The Editor Picks a Bone!

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Essays on Writing and

Editing for the Mortarboard.

 

by

 

Wally Lee Parker

This article was first published in the March 2022 issue of the Clayton/Deer Park Historical Society's newsletter, the Mortarboard.

 

“How often we recall with regret that Napoleon once shot at a magazine editor and missed him and killed the publisher.  But we remember with charity that his intentions were good.” Samuel Clemens, November 11, 1906.

 

… it’s a biblical thing …

 

            Having some time ago reached the biblical lifespan of “threescore years and ten,” your editor has concluded that he can rightly refer to himself as old.  And since “to everything there is a season,” it’s reasonable to assume that my time as editor — due to age and all of the joys that commonly accompany it — is drawing to a close.

            Taking under advisement the caveat that even editors are mortal (that being a shocker to me too), it seems that now would be a good time for me to get in a final word or two — the ability to have such final words being one of those perks editors are generally allowed as part of a literary post-mortem of the print efforts they’ve overseen to date, including those appearing under said editor’s own byline.

            In my old age I’ve come to believe that creative writing is the spiritual cousin of standup comedy.  If done well, both these arts flow with a subversive spontaneity that leaves the audience unaware of how difficult they really are.  To add an extra dose of misery to those apprenticing in these clearly black arts, at some point honing skills in either of these vocations will require placing yourself in front of a critical audience — placing yourself there either physically, as does a comedian on stage, or via the printed page, as writers do in the Mortarboard.  Anticipation of such exposure tends to induce a degree of dread at the expectation of utter humiliation, said humiliation possibly punctuated by an occasional flying beer bottle or brickbat — such flights being metaphoric or otherwise, the choice of which determined by the emotional temperament and degree of sociopathology within each critic.

            The bitter truth is, these are just the kind of dues you’ll have pay when engaging in public performances.  And have no doubt, having your writings published is — as the root of the word publish implies — a public performance.

            The big difference between writing for publication and working the standup circuit — if your comedy act goes sideways and the patrons of some rural roadhouse start kindling chair-legs into bludgeons, the staff, assuming they’re still sober, can usually be trusted to hustle you out the back door — mostly to avoid all the bad publicity a lynching might generate.  A couple of hundred miles and a night or two later, you’ll be in front of a whole new crowd of drunks, and this time hopefully a bit wiser regarding your presentation.  But if you’re a writer and something incredibly bad gets into print under your byline, it’s likely to lodge itself somewhere in cyberspace for maybe ten or twenty years, then shake loose and drop back into circulation just in time to cause grievous embarrassment for either you or your relatives.  For example, as a quote in your obituary.  This is possible because — unlike an unrecorded late-night skit in some woebegone comedy club — in this age of searchable electronic databases, published stories deserving of obscurity never entirely disappear.

            And that’s one of the reasons editors and the editorial process are so important to writers, and especially important to amateur writers.  Editors are the filter through which your work must pass before becoming part of — as my high school teachers loved to say — “your permanent record.”

            With deserved cynicism and a peppering of sarcasm, you may say, “How nice that editors are so concerned about a writer’s feelings and future reputation.”  I’m sorry to inform, that’s generally not what editors are concerned about — at least not me when I’m the editor.  While it is true that the long-suppressed novelist still dwelling deep inside most editors does sometimes manage to feel a quiver or two of sympathy when reading novice copy, don’t let that fool you.  The editor’s first and foremost consideration will always be his or her publication — and if a possible violation of copyright is apparent in a submitted script, the additional task of keeping their own name off any resultant subpoenas.  After all, the overall quality of any publication is a direct reflection of the editor’s skills and discretion in choosing and managing copy and layout — which is to suggest that editors always edit first to preserve and enhance their publication’s reputation, and by such to preserve and enhance their own reputation.

 

… our job is to remember …

 

            I’ve never been terribly good with arithmetic.  But when confronted with algebra and such in high school, I and the world of numbers abruptly parted ways.  Certain mathematical concepts, the ones that can be easily explained without calculations involving formulas composed of letters and symbols, I can almost grasp.  For example, I understand that the branch of math involving statistics indicates that passing the three-quarter century mark in age means you’ve entered a period of ever-growing likelihood that you’ll become a statistic yourself — which I believe is the mathematical equivalent of being converted into something called a negative integer.

            I’ll have to ask Rick Hodges about that.  He’s my go to guy when something mathematical comes up.

            Like a lot of people who are generally ignored when they try to talk, I’ve always wanted to be a writer.  The problem there, I’ve suffered lifelong misery when it comes to spelling.  But despite that — coupled with my deficit of formal education — I have a fairly good vocabulary.  It seems the inability to spell, when dashed against a nagging desire to write, necessitated spending hours looking up words, very often the same words I’d looked up dozens of times before.  The ever-present conundrum being, if you don’t know how to spell a word, how do you look it up?  Well … you spend an awful lot of time rummaging through the dictionary (at least that’s what I did before the advent of practical home computers, spell checkers, and the internet), and in the process I was constantly being exposed to new words — which, if I could remember them, would be added to my ever-growing list of words I couldn’t remember how to spell.

            I suppose I could give one or more lectures about that.  The problem is a lot of my fancy words — the ones I’ve stumbled across in the dictionary — I’ve never heard pronounced.  Trying to pronounce via the dictionary’s pronunciation key — well, all those weird and inexplicable characters look a lot like algebra to me.  But as luck would have it, my bad pronunciations have never been too much of a problem since no one listens to me when I talk anyway.

            And that draws me around to a recently developed theory about the elemental nature of human language.

            There’s a scientific debate going on — one that’s been going on for at least several centuries now — about the origin of human speech.  One of the newer arguments asserts that certain lines of primates — those adjudicated by DNA studies as constituting our nearest still-existent non-human relatives — can use various signs, gestures, and vocalizations to communicate warnings, actions, needs, et cetera.  And most importantly, in certain instances these gestures and such can be considered abstract in nature.  It’s postulated that the ability of humans to learn and use complex languages is rooted within an area of the human brain identical to the location within the brains of our primate relatives from which their ability to communicate through gestures and so forth arise.  If this proves to be true, the implication is that the ability to invent and use complex languages is much older than our own species of humanoids — that being Homo Sapiens.  Taken from the Latin, the translation of that term is literally “man the wise.”  History, and most certainly recent history, makes that bit of scientific nomenclature something we might want to reconsider.

            After digestion, all this seems to indicate that language may very well predate what we might comfortably consider humans.  This hypothesis is hard to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt since the pre-human creatures that would have displayed such a talent are now extinct.  If eventually accepted as theory, the above would imply our ability to tell each other stories enhanced with a high degree of abstract nuance is ancient indeed.

            Within our own species, if I want to hear a story, I can turn on the television or open a book.  One of my somewhat hairier ancestors a hundred thousand or so years ago could have been doing essentially the same when he or she joined the rest of the members of the tribe huddling around the communal fire to listen to the group’s elders draw from their catalog of remembered tales.  The only problem with these oral histories, they tend to drift in fidelity from teller to teller and as they’re passed from lifespan to lifespan.

            It would appear the human species has been telling stories long enough that this bit of theater has become a compulsion inherent in our nature.  The only thing new — meaning within more or less the last ten thousand years — has been the invention — this invention apparently accomplished many times over — of two-dimensional graphic symbols of various sorts that freeze our spoken works into something akin to permanence.  With that craft we began to record the sounds of our stories on various media — clay tablets, animal hides, woven plant-fiber mats.  This gave our species the ability spread our stories over the miles, but also across the centuries.

            All of this suggests to me something I believe the archeological record gives credence to.  Writing came into existence because we, as a species, want to remember, and even more important, be remembered.  These needs have given rise to the vocation of historian.

 

… the editor’s millstone …

 

            Editors edit manuscripts for all kinds of reasons, among them trimming wordage so the materials fit the amount of space available (something usually unnecessary with the Mortarboard); making alterations that create a better fit between the story and the intended audience; correcting spelling errors, and either correcting punctuations or bringing them into compliance with the publication’s style; dealing with problematic word choices. And so on.

            Then there are considerations arising from the editor’s responsibility to navigate a safe course for his or her publication — an obligation that requires being ever mindful of legal considerations.  One example being potentially libelous commentary.  Another, identifying submissions using materials obtained from found sources in a manner that constitutes a violation of copyright, and impounding such until the material in question is cleared.

            Most professional writers understand the above, at least to the point where disagreements are generally nonlethal in resolution.  They also accept that publishing is a business, and as such the materials the writer submits can and often will be treated as a product rather than a work of art — this being somewhat harder for writers to forgive.  Writing students intending to pursue wordsmithing as a profession are often encouraged by instructors and others to acquaint themselves — via research drawn from sources verifiably knowledgeable in the subject — with the business side of publishing, including its legal aspects.  That kind of knowledge should make dealing with publishers, editors, and the reality of the craft as a vocation less emotionally traumatizing.

            Inevitably someone will argue that the Mortarboard isn’t a business, so all that hooey about regulations and legalities don’t apply.  This I’ve found to be the root of perpetual conflict for anyone trying to do the right thing. I could try to explain that I’m aware that the Mortarboard is an all-volunteer enterprise, amateur in nature, dedicated to the collection, archiving, and free sharing of local history.  In fact, years ago I wrote a mission statement for the society that says essentially the same thing — said statement being posted on most of this magazine’s past issues just to the left of the frontpage nameplate.  Furthermore, I could try to explain that I understand that few if any of our contributors could be considered professional writers and assure everyone that from the editorial side full allowance must and has been made for that fact.  The thing that shouldn’t get lost in all this is that the Mortarboard is also a publication that anyone anywhere in the world with internet access can open and read — assuming they can read English.  And just as the society’s certification as a not-for-profit corporation within the State of Washington places a set of legally defined obligations on us, our publication’s worldwide outreach should dissolve any delusions — and I assure you they are delusions — that our size, amateur standing, and not-for-profit status means that the legal and ethical boundaries imposed upon larger, mainstream, and/or commercial publications don’t apply to us.

            Over the years I’ve found that standing one’s ground on this issue is a millstone that whoever accepts the job of editor is cursed to forever be pushing uphill.   

 

… teaching yourself to write ...

 

            What little exposure I’ve had to formal writing instruction suggests that learning to write requires lots of writing.  And then quite a bit more writing.  Followed by still more writing.

            Now you might ask, “So, I just write things?”  To which I would reply, “Yes.  But you have to make it a habit to write things in a specific way.”

            By that I mean write emails using complete sentences.  Any fractional sentences you use — such as standalone prepositional phrases (at least that’s what we used to call such parts of speech) — being explicable as to meaning.  Any garnishments you use must be words chosen not simply for their flavor, but also for their exactitude.  Punctuations chosen should enhance rather than obscure meanings.  And when you break what you’ve been taught are the rules, you do so with sufficient force to make a credible argument that you aren’t breaking the rules.  Which is to say, when breaking the rules, you continue to follow the prime purpose of writing, which is to make yourself understood.

            And to the suffrage of all concerned, likewise with text messages.

            To immerse yourself even further, find hobbies that require writing.  Or better yet, make writing your hobby.  Start that family history, and then keep at it — and don’t leave out the juicy parts.  Quite often the juicy parts — written with at least a little compassion for all concerned — are the most human.  And the humanity is what makes the people you’re writing about real.  It does that by reminding your readers that most everyone’s life is a blend of pain and passion, of errors and regrets, of charity and selfishness, of successes and failures.  Things that your readers, if honest with themselves, can relate to.

            Of course, if you’re writing stories about your own family, it’s always wise to keep any such manuscripts under lock and key until you’re ready to drop them on your kin.  Or better yet, until you’ve safely crossed over to the other side and are well beyond their reach.

            Juicy parts aside, here’s one of the techniques I find useful when it comes to composing a story.  This is drawn from the fact that my first reading of most every script submitted for publication is essentially a cold reading — in the theatrical sense.  Which is to say, all I can see of what the author wanted to say or likely believed they were saying is what ended up being recorded on the page — in some cases leaving me with a suspicion they’ve suffered a dissonance between their intent and their execution.

            When cold-reading writers I consider more experienced, I suspect a skim of transparent errors to be evidence they’ve neglected one absolute necessity before submitting materials.  And that is to rigorously self-edit.

            The best way to begin the self-editing process is to set the material aside for a few days or weeks to cool, and by that get some distance between you and the thought processes and creative experimentations you’ve used to meld the pieces of your story together.  When approaching the script again, such cooling will hopefully give you a perspective closer to what your readers will see when first encountering your material — a perspective more revealing of any lingering defects or deficiencies than can be seen when your self-editing ability has been fatigued by familiarity.  Once any such problems are identified, you can apply the rewrites necessary to bring the story closer to what you had intended.

            When you start recognizing the problems in your writing yourself, you’ll be in a better position to develop an aptitude for finding your own solutions rather than passing those problems on to your editor, or far worse, to your readers.

 

… a body of work …

 

            Most everything the society publishes is dedicated to the single goal of preserving the region’s history.  And when it comes to history, I tend to favor the stories about the little people.  That being the common people most easily forgotten by history, but in the human sense of being parents, siblings, children, friends, neighbors, co-workers and so forth, being the most important in explaining how life was once lived.

            Looking back at my own contributions to the society’s body of work, there are a number of things I’m proud of.  Among them my interviews — Tuffy Luhr, Sadie Mae Fischbach, Mike and Betty Burdette, Warren Nord, Eddie Olson, and a scattering of others.  In the scripts derived from these interviews I hope I’ve captured the sense that these individuals were people most anyone coming to know them personally would have become fond of.

            Done right, these kinds of interviews are terribly time consuming.  But after all the drudgery of transcription from audio to print, and then the additive research needed to shore up the holes in my interviewee’s memory and such, the first draft seems to flow onto the pages as if it had a life of its own.  Which leads me to believe these kinds of things do.  I wish I could have done more of these stories.  But as said, stories constructed from interviews — if done right — are voracious consumers of time.

            Another thing I’m particularly proud of are my personal essays — at least those I consider a little better than average.  A good portion of my essays can be found in the Letters/Brickbats column.  That column first appeared in the Mortarboard’s January 2014 issue.  There, under the heading “what exactly is a brickbat,” I discussed the origin of the word brickbat.  That little piece was really fun to research and write, as was the bit longer essay about the final days of Deer Park’s sawmill titled “the last whistle.”  The whistle piece was something of a melancholy write, since me, my dad, and lots of others lost our jobs when the mill closed.  As often happens with working class people, the fallout from the closing forever changed the course of our lives.  Then there were a couple of pieces touching on the subject of flying saucers — me being one of those who really wants to believe but has to have conclusive evidence first.  The one called “A round loaf of flying fire” took its title from the description given of an object observed by several members of the Ground Observer Corps unit posted on the top of the local high school (now Deer Park’s City Hall) one August evening in 1952.  They were looking for Russian bombers but saw a spectacular meteor instead — that doubtless being the better of those two possibilities.

            Then there were the “In Search of” bits — my favorite finding the confirmable identity of Loon Lake’s drowned boat.  

            Was all the work needed to capture these chunks of the past worthwhile?  Since that depends whether any of it survives the decades to come, we elders will never know.

 

… the ash of memory ...

 

            The larger part of human history once written on parchment or other perishables has turned to ash — mostly as the result of fires, accidental or otherwise, but sometimes due to the slow flameless burn of decay.  Some records incised into stone or clay tablets have been lost because those knowledgeable in reading the symbols are long gone.  Meaning without a Rosetta Stone we’ve no way to re-verbalize whatever those symbols meant.

            There are other things we assume have been lost but can’t yet certify as such.  The first half-decade of Deer Park’s vintage newspaper, the Union, being one example.  Are these first issues lingering in some musty archive waiting to be rediscovered?  We can only hope.

            Another example is the certifiable loss of most of the military records for World War Ⅱ’s enlisted men — those burned in a fire likely enabled by neglect.

            Both these losses could have told us so much.  One thing their absence does tell us is that history’s survival depends on more than luck.  It requires those willing to act as history’s caretakers to step forward, collect and archive, then keep everything in a safe place.  Without that type of dedication, our history becomes little more than tales told and retold by the community’s elders over supper or drinks — told with all the factual drift and entertaining though inaccurate embellishments oral histories are prone to.

 

———  end  ———