Years ago when I was a little boy, my dad told me the story of the journalist who went to work for a newspaper. On his first day in the middle of the morning an important looking man emerged from his office and went round hitting each of the staff - including the new recruit - on the head with a wooden mallet. His work complete, he returned to his office. Stunned, the new boy turned to a colleague and asked, "Who's he?" His colleague shrugged and replied, "The 'ead 'itter."
Yes, editing can be painful - almost as painful as my dad's jokes - but it is a necessary evil, a vital and, dare I say, almost as creative a process as the one that got your lovingly crafted words onto the page in the first place. The skill of trimming back and trimming back even further until all the fat is removed, but still leaving the story lean and strong is an essential part of the creative process. "But Ian, " I hear you gasp, "I've sweated blood over my work." I know, I know...but you just might need to sweat some more.
For a long time I have struggled with the mistaken belief that my job, as a communicator, is to enable you to recreate as closely as possible in your mind what I have in my mine. Of course what I have in my mind are thoughts, pictures, feelings, half-finished sentences, smells, colours, bits of fluff, breadcrumbs, unspoken and unnamed fears, sounds, blurred memories of dreams...and I have the temerity to try and pack all of these into those most slippery of customers, written words? How ambitious! It's as if I've treated words as zip files that you simply have to unpack (read) and hey presto! No need to add water - you've recreated perfectly precisely what I had in mind. An impossible job!
In fact I now believe that the reverse is true - that my job is more about sketching a few lines than giving you a finished portrait or landscape. If I do my job properly, your own imagination (consisting of your own thoughts, feelings, breadcrumbs etc.) will flood my work with colour and make it come alive for you. So, if you're labouring under the idea that your work has to be the 21st century equivalent of an illuminated manuscript (as I did) you may want to think again.
As an example of one of my own earlier experiences with editing, I've attached a short story ("Revenge is Sweet".) The brief for this story was to write something of no more than 750 words and I was a little dismayed that my first (very carefully written) draft came out at over 1000 words! However, I persevered, even forcing myself through the "There's no way I'll..." barrier until eventually I got it down to the magic figure.
That experience taught me a lot, and two things stick in my mind: the story lost nothing (indeed probably gained much) from being pared down; secondly, its spareness prompted a colleague who read it to say of the central character, "It's so vivid - I can picture his tee shirt and even the colour of his hair." Well, I've read it several times and I can't see any mention of tee shirts or hair. How about you? Why not take a peek? And see if 'ead 'itting might work for you too.
See you soon
Ian
Please follow this link to take a look at my new novel 'Slybacon'
Revenge is Sweet
Mother won’t mock me any
more. She can’t criticise me any more. My knife has seen to that - my beautiful
knife, with a blade so cold and sharp like a winter’s morning. It cut through
the flesh so easily it stopped her whining mid-sentence. I’ll never have to
listen to her incessant carping ever again.
I planned this for months,
but she’s had this coming a long, long time. I don’t know why my dad never did
it. Maybe he wasn’t “man enough” – a phrase I often heard my mother use until eventually
he left us. I was eight years old. I don’t remember much about him except that mother
was always picking at him. When he left, she transferred all her venom to me
and for twenty years I’ve been the sole target of her corrosive bile – constantly
undermining me, telling me I’d never be anything, I’d never achieve anything. Ha! Well I have now! What do you think of
that, mother?
It wasn’t easy growing up
with such a domineering parent. Having no dad, I was picked on at school
because I was different, and if I did bring the occasional friend home mother’s
scathing tongue would soon make it clear they weren’t welcome. Those who did visit
never returned. So friendships never flourished, and after a while I suppose I
just gave up. Even through my teenage years when my raging hormones brought
about a healthy, indeed ardent, interest in the opposite sex, mother always made
it clear she didn’t want any strangers in our home. She invariably found a way
to thwart my amorous ambitions. She demanded my total attention. Well, tonight mother I got your attention,
and then some.
It was so easy to call her
out to the shed where I keep all my lovely sharp tools. She’d been on at me for
weeks to repaint the front gate.
“Mother, tell me which of
these colours you want me to use,” I had yelled.
Naturally, this appealed to
her overbearing, controlling nature. She didn’t notice as I slipped the bolt shut
on the inside of the shed door. The shed! An ideal place for a killing – out of
sight of prying neighbours and far enough from the house for her screams not to
be heard. What a perfect plan!
It might sound strange mother,
but the hardest part for me was clubbing you with that piece of timber. I only
wanted to stun you so I could tie you up but – evil bitch that you are – I
still felt a slight pang of guilt. Nevertheless it gave me time to tie you up, crucifixion
–like, to the framing of the shed, your arms outstretched and your head lolling
until you came to.
That was when it became
really enjoyable. I had dreamt of this for such a long time. It wouldn’t do to
finish the job quickly. No, I’d waited too long for this for it to end in a
frenzied hacking and a quick and bloody death. Oh no, I wanted to savour this.
And I wanted you to experience every moment.
So I started with the
stomach – nothing too dramatic: a slight push against the epidermis yielding a
row of thick red liquid beads, and then a gently arcing slash across the belly.
Painful, but not deadly and almost artistic - if I say so myself – the way the
viscous crimson trickles seeped slowly down in unison. That was when you
screamed.
“No, no!” you yelled, “Stop!
Please stop!”
What was that mother? You
were asking me, not telling
me? Well what a turn up! But far too little, too late I’m afraid.
“I’ve started so I’ll
finish,” I laughed – well no, I giggled like a naughty schoolboy if I’m honest.
I giggled at my witty use of the catchphrase. Strangely you didn’t even smile,
mother. You just gaped at me in wide-eyed horror.
So next – the wrists. And
now I was really getting into my stride. This time I made the cuts deliberately
deeper and I must admit I almost baulked as the blood pulsed out in thick, warm
ripples. And your cries became weaker as life started to ebb away...
...so here we are, mother.
Our last moments together. What do you think of your son now? Your good for
nothing waster who would never achieve anything? Bet you never thought I’d do
this! Commit suicide and bleed to death before your very eyes!! Ha ha ha....take that, mother!!
© Ian Cragg 2011
