I Don’t Like Being An Editor
I always feel like I’m chasing my tail.
My name is Piper La Grange, I’m a female Border Terrier, and I edit the articles my mom writes. I’m here to discuss a problem furry editors have when we critique our parents’ writings: they often reject our editorial suggestions. It doesn’t make sense. We consider our advice carefully. It comes from a place of love. And we’ve sniffed a lot of dogs’ asses. So we know whereof we speak when we say their writing stinks.
Take my mom. She asked me edit her articles before she submits them to Medium. Why she did it is obvious. She assumed I’d go easy on her. That I’d overlook mistakes in exchange for stinky treats. And no matter what she puts on paper, I’d say “Who’s a good writer! Who’s a good writer!”
It hasn’t worked out that way. That’s because I can’t review drafts on her laptop; my paws aren’t built for scrolling. Mom has to print hardcopies, then lay them on the floor where I can edit them. I can’t use a red pencil to mark them up. I have poor eye-mouth coordination; the marks go everywhere except where I want them. As a result, I use other means to make editorial suggestions.
To flag typos, I butt scoot across a page to highlight them with skid marks. As an editor, most of my time is spent scooting. That’s because Mom barely proofreads her work. She assumes her editor will catch her boo-boos. She’s lucky I do. Otherwise, she’d submit articles which stress “the importance of pubic education.” Urge “people to ejaculate when hurricanes approach.” Encourage schools to focus on “science and meth.” Advise college students to “get first handjob experience.” Help “addicts stay off rugs.” Describe how “employers can’t get people to do late shits.” Be wary of “trusting people with smiling feces.” Fortunately for Mom, I’m a careful proofreader. I mark every typo with my brown heinie highlighter.
Mom packs pages with run-on sentences. They’re interminably long; Mom’s writing makes IRS tax regulations look short and pithy. I have an ingenious way to point this out. When she farts a dictionary onto a page, I walk up to her, about-face, then blast sphincter steam right in her kisser.
If a plot confuses me (Mom populated a romantic comedy with lovers, orcs, dorks, and dragons), I cock my head. If it’s going nowhere (her piece took place on a merry-go-round), I chase my tail. If she tries to use a “get out of bad-story-line jail” card (the heroine wakes up and it was all just a dream), I howl. If the story stinks (cowboys and Indians settle their differences with the help of benevolent aliens), I roll on a dead fish by the creek, then smear my Rotten Carp Seal of Disapproval across the page.
One of my pet peeves is clichés.¹ Mom’s articles are infested with them. Expressions like “at the end of the day”, “it goes without saying,” and “think outside the box.” Those just tell readers that, at the end of the day, it goes without saying, Mom didn’t think outside the box. When a draft is cluttered with clichés, I squat over the paper and pee on it. Then I shove Mom’s nose down into it.
Story tropes² ruffle my ass feathers. Mom stuffed one story with the following. A big-city career gal returns home to her small town. Has an awkward encounter with a hunky ex-flame. They collaborate in a bake-off to save the failing family business. Which rekindles their romance. And convinces her to forsake the city to pursue her dream job with him in the small town. Crimeny, Mom’s draft contained more tropes than a Hallmark chick flick! My editorial response to such cookie-cutter stories? I step outside, chow down on grass and grasshoppers, come back, and barf on the page.
Character tropes² are the worst. Mom has written about geek girls, goth girls, mean girls, valley girls, bionic girls, biker girls, Gilmore Girls,³ and Girls Gone Wild.⁴ When a draft overflows with tropes like those, I swat Mom’s nose with a rolled-up newspaper.
Yet Mom keeps on troping. She’ll stock stories with wise crones, magical negroes,⁵ evil twins, Gay besties, psycho-biddies, soubrettes, frenemies, yokels, yuppies, and jerks and tarts with hearts of gold. In response, I load the kind of ammo used to shoot down her previous tropes. Only this time, I arch my butt over the paper, and blow it out my ass.
How does Mom react to my editorial suggestions? She whimpers. She whines. She scurries into the living room and hides under the sofa. Or jumps onto the bed and burrows under the covers. Or lays on the kitchen floor, rolls over, and shows her belly.
Mom’ll use my content, line, and copy edits to clean up her drafts.⁶ But she’ll ignore or reject my developmental and structural recommendations.
What’s an editor to do? I’ve learned from experience that I have two choices.
I can convince Mom to heed my suggestions by using gentle persuasion.
Or say “fuhgeddaboudit,” and take a nap.
[1]: “Cliché vs. Trope in Writing: How They Differ”, Scribophile, https://www.scribophile.com/academy/cliche-vs-trope
[2]: “The Ultimate Guide To Novel Tropes”, BubbleCow, https://bubblecow.com/blog/novel-tropes
[3]: “Gilmore Girls”, Wikipedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gilmore_Girls
[4]: “‘Lives were being ruined’: the dark history of Girls Gone Wild”, The Guardian, https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2022/apr/22/joe-francis-girls-gone-wild-documentary
[5]: “The Magical Negro Trope in Literature and Film”, Confluence, https://confluence.gallatin.nyu.edu/context/interdisciplinary-seminar/the-magical-negro-trope-in-literature-and-film
[6]: “What Are the Different Types of Editing?”, Scribe Media, https://scribemedia.com/editing-types/
