Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

This week’s post brought surprise, rage, and embarrassment, all in a single envelope. Also enclosed: a copy of The Timberline Review #7, wherein my story, “The Book of Solomon,” is published.

So, exactly why did receiving a hardcopy of my published work engender such fire and furor?

Read on.

I’d forgotten that the TTR#7 was due out this month. It’s not that I have so many story sales that I can’t keep track of the proposed publication dates; it’s that the last few weeks have been an upheaval of day-to-day routines, and this one, lonely pub-date simply slipped my mind. Regardless the reason, I forgot it was due, so opening the envelope to see a nicely bound, well laid-out, professionally produced, hardcopy magazine with my name on the back as one of the contributors . . . well, it was a bit of a surprise.

“Oh! Right! My story!”
[thumbthumbthumb]
“I’m on page 65.”
[thumbthumbthumb]
“Hunh. Only ten pages? I thought it was longer.”

And with that, that right there, I dove down the rabbit hole, drank the potion, and ate the cake, all in one swift movement.

“Something ain’t right.”

And he sticks the landing!

I’ve had a few less-than-happy experiences with editorial overreach—ridiculous deadlines, undiscussed title changes, missing paragraphs, publication without permission, overenthusiastic “rework” of my prose—from publishers big and little, traditional and digital, professional and fan-run, so I may, perhaps, be forgiven a teensy bit of paranoia on the topic. I’ve learned that there are a bazillion moving parts in the journey from manuscript to published page, with nearly as many egos brought into the mix along the way, and at any point in the process, it can break down. Whether through innocent mistake, depraved indifference, or an overweening sense of superiority, changes to the original creep in and, if for no other reason than to warn others about unscrupulous or careless editing practices, I always check the final product against what I submitted.

It wasn’t long, therefore, before I pulled up the word processor, printed a copy of my submission, sharpened my red pencil, and began a post-publication proofread. It was even less time before I found glaring changes to the opening paragraph.

Oh boy.

Oh boy oh boy oh boy.

Word changes. Compression of prose. A distinct difference in tone.

WTAF?

How could an editor make such dramatic changes? This wasn’t just “trimming for space” or fixing typographical errors. This was a full-on rewrite. How dare they?

And that’s when a bell went off in my head.

I looked at the two versions again, the one from my file and the one on the printed page. I looked at them, and compared them.

The printed version was better. The one in my file had lackluster words and a not-so-great rhythm. The printed version was clearer, more immediate.

As I continued to the second paragraph, the third, I found more changes, all of the same stripe. This editor—no, the perpetrator of this rewrite—whoever s/he was, s/he was good. Still, something was definitely not right.

On a hunch, I did a scan of my manuscripts, searching for one of the distinctive phrases in the published version of my story.

I got a hit.

In a newer version of the story.

Yes, the version of my story I was using as a comparison had been rewritten. By me.

Comparing the newer version of the story with the published page, I found it had undergone a modest, light-handed edit. Commas taken out or added for clarity. Pronoun/noun replacement, also for clarity. And in contradiction of my original, gut feeling that the story had been shortened, every paragraph, every sentence, nearly every word I’d written was on the printed page.

Within an hour’s time, I’d climbed from my Valley of Serenity to the Peak of Rage only to tumble down to into a Well of Chagrin.

I’m exceedingly glad I decided to hang fire and not fire off a blistering email to the editors of The Timberline Review. They did an excellent job on my story, and from what I’ve read of the issue so far, selected a fine collection of stories, articles, and poems to include.

The moral? Trust your gut, but investigate before you engage the enemy because, to paraphrase Pogo Possum, when we meet the enemy, he may be us.

k