Thanks for reading. I miss you, Ed.

David: What’s the first thing you look for in a story? For instance, how can you tell if the manuscript in your hand is quality writing?

Ed: One of the first qualities I look for/listen for in a story is evidence of an attractive confidence: confidence that the writer feels he has a good story to tell and really wants/needs to tell it; confidence in his ability to tell it, as reflected in a feeling for language—not just a knowledge of grammar and mechanics but an awareness of, even devotion to, the various dimensions of language: the look and sound and history of words; the many different ways English sentences (and paragraphs) can be structured and how those structures affect meaning and mood and the reader’s response. I listen for a voice that is not only confident but that conveys a degree of personality, individuality; not so much a desire to captivate, impress, or amuse the readers as a desire to simply connect with the reader.

David: You once said that you would rather read a good story with mechanical flaws than a boring, polished story. Could you please elaborate?

Ed: Mechanical flaws—even flaws more serious than the merely mechanical—can be corrected or eliminated. In some cases they can even serve, or be made to serve, the story. If a story is truly boring, it cannot as a rule be brought back to life except by being completely re-envisioned by its original author (or—and this is less likely, more difficult—by someone else). When I was teaching and found myself reading a set of papers that were not for the most part holding my interest, I was far happier to come across a badly written paper that had something to say, as opposed to another competently written paper that had nothing to say, and would grade accordingly. I was often delighted to come across an unusual error (“near-do-well” instead of “Ne’er-do-well”) and would, at least on a subconscious level, penalize that error less heavily than another misuse of “lie” or “lay.” Sometimes a story can be so highly polished that the reader is blinded to its more spontaneous virtues. A story can be so overworked (or overwritten) that it turns into a corpse that serves only as an example of professional cosmetology.

David: What makes a good editor?

Ed: To my mind a good editor understands and shares—complements, supplements—the writer’s own vision of his story. A good editor earns and deserves the trust and respect of a writer and is more than willing to analyze, discuss, debate matters where the visions diverge or where the means of the accomplishment of that vision differ.

David: How can a writer find an editor?

Ed: Finding an editor who is not only skilled but who the writer can work with confidently and congenially is difficult. It entails as a rule knowing more about the publishing world than one would otherwise care to know. It might involve simply finding out who edited a book that you especially liked or a book that you feel has something in common with your own work. It may involve finding an agent who knows the publishing world much better than you do—and who also believes in your work. It can also be helpful to keep track of the various writers’ conferences and to attend a few of those that afford contact with editors and agents and with professional writers who know the ropes. On the other hand, becoming addicted to writing conferences, to the company of other writers, to endless bookchat, can become a waste of time. If you offer your work frequently to a variety of publications and contests, a skilled editor may find you. As for the MFA industry, that subject is far too complicated and riddled with various pitfalls that I don’t feel qualified to comment on any of its virtues or vices.

David: Do you find it difficult working with writers who have egos?

Ed: I do find it difficult to work with overconfident, stubborn writers—but not for long. As a teacher, I was sometimes obliged to work with students whose personalities were either difficult or simply clashed with my own (I am certainly susceptible to overconfidence and stubbornness). But as a teacher I was being paid to deal with such students and tried to make the best of it, made a serious effort to earn my far from glamorous salary. As a freelance editor, I work only with writers whose talent I believe in, whose vision I appreciate, and whose personality and character I respect and enjoy.

David: How can writers become better self-editors?

Ed: The best way to become a better self-editor is to read a broad range of first-rate writers (perhaps contemporary writers in particular but by no means exclusively). When you come across a writer whose style you admire—or a single page or passage that you feel is exemplary—stop and study it. Try to understand its success, its effects. What choices had the writer made: on the levels of diction, syntax, point of view, structure, tone, etc. (You can also of course analyze bad writing in much the same way, and that too can be profitable—but I would suggest that your time is more wisely spent in the company of strong writers. Do NOT, however, apply this kind of analytical attention to your own writing too early in the process. In so far as it’s possible, divorce the creative process from the editorial, the self-respectful from the critical.

David: What are the pros and cons of writing workshops?

Ed: In my experience writing workshops are most valuable when the participants are on pretty much the same level in terms of talent, experience, literacy, seriousness, and respect for each other combined with tactful helpfulness. It also helps to have an accomplished “referee” whose judgments count for something. Otherwise, as Flannery O’ Connor said, “It’s the blind leading the blind.” In fact, I subscribe to most of what O’ Connor said and wrote about writing workshops and writing in general. Her collection of essays, Mystery and Manners, is indispensable. I was a student in several writing workshops over the years. I don’t think I learned very much in any of them, and one or two did actual harm. I “refereed” writing workshops at the college level for forty years. I don’t think I got much better at it. I do, however, take pride in the success of a number of writers whom I had the chance to encourage along the way. The most impressive of the lot—a much published short story writer, essayist, novelist, memoirist, and splendid teacher—considers himself (quite rightly) a “born writer” and does not give me undue credit (perhaps more credit as a friend and editor than as a teacher of writing).

David: You taught writing for over forty years. Is it true that some great writers are not good storytellers? Is the opposite true as well?

Ed: Some (perhaps many) truly skilled writers (novelists, biographers, scientists, philosophers) cannot write a good story (or poem for that matter). The reverse is also true . The subtle and complex relationship between an individual writer’s psyche and experience, on the other hand, and his attraction to and success at a specific genre (or genres) has not to my knowledge been explored in much depth at all. Perhaps the most familiar example of this mystery involves the number of first-rate novelists and story writers who have tried their hand at playwriting with only the most minimal success.

David: Why do you think some writers have difficulty being objective about their own work?

Ed: It is difficult to be objective about one’s own work. This is particularly a matter of ego; but considerable ego is essential if one is to get anything written at all. At some point, however, one must put ego aside and make honest critical judgments or risk embarrassment and worse. It is easier to be objective if one puts a piece of work aside for a while (weeks, months, years) and then comes back to it. And of course other readers are often, not always, capable of greater objectivity than the writer himself; but those readers may well be less/more honest or forthcoming than the writer desires. The biographies and autobiographies of great writers offer valuable insights into this problem.

David: Are there certain kinds of stories that you feel have been overused?

Ed: At the moment marital infidelity seems to me an excessively popular subject and theme. But, having said that, I will probably encounter in the next few weeks a brilliant story in that category. I can recall a time when I never wanted to read another story or poem that contained the word “angel.” And then Michael Cunningham dispelled both reservations with a single story.

David: Are there certain kinds of stories that you’d like to see written more often?

Ed: I would like to see more stories that have not fallen under the baleful influence of MFA doctrine. I wish Thom Jones would return to story-writing. The novel he is presumably working on will have to be damn good to outrank the stories. I miss Grace Paley’s stories.