Move That Here, No There…
It’s a blustery Sunday afternoon, relentless summer rains in Florida. I’ve been at my computer since 9:00 this morning, with a break to shower, brush my teeth and eat a bowl of soup. It’s one of those days of intense focus as I labor through the long and confusing task of culling through almost 80,000 words of a book I thought I was almost finished with. After hiring the services of a well-known and respected editor, I expected some shifting of scenes, a refinement and polish, certainly. I didn’t expect the devastating comments I got: wrong word choice, repetition, confusion of timelines, too many names; shift paragraphs for more impact, more clarity; stick to the story line. And my favorite: what exactly is this book about?
In her long and detailed letter, my unkind editor told me not to get discouraged; most of the problem was structural. The next nine pages told me what the problems were and suggested alternatives. The manuscript was notated with 303 line items, some complimentary, most suggesting changes or asking for clarification. I read the letter three times, I read the notes on my manuscript three times. Then I went back and reread them all again. I waited until I could understand her words as an adult instead of as a child having a tantrum. Mostly, I had meltdowns when I thought about the years I had spent pouring my heart and every ounce of energy into this book. I can’t do this again.
But of course I can. Now, just two months later, I can see her comments clearly. Some I stubbornly don’t agree with, but most of them are spot-on. I’m now slogging through my own marked up copy: move this to page 54, delete this, elaborate here to make up for taking out the sentence in the third paragraph of this chapter. I have learned to look at my work not as a botched up mess I must blow up and start again, but as a new house I get to redecorate. To follow the analogy of paragraphs as furniture: for my new structure, or house, I must decide how to place my best and most beautiful pieces, getting rid of the ones that don’t fit with my new décor. Many I‘ll be able to reuse, in different spots that offer more satisfaction and aesthetic appeal. Others I’ll have to chuck; they are simply too spindly or clunky to work in my solid and beautiful new house. I must focus on placement for flow, groupings that offer a clear path in and out. Some will be showcased, up front and dynamic. Some will hover in the corners, offering background, or a peaceful respite from drama. All will be strategically placed for the greatest impact. Colors and textures, shapes of all sizes, compatible styles all working together towards perfection.
Since decorating is a passion of mine, I’ve now found a way to work with enthusiasm instead of dread. I know that furniture and accessories can be moved a dozen times before that perfect position is discovered, much as paragraphs can be changed around for that perfect scene. It’s not only okay to do this; it’s exciting and rewarding. Yet, this also means letting go, getting rid of beloved pieces because they simply will not fit in with the overall design. Because they are beautiful or strong or whimsical, I will keep them, and store them for use at another time.
