200 CCs - February 2016

the draw
Editing: Creation Through Curation
I’m new at this editorial gig. Maybe it’s gauche to
admit such a thing, but I don’t have a lot of
interest in feigning professional competence for
the sake of appearances. I’ve tried to make this an
educated undertaking, but at some point overpreparation
kicks in. I’m more of a dive-into-thecold-pool-headfirst
kind of person anyway.
What has surprised me the most in the past couple
of months is how the creative process is very
much alive in this endeavor. Which, in retrospect,
should not be such a surprising thing. But,
hindsight aside, my preconception of the work of
editors was largely one of accounting. Tabulation.
Sorting, clinical correction, collating, the sorts of
things a fussy person with an eye for aesthetic
might enjoy but which the freewheeling creative
person—focused solely on fabrication of the new
from the nothing—might find dull.
And yes, sure, those elements are present in
the endeavor. But then they all center around
the freeing, inspiring joy of bringing stories to
people. So they feel less clinical and stodgy
than they might if we were dealing with, say,
corporate financial records. Or something.
But more to the point, there is a creative
element inherent in the work. Because it’s not
just selecting submissions and dumping them
on readers. It’s looking, in some cases, for the
pure potential inside a piece of writing.
Not all markets tell writers whose submitted
stories are close but not quite to consider
fixing some issues and tyring again. I get that
maybe such a thing is viable only for the very
small market. But as of now it’s an integral
part of what I want to do with 200 CCs.
Because writing is a very mechanical part of
storytelling. Or, perhaps, writing is one
mechanical option available to the story
conjurer.
When I think of it this way—that I’m
looking for the conjured stories—it’s easier to
see the language as malleable, to avoid asking, “Is
this a beautfiul piece of writing?” And rather ask,
3
“Is this a beautiful story?”
Writing can be shaped, but the story must be
excavated from pressed experiences and ideas.
Even microfiction comes not from putting one
word after the other (despite what Neil Gaiman
may say, though I believe he’s referring to the
specific act of writing, not the broader act of
creation) but from linking ideas and conveying
them through the writing process.
This is the essence of collaborative creativity,
then, because as an editor I need to see the story
behind the words, the telepathic projection of
those concepts from the original conjuration. But
then to find the best, most honest way to convey
that requires a careful, imaginative experiment
in meta-narrative. Discussing the means to
reveal the author’s story—particularly when that
author and that editor are relative strangers—
is peculiar and exciting like little else. The
closest I’ve ever experienced prior is roleplaying
games where the story unfolds via a
careful give-and-take between game leader
and game player.
As with the gaming version, the strange
alchemy when it’s really working is potent
and highly addictive.
What results, if all goes according to plan,
is a version of the story—that great and
almighty abstract we as writers and editors
pursue with a sinful lust—which appeals to
the greatest audience. Or at least the
greatest audience most desired by the venue
in question. The representative sample of
that audience, at first, is the editor and
writer themselves.
The goal is to find something that makes
those two partners happy.
And when we’re happy, dear reader, our
only possible hope is you will be as
well.
—Paul A. Hamilton