History is a Bitch - a weblog by Jeanne Kalogridis

Mr. K is sublimely wise in the fields of organic agriculture, politics and economics. His idea of a great read? A Kalahari-dry tome on Cold War theory. He does not read novels.

So of course, many years ago, when I handed him a first draft of a scene from a novel I was writing, he read five pages, then hurled them across the room, proclaiming, "What a pile of sh**."

(Yes, dear Reader, he really said it. And yes, I am still married to him. And yes, I am still making him pay. I do not take insults well. I made him crawl across the floor on his belly like a reptile.)

Fortunately, I'd been in the business almost fifteen years at that point, and so managed to keep from collapsing into a quivering pile of angst. I kept my writerly wits and demanded, "Yes, but precisely how is it a piece of sh**?"

After much prosecutorial questioning, I gleaned the information that 1) he did not care for the style of novel I write; and 2) he felt the scene was meandering.

Had I *not* had dozens of published novels under my belt, I probably never would have written another word. I wouldn't have had the nerve to demand precise feedback, and I wouldn't have known what sort of questions to ask.

Since then, I have trained Mr. K to read my work for logic and redundant phrasing, period. And I only ever use his editorial judgment as a last resort -- as in "Quick! Do you believe that an eight-year-old child could cut a grown man's throat? I have to turn this book in tomorrow!" And, over the past twenty-five years of novel-writing, I've finally learned to become fairly good at editing myself. (It takes about that much time, I fear, to finally get some perspective and distance from one's own writing.) There are many books I've written that Mr. K has never read, and never will. For example, he has not yet read a single page of THE BLOODIEST QUEEN, which is nearing completion.

I always suspected there were limits to Mr. K's editing skills. Two decades ago, I wrote a (now out of print) novel, SPECTERS, about a serial killer who was also a pedophile. Mr. K hadn't read the manuscript, but I had told him the plot and was bewailing the fact that I was midway through the book and hadn't been able to decide on a fitting come-uppance for my evil character.

"Well, it's simple," Mr. K said. "Just have him step out into the street and be run over by a yellow schoolbus. Karmic justice."

The instant he said it, his expression grew sheepish, and he admitted it was perhaps not the best suggestion; but I, forever smarting from his comment that my brilliant work was sh**, never let him live it down. In fact, the book was dedicated to George, with love and a promise never to mention that yellow schoolbus again.

And so, my children, if you have a manuscript that you want editorial feedback on, and you think it might be worthy of publication, here's my best advice to you: Do what I did. Don't seek anyone's advice, just write the damned book. Then take the enormous risk of putting it in an envelope, and sending it to an editor in New York City.

You just might be delightfully surprised, as I was. At the very least, you'll be spared bad advice.