Thursday, 4 January 2018

I can't tell you what a momentous decision it's been, this appointing an editor business.

Never having written a novel before, the whole process is a terrifying but ultimately exciting new road to travel.

So, notebook in hand, I settled down to carry out an internet search. This, along with recommendations from fellow authors, narrowed me down to around half a dozen likely candidates. I was looking for someone with experience of editing my genre - women's fiction with shades of mystery and romance -  who had handled published authors, better still bestsellers and, most importantly, someone I clicked with.

A couple of lovely editors offered to provide me with a trial edit of a couple of pages so with trepidation I sent them off, squirming with embarrassment as I pressed send. The results were heartening - not hatchet jobs but gentle line edits and an instance where I'd swapped points of view mid paragraph without noticing. I puffed up with pride like a robin in wintertime.

Then another reply popped in. 'We think you need help with voice, literary technique, structure etc.'

Oh.

Well that's it then. My novel is obviously a great big pile of crap.

I took a deep breath and appointed that editor.

Now I feel like I'm leaving my baby alone and exposed for the crows to pick over. But realistically, whilst I may be in love with my manuscript, ultimately I want other people to love it too, and that won't be achieved by any ego-massaging. It will only happen if someone picks my baby part and puts it together again, hopefully in a better state.

As my future editor put it - it's no good icing the cake if it's not yet baked.

No soggy bottoms for me then....

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