unwise to rely too much on others, or – even more deadly – to expect from them services which they don’t or can’t deliver. Yes, I get my work edited by professionals, especially when I need a shove down one particular avenue or towards a particular theme; but I always, always endeavour to edit my work as much as I can, before and afterwards, and to stay on the course, take responsibility for the final version of what I write about. That seems vital to me; or else, how can I put my name to it?

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Editing, the perspiration of writing.

The first draft of our first book may only take a few weeks or months to complete. Typically, the first real, honest project in our writing career will have been gestating for years. You may find that once released, the torrent of words just cannot be stopped, and you fill pages easily and fluently. This is a sign that you are indeed meant to write everything out, and that the time has come to follow through with that impulse. But before you print off your first draft and send it out to the publishers, pause for a moment and reflect.

My first book felt like a very exciting experiment: I loved the feeling of finally writing down all the ideas which had been swimming around in my head for years. Finally giving form to them felt immensely liberating. With a new project to occupy me, I felt more alive and awake than I had for many years. However, with my enthusiasm there was not a great deal of experience and I was acutely aware of my naiveté, which fed into my first efforts at to put together consistent, worthwhile material. After rewrites and overhauls through several years, I finally set that first major project to one side, and then – and this is the point – only then, did I start my magnum opus.

Getting the first two hundred thousand words out – only half of which may be worth saving and putting into some kind of order – we have well and truly launched our writing careers, but the refinement of that first enthusiasm can take years. Our first work, our first completed book – while presenting a good opportunity to be pleased – is just the beginning and may never transform itself into our best writing, no matter how enthusiastic it makes us feel personally. Many writers have launched successful careers with their second book, aware that it represents more fluent, polished writing.

(To be continued)

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