My editor is sending through final edits for the novel this week. It’s early on in our professional relationship, but already I’m delighted with the input she’s had. Her passion for the book (which she must now know almost as well as I do) has been both heartening and inspirational, and I’ve agreed with almost every editorial tweak suggested so far.
As artists, writers especially, we beaver away in solitude for such long periods, sculpting, we hope, something of worth, immersed utterly in the book’s demands, obsessed by the story and its composition, that it feels strange to then share the last part of the process with another person. We’re not talking about equal collaboration here, but even so a passage of negotiation must usually be entered, often with writer and editor owning disparate visions of the final book. I imagine writers’ creative sensibilities and egos are stretched, as opinions differ, compromises sought, feet stamped.
But so far, it’s been nothing but rewarding, watching the novel strengthened with a few deft and knowing strokes.