EDITOR! EDITOR!

by James Lincoln Warren

There are basically three kinds of criticism for fiction: literary criticism scholastically examines fiction as an artefact in an aesthetic or cultural context; reviews are popular criticism, supposed to provide a thumbnail sketch of a work with the object of letting the reader decide whether it is worth his time and money; and editorial criticism is meant to help an author improve his work. I sometimes do the first, rarely the second (that’s Steve Steinbock’s job), but I wind up doing quite a bit of the third.

I get asked to read colleagues’ Works In Progress pretty frequently, with the understanding that they will return the favor when asked. This guarantees a modicum of parity and civility. But even so, whenever I do take on such a task, the first thing I do is remind my colleague of Warren’s Laws, so there won’t be too much in the way of hurt feelings if it seems like I’m a little rough with things I don’t like.

Elizabethan theatrical producer Rowan Atkinson (“Mr. Bean”) gives editorial advice to William Shakespeare, played by Hugh Laurie (“House”). This sketch was part of a London AIDS benefit directed by Stephen Fry on September 18, 1989.1

And there’s the rub (as Shakey might put it): rubbing the writer the wrong way. It has happened to me.

I once got criticism back from a friend concerning one of my stories that when reduced to its essence told me that she hated the style it was written in, although she wasn’t so blunt about it. She told me I should excise 40% of the narrative — in other words, she thought that almost half of the story was a waste of time. Now, she’s someone whose opinion I greatly respect, but that was too much. In the sequel, the story made the cover of Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, so I felt vindicated by sticking to my guns — but I will never again ask that particular friend to read one of my stories before I submit it, not because my feelings were hurt (they weren’t), but because I don’t think I can rely on her taste ever coinciding with mine. (I wonder if any criticism I’ve ever offered has discouraged any of my friends from asking me a second time. Worth pondering.)

And then there was the time another colleague provided a critique that essentially recommended telling a completely different story than the one I had written. That wasn’t very helpful, either, so I told him that maybe he should write the story that I wasn’t telling. His response was, “Oh, I don’t write that sort of thing.” (My unspoken reaction was, “Then why are you trying to tell me how to write that sort of thing?”)

But these examples pale when I consider how much good advice I have gotten from colleagues whom I respect, especially with regard to stuff I felt uncertain about or if I got stuck. Does it work? Is it easy to understand? Does it interrupt the narrative flow too much? Is it entertaining? Is this section over the top? To borrow Guyot’s fabulously useful phrase, now and again I need to borrow a cup of writing.

Before it’s finished, a new story of mine always gets a final polish from at least one extra set of eyes. Nothing ever leaves this house in a 8½”x11” manila envelope until my wife Margaret has vetted it. She has a gift for le mot juste when it is most needed, and reads with a constructively critical eye that invariably ferrets out the worst weaknesses in my manuscripts. She also understands that I’m writing for an audience rather than for posterity, so she approaches all my new material first and foremost as a mystery fan. Once a story earns Margaret’s imprimatur, I know that it will get sold.

I like to say that a writer without an editor is a lot like a criminal defendant without a defense attorney. If you don’t have one, you’re probably going down.

On the other hand, the point of soliciting or dispensing literary advice isn’t whether or not it is taken. Advice that reinvents a story in the image of the critic isn’t worth anything at all. What’s important is whether the criticism stimulates the writer’s brain enough to enable him to solve the problem, whether it assists in giving the writer a new perspective on whatever isn’t working the way he wants it to. For that reason, I am completely indifferent as to whether my advice is followed or rejected, as long as it helped whoever asked for it fix whatever was wrong. It may be that something I suggest leads my fellow writer to think of something else, which in turn will lead to something else, which in turn will lead to a perfect solution that I had nothing to do with other than acting as a distant catalyst to the cavalcade of ideas. Well, that’s the point of giving advice, isn’t it? Not to assume a critical authority, but to assist in improving a story.

In the end, the only critical authority who matters is the reader.

1. In case you wondered why the line, “the Rose Theatre is a dump, frankly—I mean, the sooner they knock it down and build something decent, the better,” got such a big laugh, you should know that the foundations of the Rose Theatre, which existed from 1587 to 1603 and was the site of many Shakespearean premieres, had been uncovered earlier that year (1989) during excavations for a construction project for an office block. To the consternation of the developers, the discovery immediately led to a “Save the Rose” campaign, a public outcry very much in the news at the time of the performance. [↩]