2. Editorial strategy.
This is the second post in a seven-part series about Distance, a quarterly journal for long essays about design. Support Distance on Kickstarter. Earlier posts:
Mandy Brown has discussed the nature of editorial strategy in many publications, and when I first contacted her about Distance, that was the first thing she asked me. So I’d like to talk a little bit about what I’m doing with authors’ essays for Distance. Everybody is a unique snowflake, so this process has never been precisely followed for any particular essay – but going into it, this is what I tend to ask for and expect from people.
First, a proposal. Write a paragraph-long pitch: what you care about and how you hope to write about it. This can be something as short as:
I want to use the history of video games to justify that gamification and virtual currencies are damaging the form.
Or it can be longer. The more the better, really, because it helps convey that you’re passionate about what you do, and that you’ve already started to think through some of the details.
Second, we talk about it. We’ll get on a Skype call or IM or whatever and I’ll throw some ideas out there, and we’ll bat things around.
A couple of weeks later, you’ll have finished the outline. Build an argument, tell me what you plan to write about, and try to fit it in a couple of pages. Some people feel more comfortable simply writing the introduction; other folks are rigorous, providing a proper Harvard-style outline. Do whatever works for you; I’m not here to impose structure on the planning. Then I revise the outline, we might talk about it a little more, and you start writing. Around this time, I’ll also dump a ton of research on you in the form of books, articles, blog posts, and academic papers, so that you can start to research things better and frame your argument more cogently.
Fourth, the half-completed draft. This gives me enough ground to stand on and recommend some ways to build your argument. Often I will say “this part needs a few sentences of examples that prove what you are trying to say.” Or: “now that you have finished half of the essay, consider this direction to bring it home.” Or: “move this part up here.” Or: “cut this paragraph, it doesn’t help.” High-level stuff. I don’t proofread much at this point, but sometimes I’ll give in to my grammar snob impulses.
Fifth, the three-fourths completed draft. Sometimes missing an intro and conclusion. Sometimes missing one major part. Doesn’t matter. Things are taking shape. We could start proofreading and doing more significant edits, and it would be passable, but not great yet, and we are here to make something that is great. No matter how we get there, I tend to work better with more collaboration and iteration, and I try to be nice about it, too.
Sixth, the complete first draft. Fewer high-level edits, and proofreading is starting to kick into gear.
Then we bat drafts around until the deadline or we collapse from exhaustion. Push it until it’s great. Shine it until you can see your reflection in it. Make it the best thing you’ve written in your life. That’s what I aspire to.
Maybe this is the wrong or unconventional way to do things. I don’t know. It will probably change in the future. Sometimes it happens organically, but it’s okay if it doesn’t. Today, though, writing this, it feels right, knowing what I know.
