Editing is really hard. Teaching editing is even harder.
I’ve had this conversation many times with students and parents. I don’t even know how I edit. I simply do it. And therein, perhaps, lies the problem. How do you teach something you simply do?
There are three cardinal rules I follow when editing. The first is that the little picture has to match the big picture. In other words, what the writer is trying to say in each sentence has to be consistent with the overall message. When presented with a new project — whether it be paper, play, or essay — I always look for what the writer wants to tell their audience. Then we work on each paragraph and sentence together to make sure they match that message.
Second: “Omit unnecessary words.” Strunk & White said it decades ago and it still holds true today. It is also one of the hardest aspects of editing to teach because writers can become very sensitive about having their words cut after having worked so hard on them in the first place. I always ask the writer whether there is a better way to say it, or if they see how they are repeating themselves simply using different words. By placing the responsibility for editing the work in the writer’s hands, it feels less offensive than the old red-pen-through-the-writing of yesteryear.
Write for the reader (part of “Omit unnecessary words”). One issue I’ve dealt with, which can be particularly challenging, is when writers are not writing for an audience but rather for themselves. A scene, for example, is described in massive detail that is not only unnecessary, but will turn the reader off, or worse, lose them by this point. One helpful tip here is to have the writer read the scene aloud and remind them that they are telling a story. Effective storytellers always use the least amount of words possible so that they keep their audience engaged.
Third, order equals method. One of the common mistakes new writers make is placing their paragraphs in the wrong order — “burying your lede” in the world of journalism. I’ve read many manuscripts where the story started in the wrong place and the paragraphs had to be — like a jigsaw puzzle — reconfigured in order for the reader to have a clear sense of how the story is going to unfold.
One of my favorite books on the subject is William Zinsser’s On Writing. “Clutter,” Zinnser says, “is the disease of American writing. We are a society strangling in unnecessary words, circular constructions, pompous frills and meaningless jargon.”
And one of my favorite moments in the book is when he refers to a World War II government black-out order:
"Such preparations shall be made as will completely obscure all Federal buildings and non-Federal buildings occupied by the Federal government during an air raid for any period of time from visibility by reason of internal or external illumination."
“I would have preferred,” Zinsser states, “the presidential approach taken by Franklin D. Roosevelt when he tried to convert into English his own government's memo[s]:”
"Tell them," Roosevelt said, "that in buildings where they have to keep the work going to put something across the windows."
As it turns out, the government must have read Zinsser’s book. How else would plainlanguage.gov have come about?
He’d probably approve of their reading list, as well.