What editors want

What editors want
Editor Dale Keiger posted this to the Writing Workshop list during a discussion of "rules of writing". It is such a clear exposition of the principles, it is well worth saving. Dale has kindly agreed to the posting's reproduction here.
May I contribute one more perspective to this "rules" debate? Some of what I'm about to say has already appeared under my name on the misc.writing newsgroup, so I apologize to anyone who is reading this for the second time, but I hope other members of the workshop will find something useful here.
I've been a professional writer for 21 years. For about 11 of those years I worked full time as a freelancer, writing and publishing just about everything: resumes, restaurant reviews, short stories, personality profiles, sports, business, calendar copy, even those inserts you get with your monthly bank statement. I've been published in everything from Travel & Leisure to Motorcycle Dealer News, from The New York Times to a high school sports newspaper that folded before I could write my second story for them. I've also been a writer/editor at four publications, and at two publications have been in charge of training interns and editing their work. I currently work as a senior writer and editor at a national publication (Johns Hopkins Magazine) considered one of the top five in its field for staff writing. Most of what I'm going to say was meant originally for non-fiction writers, but I'd apply much of the same advice to fiction writing.
Based on my experience on both ends of the process, let me tell you what editors want. Editors want writers who understand grammar and syntax, who know how to gather accurate information, who write with clarity and without affectation, who know what their point is and get to it, and who exhibit intelligence and wit and style. Editors want those writers to submit their work on time, at approximately the agreed-upon length, in the requested format, about the agreed-upon subject. Editors want ideas they haven't thought of on their own. Editors want intelligent, informed, skeptical judgments and insightful observations about the world outside their offices. Editors want writers who work hard and have a professional's regard for craft and professional courtesy.
Most of what we see is, sadly, useless. Most of it should never have been mailed, because the writer can't yet write, or wasn't careful, or didn't submit to an appropriate publication, or has nothing fresh to say, or sent in the story hand-scrawled on the backs of envelopes (don't laugh, I know the editor who got such a submission a few years ago). I know the hopes with which writers send us this stuff (I see that hope played out daily in these workshops), and I hate to step on anybody's dream, but the fact is most of what we get should never have left the writer's hand. Most of it wastes our time and, unfortunately, makes us cautious about trying to work with a new writer instead of relying on our stable of dependable if sometimes boring regular contributors.
For what it's worth, here's my recipe for success, to the extent that there can be such a recipe:

Learn the fundamentals. And I mean learn them down to your bones. Editors have no time or patience for bullshit about "style" or "but-it's-the-content-that-counts." If your grammar and syntax and spelling are lousy, you're not stylish, you're childish. Yes, the content matters, but if you can't use the language properly, we're not interested. Period.
Be an astute, insightful observer. Fiction and non-fiction both rely on detail, detail, detail, on all the meaningful things that escape the attention of the distracted public-at-large. If you can't see and listen and think, you'll have nothing to say, and if you have nothing to say, you're going to have to print your own pages in order to say it.
Think. Editors get more witless comments, empty analogies, dumb comparisons, twisted metaphors, bad similes, and careless statistics than you can imagine. What gets our attention is the carefully reasoned, carefully researched, carefully written, acutely observed, thoroughly thought-out piece. Crawl over your piece word by word by word and question your assumptions, conclusions and choice of phrase at every turn.
Work very hard. If you think three people will be enough to tell you what you need for your story, talk to 10. Then, when you've had it, call an eleventh. I'm serious about this. I've lost count of how many times the last phone call, the one I didn't want to make because I was tired, made the story. You may send me a piece that quotes only one person, but if you've talked to 10, I'll know. Your piece will be informed, it will have a heft and a weight of convincing detail that's lacking in the less-researched, less-reported piece. If it's a work of fiction and you've only half-done the process of gathering what you need for convincing setting, character and dialog, I'll know within five sentences.
Be professional. That means on time, with a clean, proofread manuscript that delivers what you promised and what the editor requested. Surprise us with your talent and effort, not with a story twice as long as what we requested and on a different subject.
Carefully select your markets and be professional in your presentation. Brief, informative queries. Listings of your publication credits. SASE's. Clean manuscripts. If it's nonfiction, facts checked and double-checked (don't assume an editor will do this for you; it's *your* job). No quirky punctuation unless you've got a damned good reason for it; don't assume you're Cormac McCarthy when it comes to making up your own rules of dialog punctuation.
Be persistent. Query your favorite publications over and over again. Submit short stories to your favorites over and over again. Shop your cherished idea or story all over the place. After you've gotten into a magazine, bombard them with follow-up ideas and stories. We're neither deaf nor blind here in editorland, but we are distracted, and the people who get our attention are the ones who will not be denied. Not only do they get our attention, but they make the best writers because they bring the same persistence and determination to their research and writing.
Accept criticism. Even the blunt sort that hurts your feelings. Writing, like any art, is not for sissies. This isn't macho posturing, it's simple truth. Writing may be tougher than it needs to be sometimes, but you won't change anything by whining. Editors are not going to change to accommdate you, at least not when it comes to the fundamentals. As Robertson Davies said, Art precedes and transcends democracy. It is inherently elitist. You make it in the arts on merit and labor (yeah, I can name some exceptions too, but forget them; you can't count on being an exception). When things get tough -- and they will -- be tougher.

Do all of the above, and I and other editors will publish your work and pay you, probably poorly. Do all of the above and do it with original style and grace, and we'll kiss you on the lips. Better yet, we'll call you with more assignments and make the effort to dig your next envelope out of the mail pile.
Finally, a word about talent. The dreaded T-word. It matters. And not everybody has it. I have never and will never tell a writer that it's time to give up. That's for each person to decide. But no amount of labor will make you a great writer unless you have a talent for it. Some people hear the music, some don't, and I can't explain why Person A was blessed and Person B was not. You can earn a living as a writer without much of it, provided you do everything else I've noted above. But don't kid yourself that talent doesn't matter.
I hope this is helpful. That was my intention, at least. Writing is my life and something that I think is essential to a healthy culture. I wish it were done better by more people. Keep trying and keep working. We're watching for you out here, really we are.

Dale Keiger dek@resource.ca.jhu.edu