What do you mean her behavior is "out of character"? I WROTE this character!

If you’re new to the process, you might expect the following:

1. The editor loves something you did and wants you to keep it the way it is. Validation! Hooray! Whatever the editor approves of—your characterization, your structure, your word choices—it’s one less thing to worry about as you focus on the areas that didn’t work as well.

2. The editor doesn’t like some element of your writing and shows you how to improve it. Obviously, this is a lot less fun to hear. You may be disappointed in yourself for not having gotten it right to begin with. You’re probably frustrated about the amount of time and effort it will take to fix the problem. Still, the whole point of hiring an editor was to make the book better, and now you know how to do that.

But there’s a third option you may not have considered:

3. The editor makes a suggestion you don’t agree with. At all.

It happens. In fact, it’s unusual for a writer to agree with each and every suggestion the editor makes. Don’t freak out. No, really, don’t freak out. Deep breaths. It’s going to be okay.

The first thing to do when you find yourself face-to-face with questionable advice is … nothing. Don’t argue with the editor. Don’t plunge in and do what the editor tells you, either. Just let the critique sit for two or three days.

Once the initial shock has passed, you’re ready for the second step: trying to figure out why you disagree. A tip from acclaimed fantasy author Neil Gaiman will serve you well here.

When people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.

Say your story centers around a love triangle, and your editor objects to its resolution. Mark would never choose sincere-but-boring Laurie (your editor argues)—he’d lose interest in her within a week. It’s more realistic for him to run off with Danielle, the dangerously unpredictable Alaskan bush pilot. If you still don’t agree after a few days, go back and puzzle out what the editor is reacting to. Maybe you failed to show Laurie’s more enticing qualities. Maybe Mark’s character growth, which enables him to stop running from healthy relationships, isn’t as apparent to readers as you think. The solution: instead of changing the ending, tweak previous passages so that the ending makes more sense.

Take heart. You survived writing a whole book; you’ll survive the critique. Just remember that it’s possible to take an editor’s advice seriously without sacrificing your vision.

 
The song is hilarious. It also shines a light on how arbitrary the so-called rules can be. Our notions of “proper” English change over time. Furthermore, even copyeditors take certain rules more seriously than others. Ask ten different editors which ones we can safely ignore, and you’ll get ten different answers. That’s why, when you listen to “Word Crimes,” you probably find yourself pumping your fist in solidarity with some of the lyrics—but not all.

Here are my opinions on a few of the linguistic pitfalls Weird Al takes on, in the order they appear.

I hate these word crimes
Like I could care less
That means you do care
At least a little

“I could care less” was one of my favorite put-downs when I was nine. One day it occurred to me that “I could care less” and “I couldn’t care less” meant exactly the same thing. But how could that be? I rolled both phrases around in my mind, trying to make sense of it. There was no sense to be made. They were the same because they just were.

As an adult, I discovered that a good many people get bent out of shape over “I could care less.” There are a few good arguments for why we should … er … shouldn’t care less about this, but if I’m truthful, I have to admit that my reason for not caring is because “I could care less” wore a groove in my brain before my rational self thought to question it.

Say you got an I-T
Followed by apostrophe-S
Now what does that mean?
You would not use “it’s” in this case
As a possessive
It’s a contraction

I cringe every time I see something like Its okay (missing apostrophe!) or That is it’s function (incorrect apostrophe!) in e-mail or on Facebook. If I’m editing, I fix it. But over the centuries, it and the apostrophe have had an on-again/off-again relationship. From a purely logical standpoint, there’s no reason you couldn’t use an apostrophe for both the possessive and contraction. It looks wrong to me only because I’ve been trained to believe it’s wrong.

But I don’t want your drama
If you really wanna
Leave out that Oxford comma

This is the only point where Weird Al gives a nod to personal preference, possibly because the rule depends on the medium. The Chicago Manual of Style, used by most book publishers, says to include the last comma in a series, also known as the Oxford comma (I bought bread, jam, and peanut butter). But The Associated Press Stylebook, used by most newspapers and magazines, says to leave that comma out (I bought bread, jam and peanut butter) because The Associated Press Stylebook is stupid and wrong. You might think my bias comes from working mostly in the book-publishing world for the last decade and change, but my first editing gigs were for magazines, and I hated the omission of the Oxford comma even then.

Always say “to whom”
Don’t ever say “to who”

A few months ago, a writer posed a question to a discussion group for writers and editors. Which tagline should she choose for her back cover: Who can you trust? or Whom can you trust?

A no-brainer, right? The word in question was a direct object, so whom was the grammatically correct choice. And yet, something inside of me rebelled. Whom was fine if the book was about upper-crust people who talked that way in casual conversation. “The butler did it? Whom can we trust?” But otherwise it sounded stilted. Distancing. Altogether wrong for promotional copy. Who can you trust had a punchy, informal feel that was appropriate for the occasion.

When editing, I’ll only out-and-out change a who to whom if the level of formality calls for it: To whom am I speaking, but Who am I speaking to? If a technically incorrect who sounds okay in context, I’ll flag it with a comment and inform the writer that some readers may be unhappy with the grammatical incorrectness, but it reads better “wrong,” and ultimately it’s the writer’s call.

And I thought that you’d gotten it through your skull
What’s figurative and what’s literal
Oh but, just now, you said
You literally couldn’t get out of bed
That really makes me want to literally
Smack a crowbar upside your stupid head

Renowned linguist John McWhorter has this to say about the use of literally to convey emphasis:

Seeking ways of spicing up meaning is part of any language’s timeline, and literally follows the noble tradition … No one would want to speak a language where we couldn’t shine a light on a point or lend things a bit of color—and the words we do this with often come from what started as other ones. After all, we can’t just make them up out of thin air. Do we despise calling things “cool” because the word started out meaning “cold”? It’s just that, for no apparent reason, literally has been singled out as a word somehow barred from changing like other words.

I agree with McWhorter on almost all things linguistic, but … no. No no no no no. Literally hasn’t been singled out for “no apparent reason,” it’s been singled out because the new definition contradicts the real one in a way that’s too painfully ironic to bear. I don’t care what Alexander Pope and Jane Austen thought. I shall not yield.
 

 
Sigh. Nevertheless.

How about you? Which word crimes do you hate? Which ones would you legalize?

“I want your honest opinion, as long as your honest opinion is that it’s flawless and brilliant.”

Does that mean you shouldn’t bother to show them anything you write? That you should skip directly to professional editing? Not at all. While you’ll need editing eventually, I recommend hitting up your buddies before hiring somebody like me. The trick is to solicit feedback in a way that inspires objectivity and honesty.

How do you do that? Glad you asked.

1. Be humble

You’re on the eleventh draft of your manuscript, and you’ve meticulously reworked and polished every sentence. Intellectually, you understand that criticism is a necessary and important part of the creative process. In your heart, you think you’re done. What could there possibly be left to change?

Hey, maybe you’re right. Time will tell. In the meanwhile, though, try to keep your glowing self-assessments to yourself. If a friend isn’t as dazzled by your writing as you show yourself to be, he won’t want to be the one who brings you crashing down to earth. If you act as though you expect suggestions for improvement, you’ll elicit more honest responses.

“I’ve gotten as far as I can on my own,” you say as you hand off the manuscript. “I need other people’s perspectives to take it to the next level.” Try as hard as you can to believe those words. They will serve you and your book well during the next round of revisions.

2. Be confident

You’re on the eleventh draft of your manuscript, and it just isn’t coming together the way you’d dreamed it would. What made you think you could do this? You need help and lots of it. Intellectually, you understand that writing takes a lot of practice, especially if it isn’t your area of expertise. Emotionally, you know that the inevitable criticism you receive will crush your soul.

You may be correct about how much work you still have ahead of you. (It’s okay! There’s no shame in that!) In the meantime, though, try not to wear your insecurities on your sleeve. If a friend realizes how much her true impression will hurt you, she may refuse to offer anything but praise.

There’s no need to pretend you have confidence in your work if you don’t. You can, however, act confident about your ability to handle negative reactions. “I know there are a bunch of things wrong with this,” you tell your prospective reader, “but I’m not sure how to fix them. Your suggestions would really help!”

3. Specify what kind of feedback you want

You’re on the eleventh draft on your manuscript, and quite a few people have already weighed in on previous iterations. Most of them hated your resolution; they thought it was too dark. But a small handful loved the way you tied everything together, and they tended to be the ones who truly understood what you were trying to accomplish. After a period of reflection, you’ve decided to keep the ending the way it is.

Mention stuff like this to your new readers going in. “Just so you know, I’ve decided I’m happy with the conclusion and I’m not going to change it. If you could just tell me anyplace the wording seems off, or where I could flesh out the characters more, that would be great.”

Eliminating areas of potential criticism is a kindness to your readers, as it prevents them from wasting their time trying to diplomatically phrase advice you’re going to ignore anyway. It also benefits you. Some friends will be reluctant to give more criticism than praise; they understand the value of an honest appraisal, but don’t want to be too harsh. Now they can limit their negative evaluations to the elements of your manuscript you’ve identified.

4. Set the bar high

People are often predisposed to love anything their daughter/son/mother/father/spouse/friend wrote. To the best of your ability, you need to nip that instinct in the bud. Tell everybody to pretend someone else is the author. Tell them to imagine they were flipping through the pages in a bookstore. That will prime them to demand as much from your manuscript as they would any other book.

5. Be gracious

No matter how much you psych yourself up for pointed criticism, it’s not going to feel good. Resist the urge to argue. Thank your readers for their time. Tell them you’re going to let the critiques sit for a few days while you process them, and then do so. When you’re calmer, you can (nicely, calmly) ask clarifying questions about their reactions. If you handle the less-than-optimal assessments gracefully, you’ll be more likely to get honest feedback the next time you need it.

 
While they aren’t a substitute for professional editing, friends-and-family critiques can be highly useful. Do your best to help your first readers be objective, make them feel safe about sharing their true impressions, and thank them for their efforts. The more you use high-quality feedback to help you level up, the less work your manuscript will need at the editing stage … and the less you’ll need to spend.

“OMG, this is the best book by a close friend ever.
Five stars!”

I’ve heard this refrain many times, usually when the subject of editing comes up. Whether the author hasn’t budgeted for it or believes she doesn’t need any help beyond basic proofreading, her first line of defense is often friends-and-family feedback.

If anyone pushes the issue, the author may become irritated. “I had some friends read my book, and THEY thought it was GOOD!”

It used to baffle me. How could an author’s friends give a manuscript high marks in the face of what I considered obvious problems? Despite the praise, these works weren’t ready for prime time. Some contained a lot of spelling errors, some weren’t organized clearly, some were difficult to follow, etc.

Maybe the friends didn’t want to hurt the author’s feelings?

But a turn of the tables provided some needed insight. While visiting my parents one Thanksgiving, a close friend asked me to read the novel he’d started and tell him what I thought. My friend is a good writer, so I was happy to do it.

Sure enough, it was brilliant. The unique premise! The well-worded descriptions! The clever turns of phrase!

Then came the aha moment.

I wasn’t evaluating his work in the same way I would if I picked it up in a bookstore.

Instead, my thought process went something like, I couldn’t write science fiction in a million years. How does he come up with these ideas for his plot and his characters? It’s like magic.

So I took a step back and forced myself to read the pages again. I pretended I was in a bookstore, scanning the content to see if it was worth my time and money, expecting a certain level of quality.

I still found the story highly entertaining. But I also realized it needed work. After a great, hooky first sentence, many paragraphs of description and backstory followed. They were well-written paragraphs—which is why I didn’t notice a problem at first—but if I were skimming the first chapter in a bookstore, I’m not sure I’d have enough patience to wade through all the telling to get to the action.

The lesson? Even your most brutally honest friends and family members aren’t the best people to screen your work. They may be too dazzled by the fact that you could write a book at all to notice its flaws.

It isn’t their fault.

It isn’t your fault.

You just need to go outside the circle of people who love you best if you’re looking for unbiased reviews.

Because here’s the thing. Eventually you’ll want individuals other than your friends to read your book. You’ll send it to agents in the hope of getting it published, or you’ll skip that step and make it available to the masses yourself. And they’ll decide whether they think it’s worth their time.

If you’ve done your homework, sought out objective criticism, and eliminated the flaws based on that criticism, you’ll have a much better shot of convincing those total strangers that the answer is yes.

 
An earlier version of this article originally appeared on the Wheatmark blog.

A few days later, the author did something unusual. He sent e-mail to the editors he didn’t pick and offered detailed feedback on how he’d gone about choosing one person out of many qualified candidates.

He said he was pleased with the responses he received … mostly. The exception was a woman who provided “discouraging” comments and told him the story needed more work than he thought it did. At first this distressed him quite a bit. Then he shook it off. The majority of other bidders had said the manuscript was in pretty good shape—that, in fact, it looked better than most. Why believe the lone naysayer?

His logic was sound. Just one problem: the naysayer was right.

It’s not uncommon for writers to tell prospective editors that their manuscript needs “just a light edit.” It’s not uncommon for them to be overly optimistic. When that happens, we as editors have a couple of options.

1. Point out the flaws.
2. Say nothing.

#1 is the more ethical response. Authors expect publishable work out of the editing process. If the level of editing they’re asking for won’t get them there, they need to know that. They need us to tell them.^*

Unfortunately, there’s a sort of natural selection at play that favors option #2. Writers are more likely to hire us when we don’t hurt their feelings, and option #1 will hurt their feelings no matter how diplomatic we try to be. Furthermore, option #1 may lead them to suspect that we’re being mercenary, pushing more expensive services than (they think) they need. This is why I won’t outright condemn those who don’t press the issue. After enough authors refuse to hire us because we’re honest, it’s understandable for some of us to conclude that we shouldn’t bother.

It probably sounds as though I’m blaming writers for this state of affairs. I’m not. In the example above, the author had good reason to believe his manuscript didn’t need substantive revisions. He’d done his due diligence by getting it edited once. He likely had a group of first readers, friends and family, who were more eager to focus on the genuinely praiseworthy aspects of his book than have an awkward conversation about things that could be improved.

Sometimes the people who seek our services really are egomaniacs who believe they can do no wrong, but that’s rare. Most overconfident authors simply aren’t getting enough accurate feedback early in the process.

What does all of this mean for you, the writer? How can you ensure that you’ll get an honest assessment from potentially gun-shy editors?

Ask for it.

Instead of “I only need proofreading” or “How much do you charge for a light edit,” say, “What kind of editing do you think this manuscript needs?”

Do this even if it’s been professionally edited seven times.

You may not always be happy with the answer, but I promise you, you’ll be happier with the results.

^{* Though I didn’t inform this author that he needed more than proofreading, I did offer him a free three-page sample edit. If he’d taken me up on it, I would have shown him what a higher level of editing could do for his book. Telling him before he requested a sample edit, I predicted, would end badly—as it did for the other editor.↩}