In his New York Times review of Mockingbird: A Portrait of Harper Lee1 (2006), Garrison Keillor characterizes the book's author,
Charles J. Shields2, as "a former English teacher who taught Harper Lee's book, and a scrupulous journalist who respects the
lady's privacy even as he opens up her life." What Keillor doesn't mention is that Charles Shields studied his craft by the side of
another scrupulous journalist, his own father.
As Shields discloses in the following article, his father shared with him a gift that went unappreciated at the time--the gift of editing.
"He wanted me to learn to accept being edited," Shields writes, "because everyone who succeeds as a writer gets edited."
As you read, think of the editors in your own life--friends, family members, teachers--and consider what lessons we all might learn
from a "newspaperman" and from his son.
The Editor of the Breakfast Table by Charles J. Shields
I groaned. I sighed. Beneath the table, I pounded my fist on my knee.
The old man was at it again: editing one of my papers for class.
“Now, I know this is tough,” he would say, “but this will make you a better writer.” Then, cruel as a Cossack, he would
slash through a sentence--often one of my cleverest, I thought--with his red pencil.
More of my precious words fell dead.
My father was a journalist, or a “newspaperman,” as he preferred to call himself. He began his career on a two-man weekly in a shipbuilding town on
the Delaware River. The printer was a drunk who slept on a mattress in the back. Then Dad moved up to reporter for the Philadelphia Bulletin
chasing fire trucks and ambulances for stories. He liked to tell a story about the editor who made him call back over and over with more and more
details from the scene of a fire, until he finally got the point: get all the information you can the first time.
For several years, he worked in public relations for Ford Motor Company in Detroit. Those were the go-go years of tailfins, sharkskin suits, and big
bonuses. But eventually, he returned to his first love, newspaper work. During the years that my high school essays and reports came under his
scrutiny, he worked for a large suburban newspaper outside Chicago.
“Look, Dad,” I would plead, “I really gotta go. I don’t have time to retype this!”
Perhaps from his delight at working under deadline pressure, he would always present my copyedited paper to me at breakfast, about an hour
before I had to be at school. There it lay, beside my plate, marked-up with squiggles, circles, and STETs--the arcana of the trade known mainly to
professional editors. At a glance it looked like my poor essay had fallen overnight into the hands of prehistoric cave painters.
“All right, let’s start at the top,” Dad would say, in a friendly tone. “The title is interesting, but it doesn’t really have much to do with what follows, does
it?”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No. Don’t make the reader work too hard. Draw the person in. Don’t confuse him right away.”
“I suppose not....”
And so it would go.
He would point out places where I had committed serious stylistic errors: writing sentences that began with long dependent clauses (“Don’t keep the
reader waiting for the meaning.”); using a strident, hectoring tone (“Alienate the reader by preaching and you’ll never get him back.”); babbling on
about something irrelevant (“The worse thing you can have a reader say is, ‘So what?’”).
The rest--punctuation, paragraph structure, verb tense--he expected me to know. Or if I didn’t to look it up. He always did, despite years writing
thousands of words a day. His shelf of reference works was like a row of tools above a workman’s bench. Books on grammar, books on style, books
on editing, books on narrative--each one addressing some aspect of the craft of writing.
“I realized when I was in my 20s,” he told me, “that writing must be more than hit or miss. That there must be methods you could use to be a better
writer. And that’s when I began reading about writing.”
Reading about writing! At 15, I had to admit that this was a revelation to me, too. Like most people, I had assumed that finishing a good piece of
writing was largely a matter of luck. Either it turned out right like a soufflé, or it didn’t. But read examples of good sentences? Study models of good
writing? As a student I had been forced to do this, but to find out these things had practical uses beyond tormenting children surprised me.
This aside, though, it was only a long time later that I realized the favor he had done me by editing my papers. I mistook his throat clearing at the
beginning of those sessions as a not-too-subtle sign of superiority. But now looking back, I know that he was nervous. He wanted me to learn to
accept being edited.
If I couldn’t accept that--and gracefully, too--then I wasn’t going to make it as a writer; because everyone who succeeds as a writer gets edited.
You can’t be thin-skinned when a wiser, more experienced writer or editor shows you how to make a sentence stronger, or how to cut the fat from a
page. In fact, if you’re really made of sterner stuff, you ought to be able to say “thank you.” Writing is still a profession that is best taught person-toperson; the craft is passed between people. Someone taking the time to give you the benefit of their expertise isn’t (as I thought my father was
doing) finding fault with you, or proving that you’re not a good writer. It’s a rite of passage into the profession. Be glad--you’re on your way.
I know a writer who refuses to let a word of his prose be altered. You’ve never heard of him. It’s a shame. His small press books would sell much
better if he would.
I also know a best-selling author of Civil War historical novels who recently released his third book. I came up to him at a literary festival and blurted
out, “You’re brilliant!” He blushed. “Shucks,” he said, “my editor made me cut out 200 pages.”
But when I was a youngster, this level of understanding about editing as a gift was still far above me while my father patiently, carefully went over my
writing with me. Finally, with a groan, I would snatch my “ruined” work from him, retype it in my bedroom and run the mile to school at full speed,
arriving a minute or two before the final bell.
Man, I thought the old man was being obnoxious; I thought he was lording his skills over me; I was convinced he thought I was stupid. Why else
would he cut my papers to ribbons?
Well, in all my self-absorption and wounded pride, I forgot to say something. And now it’s too late:
Thanks, Dad. Thanks for taking the time to edit my writing.
© Charles J. Shields (May 2007) Charles J. Shields is the author of Mockingbird: A Portrait of Harper Lee (Henry Holt & Co.), a New York Times bestseller.