Editing, I find, is a little like that. People will give you techniques (“start big and edit towards the small!” someone once told me in hoarse voice as she watched me put the madness into my method), and pro tips (like don’t absent-mindedly pick up a pen lid and eat it because it’s next to your food, don’t do that) but nobody will tell you exactly what it is without fidgeting in their seat and making the poopy face for ten minutes.
Editing is tinkering, and it is a way of making things better. It is cutting, and adding, and adjusting everything. It is correcting typos but it’s also correcting entire chapters. It is staring at the same word for three whole hours trying to find not just a word but the word. The one that somehow clicks into place on a cosmic level. It is reading notes written in the margins and wondering what exactly you had taken when you were typing this. It is finding what is written between the lines.
Like the traits that make a person, however, these are really just a list of actions that editing could be and not what it is. The only things I can tell you for certain is that is is hard — sometimes you’ll look down at your fingers and wonder if you’re inadvertently writing the worse thing that has ever been written in the history of ever. You’ll stare through the screen and worry that somehow, maybe, just somehow, you’ve accidentally written something that is in fact somebody’s own life and how terribly awful is that because not only is it really sad in places but also the grammar is appalling at this point. It worries you that somebody’s life could lack decent grammar. Without it, life what is?
I think, really, editing is a meditative exercise. It’s sitting for hours, and reaching deep, and finding the meaning behind what you’d just written. It’s tugging on a rope dangled into the darkness and seeing what pulls back.
What’s editing to you?