Editing and the Statue of Liberty

If you had asked me to write an inscription for the Statue of Liberty, my first instinct would have been something like: “Come to America, land of the free, home of the brave.”

Or, if I decided to spend more time on it, I would have written a nice bit about the U.S. being the land of opportunity, and how people coming here would have a chance at a better life. Focus on the positive, you know. On the future.

Not Emma Lazarus. She took the ordinary people coming through Ellis Island and transformed them into characters of an epic, not by making them seem great, but by welcoming them in their bedraggled and outcast state. Here is what she wrote:

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

See that? See how it defies our expectations? The poem doesn’t make the lives of these people sound happy. It doesn’t make wild promises of fame and fortune in America. It doesn’t have to. It shows the state they were in before, and leaves the reader hoping things will get better for them, grateful that someone saw their inherent value and gave them a place to rest.

Compliments for (Almost) Any Manuscript

It’s the classic editor’s dilemma: how to give constructive criticism without shattering another writer’s hopes and dreams into small, dust-like shards. I know it all too well. Give me a manuscript to edit, and I’ll send it back with Track Changes red ink and hundreds of little Microsoft Word comments in the margins.

That’s right. Hundreds.

Most of the time, they’ll be as polite as a dignified British butler. Unless you’re my friend, in which case they’ll sound a lot like I talk. Which is not particularly dignified. To illustrate, I asked my roommate if I could include some of my favorite comments that I made on her fantasy-in-progress.

Highlighted: “The wall was a mere three feet high.”

My Comment: Why even make it that high? Explain. (To keep sheep in? To establish zoning for taxes? Because it looks nice on a postcard?)

Highlighted: “I stared at him.”

My Comment: Um, wasn’t she staring at him before? Only say this if she notices something about him that makes it significant. Like, “I stared at him. He was smiling like my imprisonment was a good thing” or “I stared at him. He started to do the chicken dance.”

Highlighted: “Nothing could make me feel worse at this point.”

My Comment: “Never say such things. It’s like, “How could this be any worse?” Then, CLANG! Anvil falls from the sky, crushing Wiley Coyote.”

Highlighted: “Death. Death. Death.”

My Comment: Catchy little slogan.

Editing Acronyms and Pet Peeves

Lest anyone think from reading Saturday’s post that I never suggest things that can be improved in other people’s manuscripts….

Here’s my editing motto: Be ruthless when editing yourself, and be compassionately ruthless when editing others.

Ask anyone who’s been brave enough to let me edit something for them: I am addicted to comments. When I’m done, it looks like an entire army of highlighters bled to death on the Microsoft Word document.

No one is ever obligated to take my suggestions. I often tell the writers to get second opinions. On the other hand, I wouldn’t have made a comment if, as a reader, I didn’t think there was a problem that needed to be fixed.

I admit that sometimes it’s hard for me to listen to advice from others, especially if it means major changes (mostly because I’m notoriously lazy). It’s easy for us to fall in love with our first drafts and not want to make changes to them.

Sabbath Reflections: Living for Applause

I really want you to like me.

In fact, I care way too much about what you think about me (and my writing).

As a writer, I’m often forced to give others something I’ve written to get their feedback, on a criticism scale ranging from my mom to an editor.

Then I sit around and wonder what their reactions will be. I worry a little bit, but, because I’m a die-hard optimist, I mostly just hope.

In my starry-eyed daydreams, the reception to my writing goes something like, “Wow, this is a really deep thought. I admire Amy’s clear intelligence and spiritual maturity.”

Or, “Wow, what a great story. Clearly, Amy is a talented writer with a gift for clarity of expression and insight into the human condition.”

Or even, “Wow, this is a hilarious article. Amy must be a genuinely funny person. I want to hang out with her all the time because she probably makes witty comments every few seconds.”

I want people to like my writing so much that they like me too.