Game On!

This is the third of a few posts having to do with Frank Palmer’s book Literature and Moral Understanding: A Philosophical Essay on Ethics, Aesthetics, Education, and Culture (1992, Oxford University Press). You should start at the beginning.

As I said yesterday, the early work of Palmer’s book was the laying out of terms, rules, and opposing constructions. But with Chapter 4, “Moral Responses to Fictional Characters”… well, in the immortal words of Wayne Campbell, Game On!

The chapter begins with a recounting of the famous Radford/Weston debate of 1975. (Famous in some circles, anyway. It’s not as well known as the Ali-Frasier Thrilla in Manila of that same year, but it was a big deal at the Aristotelian Society.)

Colin Radford entered the ring first, to declare that our emotions about fiction are simply a category error, to which we humans are vulnerable because we’re just the kind of creatures that have emotions, even about things that we shouldn’t. Parker paraphrases Radford’s position thus: “…our emotional responses to fiction, brute and unavoidable though they are, rest upon a mistake.”

Michael Weston then took his place in the box, to declare that our emotional responses to fiction are not on behalf of the travails of the fictional characters, but rather of the literary work as a whole. Weston sees a work of fiction in ways analogous to a work of music, a composition by which we can be moved without an attachment to any particular component. He rejects emotional responses to characters by saying that we can’t actually interact with them, and that “fictional characters are never free to do other than they are portrayed as doing,” just as the notes of a concerto have to come in a predetermined array.

By this point, Palmer can take no more, vaulting the ropes himself to take on both opponents (albeit thirteen years later). In a sequence as finely scripted as a fight scene in which Jackie Chan singlehandedly dispatches a legion, Palmer walks calmly into the fray. He uses both Radford’s and Weston’s arguments against one another, and adds some fine moves of his own to leave them both gasping and bloodied on the mat.

Of course it would not be the Anna Karenina we know if her life had gone differently; but it would not be the Florence Nightingale we know if her life had gone differently. (95)

Oh, THAT left a mark!

But that’s just the highlight reel blow. The real work is to evoke Wittgenstein’s formulation that our attitude towards another person is ‘an attitude to a soul” (or, though he doesn’t refer to it here, what Martin Buber would call an I-Thou relation).

The application of this argument to fiction is that in so far as we are to regard fictional characters as doing things, as engaging in acts and actions, we cannot have a non-moral or non-human perspective on their actions. Our moral expectations are built into our very conception of what they are doing, e.g., when they tell lies, commit acts of cruelty, disregard bonds of friendship, mistreat their fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, or when they are kind and generous, loyal and faithful, honest and true, self-sacrificing, brave, principled, or fair-minded. Whatever further significance we see in their actions, or however much we may enter into further debate about the nature and quality of their deeds and of their significance for the meaning of the literary work, our conception of a character as a human being has the mark of an ‘attitude to a soul’. (99)

The very fact that we see fictional characters’ actions not as neutral body-cam recordings of physical motion, but as bearing motivation and moral implication, means that we have entered into a specific, mutual relation with them. We grant them the emotional agency to determine both their actions and their intentions.

This is similar to the ways in which I can regard ‘real-world’ people I don’t know, whether historical (Gandhi and Stalin seem pretty different to me, though I never met either) or contemporary, as when we judge the character (a revealing word) of the political candidates from which we choose. We don’t know them, don’t interact with them. We merely hear and see what they do, and intuit their ‘character’ from those actions. On a day-to-day basis, Cory Booker is no more ‘real’ to me than Clark Kent; I grant them both reality because they both mean something to me, because I have an emotional resonance of a certain timbre and pitch when I see their actions. I have chosen to make them real, just as we can choose to deem some people other than human when it’s in our interest to mistreat them.

More tomorrow.

Groundskeeping and Framed Worlds

This is the second of a few posts having to do with Frank Palmer’s book Literature and Moral Understanding: A Philosophical Essay on Ethics, Aesthetics, Education, and Culture (1992, Oxford University Press). You should start at the beginning.

The second and third chapters of Palmer’s book represent the kind of groundskeeping that all academic books must do early on: defining terms, acknowledging the work of rivals, preparing the playing field to facilitate the daring maneuvers to come. It’s fascinating work if you can give it the time it deserves, deadly dull if you only came to watch the game. (And in that way, it’s just like the ritual of the poolroom I described a few days ago.)

One thing Palmer does to lay out the background is to assert that judgments only make sense in certain contexts. We say that a child is pretending to ride a horse, but we do not say that an actor is pretending to be a character. He uses the analogue of a person playing the role of a middle-forward in soccer: her actions only make sense within the context of the game and its rules, but it makes no sense to say that she is pretending to be a midfielder, nor that she is in a make-believe game. The game and her role are both absolutely real, but only within that context. In fact, the agreed-upon reality are what give the game and her actions their meaning, are what prevent her from using her hands to block a pass, from tripping a rushing ballhandler.

Palmer also lays out some characteristics of imagination, one of the most interesting being that we can imagine something being true without actually asserting that it is true. I can imagine that it’s raining right now, without actually perceiving that it is.

… when we apply this distinction to the problem of fiction the bare fact that we neither believe, nor are required to believe, that fictional occurrences are actual occurrences constitutes no impediment to our ability to understand them… Since it it literally inconceivable that a non-existent man should perform the deeds of Hamlet, in attending to the play we think of Hamlet as an existent man without thinking that there is any such person. (53)

He then follows that with the imaginative attitude that readers or viewers take when encountering a work of fiction:

… we are led through a writer’s handing of his chosen medium to experience characters and their circumstances within some sort of Gestalt. In order to accept the invitation to the imagination we therefore must be prepared to enter into a relationship with the work, such that our understanding of the characters needs to be as genuine and convincing as our understanding of actual people. (59)

Finally, he asserts that we bring the same sorts of contextualized judgments to fictional characters’ behavior as we do to that of “real” people. Actions are never merely neutral, they exist within a context of history and motive and circumstance that utterly change their meanings.

Suppose that I discover a friend has betrayed a confidence… Suppose I now discover circumstances which suggest he is not the rogue I thought he was. The words slipped out while he was drunk, or he was talking in his sleep, or perhaps his wife was depressed and, in a desperate attempt to get her to see things in perspective, he found himself revealing my long battle against alcoholism or the brave face I had been putting on a terminal illness. Discovering this, I may feel inclined to say that I no longer blame him, But this lessens my inclination to say that he ‘betrayed’ a confidence. Perhaps the changed description is ‘he revealed my secret’. At any rate I shall be seeing his act under some different description. I shall have a different conception of what he has done. (63)

And of course, we do exactly this when we consider the actions and statements of any fictional character. We encounter them within the context of the story as well as within the context of our understanding of how people behave in daily life, and both sets of rules shape our meaning and our judgments. That is, we treat those characters as though they had normal human agency, and we treat the world of the novel as analogously real to the world we otherwise inhabit. Fiction would not matter otherwise, just as people running up and down a soccer pitch would not matter without our acceptance of the rules and rituals and history of the sport. The fictional world is real. The fact that its reality is enclosed within the context of that particular story makes it no different than the reality of any workplace, any economic system, any religious belief. All of those worlds have internal facts that are crucial within them, irrelevant or inapplicable beyond them.

More tomorrow.

When The Characters Exist, And We Don’t

This is the first of a few posts having to do with Frank Palmer’s book Literature and Moral Understanding: A Philosophical Essay on Ethics, Aesthetics, Education, and Culture (1992, Oxford University Press)

I’ve been wrestling with the idea that I bear ethical responsibilities to the fictional characters I create. In order to think more carefully about that, I asked our local library to obtain a copy of Frank Palmer’s Literature and Moral Understanding, the 1992 book drawn from his 1988 dissertation in philosophy from London University. I’m really just underway with it, so I’ll be giving you a reader’s report as I go.

It’s not my intention to recapitulate his entire argument, which would be the same as making a 1:1 scale model of a house. (Here’s the book, if you’d like.) Rather, I’m going to stop the tape periodically and point out some idea that he’s made me think about.

He makes the argument that there is an internal mode of discourse about fiction, in which it makes sense to speak of a character doing or wanting or saying something, and an external mode of discourse, in which those characters and settings do not exist. So far, that makes pretty obvious sense. When we read The Hustler, we get to say things like “Eddie Felson grew up in Oakland,” but when we stand outside the book, it makes no sense for us to find a 1930s Oakland telephone directory and look for the Felson family’s listing.

But then Palmer makes an important claim, and one that I don’t think even he quite understands the importance of. He says “… I cannot rush on to the heath to reason with Lear—not because he does not exist, but because as far as the play is concerned I do not, and indeed cannot, if I am to understand it.” (38)

Let’s call these world 1 (the world internal to the story) and world 2 (the ‘real’ world). In world 2, the world I’m sitting in right now in Vermont on August 11, 2019, the fictional characters I might discuss don’t exist. But in world 1, the world inside the story… I don’t exist, and those characters and places do! Put another way, I am not a participant in those stories:

The ‘world” of Mansfield Park differs from our world, not in the sense that it contains different sorts of creatures from actual persons, but in the sense that we cannot be a party to anything that happens in it. (38-9).

And really, isn’t that a description of the best possible experience of reading? We cease to exist. We are not in our chair, not feeling the sweat of a humid day, not thinking about the itch between our shoulders or the thirst of our empty water bottle. We are lost to the world of the pages… not because we play any role within it, but because we have left the world in which even the concept of our self has no meaning, and have entered a different world.

When a book fails us, our selves are fully present in our experience. We feel ourselves to be frustrated, or angry, or bored, or confused. We have opinions. But when we’re fully in world 1, when the writer has opened that portal for us, we no longer inhabit our world 2 selves, our minds nor our bodies… but we also have no place in world 1. We are not doing those story things, we cannot intervene in what’s happening, we can’t talk things over with the confused hero who has misinterpreted her friend’s words. We are nowhere. We do not exist at all.

Two thoughts come from this realization, for me. One is that this helps explain why I’m so frustrated with so much fiction that comes from academic MFA programs. Those writers make their bones through critical analysis, through actively using their world 2 brains and references to explain—and later, to create—world 1 people and phenomena. They don’t play by fiction rules, they play by critical rules, and their fiction suffers greatly for it, always held at an ironic arm’s length for active, constant consideration.

The other, though, is that Parker’s analysis (at least so far, I’m only 40 pages in) deals with the role of the reader, and not the role of the writer. The writer is that strange creature sitting in world 2 who really can make things happen in world 1, not as a character, but in a completely different role. If the reader exists nowhere at all, the writer exists in two places at once. Who, then, am I when I write?

More tomorrow.

Cue Ceremony

I guess I might as well come out. I’m Cueish. That is, I have a deeply emotional and historically informed experience with playing pool, or snooker, or carom billiards, or any of the innumerable cue sports. There is enormous beauty and meaning within the enclosed rails, patterns waiting to be revealed.

This is my cue, an instrument of craft and care in its creation and (sometimes, at least aspirationally) in its use. It was made by Thierry Layani, a thoughtful and ingenious Quebecois cuemaker who makes a couple of hundred a year rather than a couple of hundred per day. But really, everything about that room is a shrine. There’s nothing in there that doesn’t relate in some way to the evocation of craft and care. I have a little statuette on the side table, brought to me from Ghana by a former student who told me that the figure was representative of wisdom. Along with instructional books and rulebooks, the small bookcase also holds two chapbooks of my friend’s poetry.

When I uncover the table, I have a specific sequence for folding the canvas cover, like folding an altar cloth, or a flag. When he table is covered, there is a wooden Buddha on the canvas, not because I’m Buddhist but because it reminds me to be attentive, to slow down and take care. That Buddha is wrapped with a knit shawl in the colors of the table, the electric blue of the cloth and the burnt orange of the table skirts and the tan of the maple cues. When I uncover the table, the Buddha goes on a stand next to the bookcase; when I re-cover the table at session’s end, it goes back into a particular spot next just below the right side pocket, facing the door. I place a reliquary item before it, something to remind me of my goals for the next encounter. A cue ball, if my position control has been shoddy. A cube of chalk if my use of spin has been haphazard.

I say thank you to the room before I close the door to leave.

Friends who come to that room don’t know that, and so they apply their own vocabulary and associated rituals to it. It’s a game room, to compete and win or lose. It’s a man cave, to drink and joke around. It’s not like I have a sign at the top of the stairs laying out the rules of encounter, so it’s only natural that visitors rely on rules they’ve learned elsewhere. Sometimes I work to bring them around, but sometimes their energy is strong enough that I don’t work against it. The room becomes secularized. When I put it together again, I apologize to it, ask its forgiveness. Wait for it to become sacred again. It doesn’t happen right away.

Some friends recently went to Japan, and returned with wonderful stories and images and gifts. And one of the things they described was participating in a traditional tea ceremony. Everything precise, everything small and proscribed and layered with history. When the cup is presented, the recipient turns it counterclockwise so that the image on the cup faces them. If you just want to drink some tea, you can go to the convenience store and buy a bottle for a buck and a half. If you attend a tea ceremony, it’s because you want something greater than a simple refreshment.

Every place in our lives can be that way. A tavern can be a place to stay hydrated, a place to watch football, or a place to get wasted. But it can also be a place to discover flavor combinations, to renew friendships, to enjoy the pleasures of hospitality. The inside of my car can be a comfortable box to get me from one spot to another, and I can let the radio invade with its random stimuli. But it can also be a place to focus on the craft of driving, the shape of the road. We get to decide on the meaning of places, to turn them to greater or lesser ends.

My pool room is designed specifically to support my cue ceremony. It’s where I teach, it’s where I practice. I inhabit it in specific, care-ful ways. And that helps me better understand the spaces of others as well. I try to watch how they use a space, where I naturally fit within the flow, what parts I’m invited into and what parts seem to be less public. A space is a container of ritual, and the ritual is what’s central.

When you enter a space, watch for the ritual. There won’t be a sign. Just watch what happens, and what doesn’t. Don’t intervene without waiting for some sense of how your host flows through it. Lose your willfulness and let the space teach you how to be.

A Free Offer for Loyal Readers


Thanks to everyone for being along on the ride for the first hundred posts. As a special event, I thought I’d try something different. As I noted a week or so ago, I’ve finished a new story, “The Feather of the Falcon.” I’m putting it up here as an audio story.

Here’s to the next hundred posts, and thanks for being with me so far. It’s great to hear from you. Let’s keep in touch.

The Cost of Cost Control

Times are tough… we might have to let go of Andre…

I don’t know what any of this means, so I’m just going to tell you and maybe you can figure it out.

Our region had a pretty substantial rain event on April 15th of this year, which resulted in a lot of road shoulders washed out around our town, a couple of culverts failing, a couple of sinkholes. We have a professional highway crew of two people to serve our ten miles of paved and twenty-six miles of unpaved roads, and they went through a lot of work to bring all of those locations back to pre-storm condition.

After about two months, FEMA finally determined that rain event was an eligible disaster, qualifying us for partial reimbursement. Our road foreman, having worked before with FEMA and on lots of road-improvement grants, had done all of the work of taking before-and-after pictures linked to latitude and longitude coordinates (who knew that cameras were capable of doing geodata? I’m so old…), recording timesheets and equipment logs for eligible Town work, keeping receipts for purchased gravel and crushed stone. So we’re in good shape to apply for reimbursement.

The overall costs we could reasonably apply to this event’s repairs total about $45,000, and FEMA reimburses at a 75% rate, so we’re eligible to receive maybe $34K. That’d be good; it’s about ten percent of our overall highway budget for the year.

But here’s the problem. We had a start-up phone call this morning that included six people, for about forty minutes. The purpose of that call was to set us up for our first face-to-face meeting in a month, three or so hours with eight people coming from as far away as the state capitol, a two-hour drive. And then there are the bookkeepers who will handle all of our receipts and timesheets, and examine them against the Town’s insurance policy and employment policy and procurement policy. Between the personnel costs and the accounting costs and the documentation costs, this project is going to eat almost as much in overhead as it does in cash reimbursement—our $35K is going to cost $70K.

I’ve had this conversation in the past, with someone making about $100K a year whose job is to coordinate legislative advocacy for children’s health care. At some point, isn’t it just cheaper to put a barrel of money and a shovel on the side of the road and let people take what they need?

The problem, it seems, is graft. If we don’t supervise every single detail, then the unscrupulous will take every advantage. See, for instance, the well-to-do parents in Chicago who are helping their children file for emancipation so that they qualify for more financial aid for their expensive colleges. So every rule, every clause, every form, every moment of oversight, is there to keep (mostly wealthy) people from taking more than they should. Most “welfare queens” are in the uppermost tax brackets, and always have been. In fact, I’ll put forth a first principle of governance: it ought to be easy for people without money to get some, and hard for people with money to get more.

Anyway, here’s my challenge, to any economist or forensic accountants out there who want an interesting (and perhaps revolutionary) research project. Does the cost to prevent theft and waste equal as much as might be stolen or wasted in the first place? Would we save money and be more effective by putting (metaphoric) barrels of cash in impoverished neighborhoods so that people just aren’t poor? What if we just drove into Flint with a team of excavators and plumbers, and replaced the city’s water system for free this summer? Wouldn’t that be cheaper than all of the investment in tracking down exactly which household or which street qualified for what kind of repair?

What if your hospital, instead of verifying your insurance and filing a claim for each discrete billing code, just said “Come on in, we’ll fix you up.” I read an article not long ago about an American woman who was staying in Iceland, who was worried about a lump in her breast and called the local clinic. They were confused at her questions about “appointments” and “referrals,” and just told her to come in whenever it was convenient. Three dollars, one lab test, and four days later, she was determined to have a cyst rather than a tumor. Done. Why do we freak out about stuff like this? It’s so easy that every other country has figured out how to do it!

Lest you imagine that this is an anti-big-government screed, you can take any sentence you like and fill it in with Comcast or Blue Cross or the Toyota Motor Company or Stanford University and get the same answer. We have a cultural question, not merely an organizational one.

As the saying goes, haters gonna hate. So too, grifters gonna grift. What if we were able to be brave enough to admit that, to know that we can’t prevent every bit of it, to absorb some level of loss, and by so doing, save a cubic shit-ton by not overseeing everything? Our drive to efficiency and fairness has made us enormously inefficient and unfair.

Where Do They All Come From?

Eleanor Rigby, statue by Tommy Steele, photo by Wikimedia moderator Rodhullandemu

Nora often wakes up with an odd word running through her mind: peripatetic, or calcify, or hematoma. Not connected to anything in particular, just a sound. And we often make that into a game, where she’ll say a word, and I’ll say a word in response, and she’ll reply, and it’ll go on for half an hour. The replies don’t have to make sense, they don’t have to rhyme or start with the same letter or be a similar category. Blackberry could be followed by peach, or by iPhone, or by Chuck Berry, or by pie

Last week, on Wednesday, Nora woke up with a random name in her head: Svetlana Yates. I heard that and replied that she was a Russian mail-order bride running a laundromat in Missouri. Nora laughed, and said “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Have these stories come into your head like that!”

Well, I have no idea. But I’ve spent the past five days writing it. And as of this afternoon, Svetlana Yates is a fully fledged person, her story told.

How did I know her husband’s name? How did I know her two daughters, and why they’d choose such different kinds of colleges? How did I know that she drove a three-year-old white Corolla, that she smoked three American Spirits a day and kept a tin of mints in her apron? How did I know that the water line tore on Washer 17? I don’t know how any of that emerged. But I’ve been in coin-op laundries before, felt that uniquely greasy-tacky feel of the lint traps after years of fabric softener sheets. I’ve lived in a place like Granby, Missouri, where everything is exhausted all the time, including everyone’s aspirations. And I’ve met people like Svetlana, who had once been children with dreams and who are now 41 years old and resigned to an endless series of unchanging days. If you look at the world around you, stories are everywhere. I just borrow them and put them together in new ways.

When it works, it’s more real than life, one word that draws forth another and becomes a person, a place, a time.

Just for Fun

One of the occupational hazards of writing is that you get words stuck in your head. You turn them around, examine their construction, imagine small variations. And that’s led me to invent a game I’ll share with you. (I don’t claim to be the very first person to invent this, probably ten thousand other writers have done it as well, but I don’t know any of them, and I never heard of it before. So it’s mine, nyah.)

Take any two or three or four letter word, and exchange the core vowel for the others—AEIOU—and see if you can find one that works as a real word with each of the five vowels. It’s really hard, there aren’t many.

WAN—WAN, WIN, WON, but no WEN or WUN


BORN—BARN, BERN (as in Feel The…), BORN, BURN, but no BIRN

KITE—KATE, KITE, KUTE (if you live in the Midwest and start a craft store, Kate’s Kute Kites), but no KETE or KOTE

RUT—RAT, ROT, RUT, but no RET or RIT (unless you use the brand of grocery-store fabric dye)

SILK—SALK (Jonas), SILK, SULK, but no SELK or SOLK

ED (my cat’s name)—AD, ED, ID, but no OD or UD

I’ll give you a few words that work with all five vowels: B_G, B_D, D_N, L_ST. There are plenty of others, but as specimens in the great lake of English vocabulary, they’re really rare. Go ahead and use proper nouns, everyday words from other languages… it won’t help much.

If you’re anything like me, this will now burrow down into your DNA and interrupt your sleep for weeks. Sorry, not sorry. If you read this on LinkedIn, as many do, go ahead and put your successful words down in the comments to gloat.

Now, for a second game, use one of the non-words you’ve come up with in your search, and make a plausible definition for it. For instance, let’s say I’m working from CART or CURT, and I run into CIRT. That’s now my word, and I can do anything I like with it. So I will now define it:

cirt (n., pronounced with a soft “c”)—the thin space between the back side of a closed drawer and the inside of the cabinet. Hey, honey, I found your grandma’s tea towel. It was down in the cirt.

If the first game is a solitaire, the second game is a party game. Put one of those non-words on the table and give everybody a minute to invent a definition. Winner, chosen by popular acclaim, gets a point or takes a drink or whatever reward fits your group’s larger agenda.

William S. Burroughs once claimed that language is a virus from outer space. This pair of games is one of its symptoms.


I’m writing this from our town’s official Cooling Station, the Middletown Springs Public Library. One of the many things I do here in our village of seven hundred is to act as the emergency management director, coordinating responses to larger-scale crises and doing pre-disaster planning. The State urged local communities to establish cooling stations today, with temperatures expected around 90 and humidity that’ll make it feel like 105. So I called our librarian, she said ‘sure,’ and here we are.

I don’t expect anybody will actually take advantage of it, but it’s one of the things you do, and it costs the town ten bucks. If we had businesses in town, people would go sit at a bar and drink beer in the AC, but for us, it’s the general store and the library and that’s about it.

I love libraries. Anybody can come in and hang out for no particular reason. All of the talk about our library is benefits to kids, but we’ve got a guy who comes in to play online chess most days, some older folks who need someone to talk with, a few people who don’t have internet at home and use the ten-year-old Lenovo ThinkCentre in the corner. The library does book talks with local authors, poetry nights, hosts the knitting group, holds candidate forums before elections. Our librarian pulls interlibrary loans, reads voraciously and makes recommendations, builds and culls the collection. The library just makes us all a little bit smarter and a little more civil, both welcome outcomes.

It’s been nearly sixty years since Roger Barker and Paul Gump did their Kansas studies about specialists and generalists. They looked at high schools with 200 kids and high schools with 2000 kids, and found that the small schools rewarded kids who were pretty good at a lot of things, whereas the big schools rewarded kids for being extremely good at one thing. Makes sense. They both have sports teams, student governments, school papers and yearbooks, fundraisers… in a small place, everybody has to do a little of everything, has to be a second baseman AND class treasurer AND in the chorus AND doing page layout for the yearbook. In that way, the schools create the adults who are most valuable in their particular community, the small-town volunteer who can cover almost anything, the big-city professional specializing in one specific expertise.

I miss being a specialist, sometimes. I miss having the depth of academic conversations that are unique to a small group of similarly-trained disciplinary colleagues. But I’m more often glad to have become a generalist, responsive to the needs of my neighbors, sitting in the library on a hot afternoon to make sure that our friends are all okay.

The Editor as Ally

I went to a talk on Sunday at a nearby writers’ group meeting, given by my friend, the writer and editor Hugh Coyle. Hugh has been working for seven years on an historical novel about Alfred Nobel, Bertha von Suttner, and the tensions between them that ultimately led to a more peaceful Europe. But his talk last weekend was about the multiple roles of the editor, which he had been for decades with a major scholastic publisher. The editor is often cast as an intellectual opponent, constraining the author’s creative impulses. But in Hugh’s experience, and in my own, the role of the editor has been much more positive.

I’ve been blessed for the past two books to work with Elizabeth Branch Dyson, senior editor at the University of Chicago Press. In her role, she has said yes to two projects, thank god for that. But she’s done a ton of other things. She’s represented the books to her colleagues; she’s offered precision diagnosis of the problems that a draft presents, and given me time to rebuild a manuscript; she’s given me a commission to write a book that she’d always wanted to represent; and she periodically drops me a line with something she’s read that she thinks might spur an op-ed. She has made both The PhDictionary and The Adjunct Underclass into far better books than they might have been.

Almost ten years ago, I was approached by an editor for the weekly newspaper North Coast Journal. A friend who wrote for them was talking with her about an article idea, and he said that I’d be the right person to write it. So the editor, Carrie Peyton Dahlberg, worked with me for a month on an article about people who have left the gorgeous and economically tenuous landscape of the northern California coast for other lives, and who look back with really mixed feelings about their decisions. I did half a dozen interviews of other Humboldt County departees who (like me) loved their years there but ultimately made other decisions about their professional lives, and put together a first draft that was pretty good.

But Carrie saw through it. Or rather, saw more deeply into it. She focused on one interview, with a married couple who disagreed with one another about their time in Humboldt County and their satisfactions with their new home in Sacramento. I’d included it as merely one among the others, but she knew that foregrounding the tension within just that one household would amplify the ache within all of us who loved it there but who finally had to go. And the article that resulted was vastly better than the one I’d first submitted.

And then yesterday, I had a late afternoon glass of wine with my dear friends Linda Peavy and Ursula Smith, powerful writers and editors who have built their careers around women’s history, particularly of the American West. They had graciously read the first draft of my current novel Trailing Spouse, and they rekindled my own faith in it.

Writers talk all the time about “being too close” to a work and “no longer able to see it,” but those are vague complaints. One of the specific symptoms is in the writer’s understanding of a work’s pace. The pace of a scene is actually three different experiences. One is how long the event would have played out in real time, the thirty-second argument or the thirty-year war. A second is how long it takes to read it: one night in a diner could be an entire book, a decades-long career compressed into a couple of paragraphs. But the third is how long it took the writer to write it. That thirty-second argument might have taken me two weeks to come to grips with, and it now just feels slow, leaden, nearly inert. It takes an external reader to experience it at full trot after I’ve worked on it frame by frame.

Another symptom is that the writer’s work is segmented, and the reader’s work is connected. Part of my experience of working on Trailing Spouse has been the number of times that I’ve set it aside for something other: work on marketing the nonfiction, work on interviews and side articles from that, work on behalf of our tiny town as we volunteer for projects that other larger cities have full-time staff to do. The novel has come in opportunistic hours. And I’ve read parts of it here and there at my writers’ groups, which doubles the emphasis on having ten good pages rather than on how those ten live within two hundred. So the novel has come to feel like a drawer full of shiny beads, all pretty on their own but not strung together into a composition.

For these and other reasons, the writer absolutely cannot make reliable judgment about the quality of the work. And at their kitchen table yesterday, Linda and Ursula saw the book in ways that I could not. They breathed new life into it, not merely cheerleading for it but seeing through it, finding possibilities I hadn’t explored. That’s what editors do.

I’m grateful for all of the editors I’ve worked with for thirty years, from magazine editors to dissertation advisors to journalism teachers. They’ve all sent me back for one last pass when I thought I was exhausted, have seen the work that could be hidden within the work that is.