Category: Other

At Book Architecture, we are wont to say that if it has to do with the written word, we’re interested. And it’s true! We could not possibly generate a static list of the services we provide to meet our clients’ rich and varied needs.

That said, there are certainly staples of the assistance we provide and this year, we’re going to spotlight several of those services starting with, fittingly, Phase One. Just to make sure we’re all on the same page regarding what it is we actually do here at Book Architecture. 

A Phase One is the first phase of development editing, a term which refers to the content editing of a manuscript an author brings to us that is already in progress. 

When a client approaches us for developmental editing, they may have other ideas for how we can work together but this, in my opinion, is the place to start. Whether they have 30,000 words or 180,000 words, provided they have reached a convenient stopping point (and if they have reached out to us, chances are they have) we begin with what they have already produced. 

What we call a Phase One is sometimes known as the editorial letter: a written critique on topics ranging from the sweeping to the detailed, which is discussed in a follow-up conference both to clarify the points contained in the critique and to brainstorm solutions to agreed-upon challenges.

This process accomplishes two objectives. It first and foremost delivers great value in and of itself. The critique generated has a macro section in which we detail larger considerations such as audience, genre, tone, opportunities, and potentially missing material if such exists, as well as possible structural revisions, and a micro section which tethers those topics to specific page numbers and presents observations that are too small for their own category but seem important to confide nonetheless.

Secondly, clients can use this experience as a chemistry check to determine if they want the editing relationship to move forward. Editing is largely a matter of fit. It is usually not a matter of anyone’s integrity whether there is a profitable exchange of ideas, but more whether the client can hear you when you talk, whether they agree with your ideas—or, just as good—whether in rejecting your ideas they come up with their own.

A cooling-off period between receipt of the critique and the follow-up conference (and certainly before any rewriting) allows clients space to go through a set of reactions akin to the five stages of grief: defensiveness, disdain, confusion, hopelessness, and then the light of acceptance may crack the horizon. That’s the time to talk.

A break can also benefit us, the editor; our subconscious will continue to wrestle with how to solve vexing problems.

At the outset of the follow-up conference I think it is useful to hear from authors generally about how they processed the critique and where they are now in thinking about their work in progress. Even though it may sound nice, I don’t want to hear them say, “I agree with everything you said.” The point is neither to agree nor disagree, it is to listen to what sticks with us, what resonates with that yucky yet somehow uplifting quality of an issue that we will feel better having fixed.

I then recommend we use the macro section as an outline for our discussion—tangents will happen, and tangents should be encouraged—but this way we can always have a place to come back to when we need to start our conversation over again. I tell them not to worry, that no matter what structure we choose, everything will come out eventually. When we get to each macro category, I likewise usually invite them to go first, otherwise (standard line) “I will just end up saying the same thing over again, whereas if you go first, I can build off of what you are saying.” That is the point of a follow-up conference, you will recall: “to clarify points contained in the critique and to brainstorm solutions to agreed-upon problems.”

Regarding clarifying points contained in the micro section, it is up to the client how they want to use their time. In my opinion (and I will frequently voice this), the best approach to a discussion of this material is to go specifically to the page numbers where my observations need some context or extension. As in, we don’t have to discuss all of them. Some authors will confide that they have not yet dug in to all of the individual entries in the micro section and I will give them the option of reserving some time to discuss these points at a later date.

Whether this conference happens in person or over Zoom, the session is recorded and provided to the client for future reference.

Last year’s free workshop, Writing The Things You Think You Cannot Say, brought together a powerful cohort of our community to exchange best practices on the art of memoir writing. Well, we think if something works — you stick with it! So this year we are offering (4) additional free workshops. The first, on working with beta readers, will be held later this month.

Perhaps the most important question when working with beta readers, those early readers who see your work before it is ready for the literary marketplace, is: how can we productively apply structure to the process? Because without intentional guidance the feedback you receive will likely sound something like: “I loved it!” Or, “I guess I’m just not your audience,” code for I hated it. Or, “There’s a typo on page 17.” And we’re looking for something with a lot more heft than that.

We want to make sure you don’t waste your beta readers’ time (and they don’t waste yours). The goal then is to present tactical strategies for getting the most out of critiques offered by professionals and non-professionals alike.

To that end we will discuss:

But the best one—either because it is the newest, or because it is the topic I am so engaged with right now because of my own book, or because it was the juiciest/most revelatory—was: Writing the Things You Think You Cannot Say. (Which could have been called Dealing With Unspeakable Material In Your Memoir and The People Who Don’t Want You To Speak It.)

After the conference, a number of attendees reached out to express their chagrin they had missed that particular session. And so we are going to put it on again, live on Zoom, on October 14th at 10am Pacific.

Originally appeared in Marguerite Richard’s newsletter, reposted with permission. 

My boys are already complaining about going to school. They want to stay home and play, or stare at the sky. Or at a laptop. They know I prefer the sky over the screen, and because I’m still their hero, they lovingly oblige (most of the time). But you do need to go to school, I tell them. Why? They need answers. You have to go to school so that you can be a superhero like mama. Especially if you want to be Spidey. After all, webbing up supervillains is difficult work requiring geometry, physics, and complex communication skills. When you’re three and six years old, this is an idea you can get on board with. At least the Spidey part is clear.

The following Saturday morning, my older one wants to play chess. I set up the board on the lower bed of his bunk, the rainbow rocket sheets firing off beneath us. I’m pleased he’s curious, I want to encourage him. I fall short, only remembering the basics. That’s when it dawns on me that learning a strategy game like this one is crucial for him now. Not because he’s 6. But because by the time he’s an adult, people will be getting by without needing any strategic thinking skills at all. My sons will grow up in a world where their thinking can be outsourced. And if they don’t learn how to think, and how to learn (deeply, critically, strategically, empathetically, collaboratively) right now, they will indeed miss their chance at the superhero jobs of the future, whatever those may be.

Is AI unethical? MOOT QUESTION.

Most conversations about AI in my circles are idling in the ethics debate. Some of my favourite publications and writers are broadcasting their rejection of AI all together. Seeking solidarity? Probably. Admirable? Definitely. Pointless? I am afraid so. Especially if you’re in creative industries that won’t influence (or slow down) the development of the tech, swearing against AI is about as effective as it would have been to declare you’d never buy a calculator because it might lead to the downfall of our civilisation.

A close friend of mine watched her very lucrative translation career disintegrate in the span of a year. She attended a major translator conference in Frankfurt a few weeks ago, pumped up to strategise with her peers on the problem. She came home with the same story: most folks were preaching on soap boxes about why we should not be using AI. Keep in mind that this is an industry that has long benefited from tech advancements—Trados released its first computer-assisted translation tool in the early 90’s.

Just yesterday I saw an advertisement for an AI tool made for anyone wanting to create a children’s book. Upload a photo of your child, choose the story type, and voila, a book featuring your own kid as the hero delivered right to your doorstep. I am at once fascinated and repulsed by this. I am worried for our society—no question. Still, there’s no way out of this. 

It’s time to get ahead of it. 

As for my career, it’s crystal-ball clear, I’m going to need to leapfrog this issue if I want to keep writing, editing, and book coaching. Formulating new books is my magic. In a one-hour interview with the author, the book structure begins to synthesise in my mind. It’s not a linear, calculated process. It’s entirely alchemical, driven by intuition and instinct during a very specific exchange between editor and author. At the end of that same meeting, when I pitch the newly birthed idea to the author, I feel like a stork dropping a baby book into the author’s arms, all the goosebumps, fear and excitement of a new life ahead. AI can’t rob that from me. Even if I use it to support me. I’m not worried. What’s really baking my noodle is that future readers may not even know the difference between my human-generated book and the AI-generated one. It’s probably already happening. We only have one play.

We have to level up.

Watching my translator friend’s story unfold, and keeping my kids’ future in mind, I’m trying to figure out how I can build my business by developing my human artistic prowess. To get there, I am convinced that I first need to understand what our human superpowers actually are. Until now, I hadn’t realised I was in competition with my tools. What I’m learning is that it’s not the creation itself I should look at, but the process of creation that sets us apart from the tools. Human processing is labor intensive and full of pitfalls and imperfections. These mistakes often lead to a final result that is more beautiful than the symmetrical, synthetic output that the AI would create. Writing a book can be one of the most enriching experiences of your life. Ask any author—it’s the process, not the book itself.

It’s the toil that makes the treasure. 

The other day I met a friend wearing a designer shirt that looked like it had been scribbled on with a black felt-tip pen. It was messy. Human. An expensive, beautifully designed mess. It was special because the human mind is subjective, spontaneous. A machine could never spontaneously create something so surprising for both the wearer and those appreciating what he wore. The machine could never be part of the exchange that he and I had over the shirt. My surprise and his appreciation for my surprise. The machine could never learn from our exchange either. Unless we trained it.

If making unique connections in our own minds (and between multiple minds) is one of our superpowers, we can’t start letting the AI make those connections for us. Take brainstorming, for example. The brainstorming act is a creative human process. If you consistently ask your tool to perform the ideation for you, not only will it soon outperform you, but you will eventually be stripped of the ability to do it yourself. If you don’t use it, you lose it. And isn’t that kind of ah-ha moment also one of our greatest human pleasures? It’s like making music. Why would we want to give that up?

So how do we leverage AI to support growing these superpowers instead of doing them for us? I’m not sure, but I hope that becoming more aware of what makes human nature special is a start.

Is there actually anything to fear?

The fear conversation leads down dark tunnels. It’s natural for the human mind to explore exponential what-if dystopias. As always, there are optimists and there are pessimists. In his interview with Wired Magazine, author, scholar (and pacifist) Yuval Noah Harari, likened the birth of a superintelligence to inventing the railroad.

“In a laboratory, people were able to see if steam engines would explode due to a malfunction,” Harari said. “But no one could simulate the changes they would bring to the economic and political situation when the rail network spread out over tens of thousands of kilometers.” We just don’t know. And we won’t know until we get there.

In my view, we are moving too fast. Much of society in the developed world is largely built on competition. Our drive to outperform each other without slowing down to consider proper regulation will lead us into territory beyond our control. We don’t actually know what the superintelligence will be capable of. And if we could adamantly regulate developments and create transparency measures so that we could use it in favour of globally agreed upon endeavours, we could potentially solve so many problems with it. Unfortunately, I’m not sure humans trust each other enough to get there. How can we fall short on something so basic?

It starts with the kids

These are some dark feelings. If you know me, I’m not dark. Here’s my plan for now. I’ll inspire my boys toward life-long learning. Teach them teamwork and relationships. Teach them trust. Foster an appreciation for nature. Get them out of the city. Teach them how to work with their hands. I suppose that means I’ll have to learn how to use my hands, too. That, and chess.