What's it like to be edited?

Well, this is a new experience for me.

After the first draft of my book was completed in late July, it has been in the hands (that is, the computer) of a skilled editor. Lil is a developmental editor. When we first met on a Zoom call some time back, she said, "Write the book you need to write, but there's no assurance that a publisher will want it. That's where I come in." 

The past few weeks have been slow going. Every two or three days, she e-mails a chapter back to me. It's marked up. Sentences are deleted. Paragraphs are shortened. Poems are trimmed. And the right column is filled with questions and comments: 

"Are you sure about this?"

"Whoa, that was an abrupt transition."

And my favorite: "Red Alert! Red Alert! Sounds like a sermon!"

I've published some books in the past, but they have never been edited. Well, let me correct that: one editor inserted the word "Amen" at the end of every chapter. I begged to have it removed when I saw the author's proofs, but I was ignored. Now I simply assume that she agreed with what I wrote.

In the sanctuary, nobody stands up after I preach a sermon to say, "Hey, that third paragraph was two sentences too long." No, I enjoy a captive audience. Or so I tell myself. They slip out to the restroom whenever they want. And over the years, a couple of folks have not come back. 

Whatever. When you are a preacher, it comes with the territory.

Likewise, if the crowd doesn't like the piano solo, they simply don't applaud. I have gotten used to that. Sometimes I have convinced myself that my improvisation was just too subtle or stunning to get a response. More often, it means the sound engineer fell asleep or went out for a smoke. Or perhaps I played something that simply didn't matter.

In the recording studio, it's a different situation. The band is putting something down for posterity. It will be heard again, and again, and again. (I know, that's a vain dream too...) When a tune is recorded for permanence, we want to make sure it sparkles. Otherwise, why bother? Landfills are full of the remnants of mediocrity.  

So, all praise for Lil. She is working hard to make sure that my hard work gets a hearing reading. She is tough and demanding. And she is good. Together we are collaborating to improve what I've written and to make it as accessible as possible. 

I am swallowing my pride. Or ego. Or false assumptions. 

It's a good lesson.

 

Mean What You Say

"Mean What You Say" is a tune composed by Thad Jones, one of the great composer-arrangers of this music. The title of the song is an invitation to integrity and integration, two values that mean a great deal to me.

Integrity seems to be a rare quality these days. We don't see enough of it in public life. For me it comes down to two integrating questions for this summer sabbatical: 

• How can I write about jazz from a distance, unless I'm making music?   
• How could I write about the spiritual life, unless I live it?

One of the great gifts of this summer sabbatical is a renewed opportunity to play music with friends. After a long pandemic shutdown, it feels good to make some melodies. I have enjoyed playing for a theater fundraiser in upstate New York, two gigs for the Scranton Jazz Festival, and a gala concert organized by saxophonist Al Hamme. 

We can set up and play anywhere. The photo above was take by our friend Nick in a wonderful Italian restaurant in Scranton that specializes in wood-fired pizza.  

Nick stopped back the next night to catch me me with a second trio as we played in a great coffee shop downtown. If you have Facebook, you can click and enjoy a clip of the trio in full flight. The highlight of that second night was when Mark Woodyatt stopped in with his magic violin and joined us for a couple of Chick Corea tunes.

In addition to these wonderful gigs, Al Hamme put together a great octet for a concert in my old stomping ground in New York. He never ceases to amaze me! The musicianship was impeccable. The jazz was swinging. Of course, Al make certain that we had new shirts to look sharp.

As expected - especially since the concert was cooked up by Al - the evening event sold out. 

As expected, the crowd stood and cheered a number of times, most notably when Tony Marino and Tom Killian blew up the place with a bass-drums duet.

By the way, that's my Mom in the second row in the multi-colored blouse. I took her along for the concert and the post-concert "hang" at a local BBQ joint. And I had a comfortable night's sleep in my childhood bedroom before traveling back to my mountain cottage.

Little Cabin in the Hills

Greetings from a cottage in the Endless Mountains. I'm enjoying a cedar cabin for a couple of weeks. Cell phone coverage is poor, which is just fine. The task for these two weeks is to edit, revise, and rewrite.

My editor has been working through the chapters for readability and clarity. She is brilliant. Her suggestions are vastly improving the manuscript, and I hope to have a good bit of the revisions done before I head home. It is going well.

The cottage is comfortable. Jamie came up for the weekend and liked it very much. She brought Mexican take-out from a favorite restaurant and we had a feast.

After enjoying a wonderful craft fair in nearby Eagles Mere, we rolled downhill to the thriving metropolis of Forksville (population 145). Some may think the town gets its name from a fork in the Loyalsock Creek. I believe the name comes from the tremendous cheesesteaks available from the local general store, which require forks to finish them off. 

They are enormous. Tasty, too! And you can consume them next to a covered bridge.

We have been wandering up here annually for the past six years or so. There is a small Presbyterian chapel in need of weekly preachers during the summer, and I've enjoyed bringing a sermon up here. Over the years we have made some friends, and it doesn't feel like the typical guest preacher stint.

It's a peaceful location to do some writing and resting. And even in the middle of some fierce rainfall, you can look out the back window of the cottage and see something beautiful.

 

The Beauty of Ordinary Time

When the Presbyterians revised their worship book a few years ago, they changed the designation of how time was marked. Maybe you didn't know this, but every Sunday of the year is given a title: Third Sunday of Advent, Second Sunday of Easter, and so on. The days when nothing "happened" were once referred to as "ordinary time." That's the phrase that has been eliminated. But I believe it's an excellent description of how much of our days and weeks are spent.

Since the book manuscript was handed off to an editor, I've had a couple of weeks of Ordinary Time. How has it been spent? Mowing the yard. Pulling weeds. Straightening the garage. Visiting my mom. Paying bills. Reading books. A couple of church friends dropped off zucchini and green beans from their garden. I've done a few loads of laundry. You know, ordinary things.  

This ordinary week has been a lot of fun. It began with a gig with Mike, Tony, and Joe, playing for a fundraiser in upstate New York. The kids helped my plan a surprise cookout for my wife's birthday. I took daughter Meg to catch a train to Philly on Tuesday, and then returned in time for the rest of us to enjoy a AAA baseball game in nearby Scranton; apparently it was $2 Beer Night. Last evening, we were treated to dinner by our friend Bill for "jazz night" at a country inn in the northern Poconos. 

No fireworks. No disruptions. No drama. 

I remember an article that was printed in The Christian Century sometime before my 2013 sabbatical, entitled "The Art of Puttering." Rodney Clapp described it this way:

Puttering is marked by a gentle, even leisurely rhythm: it involves moving back and forth from one chore to another at a sedate pace. Puttering, unlike multitasking, is not marked by a sense of urgency. Puttering allows for breaks in the work, for a cup of coffee or even a burst of play. (22 March 2013)

Ordinary Time. Nothing wrong with that.

This weekend, I have two jazz gigs at the Scranton Jazz Festival. On Friday, Tony and I play with trombonist Mike Fahn at a pizza shop. On Saturday, it's a trio gig with two young musicians in the alley of a coffee shop. Ah, show biz! Both will be relaxed, simple, and fun. To mark the event, I've picked up a new Hawaiian shirt. If there's time, I will give a field report from the festival, before I head to the woods next week for a two week retreat.

Thanks for keeping up with this blog!