Semantics and the art of taking criticism constructively

This week has been busy. Apart from picking up “The Cost of Letters”, and of course scribbling away on the new book, The Black Hours (which has hit the 50,000 word mark this week), yesterday I received the proofs for The Horde (sic) of Mhorrer (which has now been changed to “The Hoard of Mhorrer”… both ways work, but semantically “hoard” seems more appropriate - you’ll see why in January 2009).

Over the two years or so I spent writing it, around half a dozen people have given advice or suggestions on The Hoard of Mhorrer. Most of it’s been textual, but there’s been continuity suggestions too, and historical advice. Throughout that time I’ve taken critical advice on the chin with a nod of the head and a workman-like approach. But it’s a struggle. Any revision that isn’t prompted by you is a psychological battle of sorts, because anyone who possesses just a hint of ego initially finds critical advice as… er… a criticism of what they have done.
I’m not immune to that. Not at all.
And the proofs caught me off guard a bit. I think after reading the notes from my copy-editor a few writers would have bit down on their knuckles in frustration, and had I been in a worse mood I might have too. My first response was, “you can’t be serious” and “bloody hell, more work” – a tennis-pro reaction if ever there was one. I’d spent about two years on the book already, and believed I had put it to bed before next January, so looking at the pages of notes I grimaced, winced and shook my head in disappointment.

And then I calmed down and thought about it rationally.

You see, I might have worked for two years on the text, shaping it into a story that was worth telling, but that doesn’t mean I’m immune to mistakes. Likewise, my editorial duo at Macmillan have also being involved in the process for a while, and there are certain things even they might miss – things like historical and strategic context.
The copyeditor has written some bloody frustrating notes. But they are bloody helpful too. Amazingly so. In fact some of the mistakes I would call “school-boy errors” that I surprised myself at making (especially around military strategy). The copy-editor knows his stuff – I know because I checked up on a few facts afterwards, and damn me if they weren’t spot on. My first reaction – that of cursing and muttering like some wino in a bus-shelter – was in the end quite unwarranted, but it did clear my head to see how constructive his comments were.

Finally I decided, “fair-play, I must change this.” Because if I don’t change it, and if I let my ego put up walls against critical advice, someone else will only mention those same flaws once it’s published in a magazine or newspaper, or on the great Who-Hah-machine we call the Internet (and people love a good moan about inaccuracies in books, don’t they?). But by then the cat would have bolted from the barn, and the horse would have been let out of the bag. By then the book would be published and I’ll be damned…

So, yes. More work. A distraction. But why the hell not? It’s taken two years to write this book. What’s two more weeks to get it right? To quote Airplane, “I picked the wrong time to quit drinking…” (And besides, two weeks of distraction with a monkey on your back is nothing when you have to write with cat on your shoulder…)