Should you be a writer or an editor?
Part I: The
writers.
Posted by Christie Aschwanden on January 15th, 2013
Are
you an editor or a writer? How do you know? What are the crucial differences
between the two specializations? The question arose when Slate science
editor Laura Helmuth was visiting a class that Ann Finkbeiner teaches at the graduate program in science writing
at Johns Hopkins University. Ann, hoping to help her students figure out
whether they were natively editors or natively writers, asked Laura about the
difference between writers and editors.
Laura
punted.
Ann
didn’t know, either.
After
the class was over, Ann and Laura gave the question some more thought and then
enlisted other writers and editors to help them answer it. We’ll run their
answers in two separate posts today and tomorrow. Today, the writers.
Freelance
writer Ann Finkbeiner:
I’m
almost purely a writer. When I first started writing, my superb editors—people
like Warren Kornberg and Tim Appenzeller—astounded me because they could say
things like, “take the last sentence of every paragraph and make it the first
sentence,” or because they could see the structure of a story that in my head
was just a bunch of buzzing flies. “Wow,” I thought, “such seriously smart
people.”
I
still think they’re seriously smart, but I also think that’s what editors do:
They stand back and analyze. I was busy trying to understand the science in the
first place, then get it right, then write it so that readers could see how beautiful
it was, then rewrite it 6,000 times for clarity, accuracy, concision, and
elegance. An editor looks at the thing as a whole, analyzes its structure, and
moves the boxes and connectors around until the story is logical, seemly, and
stable.
So
then what do writers do? They walk around with their recorders permanently set
to “on,” listening for scientists using words oddly, for scientists saying
they’ve just heard the strangest things, for scientists talking excitedly to
other scientists about something the writer has never heard of and doesn’t
understand anyway. They ask around and search the Internet to see whether this
odd, strange, exciting thing might be a story, whether it makes that “click”
that stories make. They go through the odds-against struggle of convincing an
editor to feel the same click. If they don’t succeed, they try another editor.
If they do succeed, they begin the joyous process of talking to scientists and
understanding 100 times more about this story than they need to know. And then
they try to structure it and almost can; and then they start to write it and
they absolutely cannot, but they do it anyway.
My
best example of the difference between writers and editors is when a
writer-friend and I were having identical problems with our editors. We just
had some neato little anecdotes (skinny physicist crawls around on Mexican
border at midnight) and neato sentences (“Rumor had it she was a whore from
Pahrump”) and neato people with neato quotes (“Pardon the expression, but I
point the fucking telescope at the sky and see what’s out there”). And the
editors were insisting on meaningful context (why were they trying to ban
atmospheric tests?) and big thoughts and implications (does the nation need
science advisors?) and beginnings, middles, and ends.
We
all won, of course. Without the Mexican border and whore from Pahrump, the
story has no flavor or color or sound, and the reader no point of personal
contact. Without the context, implications, and structure, no one would even
know it was a story.
Independent
writer and editor Deborah Franklin:
Probably
everyone skews at least a little bit more one direction than the other. I
consider myself a writer who also edits.
A Writer:
* Paints with words. Walks through life making connections between disparate things, noticing splashes of color, snatches of conversation. Remembers what was said and what people look like. Has a vision. Sees a blank page as fun, as permission, as a place to let go and just try things. Is willing to imagine. Not afraid of working alone, struggling alone with a problem for long stretches at a time. In fact, enjoys it.
* Loves language and writes things that people love to read.
* Would rather watch a movie than act in one. At a party, would rather sit on the stairs and watch and listen to people than be the one in the middle of the room holding forth.
* Is curious. Asks good questions. Is not afraid to ask obvious or embarrassing questions. Is a good listener, and a quick study who thinks well on his/her feet. Has enough spidey-sense to recognize a good quote or idea or scene and knows to record them in some way. Is a voracious reader.
* Has internalized the ethics of journalism: Accuracy, fairness, no plagiarism. When it’s you and the source in an interview, you’re on your own; if you haven’t internalized those rules you will someday fail in a big way.
* Doesn’t mind long, unpredictable work hours. Knows how to make deadlines and will stick with a task until it’s done, until the story has a beginning and a middle and an end. When you’re an editor, you can stop and walk away when the time runs out. When you’re a writer, the task’s not over until you have a complete story on the page. Must be able to live with, and maybe even thrive under pressure and insecurity.
* Can live on a shoestring, at least at first, and/or periodically throughout your career. These days, staff writing/reporting jobs are few and far between. Freelance writers who make a substantial income have an excellent combination of talent, luck, experience, flexibility, and the ability to identify side jobs to make it work. It’s very hard these days to raise a family on one writer’s income.
Slate
columnist and former science editor Daniel Engber:
I
don’t think this is a binary variable, that you’re either a writer or an
editor. It’s a spectrum, perhaps like being gay or straight, and (for those who
care to do so) there’s room to maneuver in between the ironclad identities. I
would probably call myself a writer who edits, or a writer who can edit, or a
writer who has edited. Likewise, there are lots of amazing editors who write,
or editors who can write, or editors who have written. And there are lots of
jobs that are well-suited to intermediate types, or types who scoot around the
spectrum from one year to the next. (Slate happens to be an excellent place for
people who hover near the middle.)
So
how do you know which activity you prefer? You have to try out both and see how
they each inspire and annoy you. If you need a hint, there are some broad
personality traits that might align with your placement on the spectrum.
Editing jobs are both collaborative and hierarchical, and so invite a certain
adherence to a higher goal and respect for external authority. Writing jobs
tend to be more conducive to an individualistic mindset, and one that bristles
at group directives.
New
Scientist correspondent Bob Holmes:
Like
many people who’ve been around for a while, I’ve spent time at both ends of the
editorial hatchet. In the end, though, I’m a writer at heart. When I analyze
why, I come up with three main reasons:
1)
I prefer depth over breadth. (If I really meant that, of course, I’d still be
doing science instead of writing about it. But given that all journalists are
dilettantes, I prefer deeper rather than broader dilettantism.) I’m always
impressed by how much editors know about so many different subjects, because
they range widely over the stories written by many different writers. When I
was a features editor for New Scientist a decade ago, I liked that sense of
seeing the whole landscape. But the downside is that when you do this you
rarely get to explore the finer topography of any particular topic.
Now
that I’m a writer again, I particularly enjoy the feeling of knowing that I’ve
spoken with every important source on a story and have all the information I
need to understand the subject. (I don’t get to that point with every story, of
course, but it happens often enough to keep me going.) That’s a satisfaction
that editors rarely get—instead, they generally have to trust their writers on
the legwork.
2)
I prefer doing over helping. Editing has its own highs, such as the joy of
sitting down in the morning with 4,000 words of meandering, flabby prose and
getting up at the end of the day with a tight 2,400-word story without having
cut anything of substance. But even then, the writer gets credit for scoring
the goal; the editor only gets an assist.
I’d
rather be the main mover on fewer stories each year instead of a helper on
many. Looking back over the years, my most memorable stories are all ones that
I’ve written, not ones I edited.
3)
I prefer a freelance lifestyle over a steady job. Of course, writers can have
steady jobs too, and editors can freelance. But for the most part, editing work
seems more constant, more institutional. Every week has its quota of words to
be tuned up and stories to be commissioned. Usually, editors work in an office,
with colleagues, schedules, regular paychecks, and a clear career ladder to
climb. That has many advantages, and for many people it’s exactly what they
want.
But
I’m happier with the greater flexibility of a writer’s life. When a deadline is
looming, I work harder and longer than I ever did as an editor. On the other
hand, I can also walk my dog in the middle of the day or knock off early to go
skiing. I can make bread or start a pot of soup during breaks between
interviews. And I’m here when my son gets home from school. All this
unpredictability would no doubt drive some people nuts—but for me, it’s one of
the big attractions of the job.
*Image
by Shutterstock.
Are you an editor or a writer?
Part II: The
editors.
Posted by Christie Aschwanden on January 16th, 2013
Writers
and editors work together all the time, but the two clans are somewhat
mysterious to one another. Mutually suspicious, even. How do you know which
career path you should specialize in? And how do editors become editors,
anyway? Ann Finkbeiner and Laura Helmuth asked several journalists to describe
the differences between writers and editors. In an earlier post, writers explained what it is they
do. Today, the editors weigh in.
Scientific American online news editor Robin Lloyd:
I didn’t choose editing over writing so much as it chose me (same goes for journalism and science writing). As a reporter, a few of my superiors mentioned over the years that they saw me on an editing track, so I just kept saying “yes” when I got offers to do fill-in editing. Then I got an offer to be a writer/editor, and I said yes. Then I got an offer to be an editor, and I said yes. And so on. Over time, I have gained confidence in my ability as a short-form editor, though I still have much to learn, especially with long-form editing. I have an ear for prose that “sounds right.” I find that not everyone has that. One of my editors once told me I have good syntax. So I looked up “syntax” and thought, “Yeah, I do have good syntax.” I also did well in grammar class in 10th grade.
More seriously, my motivation as an editor is clear, compelling communication for the reader. Delivering that is my first job. Readers are looking at every word for an excuse to bail out—to stop reading a story. My job is to prevent that and to keep them reading this story by focusing on clarity, pacing, logic, arc, and sparkling prose (rewards). Also, I enjoy teaching and helping people.
I like reporting and writing on deadline, and I did it quite a bit for more than a decade, but I find editing on deadline a bit more relaxing and rewarding. It’s about the right size for my ego and skill set for now. Based on my experience, of course, I think that one becomes a better editor after a good chunk of foundational years as a writer.
I’ve seen many edits by many people who are paid as editors. A handful of them are great editors. I quietly learn from them.
Independent writer and editor Deborah Franklin:
Not every writer can edit, nor every editor write, but it sure does improve both sets of skills if you find yourself fortunate enough to spend at least a little time wearing each hat. I started out as a writer (for magazines and newspapers) and never sought to be an editor (for magazines and radio)—in fact fought it for many years—but the time I’ve spent editing has definitely improved my writing and my life!
An editor:
* Is good at puzzles, at seeing the flecks of green in several scattered puzzle pieces and understanding that they fit together to form the green hillside at the top of the story/painting, not the puddle of green algae at the bottom. Is thoughtful and analytical; good at spotting holes in arguments and seeing through well-written hand-waving. A voracious reader.
* Is more of a team player than a loner. Sociable. Likes dealing with different types of people (e.g. the infographics expert and the physics writer and the psych reporter).
* Is verbally articulate on the phone as well as in person. Can write a good, conversational email that makes the writer feel understood, appreciated, liked, and motivated to make the story better.
* Is part therapist; knows how to talk friends (or writers) through tough spots, and doesn’t hold their insecurity against them.
* Has good parenting skills. Knows to first point out some specific things you like about the writing and the story before being negative about things that don’t work. Not a pushover; knows the value of discipline, and knows how to deploy it.
* Knows that only one part of the job is working with the writer. Doesn’t mind being interrupted; is organized, can multi-task gracefully, and is able to quickly switch gears during a tough day.
* Finds meetings tolerable, maybe even fun.
* Can manage up as well as down in an organization. Understands how to represent the reader in fiercely defending the story, whether to the writer, the top-editor, the fact-checker, the copy-editor, the art director, the photographer, the illustrator, the social media czar, the publisher, or the advertising director. Is honest and kind and empathetic. Not a stick-your-finger-in-the-air-to-see-which-way-the-wind’s blowing kind of manager who just tells people what they want to hear. Rather, a calmly firm and compassionate listener/leader who has a strong enough ego to make and defend a good argument, but not an ego so big that it sucks all the air out of the room.
* Prefers/needs to work hours that are more easily contained. Editors often work long hours, too, but it is easier to walk away from the job at the end of the day as an editor than as a writer.
* Does not mind that the writer often gets the credit for a collaborative effort. Is able to take a parent’s pride in a successful, beautiful, groundbreaking piece.
Slate science editor Laura Helmuth:
My editing muse is Charlie Watts, the drummer for the Rolling Stones. For 50 years, he’s been the least famous or recognizable member of the band. In videos, you glimpse him only briefly as the camera pans across the stage to focus on Mick Jagger as he struts or Keith Richards as he snarls. Charlie sits behind his drums with a slight smile, nodding his head as he watches the real rock stars entertain the crowd. Charlie doesn’t wear spandex or eyeliner or weave beads into his hair, which is gray. He never had a drug problem or stole his bandmates’ girlfriends. He is easily the most boring musician of his generation—steady, calm, and resolutely not in the spotlight.
Editing requires most of the same skills writing does, but it also demands, if you’re going to be a good editor, a huge dose of humility. You will never and should never get the credit for a great story. Editors who seek recognition for their work are mostly bad editors—the Phil Collinses of the editing world, people who may be fine as solo artists but should really never work collaboratively. Other editors think they can write better than anyone else—and maybe they can, but then why are they working as editors? Those are the Keith Moons of the editing world. They will drown out their writers’ words and then vomit all over the stage.
An editor’s job is to make writers sound better, sound more like themselves. You cannot be proud and be an effective editor. The best writers don’t need much from you, and the worst ones may not appreciate how much you’ve helped them. If you edit well, your work will be invisible to a reader and as unnoticeable as possible to the writer. If you suggest a metaphor or joke or perfect transition that your writer uses, you should be satisfied even though no one will ever know it was yours (even writers forget where things came from, as they should, those clever magpies).
You cannot be jealous. If you are sitting in an office all day and you send someone to India to write a story about tigers and he emails one morning to say that he finally saw a tiger, an email full of exclamation points, you must be genuinely and purely delighted for him, to the point that you have a stupid smile on your face for the rest of the day. Imagine this: You have a great idea for a story and suggest it to a writer who then writes a terrific story, better than what you could have written. If you can imagine this being the most satisfying part of your job, you should be an editor.
Editing is like match-making. Perhaps the most important part of your job is knowing your audience. What writers would your readers fall in love with? Which stories should they sit next to at a dinner party? What fields of science would surprise and amuse them? You have to think about what your readers know they want and satisfy those desires, but you also have to keep introducing them to unexpected treats. And you’re constantly trying to attract new readers.
You have to think long-term. Every story you edit should be a pleasure to read, but the mix of stories you publish in a given day or month or year should build its own form of pleasure. You have to follow a lot of fields at a shallow level and know when they’re ripe for coverage, which may be years from now. You have to say no to a pitch in a way that makes writers want to keep pitching you when they find that perfect story in the future. You speak to journalism classes in the hope that one of the students will come to you someday with a scoop.
Editing isn’t as creative as writing, and it lacks the thrill of pursuit of reporting; it’s more business than art sometimes. You have to think about budgets and how your publication is funded and who the competition is (and how to smash them). You have to be conversant in marketing-ese and sit in on a lot of meetings. You’re basically a project manager, working with the art department, copy desk, publication staff, and technical development department on individual stories and long-term strategies.
There are actually a lot of good reasons not to be an editor, now that I think about it. But the best thing about being an editor is getting to work with writers. When they’re performing, you have the best seat in the house.
*Image by Shutterstock.
Scientific American online news editor Robin Lloyd:
I didn’t choose editing over writing so much as it chose me (same goes for journalism and science writing). As a reporter, a few of my superiors mentioned over the years that they saw me on an editing track, so I just kept saying “yes” when I got offers to do fill-in editing. Then I got an offer to be a writer/editor, and I said yes. Then I got an offer to be an editor, and I said yes. And so on. Over time, I have gained confidence in my ability as a short-form editor, though I still have much to learn, especially with long-form editing. I have an ear for prose that “sounds right.” I find that not everyone has that. One of my editors once told me I have good syntax. So I looked up “syntax” and thought, “Yeah, I do have good syntax.” I also did well in grammar class in 10th grade.
More seriously, my motivation as an editor is clear, compelling communication for the reader. Delivering that is my first job. Readers are looking at every word for an excuse to bail out—to stop reading a story. My job is to prevent that and to keep them reading this story by focusing on clarity, pacing, logic, arc, and sparkling prose (rewards). Also, I enjoy teaching and helping people.
I like reporting and writing on deadline, and I did it quite a bit for more than a decade, but I find editing on deadline a bit more relaxing and rewarding. It’s about the right size for my ego and skill set for now. Based on my experience, of course, I think that one becomes a better editor after a good chunk of foundational years as a writer.
I’ve seen many edits by many people who are paid as editors. A handful of them are great editors. I quietly learn from them.
Independent writer and editor Deborah Franklin:
Not every writer can edit, nor every editor write, but it sure does improve both sets of skills if you find yourself fortunate enough to spend at least a little time wearing each hat. I started out as a writer (for magazines and newspapers) and never sought to be an editor (for magazines and radio)—in fact fought it for many years—but the time I’ve spent editing has definitely improved my writing and my life!
An editor:
* Is good at puzzles, at seeing the flecks of green in several scattered puzzle pieces and understanding that they fit together to form the green hillside at the top of the story/painting, not the puddle of green algae at the bottom. Is thoughtful and analytical; good at spotting holes in arguments and seeing through well-written hand-waving. A voracious reader.
* Is more of a team player than a loner. Sociable. Likes dealing with different types of people (e.g. the infographics expert and the physics writer and the psych reporter).
* Is verbally articulate on the phone as well as in person. Can write a good, conversational email that makes the writer feel understood, appreciated, liked, and motivated to make the story better.
* Is part therapist; knows how to talk friends (or writers) through tough spots, and doesn’t hold their insecurity against them.
* Has good parenting skills. Knows to first point out some specific things you like about the writing and the story before being negative about things that don’t work. Not a pushover; knows the value of discipline, and knows how to deploy it.
* Knows that only one part of the job is working with the writer. Doesn’t mind being interrupted; is organized, can multi-task gracefully, and is able to quickly switch gears during a tough day.
* Finds meetings tolerable, maybe even fun.
* Can manage up as well as down in an organization. Understands how to represent the reader in fiercely defending the story, whether to the writer, the top-editor, the fact-checker, the copy-editor, the art director, the photographer, the illustrator, the social media czar, the publisher, or the advertising director. Is honest and kind and empathetic. Not a stick-your-finger-in-the-air-to-see-which-way-the-wind’s blowing kind of manager who just tells people what they want to hear. Rather, a calmly firm and compassionate listener/leader who has a strong enough ego to make and defend a good argument, but not an ego so big that it sucks all the air out of the room.
* Prefers/needs to work hours that are more easily contained. Editors often work long hours, too, but it is easier to walk away from the job at the end of the day as an editor than as a writer.
* Does not mind that the writer often gets the credit for a collaborative effort. Is able to take a parent’s pride in a successful, beautiful, groundbreaking piece.
Slate science editor Laura Helmuth:
My editing muse is Charlie Watts, the drummer for the Rolling Stones. For 50 years, he’s been the least famous or recognizable member of the band. In videos, you glimpse him only briefly as the camera pans across the stage to focus on Mick Jagger as he struts or Keith Richards as he snarls. Charlie sits behind his drums with a slight smile, nodding his head as he watches the real rock stars entertain the crowd. Charlie doesn’t wear spandex or eyeliner or weave beads into his hair, which is gray. He never had a drug problem or stole his bandmates’ girlfriends. He is easily the most boring musician of his generation—steady, calm, and resolutely not in the spotlight.
Editing requires most of the same skills writing does, but it also demands, if you’re going to be a good editor, a huge dose of humility. You will never and should never get the credit for a great story. Editors who seek recognition for their work are mostly bad editors—the Phil Collinses of the editing world, people who may be fine as solo artists but should really never work collaboratively. Other editors think they can write better than anyone else—and maybe they can, but then why are they working as editors? Those are the Keith Moons of the editing world. They will drown out their writers’ words and then vomit all over the stage.
An editor’s job is to make writers sound better, sound more like themselves. You cannot be proud and be an effective editor. The best writers don’t need much from you, and the worst ones may not appreciate how much you’ve helped them. If you edit well, your work will be invisible to a reader and as unnoticeable as possible to the writer. If you suggest a metaphor or joke or perfect transition that your writer uses, you should be satisfied even though no one will ever know it was yours (even writers forget where things came from, as they should, those clever magpies).
You cannot be jealous. If you are sitting in an office all day and you send someone to India to write a story about tigers and he emails one morning to say that he finally saw a tiger, an email full of exclamation points, you must be genuinely and purely delighted for him, to the point that you have a stupid smile on your face for the rest of the day. Imagine this: You have a great idea for a story and suggest it to a writer who then writes a terrific story, better than what you could have written. If you can imagine this being the most satisfying part of your job, you should be an editor.
Editing is like match-making. Perhaps the most important part of your job is knowing your audience. What writers would your readers fall in love with? Which stories should they sit next to at a dinner party? What fields of science would surprise and amuse them? You have to think about what your readers know they want and satisfy those desires, but you also have to keep introducing them to unexpected treats. And you’re constantly trying to attract new readers.
You have to think long-term. Every story you edit should be a pleasure to read, but the mix of stories you publish in a given day or month or year should build its own form of pleasure. You have to follow a lot of fields at a shallow level and know when they’re ripe for coverage, which may be years from now. You have to say no to a pitch in a way that makes writers want to keep pitching you when they find that perfect story in the future. You speak to journalism classes in the hope that one of the students will come to you someday with a scoop.
Editing isn’t as creative as writing, and it lacks the thrill of pursuit of reporting; it’s more business than art sometimes. You have to think about budgets and how your publication is funded and who the competition is (and how to smash them). You have to be conversant in marketing-ese and sit in on a lot of meetings. You’re basically a project manager, working with the art department, copy desk, publication staff, and technical development department on individual stories and long-term strategies.
There are actually a lot of good reasons not to be an editor, now that I think about it. But the best thing about being an editor is getting to work with writers. When they’re performing, you have the best seat in the house.
*Image by Shutterstock.
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