I’ve been editing for more than thirty years. Not the same book, mind you. That would be insane. When I was organizing a shelf yesterday (as one does when procrastinating), I decided to line up some of the books I’ve worked on. The picture here shows what I found. I don’t have much space for books in my small apartment, and I only have a tiny percentage of the printed versions of books I’ve worked on, so this is just drop in the proverbial bucket.
In the interest of full transparency, there is one book here I didn’t edit (Demon, by Tosca Lee), but since I worked on all of her subsequent books (save one), I didn’t want to separate it from its siblings. And the eagle-eyed among you will also see two of Jenny Lawson’s (@thebloggess) bestselling titles here. I was not her editor, nor did I play any official role in publishing her books, but she was gracious enough to invite me to play an early-reader-offering-editorial-input role, so I decided to include them. There are also a couple books here I had a hand in writing, but my three self-published fiction titles occupy a different shelf in my apartment: The shelf where books you hoped to sell/give away/leave on tables in coffee shops go to die. Or at least languish. (The curious can learn more about these books by clicking one of those images in the margin or by clicking here.)
I have no idea how many words I’ve edited over my (so far) three-decade career, but it’s a lot. I recently crossed the million-word threshold with one client alone. So with more than 900 books edited, well, you do the math. I can’t. Seriously, I don’t do big numbers, unless it’s measuring my cholesterol level.
Some of the books I edited sold well. Some didn’t. Some never even made it beyond the “final manuscript” stage. But in every case, I considered it a rare privilege to spend time with the writer’s hard-wrought words.
I don’t take this job lightly. I know it’s not easy to share the words you’ve wrestled for weeks, months, years with a veritable stranger. So to all the authors I’ve worked with (and those yet to come), I say, “Thank You.” Even if your book only sold fifteen copies (including 14 to your mother, despite her mild concern about some of the words you used), it mattered to me. Your story, whether real or imagined, mattered. A lot.
For a season, I lived in that space where you spent so much of your time and effort. I hope I left it in better shape than when I first arrived. That, in a nutshell, is the editor’s intent.
And yet, even with all this experience, I still suffer from imposter syndrome as an editor (though not nearly as often as when I’m playing the role of novelist).
Ultimately, I have to believe I know what I’m doing, and that I’m pretty good at it. Otherwise, I’d have to find a new career. And frankly, I’m not keen on that idea.
Writing a book is hard. (Well, for most of us anyway.) But it can be slightly less painful when you have someone in your corner who can help solve plot problems, steer you in new directions, and cheer you on as you attempt that impossible thing of putting on paper a story that always looks so much better in your head.
Anyway, those are my thoughts for the day. Also? Bookshelves can get really dusty. I mean seriously dusty.
[Sneezes.]