Don't mind the mess

A statement and directive both

When I come to your house, you don’t have to clean for me.

I keep a clean and tidy home, but four people and two cats live here. Evidence of our alive-ness is everywhere, from the shoes habitually crowding the mat by the front door, to the teacup nightly abandoned on the table next to my husband’s chair in the living room. Our house has been overdue for interior painting since before we bought it six years ago. All the walls are putty grey, a baffling decision by the previous owners. Is it depressing? Sure! But have we had the time and energy and money to do something about it for the past half-decade? No. Hard no.

This is all to say: From one human to another, I accept your mess.

When it comes to my work as a book editor, my policy is nearly identical.

Manuscripts, like homes, are for the most part a reflection of their owner’s best effort. I believe in this earnest, best effort, even when you hand me a draft with a first-class ticket on the Hot Mess Express.

Whether in your home or in your manuscript, I think it’s reasonable to expect a valiant effort toward limiting chaos. I like to both see and sense your organizational work, your attention to detail, your thoughtfulness. I don’t want to come over for a coffee klatch when you’re knee-deep in home renovation, and similarly, I am not interested in getting mired in the bottomless shitpile of your Draft Zero.

Dear Reader, there are circumstances when an invitation to lunch at home ought not to be extended. It logically follows that an invitation to edit should also be extended judiciously. Here are five instances when you should take a raincheck on editing (in no particular order):

1. When the only draft is the aforementioned Draft Zero. If you’ve literally just typed “The End” and haven’t done so much as a cursory read-through, it’s too soon to invite an editor to visit.

2. When the draft is more than 20k words too short or too long. I can’t speak for other editors, but I get compensated on a per-word rate. If you come to me with a debut literary novel at 120k words, I’m going to tell you we need to cut between 20-40k words. That means 15-30% of your draft is excess. I don’t resent that the words are there (remember, I don’t mind your mess!), but it is a unique form of authorial laziness to expect someone else to cut these words on your behalf. Throwing your hands up at blatantly excessive wordage tells me you don’t really understand narrative structure. I am happy to teach you everything you need to know, but you’ll pay dearly for it, and I’d rather have you save your pennies for copy editing with someone else down the road. Better to take time away from your work, gain perspective, and attempt the cuts yourself. At the very least, be able to tell me you tried your best.

3. When the mechanics and line-level execution are too raw. Even though developmental work precedes line-level edits, your prose should demonstrate best-effort grammar and mechanics before an editor comes to call. On a gross level, we need to be able to understand what you’re writing; far from being antiquated torture techniques, grammar and mechanics are organizational principles that allow your reader to follow your train of thought. Beyond functional application, line-level execution is intimately connected to character development, tone, voice, style, and marketing (to the extent that your language must address your intended audience). I can’t read your draft and ignore the grammar. It’s quite literally impossible. I’m not looking for perfection here. Instead, I need baseline competency that doesn’t distract from meaning-making.

4. When you’re not open to feedback. If you’re sitting on your pile of words like a dragon on its golden hoard, you might not want to welcome intruders visitors to your lair home. It’s okay to be sensitive about your draft. Who wouldn’t be, after all the time spent assembling it? But you need to be honest with yourself about how receptive to feedback you truly are. Not ready to talk about your mess? Don’t ask me to look at it.

5. When you’re not sure who you’re writing for. Back in 2015, I wrote an article called “The Myth of the Everyreader” for Jane Friedman’s blog. I’m going to toot my own horn here and proclaim, unequivocally, IT STILL SLAPS. Check out this quote:

   When authors write to “everyone,” they are leaving an ambiguous gap at the core of their texts that could and should be filled with intention and authenticity. The difference between throwing something away and playing catch is audience. Your words need to land somewhere—and you need to know where that is before you write.

   Honestly, you should read the full article here. Jane maintains her blog off of Substack, but you can also find her on this platform, with links to all her relevant publishing outlets. When it comes to trustworthy publishing advice, you can’t do better than Jane. But I digress! My point here is that you have to define a specific audience for your work. Without this clarity, an editor is forced to question whether you’ve implemented the right narrative strategies and line-level methodologies to reach a real, live reader. I would rather edit a manuscript that believes it’s one thing, even when it’s not, than edit a manuscript that hasn’t yet decided what it is.

Editors want to collaborate with you to refine your work. You can come to us with your messy, effortful drafts, and we will help you gain new clarity and hopefully, set you on the right path forward. Editing should be grounded in safety and fearlessness, the ability to make big mistakes without shame. That doesn’t mean you can hand over a pile of word salad and expect an editor to return a Michelin-starred meal.

At the risk of sounding trite, help us help you. We don’t fear your mess(y manuscript draft), but that doesn’t mean we’re a crime scene clean-up crew. In the end, what I want to see is evidence that your best effort really is best—so together, we can find your spectacular.