Today, I printed a hardcopy of my manuscript to proof because I always miss things when I work solely on the electronic copy. I rummaged around my desk drawer for my red pen and a memory overtook me so completely I had to sit down.
Several years ago in a critique group, two of the writers said they thought pages marked up with red pen seemed punitive and harsh. (Later, my nephew who’s getting his PhD in English lit said the same thing.)
Because I started my career as a journalist and editor, I’d grown accustomed to pages that bled. I’d ripped through others’ work and editors tore through mine. By the time I started writing fiction (and critiquing other people’s fiction), I used a red pen because my feeble old eyes needed the contrast from the black type. Or, so I told myself.
Today, I can admit I thought their comments about the red pen were hooey. I’d survived some pretty harsh editors and bosses over the last 20 years and feel my writing is stronger because of it. Couldn’t they just toughen up? But the publishing world is already full of rejection – from agents, from publishers, from readers. I’d failed to recognize this was the very reason writers need to be compassionate with each other – even if that means using a pencil or black pen on critiques if that’s what they prefer.
In late October, my book editor sent revisions that I needed to make to my debut novel coming out next year. I braced for today’s equivalent of bleeding pages – TrackChanges in Microsoft word. What she sent instead was the most wonderful “critique sandwich” – first, she said some amazingly supportive things, followed them with the changes to be made, and ended with something else amazingly supportive. It made all the difference between being demoralized at the thought of revising to being energized by it.
Honestly, I don’t own pink or orange or green pens. I still edit my own work in red. But I’m still glad for the memory that bubbled up today.
