Yes to each of those.

Yet my sole purpose as an editor isn’t to fill up my calendar and ensure an income stream. I edit because I want to help a writer improve a story and improve as a writer. There’s a teacher inside me who wants to not only make a manuscript the best it can be, but to make writers the best they can be.

Does this mean I have all the answers? No, no, and no again.

But I do bring an outside eye to a manuscript. And I can tell when something doesn’t work and why. And I do know how to make suggestions.

So why decline an edit?

The major reason I turn down an editing project is because the manuscript is not ready. Not ready to be published and not ready for an editor’s tools.

I’ve said many times that a first draft is not a finished product; first drafts can be so far from the final draft that they look to be different stories. Yet that’s often what I’m asked to look at, the very beginnings of what might be a wonderful story.

I receive many first drafts from excited writers, writers eager to submit their stories to publishers or agents after I clean up the punctuation or suggest grammar changes. I love that eagerness and hope I can channel it toward rewrites and self-edits. But I do that through suggestions rather than a hands-on edit at that stage.

I’m not a ghost writer or co-writer, yet that’s what I’d be if I edited the first draft of a novel.

A first draft, unless the writer is exceptionally gifted or experienced, is simply not ready for an edit. That first draft is a work in progress—and it’s a WIP at its very worst. What writer would want an editor to work on her project at its worst stage?

A first draft is incomplete. It has few of the touches that would make it an exceptional read. It’s often missing character motivation, rising conflict, and dialogue that’s rich in subtext and nuance. The beginning may not match the end. Story threads that were begun early in the manuscript might have gone nowhere, leaving messy bits of different plots hanging here and there among the true story.

Characters are likely to be undeveloped, hazy, unsure of their purpose in the story. Underused. One-dimensional.

The plot will be too thin or too full, the pacing will be off, the sentence rhythms will be off.

Foreshadowing will be absent. Chapter-ending hooks will go nowhere or be weak and uninspiring. Repetition—in word or thought or action—will be obvious rather than useful.

So . . . Isn’t that what an editor is for? To fix these issues? To at least bring a writer’s attention to them so he can make changes?

Yes, an editor will address all these issues and many more. But a manuscript that lacks the basic elements of good story is incomplete. And asking an editor to come in too soon is like asking another painter to finish a half-painted canvas: Here’s my latest project, John. Fill in the blank parts for me, will you? I’m sure you can tell from the rest of the image what I want to include in all the empty spaces. And if you find something that doesn’t work with the rest, just change that too.

A painting completed by another artist will not be the same painting the first artist envisioned. And a novel completed by an editor will not be the same story the writer envisioned.

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A writer friend mentioned that it must be especially difficult to be turned down by a freelance editor. Not only is the manuscript not ready for a publisher, but it’s not even ready for an editor who would be paid to work on it. What does that say about the writing? the writer? the writer’s dreams?

For me, turning down an edit has nothing to do with the writer or his goals and dreams. It has everything to do with the words and the manuscript.

I’m not a dream crusher but a dream enhancer. What I give to writers whose manuscripts I decline to edit is the same thing I bring to my clients as I work through their manuscripts—my best advice and suggestions for improving the story.

For manuscripts I decline to edit, I point out areas that still need work. I suggest fixes and a few resources for helping with those fixes. I offer options and a direction to consider as the writer works on rewrites.

I suggest that a first draft needs another pass or two by the writer.

A first draft—or any version of a manuscript that hasn’t jelled—needs more than polishing and focus. It needs work at the very foundations. That may mean point of view hasn’t been decided. It may mean that instead of scenes, the writer has included character sketches and notes. There may be no clear protagonist.

Dialogue may run on and on or be nearly non-existent.

Unless an editor is working with the writer from the early stages of a story, unless she’s working as a developmental editor, these basic elements should be decided upon before an editor comes to a story. It’s true that an editor may suggest changes in POV or viewpoint character, may even suggest that a different character is the true protagonist. Yet, were an editor to rewrite passages to reflect the change in POV, were she to create scenes out of chapters of only description, the work would take on the editor’s style and not the writer’s.

Yes, there is developmental editing and there are co-writers, but unless that’s specifically what you’re looking for, you’d do better to have a handle on the fundamentals of storytelling and novels before you approach an editor for your work.

Do you want guidance and help or full rewriting? Do you want an outsider’s eye and suggestions or do you want that outsider’s words in place of your own?

I’m not saying that editors can’t make suggestions for entire scenes or for long passages. I am saying there’s a difference between editing and co-writing or re-writing. If you’re a writer, know which you expect from your editor and let her know your expectations. If you’re an editor, know what the writer expects from you and let him know what your edits cover.

If a writer is looking for help from the earliest stages, both parties should know that going in. But again, that’s typically a developmental edit, what is often seen in non-fiction. It’s not unheard of for fiction projects, just less common. The typical novelist typing away in solitude wants to do it all herself.

Note:  There’s always the slight chance an editor might accept an unfinished manuscript and neglect to point out fundamental story problems to the writer. A poor editor might try to make a story look pretty without firming the foundations.

If you’re a writer, you definitely don’t want to solicit such an editor, one who’s not willing to tell you your story isn’t ready. And if you’re an editor new to the business, don’t be shy about telling a writer what a story needs.

Writers, you’ll also want to be aware of the different types and levels of editing. If you ask a proofreader to work on a manuscript, he’s not necessarily going to point out problems with the story’s foundations; that’s not a proofreader’s job. He might not even see them since he’s reading for a different purpose. And he might not know how to fix them even if he did see problems. Proofreaders are highly skilled and worth every penny you pay them, but they are not substantive editors who delve into all the fiction elements. So while a proofreader may check every line of your tables, he might not be able to tell you a thing about character development.

Major story issues that show me a manuscript isn’t ready to be edited—

1.  Reports that take the place of scenes. This is the very worst of telling instead of showing. These manuscripts read less like a novel and more like a list of daily chores that have been accomplished. I did this, then I did this, and then I went here and did this. A novel without scenes (barring an experimental piece) is not a story.

2.  No clear protagonist. A story without a clear protagonist is missing its heart. Writers must decide whose story they’re telling and they should decide this before they’re ready for an edit. A story can’t be finished, the elements can’t be joined properly, if the protagonist is unidentified. And if the story isn’t finished, why have it edited? (I understand that editors often work as mentors and consultants, helping fix problem areas and strengthening a writer’s skills. An editor can take on these tasks at any stage of a manuscript’s development. I’m differentiating the editing of a completed manuscript from these mentoring tasks.)

3.  Confusion over point of view. Again, while an editor may suggest that a writer change his choice of POV or viewpoint character, there should’ve been some conscious decision by the writer to have chosen a point of view before working on the final drafts. A manuscript with muddled POV, especially one that shows the writer doesn’t understand the different options for POV, is not ready to be edited.

4.  Lack of story. A novel manuscript without a discernible story is not ready for an edit. Novels have characters doing something somewhere. The story usually makes sense, entertains readers, and shows a cohesion of some sort from beginning to end. The options of elements to be included in novels is nearly limitless, but there must be some kind of narrative featuring some kind of characters. A manuscript without a story needs to find a story before the writer finds an editor.

5.  A complete lack of writing skills or indifference to the need for those skills on the part of the writer. A writer who doesn’t know how to write and a writer who doesn’t care to learn how to write may not have the same attitude, but their output can be similar. A manuscript that’s the result of either ignorance (the lack of knowledge) or indifference is likely not ready for an edit.

Writers, you expect your editor to bring her best skills to your manuscript; you should do no less. Learn the basics. Learn the intermediate skills. Learn the advanced skills. Learn the writing rules and the ins and outs of fiction. Don’t assume you can write and that you know how to work with all the elements of storytelling—make sure that you do through practice and reading and study.

If I see a weakness in one of these areas, I suggest that the writer examine the problem area before seeking an edit. After all, what’s the point of editing a full manuscript if it will change drastically—where changes touch every page or scene—and require another edit? Make those major structural changes before hiring an editor.

_____________________________

I hope this reassures those writers who might be hesitant to approach a freelance editor. We’re looking for writers who want to produce a better story, who have an interest in crafting entertaining fiction that others will want to read. 

We don’t relish turning a writer down. Instead we want to help you make your current manuscript and all those that follow the best you can make them. If that means saying that one isn’t ready, not even ready for an editor, then that’s what we’re going to say.

I’m certain that at this point a few writers and editors will be thinking some variation of the following: “My first draft was really clean; I actually got a contract from that first draft.” “But I want an editor to help me with these exact issues.” “I’m an editor and I relish, thrive, working on just the kind of manuscripts you’ve described here as not ready.”

There are always exceptions.

Of course there are. Exceptions for stories, for people, for circumstances. Exceptions for brilliance or for the challenge or for the opportunity of working on a particular manuscript or with a particular writer.

But exceptions aren’t common. For most of us, the reality is that our stories need work and our first drafts are not final drafts and a beginning writer’s first manuscript is going to have major structural and storytelling issues that need fixing.

My encouragement for you is to keep writing. Work to enhance your writing strengths and eliminate your weaknesses.

Learn what makes good fiction and strive to create it.

And when you and your manuscript are ready, find an editor whose goals and strengths and style fit with yours so the two of you can produce a story readers won’t be able to put down.

Write good fiction today.

Rewrite even better fiction.

***

Writers who’ve never studied craft, never attended classes, may have no idea how much more there is to a novel than the relatively simple(?) act of getting it down on paper.

Often, no thought is given to assessment, the evaluation and judging of the story and its elements. No thought given to tightening and refining plot, to the strengths or inconsistencies of characterization, syntax, or dialogue.

If you’ve never gone beyond the dream stage of wanting to write a novel, how could you possibly know there was more to it, more than just writing the idea that’s in your head? If the goal has been to write the story, that’s been the focus.

The truth, however, is that there is much more to writing than simply penning the first draft.

Yet, writing the first draft is crucial. Without it, there’s nothing to build on. Nothing to perfect.

But there is so much more.

Rather than delve into what happens after the first draft is written, this article takes a look at the first draft itself. What it is, what it isn’t. What’s in it and what’s not.

*******

What it is and what it isn’t

A first draft isn’t the one a writer submits to an agent or publisher.

A first draft is a skeleton, a foundation, a beginning. It is not a finished product. Not only isn’t it polished, but it most likely lacks supports that give it strength, that allow it to take on the weight of all the elements the writer has piled on.

A first draft is typically not great storytelling.

A first draft, especially the first first draft, is a milestone worth celebrating.

A first draft doesn’t have

• a fully formulated theme
• layers and depth
• tight threads that resist unraveling
• pacing that enhances the story
• fully formed characters with motivations strong enough to drive the story
• story-specific words that keep readers anchored to this story
• enough conflict
• an inevitable ending

A first draft does have

• a tantalizing hint of the final product
• bloat
• some super-fine writing and phrases—words that may or may not make it into the final draft
• plot inconsistencies
• info dumps
• too many characters
• too much back story
• weak dialogue
• moments of great beauty
• an insufficient resolution
• dangling plot threads
• characters with unclear motivations
• cliches, saidisms, annoying repetition
• poor grammar

*******

I hope the reality of what the first draft is doesn’t discourage you from working on that second draft. And beyond that, to the sixth or seventh or tenth. There is no perfect first draft. Novels are too full and rich and complex for a writer to include every element in the proper proportion in a single pass. It’s impossible to layer elements and plot and character motivation in chapter four when the layers you intend to add haven’t yet been imagined, when what gives those layers power comes from a plot point, one in chapter twelve, that you haven’t yet written.

Celebrate the completion of the first draft. Actually, celebrate each step of the writing process if it’s your first manuscript. Then tackle the tough stuff, the rewriting and undoing and fixing.

Writing a novel, a story others will enjoy reading and one you’ll want to put in their hands, is more than a labor of love. It’s more than penning a first draft, more than moving unfocused ideas from mind to page or computer screen. Writing a novel is toil and inspiration and days of frustration. It’s work. It’s sometimes fun. It’s rewarding, it’s taxing, and it’s draining.

It’s also a grand achievement, a testament to creativity and perseverance. An endeavor I hope you’ll complete many times in the course of your career.

***

What is NaNoWriMo? It’s a month of writing like a mad person, getting words to a story down on paper, and aiming for a total of 50,000 in thirty days.

Yep. Write a novel in a month.

You can do it. Yes, you can write 50,000 words in a month. That’s less than a chapter a day.

The folks at NoNoWriMo are encouraging and entertaining—they’ll hold your feet to the fire in the kindest way imaginable. They can give you ideas, tell you where to meet with other NaNoers, inspire your weary brain.

If you need a spur to write something new, if you want to have some fun, if writing is a chore or moving too slowly or is just plain boring, join NaNoWriMo and go after a story with zeal.

Reminders of how to succeed with NaNoWriMo:

Write every day

Turn off your self-editor

Have fun

Expect to write something exceptional

Expect to write something lousy

Know that you won’t write every day

Don’t yell at the spouse, the kids, or the dog if they interrupt your creative flow

Did I say have fun and shut off the self-edit witch? Just write. And write some more. And then add a little bit more.

By the end of the month, you’ll have a start on your next story. It won’t be perfect, but face it—not one of your first drafts is perfect. It’s a draft. Let the imagination soar. Be brave. Be bold.

Write untethered and free.

Be a NaNoWriMo winner.

You’ve completed your novel. The story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. And you want to bask, just a moment, of course, in the relief and excitement of a job well done.

However…

The job isn’t done. Yes, the first draft is finished, in all its unwieldy glory. But your job as creator isn’t finished. Certainly, your job as editor and rewriter has not yet begun. And your newest masterpiece is ready for neither the public nor your most enthusiastic admirers.

It really isn’t.

You hoped yours would be different, didn’t you? You hoped you’d do in one draft what takes the rest of us four or six or a dozen.

Not gonna happen. Not even if you’re the slowest writer who edits as she writes, painstakingly correcting and changing and deleting and adding…

Nope.

A novel—a quality work of fiction—requires more than a single pass. More than two.

We need to correct plot errors and logic errors and simple errors in word choice. We must condense on one side and fill out on the other.

We need to tighten threads that jolt readers’ emotions and cut out the thread we introduced on page 27 but forgot to continue through the rest of the story.

We must combine characters who serve only one scene and give extended life to the character whose actions offer motivation for our main character.

We polish and cut and rearrange and fuss and fume and laugh and cry and cut some more and add a side plot and rip out our hero’s monologue that makes us cry but does nothing to advance the main plot.

When we type THE END, we’ve reached a resting point, a place where we can breathe, where we remember we have families and spouses and friends, maybe roses that need pruning and cars that need new tires. We can enjoy the non-fictional world and solve problems for those in our lives who bleed blood rather than ink.

But then…

When we’ve rested. And recharged. And made peace with family and friends…

Then we head back into our fictional world and attack our words and phrases with the ardor and the mental acuity of a general who knows exactly how best to move and position his troops to ensure victory. We check out the surroundings and the people we have to work with and we examine timelines, knowing we must get the right flank into place within a particular time frame.

I won’t say that THE END is just the beginning, because it’s very, very far from that. But it’s often, in terms of time and the work still to be done, even farther from the true end.

Revel in the joy of finishing your manuscript. Celebrate the accomplishment. But take out your red pen with that same joy and take another pass—or ten—through your story. Don’t leave it before it’s truly finished.

Make sure THE END doesn’t act as a stop sign to your enthusiasm or to your true goal. Finish the story. Give your rewrites as much time as they need.

Stop when the story is complete, when you’ve succeeded at the writer’s task of penning the best story you’re capable of writing at this stage of your career.

Then THE END will be

THE END

Or, you may have been around long enough to have heard the same sentiment expressed by dozens of friends and acquaintances, and now merely laugh off such assertions.

But is it true? Can anyone write a book?

While I’d never discourage anyone from trying—and I believe many are capable of putting a story on paper—I will admit that if we’re considering quality, then no, not everyone can write a novel.

Ask anyone who’s crafted a piece of long fiction how easy they found it. Chances are, easy doesn’t figure in their responses.

There’s more to writing a story than telling a story. Writing involves choosing words to create tension and stir emotion. There’s the effort of building into climaxes and slowing the pace to lulls. There’s action and dialogue and description. There are character arcs, story arcs, themes, and plot threads.

There are choices about the number of characters necessary to tell the story with depth yet without confusion. There’s the point-of-view question—who gets to tell this story? What would the story be like told from a different POV? Would it be stronger, more entertaining? More accepted by the reading public?

There are choices to be made at every level, for every story element, on every page.

The writer must consider goals and conflicts and word choices and sentence construction and rhythms and grammar and plot and…

They’re seemingly endless, the choices and elements that go into crafting a novel. But in truth, this becomes simply one more decision—deciding when the story is done, written to the best of the writer’s ability. In order to be published, the writing and decision-making cannot be endless. There must be a stopping point.

Doesn’t look too easy, this book writing business. Does it?

So… can anyone write a novel?

Everyone can try.

Not all will succeed.

I’ve wondered about this for a while, and my first response is “no.”

The first novel, in craft terms, will certainly never be a writer’s best work. Why take that story, that one that keeps you up at night, and subject it to a beginning writer? If the story’s that good, wouldn’t you rather see it in the hands of a craftsman instead of those of a novice? If it’s the Great American Novel or next NY Times chart topper or the top pick in the Book of the Month Club (nothing wrong with dreaming big), shouldn’t it get the best writer, or at least the best effort of any writer?

Yet…

It’s often that first story itself that drives a writer to write. Just knowing he can mold his idea into a compelling read might be what keeps him writing and learning and working into the night when he could be doing so many other activities instead. The dream of what he can create may be the impetus for writing in the first place. If the writer is discouraged away from one story and asked to work on another (to him) less compelling story, will he lose heart, lose interest?

My first manuscript was one of those burning to be written. And the story and the adventure of writing kept me on track to write. Yet I know that manuscript is far from a masterpiece; I could do much better today. But of course, you must begin somewhere. Now I’ve got another story that plays around in my mind, teasing me with glimpses of what it could be. Yet this time I know I’m not ready to write it. So I work on other projects and hold this one manuscript in front of me as a tease, a goad.

But do you tell a new writer that his pet project will most likely be his worst work? Do you share that reality before he’s even begun? At the best it’s an eye opener. At the worst it could put the brakes on a writing career before it’s begun.

So…

Is it fair to ask a writer to hold off working on the story that moves him until he’s good enough to do an outstanding job on it?

Is it fair to ask a beloved story to put up with a writer not up to the task?

I’m still pondering…