Annotations

(Don't) Get Me Rewrite! or, The Book Producer's Dominos

Some publishing people dread a book's final pre-press phase—especially those book packagers who produce illustrated publications. While every book follows its own organic process step by step, it's this last phase where the carefully arranged dominos seem just to tremble in anticipation of tumbling into each other. A glance at the book development process helps understand why this phase can become frantic, and when late-stage rewriting enters the picture, all bets are off.

When we embark on a new project, the first step is the careful preparation of a timeline that entails each step of the process. Everything we can predict, we do—holidays, blocks of author downtime, the printer's availability, and lead time for ordering paper are just a few elements we consider. Because nearly every project begins with a fixed endpoint, we work backward to find the start date. With any luck, it is pretty close to when the author plans to complete the first-pass manuscript (MS).

A production schedule diagram resembles a funnel: The wider top develops because more time is needed up front (writing, MS development, editing, and creating the design concept). Once the editorial phase is complete, however, everything starts to speed up, and here's where compression usually occurs (i.e., the funnel tapers sharply). The ultimate deadline hasn't changed, but if the book is now two months behind where it needs to be, something's gotta give.

Typically, a book develops from idea to manuscript to layout before being transmitted to the printer. The writer's gestation and research period can last years. Once she begins writing, a minimum of several months and usually a year or more of intense work lay ahead of her. Next, the newborn first-draft receives editorial attention for anywhere from one or two months to half a year or longer.

Chances are the design concept is in progress during the editorial phase so the edited MS, once reviewed by its author, can quickly move along to typesetting. By this point, what began as a deceptively "leisurely" process has gained its own pace and inexorable momentum.

Production events occur fast and furious: The MS is typeset, then conveyed to the layout artist, who prepares each page, incorporating images in synch with design specs and complying with the panoply of standard publication requirements. The author and others review the layout while the proofreader reads it. Everyone's eagle eyes search for different problems and issues—typos, style points, factual and/or grammatical errors, accuracy of running heads and page numbers, consecutive page numbering, etc.

Then the author returns her marked-up layouts, and lo and behold they've sprouted all kinds of emendations: "move two ¶s from page 49 to page 37"; "insert these 3 new ¶s here"; "wrong picture, new one in mail"; "couldn't find reference, so cut entire passage." And on and on.

An editor sets about compiling all the participants' changes into a single set of proofs, making certain that no change skews the content or goes against style. The layout person uses the editor's compilation to make type changes, and the (now 40-percent new) layout goes off to the indexer, who has a ridiculously short time to whip together what must become the "authority" for locating names and subjects in the final book.

Gasp! Pant, pant.... Whew!

So, it should be quite evident why rewriting at laid-out-page stage is a bad idea. Not only does it mean more work for all involved, this is a crucial domino in the array, and its tipping causes a nasty chain reaction. Moving two paragraphs here or inserting a new picture there result in repagination for the balance of the chapter, if not the rest of the book. Cross references directing the reader elsewhere must be located and their page numbers corrected. A variant spelling requires global searches of each electronic layout file. A "simple" style-point revision can lead to changes in numerous passages throughout the book, not all of which are evident or easily located. It is particularly important to remember that each substantive change—the dreaded "aa," or author's alteration—racks up an additional charge for the client (as opposed to the author). This is never a "good thing."

Don't get me wrong! This by no means is a recommendation to do away with layout review, which is crucial for catching typos and errors and generally cleaning up unforeseen troubles. Scrutinizing the layout allows reconsideration of facts and figures; problems missed earlier during the MS work can be remedied. And I am the first to acknowledge that seeing laid-out type for the first time can completely change a person's perception of the text. But every contributor should understand that the time and place for reconsidering the book's broader strokes fell away a while ago, during the writing, editing, and reviewing phases.

 (Photo of dominos © 2010 Sean Gwizdak. All rights reserved.)

 

Book development: Challenging content for a general audience

Part of the bedrock of the publishing industry's business model has always included the realization that, to stay afloat, sufficiently healthy sales are required to underwrite the cost of operation and reap profit. Meeting requisite sales levels entails publishing titles that enough people find sufficiently appealing (or necessary) to move them to fork over the cover price.

So how do publishers—and the book producers who work with them—arrive at the attitudes and approaches that define and satisfy audiences? How does one go about determining who will want to read a given title? And what will they expect to accomplish by reading the book? Enter the "general audience"—the nonfiction gold standard for a majority of trade publishers (as well as numerous university and academic presses).

This entity admits of no one definition, of course. Different houses understand general audience to mean different things, but a broad-based consideration leads to something along the lines of "readers who share a sufficiently serious interest in a topic to want to read about it, but may not be equipped and/or willing to take on the technical or difficult prose used to address it."

What do the author's, or manuscript editor's, or publisher's toolboxes need to hold in order to prepare intelligent, challenging works of nonfiction that will satisfy both Everyreader and the Scholar? (Surprisingly, this is a fairly recent distinction that seems to have sprung, in large part, from the technologically driven entertainment culture in which most of us now live. But that's a springboard to a totally different blog.) Numerous notches in my editorial belt have been carved by books intended to span the specialist-generalist divide, and they have given rise to a few ideas.

First, a healthy sense of humility. This applies to both sides of the table—author and reader alike. The scholar is called upon to recognize that few share her/his depth of knowledge and understanding of the material. If reaching out to readers other than initiates in the field is at all desirable to the author, s/he should step back far enough to gain perspective about what needs to be discussed, and how it needs to be presented. Including a bibliography, glossary, and similar reader's aids can go a long way toward helping the less-than-expert grasp the material. That said, the interested reader, whether generalist or specialist, must be willing to take on some of the burden of getting up to speed by becoming versed in those resources that will help answer questions that may arise or flesh out information that is only glancingly mentioned. It should be no surprise that jargon fits neither bill.

Next there is clarity. The writing and, in particular, substantive editing must be called into service to establish and work from an ideal overall vantage point for the subject matter. With that point of departure adopted, the content is more likely to fall into place. If it does not, however, the editor should be prepared to work carefully with the author and provide the needed perspective in order to hone the text appropriately. This is no place for inflated egos (on either contributor's part), nor does it call for infantilization of the audience. The editor should be well versed in the generalist's requirements and able to make unobtrusive suggestions that will assist generalist readers with filling in their own particular blanks.

Finally, acuity and realism. Here is where the book producer and publisher need to contribute accurate comprehension of the book's audience, understanding who these readers are and how best to let them know that the book is intended for them, too. Again, talking down is a sure way to alienate everyone, regardless of background. But overreaching can be just as disastrous. And remember, the sales and marketing functions are apt to take their cue from publisher and editor—rather than the author—so presenting the book in an accurate, realistic light will go a long way toward appropriate and well-targeted representation to the media, academia, and booksellers.

Anniversary books: "creative" and "content" are not oxymoronic.

The last thing any organization's harried communications director needs is to go through the complicated process of hiring a design firm/marketing firm/advertising agency to produce their history only to be met with: "We are ready to start, when will you send us the text, art, research, interviews, manuscript, and everything else?"

An annual report, for example, can easily reach book-length proportions. However, it's reasonable to expect that an annual report will begin with an overview of the previous year and end with lists of officers and board members. Moreover, altering the report's form would do little to enhance the content within and is even likely to make it more difficult to use.

A history that includes pictures, while nonfiction, is still a story, and integrating the ways both pictures and text drive that story is integral to creating an engaging illustrated book. 

The design of an illustrated history benefits from a close relationship between author, editor, and designer. Even a history as rudimentary as a chronological time-line will do more to engage the reader if each benchmark is carefully considered, reflecting the preceding entry and informing the subsequent.

As an illustrated-book producer, I have had the good fortune to be involved in the "building" of an illustrated book. The editor and I met with the book's two authors and its photographer (who documented the entire project) for a series of weekly brainstorming meetings on how to portray the way architect Frank Gehry's astonishing Stata Center came to be, from concept through design, execution, construction, and implementation.

Each week we would meet and discuss the many issues that needed to be addressed. The following week we returned with our various contributions, such as rough manuscript or rough layouts (sometimes both). These inspired further discussion of how to expand and develop the story.

I've experienced very few projects that have developed as organically as this one. It confirmed my concern that when a designer is handed all the components of a history and told to put them together, he or she could easily miss any number of opportunities to bring the story to life. For example, I have seen countless designers roll their eyes at the art they receive for a project, never considering what they could do to improve both the art and the project overall.

 

My partner, the editorial "wing" of our company, and I provide our clients with a simple, unique service that seems to be little known outside of the publishing world. When we receive a manuscript, we can furnish the client with an "art manuscript": we simply annotate the text with suggestions for photographs, art, or artifacts that enhance the story's progression. We offer this service whether we are developing a new manuscript with the author, editing a client's completed manuscript, or have received both edited manuscript and art program from a client. Our suggestions are always well received, but never more so than when a client's "photo research staff" is actually an overworked manager who had too much to do before the project landed on her desk. Such circumstances rarely foster inspiration. In fact, our art manuscripts have often inspired researchers to track down illustrations above and beyond our suggestions.

I have never considered the elements of graphic design as a collection of discrete components that need to be balanced and arranged. When words and pictures work side by side, they elevate even the most unlikely subject and bring its story to life. A client need never apologize for bringing what others might consider a "prosaic" topic to the table. Our goal is to reinvigorate the client—and the ultimate reader— to consider a familiar story with their own fresh, excited eyes.

Editorial Services: The Index Hidden Among the Pixels?

As I delve more deeply into editorial- and book-related listservs, blogs, and social media sites, I find very little discussion of back-of-the-book indexes. Some inveterate indexers keep in touch with each other, and a few endeavor to keep in touch with other editorial service providers, but almost no one attempts to reach out to what I’ll call “mainstream” readers, writers, and word-folks. The result, of course, is an increasingly common devaluation of this important aspect of written communication. Why?

Having devoted several of my earlier editorial years to compiling indexes, I have my own suspicions. I know a bit about indexes and what kind of people engage in that manner of making a living. So, it’ probably true that certain personality traits common to many index compilers count for something.
Just who does take up the banner of “indexer” and persevere in providing for him/herself and family by compiling these vital tools? I can only base this estimation on myself and the dozen or so other indexers I have known well, and none of us tend toward extroversion. Many have backgrounds in library cataloguing, and both professions have similar attributes: they demand quiet, are concentration-intensive, and seldom are effectively done unless in solitude. One must keep hundreds or thousands of names, terms, and ideas in play for the duration of an index’s preparation. Otherwise, the final product winds up including too many separate terms for the same things.

Such constraints don’t necessarily translate well into social contact. I remember more than one bout of intensive indexing after which quite a bit of time elapsed before I was able to speak intelliglbly. After one such indexing foray, I unconsciously continued to transpose names in conversation:

“Hey, Brian, what was the name of that women you introduced me to last week? You know, with the shoes?”

“Oh,” I answered. “That was 'Marcos comma Imelda'.”

Then, too, a sizable portion of educated, intelligent readers, who habitually rely on indexes for study and research, haven’t a clue about how an index comes into being. They assume that text is simply “plugged in” to some software application, which then magically separates out the concepts, names, and ideas that need to be indexed and appends appropriate page numbers. In my experience, however, a good, reliable—dare I say responsible?—index has yet to be made by a machine. While software certainly is a boon to information management as well as to automating many rote tasks an indexer until fairly recently did by hand (think alphabetizing, sequencing page numbers, manuscript preparation, etc.), a computer does not interpret text in ways that will make the contents of a document readily available to a human reader. Not that long ago, in fact, I too often indulged in self-amusement by reviewing the “terms” that arose from electronically “indexing” brief passages with Microsoft Word. Anything for a laugh!

But finally, I think the principal reason so little attention is paid to indexes and their composition currently stems from the present nature and perception of information (or, call it text, if you prefer). Why use a compiled index when you can perform a quick electronic search for the name or term you need? I frequently make use of Safari Books Online, a virtual library of (mostly) technical books—software manuals, technical specifications, business guides, and the like. When trying to size up the usefulness of any given publication before deciding to add it to my “bookshelf,” I head to the index to look up specific concepts or terms. Lately, however, almost none of the books I have reviewed have had indexes. Well no wonder, you must think; it’s simpler to perform a search. Not really. If my search is very tightly targeted (e.g., “Marcos, Imelda”), perhaps this is true. But what about something more generic, which could appear in a number of contexts and mean many things (let’s say, “shoes”)? Suddenly, I am wading through dozens upon dozens of hits, of which one or two may be on target. Very frustrating, and a real waste of time.

As the person who commissions editorial service providers to contribute to the production of books, I am very particular about the index. Potential indexers must have the right sort of experience and temperament to work for me. There is no point in launching almost any nonfiction book upon its sea of readers—who will need to be able to use it in myriad ways—without backing them up with a useful index. This is a crucial element, even for books destined for electronic versions. Of course, now it is among the first expenses publishers seem to feel free to cut, often shunting the work off to underpaid (and ill-equipped) editorial assistants. And a poor index is almost as detrimental to a book as none at all, but that’s a subject for another blog.

Substantive Editing of a Multiauthor Book

I recently completed work on a 14-chapter nonfiction book to which some 23 authors contributed (some essays were coauthored). While this was by no means my first—or most complicated—bout with a multiauthor MS, it impressed me as something of a paradigm for this type of editorial service. Why, I kept wondering, does a book written by several different writers require so much more time and care than a single-author work?

The obvious answer is consistency, of course. That one word alone explains perhaps as much as two thirds of the difficulty. On the macro scale, the editor must absorb and comprehend everything each author posits well enough to recognize when one contributor contradicts another. Say, for instance, a table included in chapter 2 points to the conclusion that, in measuring the worth of forest preservation, a particular dollar value may be assigned to restriction of carbon emissions. Then, in chapter 10, a different writer explains how one capably quantify the benefits of carbon credits monetarily. In other words, he comes to a conclusion at odds with his colleague's. First you must make certain not to fall prey to an apples/oranges argument; then, you are called on to find a way to describe the problem to both writers so they can arrive at a mutually acceptable resolution. This is not to suggest that a single-author book is exempt from having its very own conundrums, just that editorial recognition of them is usually much simpler.

On a micro level, not only is it crucial that every author spell toward without the s (or with it, if you prefer), each one must also refer accurately and identically to people, places, and things. For example, one essay in the recently completed book referred to British Columbia's "Great Bear Rainforest." A couple of chapters later, however, another author discussed the "Great Bear's Rain Forest"; and yet a third included a couple mentions of the "Great Bear rain forest." A Google search immediately yielded the Province of British Columbia's website, which cites this area as the Great Bear Rainforest. Over the course of the entire book, however, I had to adjust this name about seven times. Now factor in the twist that half of the essays in this book concern South American subjects with English-preferred acronyms for Spanish corporate names, and you begin to see how time consuming such verification becomes. You also will understand how I ended up with an 18-page style sheet, 90 percent of which is comprised of words and terms that required verification. When you factor in this sort of research, it will be apparent how important fact-checking—on the Internet, in the library—is when providing substantive editorial services.

Then there's the remaining one-third, which primarily consists of coping with what can be seen as almost the opposite of consistency—the delicate balancing of a number of authorial tones. In this regard, editing a single-author book is usually fairly straightforward: I become aware of, then comfortable with, the writer's voice and approach, then assure that they remain intact throughout the work, regardless of the changes I may suggest. With multiple authors, however, each has her or his distinctive voice, and I must always weigh to what extent one essay may (or should) reflect and/or differ from the others. The reader must not be put off by abrupt changes in voice from chapter to chapter, but each writer must be permitted to maintain a distinctive character. (By the way, this definitely is not the case for a fiction collection, where tonal differences are likely to be part of the point of the publication.) Now I am about to delve into another nonfiction book. This one has been written by two—and, in a couple of chapters, three—authors, all working together: writing by committee.

I wish I could recall my first multiauthor book from so many years ago. What must I have done?