Rewrites: When an Editor Calls

Writing is solitary, rewriting is a group effort.

When an editor calls and asks for rewrites before finally purchasing a piece, there’s a panicked moment of “Oh, my God, I better get this right. And now I’m on deadline!”

 

At least I feel that way. I know the old axiom about making a piece as good as possible before submitting it, and I believe it wholeheartedly. but editors ask for rewrites, big or small, regardless. I think the pieces are good when they go out the door. Getting an editor to call (or more likely email) telling you she’s interested but would like a change or two confirms that it’s good. Well, at least good enough to get your foot in the door. Changes to the story are inevitable.

 

Whoever said that movies are collaborative while book writing is solitary has never gone through the publishing process. Writing is solitary; rewriting is a group effort.

 

Follow me on this story’s journey…

 

In June, an editor assigned to critique my picture book, The Spaghettisburg Address, said she was excited about it, etc., and that this had “never happened (to her) at conference before.” She wanted one or two lines added to one paragraph and that was it. Her last words to me were, “We will go further with this.” I was, to say the least, excited. I added the one or two lines she wanted and waited.

 

After 2 ½ months, I sent a status letter, but received no response. Three months later, I sent the story to an agent. Six days after that I got a response and we set up a time to go over that story and several others. The agent very helpful. I rewrote Spaghettisburg to address her concerns and contacted the above editor at her suggestion.

 

Two weeks later I got a response -- Send me what you have on Spaghettisburg. Well, at this point, I thought it was ready to go out again. The editor and the agent had made good suggestions. But I reread it anyway, and uh-oh -- hated it (well parts of it). Three days of hurried rewrites, torn copies, torn hair, a better rhythm, more jokes, a revised ending with a call back, and... I hated it even more. I was frustrated and close to panicking as I realized she asked for this story. Maybe she needed this story. 

Maybe I needed a break.

 

I pulled out a copy of what I first sent her. The one she liked. I compared it with this new version and found that in many ways they were similar, even compatible. They complemented each other nicely. Bits here, bits there, and suddenly I had a story I once again enjoyed. The joy was back on the page and in my persona. I knew this when I threw down my pen and beamed with satisfaction.

 

I felt comfortable emailing it back to her.

 

I don’t know what induces that panic to set in, this idea that’s it’s not good enough when I know, really know, that they’ll probably ask for another line or two, a tweak here or there, a new angle, a new joke. What I’d like to see as the final copy is probably not the final copy. Now, I’m thrilled she’s interested in my work, but also recognize that I’m only halfway through the process, the big picture. This experience, this banging away on the keyboards at wee hours, odd hours, all hours, is the electronic version of hesitating before placing your manuscript in the mailbox. In the end, you just have to tell yourself you have to do it. The story is as good as you can make it. At least until the next round of suggestions come in.

 

I’m ready for the next level. And I’m pretty sure the story is, too.