You Have the Power - Self Edit Your Way Into Print

Question: if an editor or critique group member suggests deleting something, do you wrack your brain for ways to leave it in? Argue your case till you turn blue? Are you so much in love with your words that when forced to delete, you save it to another file in case you want to use it in another story?
Or…has this scenario ever happened to you? You type, THE END, sit back and pour a glass of wine, while gazing lovingly at the computer monitor. That feeling of completion is like none other. It’s like receiving a diploma, cashing a first paycheck, watching your first child being born. You pour more wine and stuff a manila envelope with the opening chapters for the first publisher on the list you’ve been compiling since you wrote the title on the blank page. Your hand shakes while you write, but it’s fairly neat and legible so you pat on a stamp and drop the envelope in the mail slot. You do it again, and again, sending out as many submissions as your trembling fingers can produce.
It’s several weeks before the first rejection letter arrives. Well, not a letter exactly—more like a bomb going off under your chair. Dear Author, Thanks for thinking of INSERT COMPANY NAME, but we don’t feel we’re the agency for you… The next day, another arrives, and then another. What’s wrong with those fools, you think, this is awesome stuff. I poured my heart and soul into this. They can’t not like it.
That’s when another one arrives. This has to be it—the key to your future! You rip open the envelope, dropping white scraps on the floor around your feet. You yank the sheet loose, noticing it’s handwritten. Yippee! I’ve made the big time; someone’s requesting the full manuscript. You flop into a chair and read the scribbled words: Dearest ¬Author, Thank you for thinking of INSERT COMPANY NAME. Though your work has merit, we feel you would benefit from the use of a professional editor.
Ouch! You and the remaining wine retreat to the computer room to lick your wounds. You open the manuscript and begin reading your story. Those morons, I don’t need an editor. Who the heck do they think they are? You feel your eyes widening and a sense of despair seeping into your soul. The words blur on the screen.
Yikes, I was sure I said the client rang the bell before going inside. Damn, I know Donna’s hair was blonde—when did it turn red? Oh man, the antagonist is using a Glock on page one; where did he get a .38 on page 12? No way did I type ‘look’ with three Os. Someone else must be messing with the computer.
Hours later, you exit the room rubbing burning eyes and wearing a cloak of humility and yes, embarrassment. Where did the run-on sentences and the mega-batch of pronouns come from? And what about all those adjectives? You were so sure you’d gotten everything. I hear you shouting, “How did I get so blind to my writing?”
It’s because you’re emotionally attached to it. Your brainchild, your creation. They say love is blind. I believe it is.
So, how can you ferret out problems, learn what works and what doesn’t? You’ve heard it before: time and distance. Every writing instructor said this. Time for the emotion generated by your wonderful characters and scintillating plot to fade. Distance so you can view the plot with unbiased eyes.
Why do anything as silly as that? Why waste all that time? The world is missing my story. Editors can’t sleep at night for waiting on this manuscript. There’s an empty spot on the bookstore shelf and no other book can fill it but mine. The publishers need what you have. The public needs it.
Get real.
That’s the purpose of this handbook, to train you to look for the bloopers, to gauge the rhythm of sentences, spot repeated words, pick up dangling adverbs. We’ll work on toning things down and tightening things up.
So…put away the wine and let’s get started because you have the power.