Publishing Diary

Part three: editing

Julia pretending to think just now. (Photo: Julia Raeside)

It turns out you CAN polish a turd AND cover it in glitter because, as every good new author learns, even when you think your book is done, another pair of eyes (or even several) can make a HUGE difference to the finished thing.

I gave my novel to a long-suffering friend to read. This was way back before it had been bought and it languished in inboxes, unloved and un-looked-for. Actually I gave it to two, but more of her later.

This first pal was encouraging, polite, gave some really useful notes and I bashed on with another draft, grateful for her input because I love her prose more than almost any other writer and she knows what she likes, fiction-wise.

My husband read draft one and told me with great confidence that it was brilliant. So I instantly stopped trusting him.

I had a few friends who very kindly agreed to cast their eyes over the early drafts, including my husband. He read draft one (which was truly awful because I think, on the whole, they all are to start with) and told me with great confidence that it was brilliant. So I instantly stopped trusting him and we’re getting a divorce.

Not really. But he was never going to be truly objective and I knew, although it would be cloaked in warmth and supportive noises, I had some friends who would give me the truth.

This friend I mentioned, even though she’d already gone way above and beyond in her reading of the early mess on a Word document (that’s real love), agreed to read the finished thing. By this time I’d sold it, was on (about) draft five or six, had worked with an astonishing editor (more of her in a minute) and it had been printed in paperback (early proofs) to send out for review.

I loved her reaction most of all, I think. She’d taken it on holiday and I’d kind of wanted to say to her, ‘Honestly, don’t worry. It’s your holiday. Don’t put yourself through it again. Go, drink wine, be free.’ But she packed it into her case and jetted off to get some late-summer sand between her toes.

She reported back via instagram before she’d even finished. She was LOVING it. She couldn’t believe the difference between that first draft and what she held in her hands looking out over a Sicilian cove.

It was a real moment to stop and look back at where I’d started, to see how much road lay between that hopeful idiot who opened her laptop in 2019 and the one gawping at Instagram in 2024.

People write books all the time, turning ideas into story with graft and persistence. It’s the not giving up I’m most proud of. Finishing the marathon even though you’ve got a stitch and a burning back and there’s still so far to go.

One friend identified why it wasn’t taking off, scrawled wide pencil strokes across the first few paragraphs and said, ‘Lose all of this.’

Another friend (I am ridiculously lucky with friends) read the first three chapters when I was almost ready to send it to agents for the second time. (See part one of this publishing diary.)

Within minutes of looking over those first pages, she’d identified why it wasn’t taking off, scrawled wide pencil strokes across the first few paragraphs and said, ‘You could start it here. Lose all of this.’ So I went home, slept on it, tried what she’d said, had the vital plot stuff contained in the stricken passages pop up as occasional flashback and, in a couple of hours, had a whole new opening to the book.

And when most agents ask for the first three chapters and a synopsis for your initial submission, this is arguably the most important bit of any manuscript. She was like a teacher, marking my work with the absolute confidence of someone who knows fiction and how to open a story.

It was all there. I had it all written down, just not - say it with me - necessarily in the right order.

So friends help. Really help. If you aren’t lucky enough to know some people who’ve trodden this road ahead of you, join a writing group. Look for them online if you don’t feel brave enough to venture to one in person. But find other writers and readers. I couldn’t have gotten to this point without mine.

Writing is a lonely business, but at some point you do have to show someone what you’ve done.

There is one friend whose contribution to Don’t Make Me Laugh is such an embarrassment of riches, she needs her own blog. (You can’t have her, she’s mine.) She’s a brilliant writer of both fiction and non-fiction, champions other writers every single day, supports, encourages, waves a pair of metaphorical pom-poms so energetically and all while offering notes, celebrating your wins and just being there for every mini breakdown. She has been constant at every stage of this book, knowing that it’s my first and how important that is to a writer despite being many books into her own publishing journey. I don’t really have the words to thank her for how she’s helped.

So you can see, I’m a lucky bugger when it comes to outside help. I wrote a book. But not without them.

Once my lovely indie publisher had signed me, they said they’d hire a freelance editor to work with me on the manuscript. With a traditional ‘big five’ publisher it tends to be an editor that signs you and you work with them to get the book ready for publication.

The editor they found for me was completely unknown to me and we initially only met over the phone. She sounded practical, thoughtful and northern which, for some reason, I found reassuring. She also lived in Scotland which again, I found unaccountably comforting. She particularly knew Edinburgh where some of the book is set and we chatted about the subject of the book and how publishing, like comedy, wasn’t immune from the presence of dodgy men.

I don’t know if you have to like your editor to have a good working relationship, but I did like mine very much. She went away, gave the book a thorough read and prepared a letter outlining the things she would tweak/change/cut.

At this point, buoyed by the confidence shown in the book by a growing group of professional people (agents, publishers, etc), I read the letter feeling fairly secure in the things I knew had to stay.

After I read her letter, I was briefly winded. The main character had, quite explicitly, come from Scotland. From North Berwick, in fact, because it’s a place strongly associated with witch trials and a witchy theme was trailed through the story.

Loads of plot stuff sprang from Ali (my protagonist) being Scottish, missing Scotland because she left when she was young, going back. There was a whole romantic scene involving folk dancers (I know) glimpsed through an open doorway on a summer evening. It could all go, she argued. It was slowing things down.

I was about to disagree with her when I looked at the manuscript. She’d also annotated it to show where she might implement the changes outlined in the letter. Sure enough, without the endless Scotland chat, the whole thing went off like a rocket.

There was also some business with a dead dad but I argued that he needed to stay and in the end I’m very glad he did. Hey, it’s a first novel. The autobiographical stuff is always going to be of more sentimental value.

With her edits implemented, the whole thing rattled along like it was on rails. The book was now an express service, a no-stopping train. I was amazed. What had been a fun ride was now a rollercoaster with no breaks. I often find myself frustrated with stories that don’t move along, that spend too much time gazing out of the window, wondering about things. After four years looking at these words, I couldn’t see what was in the way, but she could, clear as day.

The editing process was only a few weeks in total. A bit of back and forth on email, a couple of phone calls while she settled her baby with one hand and held the phone with the other.

I only actually met her in person in August when we went up to Edinburgh to announce the book. She’s even better in person with wine. I would work with her again in a heartbeat.

I feel like this whole blog could just have said I AM LUCKY in XL font. But I am, incredibly so. Everything about this process so far has been a revelation. Nothing has happened as I’d expected it to, like opening a succession of surprise gifts over the course of a year.

What’s next? Publication. No idea what to expect.