The editor's red pen

Marilyn is writing her autobiography, Splashes of Rainbows and Feathers. I am her editor. My goal is to make her story come to life, which is not difficult. She already writes in a lively style. I am just the polisher. I ask her to remove extra words, change word order, or suggest a stronger, more descriptive word or phrase. I must walk carefully between improving her story and obscuring her voice with mine. Splashes is her story, not mine. At times, she has set aside my suggestions to preserve her own voice.

I substituted for an English teacher Friday. Since my students were occupied with tests and research papers, I was free to edit. I cut, rearranged and added words through 69 pages, finishing the book as school day expired. My eyes were bleary, but I was happy. I can see the end of her project. After five (or more) readings, we are nearing the point of diminishing returns. A graphic arts student at Marilyn’s college has designed one preliminary cover with another design upcoming. Soon, we will be able to put together the book. I can hardly wait.

I always have enjoyed editing. This skill came naturally to me. Even in grade school, I edited my classmates’ work. I could hear proper English in my ears and envision it on the page. If any question arose, I had only to close my eyes and mentally move around the words, both visually and audibly, until I saw or heard the answer. This trick rarely failed me.

My parents deserve credit. I was immersed in proper English grammar and syntax at home. My mother was a stickler for proper speech. Dad loved word play. They read to me and I learned to read early. Since we owned no television until I was in junior high, reading was my main entertainment. The flow of words deeply imprinted my mind. I loved to escape into the author’s world and I loved to create my own. Words were my toys.

Playing with words still is pure joy, and editing my dear friend’s book is a high privilege. Thanks, Marilyn.