“Editorial Decisions”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-19)

Note: What follows here is a bit of self-analysis. Writing about the process of professional writing. Apologies to those not personally active in the field, or interested in peering behind the veil.

Absolute power.

In yonder days, this sort of governance was carried out by a monarch of some sort. A king or queen, often said to have been anointed by higher grace. In modern terms, possessing such might would more likely be characterized as a dictatorship, frequently avoiding mentions of God altogether. Civilized nations have graduated to more democratic habits. But in the world of professional journalism, the concept has lingered on with indelible force.

When the production of printed matter was a more tedious process, one publisher could enhance or restrict the flow of news and information for an entire community, simply by editing their newspaper content. Thus, public opinion could be shaped and molded at will. Buoyed by education or sunk by prejudice. This authority to choose came simply from owning the press. Internet connectivity might have seemed likely to explode the primitive ethos. Yet with many journals still published around the country, this anachronistic way of life has continued. The results remain vague and varied like those in charge.

For this writer, the looming presence of an editor neatly fit that paradigm of blessing and curse. Some were investigators by nature, curious and questioning, always. Happy to test limits and boundaries. Seeking content not seen elsewhere. Looking to find new horizons. Others were gladdened by huddling in their respective enclaves. Echoing echoes of repeated duplicity like a mirror reflecting the same muddled points of light over and over again. Going along to get along. Stale and safe. Neither gaining or losing ground, but existing for the purpose of a static sentience.

When I wrote for a motorcycle magazine published in California, my editor had a keen sense of the genre. Each new submission had me pondering if I might have reached his limit of professional endurance. But over-the-top material was an everyday meal for this seasoned fellow. His publishing parameters were vast. So I rarely encountered the sting of veto power. Perhaps a sort of liberty inappropriate for a developing wordsmith, in need of guidance. Later, at a local newspaper, this judicial gavel swung more freely. When I offered a column about a local football hero of consequence, it was rejected because he did not like sports of any kind. The yield was numb acceptance. And a document cheered by readers when it finally saw publication elsewhere, at a later date.

In each case, the rule of law was precipitated by one man’s opinion.

My retirement from traditional print media in 2014 felt like a sort of defeat, at first. Being unplugged from the continuum. Yet when I began the new ‘WOTL’ online series, a twinkle of magic appeared. Suddenly, the prose on each page was truly my own. Rendered in the purest form.

My heart sang a Lou Reed composition from years before:

I’m Set Free (The Velvet Underground, 1969)

I’ve been set free and I’ve been bound

To the memories of yesterday’s clouds

I’ve been set free and I’ve been bound

And now

I’m set free

I’m set free

I’m set free to find a new illusion

I’ve been blinded but - now I can see

What in the world has happened to me

The prince of stories who walks right by me

And now

I’m set free

I’m set free

I’m set free to find a new illusion

I’ve been set free and I’ve been bound

Let me tell you people - what I’ve found

I saw my head laughing – rolling on the ground

And now

I’m set free

I’m set free

I’m set free to find a new illusion

Cyberspace technology has offered a revolution of unparalleled significance. With the ability to sling words around the globe, some writers have truly been empowered. One need honor few restrictions of content, when working as a solo creator. Yet the resulting glut of material has created a blurred focus for many readers. The tide of garbled and unpolished work has washed upon every shore. Creating a world in which some editorial sifting might be useful.

Working long hours overnight, I sometimes ask my Black Lab for a canine review, after tapping away at the keyboard. I invite him to put a paw to the screen and opine about the words displayed. With the house otherwise empty and silent, he typically growls out an old-man groan of sympathy. But, little else. Still, the admonition seems clear enough.

“Writer, edit thyself.”

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