The Editor’s Craft

Editing writing requires tremendous restraint. I was reminded of this recently when a poem I had submitted to an anthology was accepted providing I approved of the editor’s changes. I’m open to thoughtful revision suggestions—a text can always be improved—but I assume the recommendations will be just that, insightful observations that cause me to re-think my work. In that light, I can re-enter a poem or story and see if any of the ideas resonate enough for me to make changes. Yet since I’m the poem’s creator, I expect to revise it myself and have the last word on its content.

Imagine my shock when I downloaded the email attachment and discovered a new poem, including a different title. I had expected to see a Microsoft Word document with the reader’s thoughts recorded via the tracking tool. But she hadn’t even extended that courtesy. She expected me to approve of her changes and give her my blessing to publish the piece. I didn’t.

Some of my original language was there, but this particular editor had cannibalized my work, making it her own. I understand the impulse to give new shape to someone else’s writing, thinking that your vision is the right one. But editors must resist that urge. If followed, the publication will contain poems that all have a similar style—the editor’s and not the various writers’.

I recall being part of a poetry workshop years ago where one of the poet-critics took a similar approach to critiquing submitted work. She crossed out lines, rearranged stanzas, added her own language, and generally rewrote our poems. They no longer resembled the writers’ original rhythms and voice. The critiquer now owned them.

Poetry works on many subtle levels. A sophisticated poet knows how to manipulate them all. To ignore a poem’s complexity violates its integrity and the artist’s vision. Good editors don’t mess with a poem’s fine tuning, realizing they don’t inhabit the original impulse that created the contents. They also may not have the sensitivity to make it a better piece.

As for a poem’s multiple layers, its presentation on the page is the first thing we notice. Some poems want to be single-spaced, the lines huddled close together, forcing the reader to focus on the language as it unfurls on white space. Some need more breathing room, slowing down readers, giving them time to digest each word, phrase, and line. Others want extensive stanza breaks or the rhythm of couplets, triplets, or quatrains. Or a mix of the above. Or the arrangement may not follow any convention. The poet may not want too predicable rhythms, depending on the contents. But most of all, text and form should reflect each other.

Then there are line lengths. Long lines give a writer the chance to open up in a prosy way and create a relaxed pace. Shorter lines can add tension but also speed up the reading. If there is extra space between lines or stanzas, that, too, will create varying effects. Similarly, line breaks have different purposes, from causing the reader to pause and reflect on what has gone before to hurling him/her into the next part of the poem. All of these things work together to produce a balanced, aesthetic whole, and it’s part of the writer’s pleasure to determine these craft choices on her own, though at times she may ask for feedback from an attentive, trusted reader.

There’s much more that goes into shaping a successful poem, too much to cover here. Unfortunately, the woman who edited mine ignored the craft’s fine points and the courtesy she owed the writer. Not only did she change the title, but she also made the poem single spaced with only two stanzas; previously, it was a mixture of couplets and tercets. I had used form to reflect the sea’s expansiveness and movement, the waves washing rhythmically on the shore (the sea was the main focus).

In the original, the lines covered a whole page with lots of white space between them. Her revision was a tight little text that bore little resemblance to the poem I wrote. Of course, she complimented me on my lovely poem, but she was really praising herself.