Not long ago I was a bit demoralized by the brusque reaction I received from an author whose manuscript I’d praised. It was polished, humorous, well-organized. There was really very little for me to critique, but the few gentle massages I suggested were rejected. Brusquely.
(Brusque, according to my online Merriam-Webster’s Unabridged, is “markedly short and abrupt; tending to be brisk, sharp, and often somewhat harsh or lacking gentleness.” Synonyms include abrupt, blunt, crusty, curt, short, snippy. Rude and undiplomatic—just sayin’—don’t come up until you scroll down to the related words.)
It reminded me of a story I read last year in Stet, the memoir of legendary editor Diana Athill, and since we’ve also been discussing the relationship of editor to author, I laughed out loud at this passage, about a famous author (V. S. Naipaul) who has delivered a novel Athill feels is not up to his standards, after the company has published twelve (twelve!) of his books and Athill has spent much time cultivating the relationship.
So I told him. I began by saying how much I admired the many things in the book which I did admire, and then I said that I had to tell him (had to tell him!) that two of his three central characters had failed to convince me.
So far, so good. That’s exactly what I would have done. Remind the author there are things I liked, then gently point out what’s not working. In this particular case, the very next day Naipaul’s agent calls to say they’ll take the manuscript somewhere else.
Although I believe I was named, André [the publisher] was kind enough not to blame me. Nor did I blame myself. I went into a rage. I fulminated to myself, my colleagues, my friends: ‘All these years of friendship, and a mere dozen words of criticism—a mere dozen words!’ … For at least two weeks I seethed … and then, in the third week, it suddenly occurred to me that never again would I have to listen to Vidia telling me how damaged he was, and it was as though the sun came out. I didn’t have to like Vidia any more! I could still like his work, I could still be sorry for his pain, but … ‘Do you know what,’ I said to André, ‘I’ve begun to see that it’s a release.’ (Rather to my surprise, he laughed.)*
This picture of an editor/author relationship made me laugh because it felt familiar. As an editor, I know full well that I am doling out criticism, and how it’s received often has to do with delivery (non-brusquely is always my aim). Criticism is never easy to take, but how we react to it shows whether or not we have a teachable spirit. And there’s none among us who doesn’t have something to learn.
Want to know the true measure of a person? Edit his/her book.
* I transcribed these passages myself from pages 230–31 of my first American edition of Stet: A Memoir, © 2000, Grove Press.
Tweet: Want to know the true measure of a person? Edit his/her book.
Tweet: Truth in Editing: The few gentle changes I suggested were rejected. Brusquely.
Tweet: How criticism is received often has to do with its delivery.
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“I didn’t have to like him anymore” is perhaps the saddest line I’ve read in a long time.
Books are ephemera. They can be wonderful entertainment, and they can change lives, but it’s more than a pity when an author becomes so deeply connected to his creative work that he’ll choose the genius he perceives in it over a friendship, and that he consciously or subconsciously holds onto the ‘hurt’ and ‘damage’ that feeds his muse.
Life is so much more than this; our time here is short, and far more important than any creative output are the hearts we touch with our our own. The kindnesses we scatter bear the fruit of eternity.
And then there are (ahem) high-maintenance personalities. 🙂
You gather the most interesting stories, Jamie. Thank you for sharing them here and helping me to better understand the all-important role you (and so many others who edit and advise) play in the whole publishing industry. And thank you for doing it, too. What a gift.
Thank you, Diana! I love what I get to do for a living!
Giving constructive criticism or feedback and difficult and sensitive. I always consider who is giving me the criticism and why they are sticking their neck out when it would be easier to remain silent. You ripped apart my first draft and I’m so glad you did. Was it easy to accept? No. But I appreciate your professionalism in telling me the truth when you could just as easily have deposited my check, made a few minor notes and sailed away. Keep being the professional. I know I can count on your to tell me when my skirt is tucked inside my pantyhose. 🙂
LOL! I love you!
🙂
Giving constructive criticism or feedback and difficult and sensitive. I always consider who is giving me the criticism and why they are sticking their neck out when it would be easier to remain silent. You ripped apart my first draft and I’m so glad you did. Was it easy to accept? No. But I appreciate your professionalism in telling me the truth when you could just as easily have deposited my check, made a few minor notes and sailed away. Keep being the professional. I know I can count on your to tell me when my skirt is tucked inside my pantyhose. 🙂
I also feel like “criticism” is the wrong word. Suggestions for adjustment is more like it. Of course, that’s three words. I think of a golfer or gymnast: would she tell her coach to shove it if the coach gave her specific advice on correcting her swing or sticking her landing? Editorial feedback is no more personal than that.
Exactly. I like being direct, though. It is constructive criticism. 🙂