The Trouble With Tweaking

‘Tweaks’ are not revisions – at least, not in an editor’s eyes. Revisions means that the book basically hasn’t worked in certain areas – a plot doesn’t hang together, or a character’s development is inconsistent. . . But ‘tweaks’ are just little points. A line here, a comment there - an event that would be better as . . . and so you get asked to ‘tweak’ the book here and there - to sharpen, to define, to tighten.

And that’s what my editor wanted with Sicilian1. She loved the book (in fact I’m blushing at the way she described it) but she wanted some tweaks. So that’s what I’ve been doing the past four days. I’ve been tweaking poor Guido until he was (I hope) perfect.

But the problem is that stories are like knitting – or a carefully woven piece of cloth. You put it all together, plaiting strands and combining themes so that it all works. And if you have to tweak, you have to tug loose a single strand – and that risks unravelling everything else that that strand is attached to. If you change a tiny detail in scene right at the beginning, you also have to change any and every other reference to that tiny detail everywhere else in the book. Or if you change something later, then you have to make sure that every comment, every thought, every gesture that leads up to that moment is now consistent with the new slant you’ve put on things. And the hardest part is tracing down every last moment that might be connected and making sure that it now fits the new pattern. You have to pull out some threads, put in new ones, subtly change others – and then you have to knit it all back together so that it fits seamlessly and, if you’ve done it right, then the reader won’t even notice where you’ve been. That’s why it’s weaving, or knitting – not patchwork where you can stitch a whole new piece over the old one and it’s meant to show.

And that’s why tweaking can take so much concentration. Let your attention slip for a moment and you can bet that you’ll miss something important and it will come back to haunt you.

But after four days tweaking and knitting and rereading and checking, I hope I now have Guido just as my editor wanted. So he’s headed off back to Richmond to spend the Bank Holiday with her and I have a chance to draw breath and write the answers to an interview and stroke a cat – and turn my attention to Sicilian2 – to poor Vito who has been waiting in the wings – not all that patiently and wants his story told now! He’s learned all about his brother’s trip to England, you see – and he’s heard all about the reaction that Guido caused in one particular person when he walked into that church. (If you’ve forgotten what I’m talking about then it’s all in the post for March 21st.) And so now Vito wants to know just what has been going on and why . . .

And I’m going to have to write down everything he tells me.

And then I expect that I’ll have to do some tweaking . . or maybe not. I can hope. But first I’ll have to write the book. And so it all begins again - Chapter One .. .