You know, the problem with editing is that it�s someone else�s work.

As an editor, your goal is to make the story or the abstract of the text more accessible to future readers. You have a double responsibility: to the story or abstract itself, and to the author.

Where do you draw the line? When do you cross a word out, or move it elsewhere, or leave it as an example of the author�s style? When do you take the responsibility of taking that away from the author and doing it differently for the good of the story, or the text?

Presumably the author has given this work to you because s/he trusts you to help make it better. (Or you�re being paid to do it, which means that people trust you enough to remunerate you for your skills!) As an editor, you�ve been given a certain authority. Maybe I�m just authority-shy, but with every change I make I have to stop from second-guessing myself. I know I�m making the sentence easier to read, but am I taking away from the author�s personal style?

Trust me, if I wanted to rewrite a text and remove all trace of an author�s style, I could. So I know that I�m holding back; I know that I�m not obliterating the original author�s presence. A good editor shouldn�t be noticeable when you read the finished text. There should be a single voice apparent.

I suppose it�s just a degree of interpreting personal space. You know � how close you stand to someone at a bus stop, or on the metro. I want to give the author their room. It�s their work, after all. If I change a sentence, or the order of a set of words, or substitute another term for something that is unclear � how close can I get before I�m standing on top of them?

Of course, even just being aware of the potential for overstepping my mandate and questioning every edit that I make means that I�ll probably never have to really be concerned about suffocating the author. Which is sort of consoling, in the general overview of things, but not enough when you�re picking up the correction tape to correct your own edit.

A friend sent me this link to an article by Philip Pullman called Voluntary Service, which examines the age-old argument concerning the effect that art has on society, and what purpose it actually serves. Does it change the world? Is it mere entertainment?

Along the way, though, Pullman numbers a list of responsibilities any writer has, to him/herself, society, his/heraudience, and, ultimately, the story. It’s one of the best articles on writing that I’ve ever had the fortune to read.

A wonderful interview experience indeed at the CBC this morning! It ended up being more about alternative spirituality rather than Imbolc, but it was good nonetheless. Whenever I do an interview I�m always certain that I�m talking in circles, but both the host and the producer thanked me for expressing myself clearly and intelligently, so I must have done something right. I�ll be interested in hearing the final edit when it airs on Radio 1 Sunday morning between 8.30 and 9.00 AM.

That is, assuming the piece isn�t pre-empted by what we saw on the monitors when we walked out of the recording studio at 9.30 this morning. There�s a skeleton crew working the weekends, and with the producer monitoring my interview with the host, no one was quite sure what to do with the news of the shuttle as it came through and it seemed as if the main national news feed from Toronto hadn�t picked it up yet. I got a first-hand look at what happens in a newsroom when there�s a crisis � quick calls, calm re-evaluation of priority reporting. I also experienced the frustration that most reporters must feel: when there�s a catastrophe, people want information and answers, and there aren�t enough answers to go around. And yet, the people still demand, and the media must provide. We saw the footage of the break-up over and over as we put our coats on; this afternoon when we checked the news again I was glad to see the NASA publicity people giving frank and straight answers, being very open with their information.

It was a tragedy. For once, it was a tragedy that was a sorrow for all of mankind in our desire to explore, to broaden our horizons, rather than an event labelled as violence or aggression. I think that�s what hit me the hardest as I watched the footage for the first time at 9.45 this morning in the newsroom: every single person on this planet lost something this morning. All of us can mourn without pointing a finger, without making someone out to be the bad guy. We cannot direct our anguish, and thus, we unite in sorrow.

I dreamed this morning that I pulled out the sleeping bags we took on our camping trip to Pennsylvania last summer, and inside I saw something moving that looked like a little stuffed animal. I unrolled the sleeping bag and found three cats: a full-grown cat, a kitten approximately Nix’s age, and a tiny, tiny kitten about the size of a mouse, with black paws and gingery fur.

“More cats!” I said. “And a tiny foxy cat!”

Evidently my mind was either (a) remembering our return from Pennsylvania to discover Scarlet’s temporary feline boarder giving birth to kittens, or (b) afraid that I haven’t cleaned out my camping gear correctly. Or both.

I haven’t been sleeping well. Maybe that’s all it is.

Ooh! Ooh! Just checked the mail! I have another parcel waiting for me at the post office!

Whee!

I’m just back from a wonderful tea break with my oldest friend. Like me, over the past two years she’s been going through depression, reorganising her priorities, weeding out what’s holding her back and creating room to focus on what she considers important.

It’s so good to have a friend with whom you can share everything… yes, everything. The one in whose company you can bring just about any topic up and know that she’ll take it seriously, no matter what. The one who laughs at the same kooky things you do. The one who knows where you’re coming from because she feels pretty much the same way.

We may drift out of each other’s lives every few years or so, but we always drift back. And that’s nineteen years of drifting away and back, baby. Nineteen.

Eep. On one hand, that’s grounds for a “we’re how old!?” check. On the other hand, it’s certainly a reason to celebrate.

We’re quite alike. So much so, in fact, that we joked about our significant others checking in with each other to compare notes, making sure that we were still on an even keel.

Friends are blessings. Some come, some go, but I’m lucky enough to have several friends who have come back into my life some time after our first interactions, and they’ve become the best support system a girl could ask for.

So, thanks, y’all.

Now I’m torn: I desperate want to open The Rebirth of Witchcraft, but I keep thinking I should review my class for tonight, even though I prepared it first thing this morning.

I think the book wins.

Argh!

Ceri and I have been e-mailing back and forth about various things Celtic and mythological, and it’s been driving me up the wall that I know I have information somewhere concerning these topics, but I can’t remember where.

See, when you start reading and researching things just because you’re interested, you rarely keep notes. It’s just for fun, after all. Then you become more serious, and you make notes here and there on things that interest you. Then the random notes start coalescing into the connections you make between different authors and myths and characters, and before you know it, you possess a body of knowledge that’s impossible to document, because it’s a comglomerate of ideas and readings from all over the place.

We can’t write down every single thing we learn from the outset. That’s absurd.

Nor can we write down where we found an interesting idea, because it won’t necessarily encompass the whole set of associated things that sprang into our minds when we first encountered it.

So what does one do?

Well, evidently one re-reads as much as one can get one’s hands on, and reads with awareness, with a highlighter, sticky notes, and a pencil by one’s side. No, better make that a pencil and a pen, the pencil to make notes in the text (come on, you’ll have to do it sooner or later), and the pen to write notes on the post-its (because pencil smudge son sticky-notes).

One invests in a stack of lined notebooks from an office supply shop and begins to make notes outside the texts, as well. As one runs into ideas found in other texts too, one slaps a sticky-note with the other title (and pertinent page numbers and chapters) at the appropriate spot. It sort of creates an off-line world-wide web. (Except it’s library-wide. Specifically, your library.)

This means photocopies of chapters from books you don’t own (personal use, fair use of property and all that). It means investing in second-hand books. It means asking for books for your birthday, Kwaanza, Midsummer, whatever. It means using other people as resources.

It means documenting your sources, and leaving a trail of breadcrumbs.

Why is this so hard for people to do? WHy don’t people understand the necessity of documentation? Why do people insist on making things up, or reading one text and assuming it’s correct? (I love the Internet, don’t you?) Granted, my way is a lot more work, but it’s a lot more rewarding. It’s a heck of a lot more enriching, too.

It also means you can cover yourself in case of difficulty later on when you feel the need to discuss the topic. Shoddy scholarship makes me spitting mad. I also frustrate myself because when I started all this, it was out of personal interest. Now, it’s become something more. And I’d give anything to go back and keep better records, take clearer notes, in those first couple of years. It physically hurts me to see people refuse to keep track of their research in an effort to avoid more work. It only wastes energy, in the end. Sure, you’ve got the knowledge… but where I come from, unless you can back it up, that knowledge is just pretty wall covering inside your skull.

I know the average person doesn’t operate by academic standards. I just wish more people would understand the importance of keeping track of research.