Hello again, gentle readers!
Hello again, dear readers!
Welcome back to another endearing installment of everyone’s favorite, half-serious, biweekly-in-its-own-ways drinks-and-advice feature, Am I the Literary Asshole? This column exists to sprinkle a little hope, a dash of trust, and a fondness for post-work hour beverages into all of God’s chosen folks (that’s us, in case you were wondering). I’m your host, Kristen Arnett, and I’m delighted to report I managed to reach Austin for my teaching stint at the Michener Center! The heat here surpasses what Florida offers, if you can picture that. The humidity is unusually low, which means this swamp-born writer has started consuming plenty of water to cope with the climate. I know, I was surprised too. Water! Apparently the thirstiest folks are embracing it.
Speaking of water, let’s grab a couple of Ranch Waters and pop the tops, then dive straight into the questions queued up for today. Some good topics on the docket, so let’s begin, everyone:
1) Maybe you’ve encountered this before and I somehow missed it, but just in case you haven’t, how can I tell whether an editor’s revisions are helpful and well-considered or merely unhelpful? I’ve had a piece accepted by a publication, and while I’m thrilled to see my work out in the world, the editor has a lot of changes they’d like implemented before it’s ready for publication. Yesterday they shared a Google Doc with a torrent of comments and even sizable chunks that have been flagged for removal.
Oh, this is a terrific question! And certainly not one I’ve tackled before, so many thanks for sending it in.
I don’t know a ton about the project itself (I don’t know what it’s about, where you’re at in your career, how many pieces you’ve published before, whether you’ve collaborated with other editors on different stages of drafts, etc.). What I can say, however, is that there are ways to distinguish a solid edit from a weak one, even when the writing could benefit from a bit more finesse and time.
A good editor is someone who provides feedback and suggestions that elevate the work you’ve already produced. They grasp your vision. They understand what you’re aiming to create and want to help your unique voice shine through. They pose questions that are helpful.
Does that imply making substantial cuts? At times, yes. Trimming away extraneous passages that drift from your chosen topic can tighten the piece and make your arguments clearer and more impactful. These sweeping edits happen to everyone sooner or later. When we’re excited about something we’re crafting, we can lose the thread. A skilled editor holds the map in their capable hands. They keep us pointed in the right direction.
Now, are there editors who aren’t a good match? Yes, or at least they’re not a fit for you and your work. A mismatched editor might try to turn your piece into something they would write themselves. Instead of helping you construct your own project, they take charge of the design and shape it according to their own tastes and notions. But really, this isn’t the norm. And you can ask follow-up questions to confirm or deny this. Do you feel they understand what you’re trying to build? Can they articulate what the piece means to you and what matters most in the text? If they can’t, that could be a red flag.
But I’d urge you to take a thorough look at these edits and ask yourself genuinely whether they’re truly as bad as they seem. A lot of notes don’t automatically signify a poor edit. They could indicate that your piece needs more work than originally anticipated. Be honest with yourself. Be open to well-meaning feedback and critique. In a world where artistic practices seem increasingly fragile, we are incredibly fortunate to have editors. Every piece benefits from revision, including my own work. Move forward with good faith. And unless something else proves otherwise, trust that this editor intends your best interests.
Let’s head back to the ranch for another round of their famous waters. Next caller:
2) Hey Dad! I’ve been laboring on a novel for several years now. As I’ve kept drafting, I’m realizing this might actually be two different books. Should I just discard the entire thing?
That’s a challenging one. You’ve poured a lot of time into this project; you’re the person who knows it best. I can’t decide whether it’s really two books because I haven’t spent time with the material, and I don’t know your writing style, or how you speak to yourself about it. It’s quite possible the manuscript has split into two distinct strands. Perhaps the project grew too ambitious and needed to be narrowed to one concept or the other. But again, I can’t confirm anything without reading it.
Nevertheless, I’d invite you to pause and consider what led you to this conclusion. Is it a genuine sense that there are two separate books? Or are you anxious because the project feels expansive and intimidating? Have you spent more time on one part and it’s begun to weigh on you? Is the newer portion more enticing to you because it feels fresher?
Remember, novels take on a life of their own. That’s a sign they’re doing something meaningful. Writing a novel should feel a little daunting, given its scale and the space it occupies in your life. It’s entirely possible you’ve discovered you’re chasing the wrong thread and need to follow one strand while letting the other go. Only you can answer this. Your gut will tell you the truth.
But! Listen to your gut. Does it truly feel like there are two separate books? Or are you worried you must choose a single path to complete the project?
If you’re leaning toward the latter, try sticking with it. Sit with the idea for a while. Tinker with it a bit, friend. It’s often easier to tell ourselves we lack the chops to do something than to actually give it a try. Embrace the fear; good art isn’t born in a risk-free zone.
Okay, one last round? Let’s toast and then actually drink water after we finish this final question; I’m absolutely parched:
3) I belong to a workshop cohort (many of them longtime friends from a program) and we exchange work quarterly. My most recent submission was a speculative piece that leaned more into horror, which is a new mode for me. When we gathered to discuss it, there was a lot of talk about how funny the story seemed. I did not intend for it to be humorous. Not at all. The whole thing made me feel sick, which then stirred up embarrassment. I don’t think anyone was trying to be mean (or an a**hole, as you’d put it), but what happens next?
Friend, I’m sorry your feelings were bruised by that reaction!
The important thing here is that you don’t believe anyone acted on purpose. We can work with that. You don’t need to leave your writing group over this, and you don’t have to stop exploring what fascinates you or fuels your creativity.
What I’d encourage is an honest conversation with everyone involved. Notice I’m saying honest, not accusing. Explain that you’re testing a new stylistic approach and would appreciate feedback that acknowledges that shift. I don’t know how your group operates—each collective does things differently—but you might even begin each review with a few questions of your own. Questions that you feel would actually help you rather than a broad critique.
Mostly I want you to remember to take heart. People don’t share the same fears or find the same things funny. It’s entirely possible that the members of this particular group aren’t your readers when it comes to speculative or horror. But before you write them off—or this whole project—you owe it to yourself to have this difficult talk. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by how well things can turn out.
And that’s our show, folks! Join me next time when I’ll tackle more of your urgent questions (send those anonymous ones HERE) and hopefully I won’t melt from the heat while I keep hydrating.
Beat the heat,
Dad
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Are you worried you’re the literary asshole? Ask Kristen via email at AskKristen@lithub.com, or anonymously here.
