Editors

It's been over two weeks, and I still haven't completely gotten over the Cambridge Tour. Here, look at Prince George:

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In my grandparents' community of senior citizens, there was a short story writing contest, of sorts, where the best one wins some prize. My grandfather really wanted to participate in it, so last week he handed me a sheaf of paper on which he'd handwritten his story, and he said to me "Type that out, and while you're at it, edit it for me."

This is a fairly common arrangement between us. My grandfather isn't very adept at using a computer, but I am (Well, I can type fast, anyway), and so whenever he has something that needs to be printed he writes it out and gives it to me, and then I type and print it for him, and in return, my grandmother gives me cupcakes. 

This short story was no different, except as I was transcribing it, I kept reading it and occasionally, I'd come across a sentence that I felt could be made better just by removing an adjective, or changing the voice. Now if this was a letter to the bank or something, as my grandfather's papers normally are, I would have overlooked it and continued typing. But this was a short story, and he had said "Edit it for me." And so I made whatever changes I wanted.

And I felt so bad about it! Even though I was maintaining the story line and changing no more than a word or two here and there, I couldn't help but think that this was my grandfather's story and I had no right to change any of it. But I did, anyway. And then I printed it out, and he handed it in. 

I write a lot. Most of it is private, and no one reads it, and some of it, like this blog, is unfiltered, and I just write whatever comes into my head. But sometimes I have to write something serious, like an essay for a competition, or an article for Royal Central (Are you reading what I write for them? You should! Link.), and then I have to deal with someone editing it. Either a bonafide editor, or my teacher, or my parents, or just someone who believes that they can write better than me. And I hate it, because when I write something it is, in my head, the best possible way in which the thing can be told, and when someone makes a change, I just bristle with indignation at how dense they are being.

But that's not the point of writing, is it? It's all very well when you're writing in a journal which no one reads (This, of course, is only aplicable if you aren't a public figure. If you are, then other people might read even your most private thoughts. Like with Queen Victoria. Her journals are going on exhibit at Windsor Castle. Check it out if you live nearby or are going to be visiting.), but when you write something expecting it to be published, you're writing for other people.

Editors are these other people. They read your work, and judge it, just like any regular reader would do, except they give you constructive criticism to try and make it better. I don't know what the point of this whole post is, because I don't really hate editors. Well, not in the way that I hate.. say, dentists, anyway.

I suppose what I'm trying to say is that [fill in an inspirational/rubbish/whatever you think I'd say message here].

N

PS. I'm going on holiday from tomorrow, so there will be no post next Sunday. Or the Sunday after that.

How does it matter? No one reads this stuff anyway.

Images: Getty/Samir Hussein