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(Recently I thought of this mini-essay I posted on LJ in September 2007 about the analogies between editing and pest management, sought it out, and decided it could stand a repost. Someday I will expand it. Edited here only to correct links and the name of our extension service, which is no longer cooperative.)
In the horticultural field, smart people have developed a set of guidelines we call IPM, or Integrated Pest Management. I won't discuss it in detail; if you'd like to read more about its sensible approach, you can get a solid introduction in IPM: A Common Sense Approach to Managing Problems in Your Landscape by the Home and Garden Information Center of University of Maryland Extension. (Our local bible; each state should have its own.) Basically, IPM is the idea that many factors considered together go toward success or failure in growing plants, that it is necessary to examine and (to some extent) understand these various factors in order to solve problems, that assuming a particular factor is causing a problem without examination is irresponsible, and that the least toxic solutions should always be tried first (though chemicals are allowed; it's not the same as organic gardening). IPM has broader implications as well, regarding the health of the larger ecosystem, but I'm not likely to address these much in this analogy.
In fact, I don't intend to make this any sort of one-to-one analogy at all, with ridiculous equations of semicolons with tomato hornworms (although there are some possible aspects of equivalence). I just sense a similarity between how I think editing should be approached and how I've learned to approach pest management. "Pest," by the way, is shorthand for anything that goes wrong with a plant, from insects to diseases to soil problems to poor siting to groundhogs to lack of water. One of the difficulties in addressing these issues is that people have been conditioned to assume that an ailing plant is being attacked by either insects or disease when it may not be, or if it is, the insect or disease may not be the most fundamental problem. In fact, the plant may be vulnerable to attack because it's the wrong plant in the wrong place, and treating the secondary infestation or disease won't save it in the long run. There is an analogy to writing here, though not an encouraging one.
Another common difficulty (and more what I'm interested in exploring) is that people will see a bug and immediately insist that it and all its little friends should be eradicated, even if they don't know what it is or what it's doing. Or perhaps they know what it is, and it is eating their plant, but the degree of damage is not enough to threaten the health of the plant, nor to justify the use of a chemical pesticide that might threaten other, more beneficial insects in the vicinity. (Some of whom might be feeding off the plant-chomping insect, a behavior one wishes to encourage.) Often, instead of spraying, it's enough to hand-pick the insects or shoot water at them; you don't get them all, but you get enough to lessen the impact.
Adverbs are not insects (though wouldn't it be cool if they were? Little busilys pollinating your flowers, and methodicallys measuring the marigolds, and hungrilys decimating foliage, and so forth). They are, however, the part of speech that seems to get pointed out and sprayed into nonexistence the most often (and frequently by people who use adverbs a lot themselves, or adverbial phrases; Language Log has some good posts on that subject). And, you know, they can be overused. My editorial eye does note them when they are in clusters (incidentally? This is the most fun part of hand-picking bugs, when you get a whole bunch of them hanging out together. Or mating. My cruel streak coming out...) or when they fall into what I consider a broader category of Words Unnecessary in Context. Favorite example in my own work: "'George, you look like absolute shit,' said Rinaldo bluntly." Adverb GONE.
But as a part of speech there is nothing wrong with them if used with common sense, even in the vilified "said" context if they express something about the manner of saying that is not otherwise indicated. Often one's characters do speak nasty words sweetly, or positive ones without enthusiasm, and so forth, and you can't tell the reader without a convoluted mass of words for which an adverb would substitute nicely. Adverbs may, in fact, not be Mexican bean beetles but instead helpful little ladybugs, sucking out the aphids of excessive verbiage. You have to look at the spots and the coloring. In fact, you have to know something about language and how it works, and where a word is just distracting and didactic and where it's useful; you have to investigate instead of blindly following bad rules.
Personally, my worst sucking things (I've used aphids already. Azalea lace bugs?) are modifiers like quite, very, a little, rather, somewhat, etc. I overuse them like hell (which is at least an emphatic modifier) in first drafts, and cut them in later edits, gradually, which is why I have to go over the text multiple times. I do cut almost all of them, but sometimes you need an "almost" for the degree of whatever to be clear, and so some get left. No particular analogy here: the best cure for azalea lace bugs is to move the plant out of the sun where you shouldn't have planted it in the first place, so its resistance will be stronger. I suppose I could do something similar with first drafts. For other people, this may not be a problem; in fact, some texts are far too sure of their opinions and could do with more modifiers (like some plants could do with more sun). Context is all. Well, nearly all.
The inexperienced might find it tempting to call IPM passive. They have not been out there peering under leaves while balancing horticultural textbooks and insect guides on their knees, squatting in the mud and avoiding bee stings. And not always being in the middle of doing something to someone (some bug, usually) is not the same as being wimpy. Same with grammar, you know: to quote Mark Liberman in Language Log (again, tons of great posts; look them up), "That's the verbal voice, not the attitude towards life, though the composition mavens sometimes get the two mixed up." "Avoid the passive" isn't bad writing advice, as long as you don't take that "look for the verb 'to be'" guideline and assume that "I was strolling along the lane" is a passive construction, which some people apparently do ("The lane was strolled along by me" - now, that's passive, in a stupid example sort of way. You may not like my progressive tenses either, and neither do I in some cases, but that doesn't make them into something they're not), and as long as you don't avoid it in places where it's the best choice. Sometimes that has to do with unknown subjects or emphasized objects; sometimes it's a matter of style and voice, particularly in dialogue or characterized narrative. Sometimes it just sounds better. I think it's a choice both instinctual and educated, like deciding whether a plant's leaves are yellowed because of disease or nutritional insufficiency (or because it's a yellow-leaf cultivar. Does happen). Not the same as saying, "Oh, it might get better on its own; I'll just leave it be" (though sometimes that's the right choice too).
I'm not too inclined toward using classic passive in fiction writing, I find, but I do use the impersonal passive a lot: sentences like "After dinner, there was tea" (which in passive construction would be "Tea was served after dinner" and in active would tell you who served the tea, not that it necessarily matters) and the variant that goes "There was a thread of irony in his voice that Olivia appreciated" (which is easily recast, and I did, as "Olivia appreciated the thread of irony in his voice"). Again, I change some of those; others I leave alone. I wish I could define my reasons for each, though I really don't want to codify my editorial approach into a rulebook. If I had rules, they'd be along the lines of "leave in what works and take out or fix what doesn't" and that is impermissibly vague. Which is why I'll never teach writing, even if anyone ever wanted me to. (Oddly, I find stupid phrases like "murder your darlings" much more comprehensible in a gardening context. Of course, I often murder them by accident. But on plenty of occasions I've put in a plant I adored even though it was wrong for the climate or setting and clashed with everything in its vicinity, and mumblesomeyearslater the necessity of removal became clear. Though sometimes it is so perfect in its wrongness that you take out everything around it and expend your resources to keep it going, and sometimes that's the only right and proper thing to do. Which can be true in writing as well. I suspect the gardening mindset also in part explains why I can't manage and often don't approve of the "shitty first draft" approach, and don't find anything wrong with stopping in the middle of a sentence to do research: too damned expensive otherwise.)
Anyway, these are just a few examples of my IPM editing theory; I could go on for days. The essence of it, I hope, goes a bit beyond the "not rules but guidelines" that is commonly mouthed and ignored. Education, consideration, and not jumping to conclusions are what I try to work with, just as I do as a gardener and (in my small way) as a gardening educator. I'm trying to think both in terms of details (knowing what a particular word or phrase does in a particular context) and in broader sweeps that take in, as I mentioned above, words and phrases that are unnecessary in the place I've stuck them, whether they are adverbs duplicating an already clear mood, modifiers that wimpify beyond need, whole sentences that duplicate something I've already said, or just little words like "that" a phrase could do without and doesn't do better with. Environmental editing, perhaps. I do look for constructions and parts of speech that I know I overuse or misuse, but I then consider each on its merits as a part of the writing and not as a pestilential pest that should be wiped off the face of the earth with all its kin. I expect most other writers do as well, even the ones who cite the "rules" as absolutes in their advice to others, but that doesn't stop me from being annoyed when I hear it, and formulating theories that take good editing time to write up. Blast.
ETA: I should probably say that I think this approach works for more than copy-editing, although I'm using mostly nit-picky grammatical examples here. Broad sweeping shouldn't-do rules are used for plot and characterization and so forth as well, and are usually just as useless. And when I say I don't take the shitty first draft approach, I don't mean that I copy-edit constantly while writing, or else my drafts wouldn't need so much editing, especially after five years. But I do think about context and character and metaphor and flow of words, and I do stop to look stuff up.
*
There.
In the horticultural field, smart people have developed a set of guidelines we call IPM, or Integrated Pest Management. I won't discuss it in detail; if you'd like to read more about its sensible approach, you can get a solid introduction in IPM: A Common Sense Approach to Managing Problems in Your Landscape by the Home and Garden Information Center of University of Maryland Extension. (Our local bible; each state should have its own.) Basically, IPM is the idea that many factors considered together go toward success or failure in growing plants, that it is necessary to examine and (to some extent) understand these various factors in order to solve problems, that assuming a particular factor is causing a problem without examination is irresponsible, and that the least toxic solutions should always be tried first (though chemicals are allowed; it's not the same as organic gardening). IPM has broader implications as well, regarding the health of the larger ecosystem, but I'm not likely to address these much in this analogy.
In fact, I don't intend to make this any sort of one-to-one analogy at all, with ridiculous equations of semicolons with tomato hornworms (although there are some possible aspects of equivalence). I just sense a similarity between how I think editing should be approached and how I've learned to approach pest management. "Pest," by the way, is shorthand for anything that goes wrong with a plant, from insects to diseases to soil problems to poor siting to groundhogs to lack of water. One of the difficulties in addressing these issues is that people have been conditioned to assume that an ailing plant is being attacked by either insects or disease when it may not be, or if it is, the insect or disease may not be the most fundamental problem. In fact, the plant may be vulnerable to attack because it's the wrong plant in the wrong place, and treating the secondary infestation or disease won't save it in the long run. There is an analogy to writing here, though not an encouraging one.
Another common difficulty (and more what I'm interested in exploring) is that people will see a bug and immediately insist that it and all its little friends should be eradicated, even if they don't know what it is or what it's doing. Or perhaps they know what it is, and it is eating their plant, but the degree of damage is not enough to threaten the health of the plant, nor to justify the use of a chemical pesticide that might threaten other, more beneficial insects in the vicinity. (Some of whom might be feeding off the plant-chomping insect, a behavior one wishes to encourage.) Often, instead of spraying, it's enough to hand-pick the insects or shoot water at them; you don't get them all, but you get enough to lessen the impact.
Adverbs are not insects (though wouldn't it be cool if they were? Little busilys pollinating your flowers, and methodicallys measuring the marigolds, and hungrilys decimating foliage, and so forth). They are, however, the part of speech that seems to get pointed out and sprayed into nonexistence the most often (and frequently by people who use adverbs a lot themselves, or adverbial phrases; Language Log has some good posts on that subject). And, you know, they can be overused. My editorial eye does note them when they are in clusters (incidentally? This is the most fun part of hand-picking bugs, when you get a whole bunch of them hanging out together. Or mating. My cruel streak coming out...) or when they fall into what I consider a broader category of Words Unnecessary in Context. Favorite example in my own work: "'George, you look like absolute shit,' said Rinaldo bluntly." Adverb GONE.
But as a part of speech there is nothing wrong with them if used with common sense, even in the vilified "said" context if they express something about the manner of saying that is not otherwise indicated. Often one's characters do speak nasty words sweetly, or positive ones without enthusiasm, and so forth, and you can't tell the reader without a convoluted mass of words for which an adverb would substitute nicely. Adverbs may, in fact, not be Mexican bean beetles but instead helpful little ladybugs, sucking out the aphids of excessive verbiage. You have to look at the spots and the coloring. In fact, you have to know something about language and how it works, and where a word is just distracting and didactic and where it's useful; you have to investigate instead of blindly following bad rules.
Personally, my worst sucking things (I've used aphids already. Azalea lace bugs?) are modifiers like quite, very, a little, rather, somewhat, etc. I overuse them like hell (which is at least an emphatic modifier) in first drafts, and cut them in later edits, gradually, which is why I have to go over the text multiple times. I do cut almost all of them, but sometimes you need an "almost" for the degree of whatever to be clear, and so some get left. No particular analogy here: the best cure for azalea lace bugs is to move the plant out of the sun where you shouldn't have planted it in the first place, so its resistance will be stronger. I suppose I could do something similar with first drafts. For other people, this may not be a problem; in fact, some texts are far too sure of their opinions and could do with more modifiers (like some plants could do with more sun). Context is all. Well, nearly all.
The inexperienced might find it tempting to call IPM passive. They have not been out there peering under leaves while balancing horticultural textbooks and insect guides on their knees, squatting in the mud and avoiding bee stings. And not always being in the middle of doing something to someone (some bug, usually) is not the same as being wimpy. Same with grammar, you know: to quote Mark Liberman in Language Log (again, tons of great posts; look them up), "That's the verbal voice, not the attitude towards life, though the composition mavens sometimes get the two mixed up." "Avoid the passive" isn't bad writing advice, as long as you don't take that "look for the verb 'to be'" guideline and assume that "I was strolling along the lane" is a passive construction, which some people apparently do ("The lane was strolled along by me" - now, that's passive, in a stupid example sort of way. You may not like my progressive tenses either, and neither do I in some cases, but that doesn't make them into something they're not), and as long as you don't avoid it in places where it's the best choice. Sometimes that has to do with unknown subjects or emphasized objects; sometimes it's a matter of style and voice, particularly in dialogue or characterized narrative. Sometimes it just sounds better. I think it's a choice both instinctual and educated, like deciding whether a plant's leaves are yellowed because of disease or nutritional insufficiency (or because it's a yellow-leaf cultivar. Does happen). Not the same as saying, "Oh, it might get better on its own; I'll just leave it be" (though sometimes that's the right choice too).
I'm not too inclined toward using classic passive in fiction writing, I find, but I do use the impersonal passive a lot: sentences like "After dinner, there was tea" (which in passive construction would be "Tea was served after dinner" and in active would tell you who served the tea, not that it necessarily matters) and the variant that goes "There was a thread of irony in his voice that Olivia appreciated" (which is easily recast, and I did, as "Olivia appreciated the thread of irony in his voice"). Again, I change some of those; others I leave alone. I wish I could define my reasons for each, though I really don't want to codify my editorial approach into a rulebook. If I had rules, they'd be along the lines of "leave in what works and take out or fix what doesn't" and that is impermissibly vague. Which is why I'll never teach writing, even if anyone ever wanted me to. (Oddly, I find stupid phrases like "murder your darlings" much more comprehensible in a gardening context. Of course, I often murder them by accident. But on plenty of occasions I've put in a plant I adored even though it was wrong for the climate or setting and clashed with everything in its vicinity, and mumblesomeyearslater the necessity of removal became clear. Though sometimes it is so perfect in its wrongness that you take out everything around it and expend your resources to keep it going, and sometimes that's the only right and proper thing to do. Which can be true in writing as well. I suspect the gardening mindset also in part explains why I can't manage and often don't approve of the "shitty first draft" approach, and don't find anything wrong with stopping in the middle of a sentence to do research: too damned expensive otherwise.)
Anyway, these are just a few examples of my IPM editing theory; I could go on for days. The essence of it, I hope, goes a bit beyond the "not rules but guidelines" that is commonly mouthed and ignored. Education, consideration, and not jumping to conclusions are what I try to work with, just as I do as a gardener and (in my small way) as a gardening educator. I'm trying to think both in terms of details (knowing what a particular word or phrase does in a particular context) and in broader sweeps that take in, as I mentioned above, words and phrases that are unnecessary in the place I've stuck them, whether they are adverbs duplicating an already clear mood, modifiers that wimpify beyond need, whole sentences that duplicate something I've already said, or just little words like "that" a phrase could do without and doesn't do better with. Environmental editing, perhaps. I do look for constructions and parts of speech that I know I overuse or misuse, but I then consider each on its merits as a part of the writing and not as a pestilential pest that should be wiped off the face of the earth with all its kin. I expect most other writers do as well, even the ones who cite the "rules" as absolutes in their advice to others, but that doesn't stop me from being annoyed when I hear it, and formulating theories that take good editing time to write up. Blast.
ETA: I should probably say that I think this approach works for more than copy-editing, although I'm using mostly nit-picky grammatical examples here. Broad sweeping shouldn't-do rules are used for plot and characterization and so forth as well, and are usually just as useless. And when I say I don't take the shitty first draft approach, I don't mean that I copy-edit constantly while writing, or else my drafts wouldn't need so much editing, especially after five years. But I do think about context and character and metaphor and flow of words, and I do stop to look stuff up.
*
There.
