THE IRONY OF THIS POST ABOUT EDITING IS THAT I DON'T HAVE THE TIME TO EDIT IT. FORGIVE THE MISTAKES, I'M IN THE MIDDLE OF A TEN-PAGE PAPER ABOUT INJURY PREVENTION. HUZZAH!
(Obviously my copy-editing job is a stepping stone to becoming the editor-in-chief at Vogue. Watch out Ms. Wintour...I'm gonna be wearing your space suit soon!)
On my list of most likely careers during my lifetime, “copy-editor” was near the bottom, somewhere between “lion tamer,” and “Wonder Woman”. My life as a professional dancer required me to communicate without speaking, and as much as there were right and wrong ways to execute steps, there was also flexibility to the form of expression. Let’s just say that copy-editing isn’t as kind.
I always kept a magazine or book in my dance bag (partly to keep up my reputation as an artistic connoisseur, partly out of genuine interest) but the complexities of the written word were never my primary focus when I was dancing full time. As I took writing jobs over the past year I started to pay more attention to smaller details like word choice, punctuation rules, and structure in an effort to refine my skills (and there’s a LONG way to go). What I didn’t realize was how quickly I would be thrown into the text vortex; a few months ago I took a job as the copy-editor for movmnt magazine (a delicious combination of dance, music, fashion and pop culture).
Unfortunately, my previous career had instilled the idea that there wasn’t one way to correctly punctuate a thought. Movement (which I now always want to spell as “movmnt,” since I typed it so much) is malleable, and in a sense so is the written word, but whereas a choreographer has the endless combinations of arms, legs, plies, contractions, extension, and more when creating a pause in movement, a writer has but a handful of tools: the comma, the semi-colon, the dash, and the period, among others.
What better way to become acquainted with my new friends in the punctuation world than to park myself at a teashop and devour equal parts Strawberry Green Tea and grammatical rules? If only I had been able to get the rules down as smoothly as the tea. By definition my task was to meticulously comb the text by checking its consistency and accuracy. I quickly learned that by practice it was as painstaking as combing through a child’s hair for lice.
I opened up document after document and went through a cycle of revisions for each piece hoping that immersion would breed confidence. First came an initial read through to check for overall consistency of voice, any glaring mistakes, and holes in the story. Then came the tidal wave of minor corrections that left many pieces looking as if they had been scribbled over with a kindergartener's digital crayons. Like many, I was more capable of editing work that wasn’t my own, but I still struggled and tried to have faith in the process.
Despite my frustration that with punctuation there are correct and incorrect usages, each document I opened revealed the similarities between the structure of dance and the structure of writing. The process of copy-editing felt foreign, but I could rely more on my other career than I initially thought.
I started to notice that very little was said in some of the first drafts I got: thousands of words that painted a picture of the surface. It was then that I realized the abundance of empty sentences in both my own writing and the writing that I was editing. By buffing up a piece with five dollar words, a writer is doing the same things as a dancer who adds extra turns or beats to a combination in class when the technique is clearly missing; simplicity is an artist’s friend.
Also staring out at me like headlights on a dark road was the idea of transitions. There may be endless ways to string together steps, but a choreographer usually stumbles upon a way to transition from one to the other that feels most natural. The same goes with writing. Just as it is impossible for a dancer to go from one side of the stage to the other with a single jump, it is implausible to ask the reader to launch from one thought to another without giving the proper care to the space between.
My work as an editor gave me the chance to make sure that the pieces not only created scenery and lighting on the stage/page, but also moved the reader through them. I was amazed at how far the articles were able to come (with a little collaborating) from the first draft to the printed final -- it was the same transformation as from the first rehearsal to the finished performance. And the fatigue editing caused was not dissimilar to the fatigue after completing a full-length ballet. Yet despite my weariness I felt closer to the written word than ever before.
Now everywhere I look there are opportunities for copy-editing. Wedding announcements, business cards (a friend of mine recently saw a doctor whose card read Doulgas Roberts), websites, this post -- all chock full of errors I hope to notice with the ease that I used to spot improper lines in the corps de ballet. Unfortunately, one of the biggest comforts of live performance doesn’t translate to the printed word: the idea that mistakes are over once the curtain comes down. In publishing, my mistakes are printed for all to see. Here’s hoping I got it right.
