So, I heard back from the editor at Pure Slush and he wants more edits. I'm really unhappy with his suggestions, or "tweaking" as he calls it.
Here's what he sent me:
We followed Julia to the car. Like her, it was stately, expensive and a little intimidating. She waved us to the back as she slid into the driver’s. I sat. A sickly sweet floral fragrance drifted from a plastic air freshener, the only marker of ownership on the nearly sanitary, bread-colored interior. The awkward roil in my stomach was something I was growing accustomed to in the three days I had been in Korea.
“Where are we eating dinner, again?” I asked Ian in a hushed, mumbled voice hushed hushed mumble, torn between relief at Julia’s sudden neglect and worry for my lack of preparedness for the evening.
“I don’t know. “ He leaned forward. “Julia, where are we going to eat?”
“Uh,” then she said something I didn’t understand. I tried to work it out in my head. ‘Bead-um’ is all I heard her say. I repeated it over and over in my head, searching for a match. Beans? Berries? Bread? Nothing logical came to me. “Rice, vegetable, fish, soup,” Julia continued to Ian.
“Does she remember that we’re vegetarians?” I asked.
“Um. Julia, will the restaurant be alright for vegetarians? We don’t eat meat.”
“Oh, yes. Okay. You eat fish?”
“No. No fish, chicken, beef or anything like that. We do eat eggs and milk, though.” His shoulders tensed with the effort of explaining, rising and taking his voice with them. His and briefcase clip made a rhythmic, metallic click under his nervous hand. After the last eight hours making and remaking lesson plans naïvely seeking her approval, I couldn’t look at her. I counted glowing red crosses atop churches. Eleven if you count the ones just past those hills. I had thought Koreans were Buddhists.
“Your parents are vegetarians?” Julia continued.
“Mine aren’t,” Ian said. “They eat a lot of meat, actually. Casey’s mom is, though.” Hearing my name drew me down from the hills and into the car.
“Oh, really? It’s good to do. You are nice children, obedient.”
We drove a few minutes more in silence. Julia began to mumble to herself. A cab passed us hurriedly. I leaned toward her, worried she was trying to talk to us. She wasn’t. She dialed her phone, a jeweled J swinging heavily from it,. She slowing slowed further as she divided her attention between her phone and the road.
With a screech of rubber the car suddenly swung 180 degrees, and gripping the door handle, I squinted into the oncoming headlights of the oncoming cars as we reversed directions on the four-lane street. After a minute-long phone call in more exasperated Korean and punctuated by considerable sighing on her ‘phone, she Julia made another U-turn and we pulled into a nearly empty parking lot. I released my grip on the door.
Releasing my grip on the door, I looked out at I interrogated (interrogated?) the restaurant’s fluorescent sign, moving my eyes over the Korean writing again and again back and forth,. bBut the dramatically written symbols were beyond me.
Small, blocky type iIn the lower right corner, small, blocky type answered my question: “Vietnam Cuisine”.
“Where are we eating dinner, again?” I asked Ian in a hushed, mumbled voice hushed hushed mumble, torn between relief at Julia’s sudden neglect and worry for my lack of preparedness for the evening.
“I don’t know. “ He leaned forward. “Julia, where are we going to eat?”
“Uh,” then she said something I didn’t understand. I tried to work it out in my head. ‘Bead-um’ is all I heard her say. I repeated it over and over in my head, searching for a match. Beans? Berries? Bread? Nothing logical came to me. “Rice, vegetable, fish, soup,” Julia continued to Ian.
“Does she remember that we’re vegetarians?” I asked.
“Um. Julia, will the restaurant be alright for vegetarians? We don’t eat meat.”
“Oh, yes. Okay. You eat fish?”
“No. No fish, chicken, beef or anything like that. We do eat eggs and milk, though.” His shoulders tensed with the effort of explaining, rising and taking his voice with them. His and briefcase clip made a rhythmic, metallic click under his nervous hand. After the last eight hours making and remaking lesson plans naïvely seeking her approval, I couldn’t look at her. I counted glowing red crosses atop churches. Eleven if you count the ones just past those hills. I had thought Koreans were Buddhists.
“Your parents are vegetarians?” Julia continued.
“Mine aren’t,” Ian said. “They eat a lot of meat, actually. Casey’s mom is, though.” Hearing my name drew me down from the hills and into the car.
“Oh, really? It’s good to do. You are nice children, obedient.”
We drove a few minutes more in silence. Julia began to mumble to herself. A cab passed us hurriedly. I leaned toward her, worried she was trying to talk to us. She wasn’t. She dialed her phone, a jeweled J swinging heavily from it,. She slowing slowed further as she divided her attention between her phone and the road.
With a screech of rubber the car suddenly swung 180 degrees, and gripping the door handle, I squinted into the oncoming headlights of the oncoming cars as we reversed directions on the four-lane street. After a minute-long phone call in more exasperated Korean and punctuated by considerable sighing on her ‘phone, she Julia made another U-turn and we pulled into a nearly empty parking lot. I released my grip on the door.
Releasing my grip on the door, I looked out at I interrogated (interrogated?) the restaurant’s fluorescent sign, moving my eyes over the Korean writing again and again back and forth,. bBut the dramatically written symbols were beyond me.
Small, blocky type iIn the lower right corner, small, blocky type answered my question: “Vietnam Cuisine”.
*******
Most of that doesn't really bother me. I don't like the way in which he is changing the voice of my writing. I feel he is editing for style, which I find inappropriate. I'm especially bothered by the line he added about screeching rubber. What is that? He's been pushing for something like that with every edit, blaming it on pacing or asking me to explain how the character feels. Trying to lean that toward fear. I don't even know how to deal with it, it is so out of place in my writing. This is starting to make me feel pretty darn small, cheap and down right bummed out.
What say you? Peter had some good suggestions, which I will definitely put thought into, but I just don't know how to deal with this. How many times will he send it back to me? I don't want to focus all my time on one piece and we're about to go out of town. I don't like feeling this way about writing. It makes my blood pressure go up.
Boo!
Sorry about the weird spacing. The format's being strange since I pasted that.
Good night.
The screeching tires is so out of place in this story. It does not have the same feel as the rest of it. The only change I kind of like is the changes in the last 4 lines. But not the rest. You will have to just be honest with this guy, stand up for yourself. As we talked about earlier, this is a good learning experience for you. Even though it is stressful and a huge pain in the butt. You have already noted that this editor is not your style, but it will prove very educational for you in the long run. That is just what I think , and I think you are doing a great job by the way. I love your story
ReplyDeleteYes, you should be honest with yourself Casey, and with me. If you really don't want to continue with it, say so, you're old enough, surely. There is nothing wrong with standing up for what you believe in. Most people are the best - and worst - judges of their own work. Thanks for the ride. Love, the Editor whose work has inadvertently graced your blog.
ReplyDelete