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Navigating Your Marked-up Manuscript

4/7/2023

by Bridget McKenna

Your marked-up manuscript has arrived, and someone seems to have bled all over the damned thing. Deletions, additions—holy cow, look at all those comments! Who could blame you if the thought of facing this mess—and deciding what you’re going to do with all those suggestions—seems a little daunting?

Here’s something it will help to bear in mind: the manuscript is not the story. This, along with mutual respect and professional attitude, lies at the very heart of the writer-editor relationship. The manuscript is the delivery system for your story. It’s the vehicle your story uses to get from your mind to the mind of a reader. It transported your story from you to an editor, and then it was your editor’s job to pick up her tools and tinker with the vehicle so that it could do the best possible job of taking your story where it’s going next. Good editing makes your story stand a little taller, your plot and characters feel stronger, and your storytelling style shine through.

Over years of confronting many of my own manuscripts marked up by editors, I’ve developed a method that works for me and might work for you. I offer it in hope that it may spare you a lot of unnecessary work and more than a few headaches.

Four Stages, Four (or more) Days
I like to divide a novel-length copy-edited manuscript into four stages. You should feel free to take a day for each stage and more for any that need it. That may seem like a long time, but you’ll be doing yourself a huge favor in the long run if you pace yourself. When you finish one section, give yourself a break and don’t start on the next until the next day. You’ll do better work that way.

You’ll want to take breaks as you work. An hour to an hour and a half is about as long as you can do this kind of thing efficiently without getting up and doing something completely different for at least a few minutes.

Important: for the first two stages of the job, do not read the book. That’s what you’ll be doing in the third stage, and you want to be able to approach it with a fresh set of eyeballs. So for now, only read the passages to which corrections have been made.

Stage One: Triage the Changes
Look over the changes your editor suggested.

Taking one chapter or section of your choosing at a time, look at the edited bits once with the markup visible, then with markup hidden. Consider how the editor’s suggested changes are going to read if you make them.

If you can, print out the manuscript for the initial review of the changes because that’s going to give you a really fresh look at the material.

You’ll be dividing suggested changes into three basic groups: Yes changes, Maybe changes, and NFW changes (also known as No Fucking Way what-was-she-thinking utterly unacceptable changes). “Yes” changes are the most obvious ones you can make without quibbling. “Maybe” changes are going to take some thinking about, and NFW changes are ones you really don’t want to make. At least not at first glance.

On this first run, accept the Yes changes and mark the others with color highlights, Post-It notes, or comments so you can consider them during a later stage of the process.

Read any comments your editor made about the changes. Do you have questions? Are there changes you can’t see the reason for, or comments that need explanation? Save them to discuss with your editor via email or chat.

This first stage may take more than a single day, depending on the length of your manuscript, the number of changes and comments, and the time you have available. Take your time and conserve your energy.

Stage Two: The Other Changes
On your next revision day, revisit the Maybe changes and see if any have changed to Yes or NFW. Accept the new Yes changes.

Now revisit the rest of the Maybe and NFW changes, and see if any feel different after you’ve had time to reflect on them. You may disagree with any particular change your editor suggests, but bear in mind you hired him to do a job to the best of his professional capability, so take some time to reflect on the suggestions you disagree with before rejecting them out of hand.

It’s always safest to assume that if your editor suggested a change, it was to solve a problem. If you’re not sure you understand the problem, ask. Or you may see the problem but not agree with your editor’s solution. If you have a better solution of your own, go for it. If not, discuss it with your editor and see if you can come up with something between you.

If you agree on second or third consideration that a particular change works for you, make it. If you’ve looked at the change in place (viewed with no markup visible) and it’s still not right, reject it. It’s your book, and the buck stops with you.

Stage Three: Read the Manuscript
Having made or rejected your editor’s suggested changes on the previous day, it’s time to read the manuscript. If you’ve avoided the temptation to read it thus far, your time away from it will have given you fresh eyes for your story and your writing. Sit down and relax with it.

Imagine, if you can, that you’re seeing it for the first time as a reader would. Be prepared to briefly highlight or comment places you want to mark for change as you go. Your editor may not have caught every possible problem, and by this time you’ll have learned a lot about the writing habits that were getting in the way of telling your story, so you’ll see more things that can be improved upon. Mark the places you want to come back to, and keep reading.

You might end up writing new material—even whole new scenes. Flag these for the editor’s second pass, if you’re getting one. At Editing McKennas, we sometimes look over clients’ manuscripts one more time after rewrites, and this helps us to know when we’re encountering new or extensively re-written material.

Stage Four: Complete Your Changes
If you’re getting a second editorial pass, send it back to your editor. Congratulate yourself on a job well done. The second editing pass will be quicker and easier.

By taking your time, pacing yourself, asking questions, and keeping your mind fresh each step along the way, you’ll have done your very best job on manuscript corrections. You’re on your way to a book you’ll be proud to publish.

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Self-Editing for Everyone Part 3: Attack of the Adverbs!

4/5/2023

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Attack of the Adverbs!
My former students and editing clients probably won’t believe I said this, but an adverb is a useful and necessary part of speech. It does a job. It just doesn’t do the job a lot of writers seem to think it does—that of somehow making up for having chosen a flabby verb.

Adverbs modify verbs or adjectives. That’s their job. When used wisely and in moderation, they help convey meaning, and they can improve a non-specific sort of verb by giving the reader more information.

Adverbs modifying verbs
Bob read voraciously in all genres.
Jax placed the eggs carefully into the basket.

Adverbs modifying adjectives
Merkel’s frostily pale eyes scanned the restaurant.
“Lightly sautéed works best for mushrooms,” Bashir assured her.

That said, when a strong, specific verb is called for, an adverb is not.

She TOLD you to use stronger, more specific verbs!

My position may sound extreme to you, but I believe you can delete, without tears, most examples of adverbs modifying verbs; a robust verb standing alone is always stronger than a weak verb leaning on an adverb. Inexperienced writers tend to think adverbs will shore up weak verbs and make their meaning clearer. In fact, adverbs only trick you into thinking they’re supporting a weak verb; what they’re actually doing is kicking its skinny little legs out from under it.

“Sprinted” is stronger than “ran quickly,” “smashed” tells us more than “hit hard,” “shrieked” is more evocative than “cried loudly.” You get the idea. A good verb shows rather than tells, strengthening—and tightening—the sentence while conveying maximum information and emotion to the reader.

Adverbs modifying adjectives are usually far less of a problem in writing. If you have a tendency to overuse them, you’ll soon figure it out when you search your manuscript for “ly.” While you’re at it, you’ll probably find a lot of verb-modifying adverbs that wormed their way into your sentences without you having been aware of them. Kill them and rewrite to favor good healthy verbs.

Not all adverbs end in “-ly,” but many do. It’s a good place to start when searching your manuscript.

Keep saying "very," and I'll make you deal with THEM.

“Very” is a very sneaky adverb—one that tries to fool you into thinking it improves an adjective. For instance, the second “very” in the preceding sentence could be eliminated without losing meaning. And it should be. It makes me itch just looking at it.

A good adjective can walk on its own two legs most of the time, or it can partner with another adjective or a more meaningful adverb to further describe the noun in question. Or you can just back up and re-describe the noun in other terms.

“Very” can almost always be cut from narrative as well as most dialogue. See also “absolutely, definitely, mostly, simply, really, totally, terribly, utterly,” and any word, really, that stands in the way of a simple, well-chosen modifier trying to do its job.

“A very tall man” is rarely as good as...

...a tall, slender man (two adjectives doing their job without the intervention of an adverb).
...a freakishly tall man (an adverb doing yeoman duty. Well done, adverb!).
...a man so tall his head threatened the door lintel (bringing the POV character’s reaction into play).

Terribly, totally, utterly vile Martians want your brain.

Or just make the man’s height part of the action:

She looked up and up and up, and the man just kept on going.

“Very” is not only sneaky, it’s lazy. There’s almost always another word that will do more work for the same pay.

TL;DR
How many of your verbs are weaklings hoping in vain for help from an adverb? How many are already perfectly good verbs that can stand on their own without an adverb?

How many times have you used these and similar words?Very, Absolutely, Definitely, Mostly, Simply, Really, Totally, Terribly, Completely, Utterly...

Search for “ly.”
Eliminate unnecessary adverbs.
Replace weak verbs with strong, specific ones that convey more meaning.

COVER ART
All the fabulous pulp magazine covers on this article series were created using the amazing Pulp-O-Mizer from art by its creator, Bradley W. Schenck.

This article originally appeared at www.bridgetmckenna.com.

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Self-Editing for Everyone Part 2: Vampire Verbs, Zombie Verbs, and Verbs that Kick Ass

3/30/2023

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In case you missed it, Here’s where to find Part 1: The Most-Hated Writing Advice Ever.

This installment focuses on verbs, good, bad, and ugly. You remember fourth grade, right? That was probably around the first time you heard a teacher say “Verbs are action words.” But not all verbs are created equal in the action department, and in this self-editing article I’ll be explaining why. Along the way you may learn why certain passages in your prose don’t move quite the way you hoped they would.

Try not to suck

The Vampire Verb: To Be
“To be”—usually encountered in writing as “was” and “were”*—is the weakest verb in the language, the most common, and the most unnecessary in narrative.

Additionally, for nearly any sentence you can compose in English, “There was” is going to be the weakest possible beginning. For instance:

Weak: “There were two tigers standing near the road.”
Strong: “Two tigers stood near the road.”

Weak: “There was a limousine at the curb.”
Strong:“A limousine idled at the curb.”

In both cases, the first example is flabby by comparison to the second. The top sentence reports something that can be seen, but that’s all it does. It contains neither action nor tension. The second sentence in both examples invites the reader’s mind to ask “...and then what?”

“To be” in descriptions should ring your “show, don’t tell” alarms. “Melissa was a respected mathematician” or “Taylor was tall” cry out for an editorial rap on the knuckles.

Used as an auxiliary with even the strongest verb, “was” is a vampire that sucks all the life out of its attendant action verb. “Was screaming” for “screamed,” “were fighting” for “fought,” “was running” for “ran,” etc.—in every case it’s weaker than the action verb on its own. In word superhero terms, “to be” is verbal kryptonite.

*If you’re writing in the present tense, “is” and “are” are your culprits.

Michonne kicks ass. Zombie verbs don't.

The Zombie Verb: To Have
“Had” is perhaps not quite as weak as “was,” but it’s in the ballpark. It shambles where it ought to shine. It drags your writing down to the ground and rips a bite out of its...okay. I’ll stop.

As a writer painting a verbal picture for your readers, you want to tell them not just what someone or something “had,” but also give them an idea of what that means to the story, its action, and its characters.

Weak: “Stella had a new hat.”

Strong: “Stella wore her new hat raked low over one eye.”

Weak: “The church had a door that dated back to the 14th century.”

Strong: “The church door, dating back to the 14th century, showed its age in weather-bleached wood and pitted iron bindings.”

There’s almost never anything you can say with a verb like “had” that you couldn’t say more effectively with some creative rephrasing.

Note: “Had” is also used as an auxiliary verb necessary to establish past perfect tense, which is used in flashbacks or anytime you want to establish that a thing happened in the past and is being recalled in the present. In these cases it’s not a problem word.

"Harry knew now where he had seen her before: she was Carpenter’s ex-girlfriend."

"She had not been an athletic child, nor a graceful one, but had stumbled through those years with perpetually scraped elbows and skinned knees."

The panda kicks all the ass

Verbs That Kick Ass
Action verbs, like action heroes, kick all the ass.

Stories move best when writers not only use verbs that describe action, but strong, specific verbs that paint a moving picture in the reader’s mind—the more specific the verb, the clearer the picture. A character doesn’t just move down the street--he walks, stalks, strides, paces, prances, trots, meanders, skips, skulks, runs, dashes, sprints, or gallops. Each of these verbs paints a completely different picture for your reader.

Verbs should also—as often as possible—be unencumbered by adverbs, about which more next time in Attack of the Adverbs!

Use your verbs. Kick the ass.

TL;DR
The verbs "to be" and "to have" tend to weaken your prose. The more you can replace them with specific action verbs that convey your intention to the reader, the more you’ll improve your writing.

How many times did you use “was ____ing?” instead of a stronger verb?

Replace “was” with stronger verbs that convey more meaning.
Replace “was ____ing” phrasing with stronger verb forms.

Have you used “had” instead of stronger verbs that convey more meaning?

Replace "had" wherever possible with a stronger verb, except when establishing flashbacks.

You might also be interested in reading:

Self-Editing for Everyone Part 3: Attack of the Adverbs!

(This article originally appeared on BridgetMcKenna.com.)

COVER ART
All the fabulous pulp magazine covers on this article series were created using the amazing Pulp-O-Mizer from art by its creator, Bradley W. Schenck.

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Self-Editing for Everyone Part 1: The Most-Hated Writing Advice Ever

3/27/2023

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Yes, it's the dreaded "Show, don’t tell."

In the interest of providing what we hope will be useful tips for writers, we’re going to be selecting advice from The Little Book of Self-Editing for Writers and expanding upon it here. And we're getting this one out of the way first.

That’s right...it’s The Most Hated Writing Advice Ever.

by Bridget McKenna

Already a Show and Tell Sensation

Show, Don’t Tell
Why, oh why, you may be asking yourself, do people keep saying “Show, don’t tell?” Is that even good advice?

What the holy frak does “Show, don’t tell” even mean?

I’m really glad you asked.

Remember Show and Tell? I rocked that class. I swear, if education had consisted of nothing else, I’d have sailed through with high honors and none of those embarrassing notes to my Mom. For the first few years of my early educational career, the night before Show and Tell day I’d be all over the house looking for some fascinating object with which to entertain my classmates and earn their admiration. I was never the popular kid, I was usually the new kid, and I was pretty nearly always the weird kid, but many of my earliest experiences of peer acceptance stemmed from successfully navigating the shoals of Show and Tell.

I learned pretty quickly that standing up in front of the class and telling them what you did on your summer holidays was not going to fascinate the average seven-year-old, but that anything you could bring to your audience that could be seen or heard or touched or smelled (I brought my dog once, who covered all those bases nicely) commanded their attention far better than reciting secondhand accounts of an overnight trip to the lake. The kids at North Ninth Street School, or Carlsbad Elementary, or wherever I’d landed recently, didn’t want to listen to yet more blah-blah from the front of the room; they wanted to experience something via their own senses.

What does this mean to your writing? Well, imagine your reading audience has something in common with those bored second graders. Imagine they’ll lose interest in direct proportion to the amount of time you spend relating, reporting, or telling them rather than giving them a direct sensory experience of your story. And really? If you don’t want to read any further? I’ll understand. Just remember that anything that gets in the way of delivering a direct sensory experience is what your teacher or editor is marking up and commenting with “Show, don’t tell!”

Give ’em an experience.

A Direct Sensory Experience
This, by the way—that headline right above these words—is what it all boils down to. Give the readers the most direct experience possible. It really is that simple. The more you get in your own way with unnecessary words that distance the reader from that direct connection with the action of your story, the more you’re telling. Telling denies the reader the experience of story in favor of reporting something to them instead.

What follows are some ways that telling happens, often without us ever being aware it has. I didn’t make these examples up, but I did change enough words to protect the guilty.

What he saw, heard, observed, noticed, felt, etc.
If the reader can experience a character seeing, hearing, observing, noticing, feeling, or knowing something, don’t point it out. Get inside and write the experience as it happens. Moving one step back to report what happens is not only telling, it’s missing an opportunity to engage the reader's senses and emotions.

Telling: He saw a ray of sunlight piercing the clouds.
Showing: Sunlight pierced the clouds.

Telling: He knew Sharona was lying through her teeth.
Showing: Sharona was lying through her teeth.

Don’t TELL the reader that the character saw, heard, felt, or noticed something. SHOW what they saw, etc. If the character experiences it directly, so will the reader.

What Happens vs. What Doesn’t Happen
The reader can only see what happens, so don’t bother telling them what didn’t happen.

Telling: Pete didn’t hesitate, but jumped for the train.
Showing: Pete jumped for the train.

Telling: Carrie tried to right herself.
Showing: Carrie lifted herself to one knee, then collapsed back onto the carpet.

Telling: Ellen didn’t answer him, but continued to stare out the window.
Showing: Ellen continued to stare out the window.

Don’t TELL what’s beginning, trying, or failing to happen. Forget what DIDN’T happen. SHOW what’s actually happening.

Don’t TELL us what MaryBeth is feeling!

Reporting Emotions
One of the most egregious ways of telling is to report a character’s emotions. You want to talk about removing the reader from the experience? This is how you do it. Only don’t do it.

Telling: Mercy looked sad.

What was Mercy doing that led the POV character to conclude that she “looked sad?” What can you show the reader?

Showing: Mercy looked away and sighed. She put on a half-smile, then abandoned it.

Telling: Karl felt sad.

What does “feeling sad” feel like? What are the sensations? Where does Karl feel them?

Showing: Sorrow made an empty place in Karl’s chest. He ached. His eyes stung with tears he refused to cry.

Don’t report emotions; get inside and write what emotions DO so that your reader can experience them.

TL;DR

Are you wasting words describing what isn’t happening instead of showing what is?

Rewrite to narrate what the character is actually experiencing. Keep the reader immersed in the action.

Are you letting your readers directly experience what the POV character sees, hears, or feels, or are you telling them that he’s having an experience?

Rewrite with the intention of showing what’s happening to provide a direct and immediate experience for your readers.

Are you reporting emotions instead of letting the reader discern them based on character action?

Rewrite to show what is observable with the senses. Trust the reader to get it.

You might also be interested in reading:

Self-Editing for Everyone Part 2: Vampire Verbs, Zombie Verbs, and Verbs that Kick Ass

COVER ART
Enormous Stories pulp magazine cover created using the amazing Pulp-O-Mizer from art by its creator, Bradley W. Schenck. Additional photo credit for "MaryBeth" goes to Ross and Thompson and the National Museums Scotland.

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Navigating Your Marked-up Manuscript

Self-Editing for Everyone Part 3: Attack of the Adverbs!

Self-Editing for Everyone Part 2: Vampire Verbs, Zombie Verbs, and Verbs that Kick Ass

Self-Editing for Everyone Part 1: The Most-Hated Writing Advice Ever

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