Life, no edits

My work as an editor involves a good deal of cut-and-pasting, lots of no-saying, and much weighing of what will stay and what will go. I do hell of a lot of tinkering.

Are editors control freaks? Yes. (And no; there is much work as well in letting go--"good-is-good-enough.") Editors have been called mothers, mentors, critics, talent-farmers, faith-confessors.

Some of us carry these roles into our personal lives. There's the stereotype of the editor as English teacher, correcting her family's grammar at the dinner table. There's the image of editor on vacation, reading one of the new summer beach books, meaning to relax, but making notes in red in the margins: "No one really talks like this," or "She would never have gone back to that motel."

There is real stress in making sure everything comes out right. Today I am checking the lyrics of Atmosphere and finding the death date of Walter Deubner and seeking the best way to illustrate the confluence of the Mississippi and Minnesota rivers. I'm rarely confident of my work in ensuring perfection--I am juggling all these elements at once, there is always one too many, and besides, I don't have great hand-eye coordination to begin with.

In A. Scott Berg's "Max Perkins: Editor of Genius" the work of a formidable editor in 1919 at Charles Scribner's Sons is described:

"William Crary Brownell, the editor-in-chief, white-bearded and walrus-mustached, had a brass spittoon and a leather couch in his office. Every afternoon he would read a newly submitted manuscript and then "sleep on it" for an hour. Afterward he would take a walk around the block, puffing a cigar, and by the time he had returned to his desk and spat, he was ready to announce his opinion of the book."

I'm working at home today and there is much to be said about this kitchen-table work. I don't have a spittoon or a leather couch but I can bring the sprinkler round to water the new basil and dill plants while I think about the next chapter. And I can slice up the German rye, spread it with butter, and eat it in the backyard while weighing a recent book proposal. The self-importance of the editorial eye seems to give way to a more lovingkindness here at home.

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My husband and I have been in a slump, not as bad as in "American Beauty," say, but enough so that Wednesday we both came home from work and he fell asleep in the chair and I fell asleep flat on my face on our bed, still wearing my work clothes. We missed dinner--and the end-of-the-year school picnic. Why the slouching? Bills, deadlines, aging parents, agitated teen kids, old, faltering house, tired bodies, trying to make sure everything comes out right.

But we said no to a few demands last night and grilled brats over charcoal and shared a Guinness. We sat and talked and lit a candle and thought of new ways to pull ourselves back up.

And now today we have the lives of those we love surrounding us--the new and the old, fresh starts and sad endings--and we are blessed to be part of this circle of life:

*our newly emancipated 13-year-old, who after his last day of seventh grade had me drive around his school with the stereo blasting and all of his buddies crammed into the Vibe, car-dancing and singing to the beat;

*0ur neighbor friend who helped our son through elementary school--she'd wait for him each day so they could walk the two blocks to the bus together and often she'd hide behind the bushes to surprise him--has her high school graduation open house tonight;

*the father of my good friend Mary Kay passed away this week and I'll attend the visitation in Roseville this afernoon--I had the chance to meet this wonderful man a few years ago and you can learn a bit about him, too, in Don Boxmeyer's column today (http://www.twincities.com/searchresults/ci_6087502);

*my daughter is planning a celebratory dinner tonight for her beau as they mark another year of friendship together;

*we'll gather over at Dunning Fields tonight with friends and family--just because it's Friday and we like each other--and make a picnic. Someone's bringing buns, someone's bringing beef, another is bringing cold pasta salad.

Life. There's no amount of editing that can bring the sources of life together any stronger, any truer, than they come together on their own.