This was chapter three at the beginning of the process. The editor and I needed to get used to each other - or rather, I needed to get used to her. In the beginning the process is slow, sometimes trying to figure out how to make a change. With making corrections, sometimes I had to restructure a sentence or get rid of it and write another because the correction (meaning or continuity) didn't fit properly. In doing this, the editor is making you see a lot more work past the mistakes. You naturally start to polish, without knowing it. Sometimes you will disagree with the editor and that's fine. Beware though, you should make sure that your correction cures the problem. If it doesn't, the red pen will strike again in the same place. I know.
Now let's assume you've spent several torturous hours putting everything right and send the chapter back for an approval and pat on the head. WRONG. I guarantee that your interpretation of some of the corrections will be wrong. There will be more mistakes in your alterations - ie passive sentencing and use of adverbs. You may think you know it all. YOU DON'T. It doesn't matter how many years you've been writing, you are too close to the work to see it from a readers point of veiw.
Editing, according to how well you have drafted the work before letting an editor work on it, can take just as long as writing the book. Patience rewards all those who wait. Why rush to publish a good book that has not been properly edited. If readers see mistakes in the writing, they will not come back for the next book.
Part 2 - (next week) beleivable characters come to life - dangling participles - nasty adverbs - and descriptive pros
A good editor will not only throw red ink at you, but a little encouragement as well.
Hi Raymond
My blackberry rang (had rung) (avoid passive phrases) as I drove around Parliament Square in pouring rain but I ignored it. If anyone wanted Enda Osin he wasn’t available until he’d drunk two cups of tea, especially at 6 am on a dark autumnal morning. (this is good because you’ve introduced Enda in the opeing para and we get a sense of who he is because of how he handles the call – very good)
Now read the same chapter below. It may still need a little polish but you can see what a difference there is. Also notice that I don't necessarily follow every line or word the editor suggests. Suggestions are not orders, but good advice set within the parameters of good editing. That said, stray to far at your own risk!
A good editor will not only throw red ink at you, but a little encouragement as well.
Hi Raymond
I know your heart will sink when you see what I’ve done. However, this is much much better. There were maybe one or two speeches and the descriptions are really good. As I was going through I realised that Max would probably have the article with him when Enda arrives and he would have circled big sections with red marker. That gives him something to shake a fist at and prod.
You are welcome to put things into different words.
But I’d say this is close to done now. Be good when we’ve finished to go back and read it from the start. See how it reads after a break.
I know your story line is strong. But as Robert McKee says, it is not enough to have a good idea, ‘your goal must be a good story well told’ and that’s where the craft of story telling comes in and that’s what I’m working with you to achieve.
So keep working on it. In this business, the persistent succeed.
Best
Suraya
My blackberry rang (had rung) (avoid passive phrases) as I drove around Parliament Square in pouring rain but I ignored it. If anyone wanted Enda Osin he wasn’t available until he’d drunk two cups of tea, especially at 6 am on a dark autumnal morning. (this is good because you’ve introduced Enda in the opeing para and we get a sense of who he is because of how he handles the call – very good)
Black clouds threatened (were threatening) (again this is a passive construction – avoid) a day of half dawn as my car joined a long queue of bright taillights choking up London’s city center. Feeling in need of company, I (where you couple ideas take the best one and delete the other tightens the sentence) dialed for messages. Anything was better than studying the structural landscape around me and the blinking red lights ahead? (just a thought).
The area was an architectural nightmare. Old and new buildings, some weathered and covered in grime, others covered in tinted glass, rose up in nearby (whenever you can go for simple language) to create a confused skyline of tower buildings and stumpy historic domes (or something). On a sunny day, shadows cast by the taller creations stretched over commuters (I don’t think the shadows of buildings move) shrinking and growing with the sun’s movement, never disappearing. I loved the old and admired the new but couldn’t get used to this hotchpotch. That day they looked forlorn, huddled in blocks and sandwiched between hissing city streets. An army of black umbrellas joggled for space, as crowds hurried along the pavements and along dark passages between the buildings (in all directions is padding so delete) , Each was heading for an obscure (are they all obscure? Is this the right word?) office.
There was only one message and that was from Max Edward’s, my editor. I ended the call as soon as I heard his voice. I’d be meeting him soon enough. Up ahead, the lights changed green. I moved forward feeling a little depressed.
Home for me was an office in Wapping, another developing area of east London and headquarters for the Hart newspaper group. I was late for an appointment with Max and by the time I arrived at my space in the labyrinth of cubicles on the fifth floor there was a note on my desk ordering me upstairs. This meant leaving rows of metal desks sitting on linoleum tiles and going upstairs ten floors to (in exchange is unclear) and sinking into Axminster carpets, soft leather furniture and breathing in the aroma of coffee. Of course there were a lot of business suits too. We didn’t see too many of them downstairs.
There was another more subtle and invisible difference. Below the tenth everyone worked hard at finding the facts out on the street. Above, management worked hard at finding them in a bank account. That’s just the way it was. Management’s top priorities were the big money advertisers and pandering to Richard Hart’s political affiliations. Richard Hart owned the paper.
Hart had a suite on the fiftieth and that’s where I was headed, not that he was there. He was in Seattle for the World Media conference. That didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of what went on thousands of miles away. I was betting he’d had a call from D.C. or Whitehall. That’s why Max had summoned me.
I hadn’t been up to the fiftieth in a long time. The last visit was several years ago when I got an invite to a party for management. They always invited several minions from below the tenth who’d won an award or been recognized for a noteworthy story that made it around the world. It’s supposed to make one feel important: a team player and all that crap.
I’d been on Canary Wharf when the IRA had blown a car bomb up outside a nearby hotel. I was the only newspaper on the scene before the area was cleared. It was a scoop. But that’s not why Max had summoned me this time….to pat me on the back and congratulate me. Instead Max had taken the unusual step of inviting me upstairs instead of issuing a summons to his own office. It was because he wanted to shout at me in private. This suggested I might be looking for another job by the time we were through.
I tossed my raincoat over the desk and ran my fingers through wet hair. Brushing some graying black hairs from my shoulder, I made for the elevator that pinged at me all day long. The damn thing was a few yards from my desk and irritated me intensely, especially at lunchtime.
When the elevator arrived it was empty. I took a deep breath and stepped inside. The clamor of the news room was silenced as the doors closed; capturing within steel walls (cocooning suggests comfortable) e where bad dreams and thoughts rebounded off the walls. I concentrated on the changing numbers above my head, willing the elevator to speed up. I tried thinking about the previous day’s column and all the names Max was gonna call me. After a minute I lost the fight and breathing heavily leaned against the wall, eyes closed and hearing, as I always did in enclosed spaces mother and father shouting followed by the smell of acrid smoke. I could almost taste it.
Relief came with a slight bump, a loud ping and the hum of the door sliding open. I stepped out onto the Axminster and sucked in a lungful of roasted coffee.
An ex-fellow journalist, Gilbert O’Grady, stood to one side waiting to go down. He had a silly grin on his face. He was promoted to management a year earlier and you could tell he hadn’t quite got used to the dress code yet. His creased trousers looked as though they’d been dropped concertina fashion on the floor and stepped into again the following morning. (I really like this description)
“Good morning to you, Enda.” His grin broadened.
He passed me and stood in the elevator with one hand in a pocket hitching up his pants. A nicotine-stained finger stabbed at the button violently. All the while his eyes were on me as if each stab was a hammer driving a nail into my coffin. Ignoring him, I straightened my tie. The man made me feel untidy.
It took over a minute to walk to Hart’s office and by the time I got there I’d decided how to annoy Ms Linguard. Ms Linguard was Hart’s first line of defense, a Dickensian Uriah Heep (I’m not sure this fits with the axminster carpet etc) who I’d never seen eye to eye with since I greeted her as Ms Mudguard the first day we met. She never forgave me. I just walked in and smiled nicely. In her mid-forties I guessed, small and dumpy, she was busy sipping coffee. She sprang from the desk, (don’t think any secretary, even the worst would greet people with teeth bared – perhaps some other description and the other thought is how does she fit into the lush surroundings your describe), and stood between me and the inner sanctum.
“Well, good morning, Ms Linguard. I believe the fuehrer is waiting for me in the bunker.”
She didn’t return the smile. She turned her back on me and opened the door into Hart’s office.
“Mr. Enda Osin, Max,” She shot me a steely look, blue eyes like ice (maybe) and she drew her chin back into her neck before jutting it out. ‘Can you please refrain from smoking in here. You know Mr. Hart doesn’t like it.” (Is he smoking? Is that why she says this)
I didn’t wait for her to usher me in. “It’s alright Ms Linguard,” I said, making her jump as I brushed lightly passed her. “I’ll make sure he opens all the windows before I leave - okay?”
She looked me up and down with tightly drawn lips and disappeared back behind the door without slamming it.
I gave Max a limp sieg heil salute and slipped into the nearest leather armchair. “Since when have you been on first name terms with Doris Day?”
“None of your stupid humor, Enda.” He paused and stubbed the cigarette out. “I’ve been given hell over your column. Hart’s furious.”
I expected he was referring to my column two days ago (again go for simple – previously is a bit formal) when I gave (I’d given is again that passive sentence structure – I had given) vent to a personal opinion and a little name calling. I regretted that and guessed I was gonna pay the price.
“You mean I didn’t’ stick to writing the truth and nothing but the truth according to Hart?”
I defied him with a fixed glare an hands dug deep into my pockets (tell me are his shoes scuffed or polished?).
Max was a little bald headed man in his late fifties. A pair of rimless glasses sat precariously on the end of his nose. He always dressed smartly in a casual way, wearing a suit only when necessary and never loosening his tie like many of his contemporaries. (is he in a suit today?) A large red nose and ruddy complexion gave one the impression that he drank but he was teetotal. Smart both physically and mentally, Max Hatton had wit but no charm.
“Why can’t you remember there are times when your keep your damn mouth shut?” Scowling he leaned forward across Hart’s antique rosewood desk, spreading both palms flat across its surface as if readying himself to pounce at me.
He’d survived in the industry since starting an apprenticeship in the print shop and there wasn’t a lot anyone could tell him, especially the likes of me. He had the ear of anyone with influence within the news media and the City and especially politicians. .
He waved me to a chair. (This action shows who is boss)
(try this for size) As I sat I crossed my legs and with apparent nonchalance drummed my fingers on my thigh. Crossing my legs, I looked around the office trying to act unconcerned.
I told Max the article on the Amerigo scandal was one of my best stories in a long time. It was controversial, well informed and presented in the style our readers had come to expect.
“Bollocks!’ He banged his fist on the desk. I blinked and snapped my mouth shut. ‘You called the American President and the Prime Minister a deceptive double act. While one told congress what they wanted to hear about falling unemployment the other convinced parliament they were going to reap millions from the Amerigo project.” The cloud of blue smoke above his head thickened as he puffed on a cigarette.
Max had taken a week’s vacation and while he was away I slammed the project without worrying about the editor’s red pen. His deputy, a long time buddy of mine with over thirty years on the Herald, loved the piece and left it uncut. Less than a year from retirement neither Max nor Hart were going to fire him. I was a different matter.
“The project was a disaster from the start,” I answered.
Max reached for another cigarette, his (colour and what are they doing – sparking or something) eyes never leaving mine.
Political advisors had warned their respective governments that the project was high risk. Now Amerigo had folded after taking a billion dollars from the government.
“Where are the new C25 transporters? Nearly five thousand people staring at redun” ….
Max held his hands up as I spoke. “You can’t resist going over the top can you? Half the population calls our political leaders names but none of that goes into print, does it?. Keep to facts and away from opinions. Let the readers make up their own fucking minds what they think. You don’t tell them. But then I shouldn’t need to tell you that.” (he might have the article in front of him and he could stab at places which has marked out in red ink He could hold it up and stab at the paper making the sound crackle around the room) BHis eyes narrowed as he tossed the paper onto the desk. ‘You know this paper supports the government.”
“The owner supports the-” (what?)
“Shut up! I haven’t finished.” Max took a deep breath and giving an exasperated sigh, he ran a hand over his mouth. his day old beard rasping beneath his fingers. He continued.. “Hell, Enda, I don’t have to tell you this. It’s basic. (now the following is a speech). Silence stretched between us. I was about to speak when Max started again. This time his voice was lower, almost a growl. ‘Hart got a call from the PM. He’s on the warpath.”
“I-”
“Shut it!” Max’s hand slapped the desk top with a loud thwack. “The White house (have been)(again avoid this passive sentence structure) were in secret negotiations with Boeing and a European consortium to take over Amerigo. Your financial forecasts have stalled the talks. It’s time you were slapped down to size!”
His words stung There wasn’t any point arguing with him. He was right. I’d let the pen flow, giving vent to personal opnion.
With a worsening economic downturn on Wall Street, caused partly by financial bailouts for some members in the European Union and ten percent unemployment at home, President Walker (had been) was desperate for a miracle before elections. He promised congress five thousand jobs if they voted in a billion dollars for Amerigo. For months my sources in DC and Whitehall had been telling me Amerigo could not be saved despite a government order for the new C25 aircraft. I knew they couldn’t. Auditors had been into Amerigo the previous year and come away shaking their heads. In Britain the Prime Minister told parliament that the joint trade agreement guaranteed two thousand jobs for assembly workers in the midland and was worth twenty million dollars in the first two years. He didn’t say the new fabrication factories would cost taxpayers at least half that amount. I’d called the two leaders the best double act since Roosevelt and Churchill signed ‘Lend-Lease’.
I sat there taking it all in, wanting to say a lot more, annoyed at Hart and the conservative’s he sucked up too. Spent for the moment, we both stared at each other. I wanted to drop my eyes but made them hold his. Then Max waved a hand and with it dropped the bombshell.. The column was suspended until further notice.
“You can thank your lucky stars you still have a job, Enda.” He jerked forward, making me jump an slam my mouth shut. “I want you to know I spent over an hour on the phone with Hart telling him to keep you on (reconsider is not the way someone would speak, esp. not in a heated debate).’ I flinched. 'He wanted you out right away.” Max waved a hand at the window indicating the way Hart wanted me to go.
The door opened and Ms Linguard’s face appeared around it. “Max, Miss Du….”
“Get out!” thundered Max.
The door slammed. I felt a moment of satisfaction. Only a moment, mind. I was too busy grasping at straws.
“Max, I’m sure I could sort things out with Hart. I’ll apologize. Maybe I was a little over the top.”
“No, absolutely not!” Max jumped out of his chair. “You and Hart are like oil and water right now. You’ll stay out of his way.’ He started pushing me towards the door. You’re being reassigned.”
I planted my feet.
‘What?’
It’s a hell of a drop from columnist to correspondent. I felt sick and angry, very angry.
His words were hitting home and my face must have shown it.
“If you feel that bad about it you can resign. I’m not fucking around. I had to crawl to Whitehall this morning.”
“Sorry, Max, I didn’t know.”
I was sorry for Max. He was stuck on the great divide, walking a tightrope between management and scribes, trying to keep everyone happy. I wasn’t sorry about the article though. A lot of honest workers were out of a job because two politicians.(we don’t need to know to know why they made their decisions)
Max shrugged, picked up a folder and tossed it at me.
“What do you know about Hrisacopolis?”
The name sounded familiar. I opened the folder and saw his face staring up at me. He was into shipping, oil tankers and cruise ships. But what got my attention were the rumors of political corruption. Word had it he was not averse to using a little muscle. He was a supporter of General Grivas and EOKA during the fifties, fighting for Greek sovereignty over Cyprus. A Turk Cypriot (was this man important?) died at his men’s hands. He was also known as a hero in his country who had been nominated by the Greek government to represent Greece in Brussels on a new ways and means committee.
“A nasty piece of work worth billions,” I concluded.
Max nodded. “He wants the chairmanship.”
I whistled. “I smell a story.”
Max scowled. “You concentrate on the man’s philanthropic side. He’s offered to transport the Elgin Marbles on one of his ships from London to Athens.”
I smiled and slowly shook my head. “That old chestnut.”
The British Museum had refused to let the Greeks have the marbles back since the turn of the century. Things came to a head when Greece demanded the stones for an exhibition during the last Olympics. This request was denied and the situation was presently at stalemate.
Max updated me. The Prime Minister was negotiating with the Greek Cultural Minister for the marbles’ return. They were going home for good but at the moment there were no further details.
He pointed a short stubby finger at me, his face set with that hard look that dared me to argue. Sometimes it was better to keep quiet especially when Max lowered his voice. “Here’s your chance to write something nice,” he emphasized the word nice’, letting it hang in the air, “about the Prime Minister. I want a four-part article covering the history of the marbles.”
The series had to be a politically correct and authorized version of the Hrisacopolis family history and about the preparations to reinstate the marbles in Athens. The articles were going to run during the month lead-up to the voyage.
His hand pressed on my back as he started me to the door again and as he walked he spoke as if talking to a shild.(I don’t think we want too much crashing of fists on the table) “I don’t want any dirt dragged up or personal opinions, just a nice pullout article for our Sunday supplement. Got it?”
“Yeah sure. Is that all?”
I nearly choked. Sunday supplement. That was worse than being fired.
“I’ve also assigned you a photographer who’s a damn fine researcher as well. She specializes in art and antiquities and has already been briefed.”
“She?”
Things were looking black. First a Sunday supplement article and now this. What the hell did I want with a female chaperone?
“Jessica Du Rosse - been working for us freelance for five years.”
The name didn’t ring any bells with me.
“She doesn’t live out of a suitcase or eat at McDonalds,” he added.
I let the remark go. Resigned to my fate, I sighed and pulled myself out of the armchair. Max was tired and in a bad mood and I was past caring. I still had a job, albeit second best. With a bit of luck I’d get my column back provided I was a good boy for a while. I thought a diplomatic retreat would be in order and reached for the door.
Max went back to thumbing through a sheaf of notes he was studying when I’d first walked in. Without looking up, he said, “Don’t let me down, Enda.”
I opened the door, smiled nicely at Ms Linguard, and looked back at Max. “Don’t forget to open the windows.”
He half smiled and waved me out. “Fuck off, Enda.”
Ms Linguard wasn’t impressed. Neither was the beautiful West Indian with her. Tall and slender with an hourglass figure, she was dressed in a dark mauve cashmere suit that looked as though it had just walked out of an expensive boutique in Paris. The faint hint of gardenias set my pulse racing.
Linguard bared her teeth. “Mr. Osin, this is-”
“Miss du Rosse,” I interrupted.
Jessica smiled and held out a hand. “Enda, nice to meet you. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
We shook hands. “And I you,” I replied. “This is the first time I’m gonna share a byline with someone. How do you want to be called? I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot.”
I looked sideways and smiled. “Isn’t that right Ms Linguard?”
Ms Linguard’s face froze and colored from pink to scarlet. I was beginning to feel a lot better.
Now read the same chapter below. It may still need a little polish but you can see what a difference there is. Also notice that I don't necessarily follow every line or word the editor suggests. Suggestions are not orders, but good advice set within the parameters of good editing. That said, stray to far at your own risk!
No comments:
Post a Comment