Editing Series: Structures
Over the next few weeks, I want to take you through the editing process. We’ve started with big picture items like conceptual work. Eventually, we’ll make our way into syntax and style.
Now that we’ve discussed math, specifically the basic math of editing, let us talk about structures and organization.
At its basic level, the structure is how you organize your writing so that it reaches its final destination. Your final destination could be proving an argument, killing your characters, resolving a mystery, getting to a cliffhanger, creating romance, or anything else. The world is pretty much your oyster. Pulling from Octavia Butler’s notes in the Huntington Library, your structure is a seduction. You have to convince your ideal and implied readers to believe the mystery, romance, argument, what-have-you. To my mind, the structure gives you the space to explore what you need while you keep to the major aim of your work.
One of the most used structures is a linear chronology. In this structure, the march through time becomes the engine that drives the argument or the plot. As with all structures, one must understand why and when this works. Linear chronology plays very well in romances, mysteries, and academic texts because forward movement in time pulls one toward a deadline or a vast encompassing conclusion. For academic non-fiction in particular, the movement through time assists in establishing cultural patterns, consistent narratives, and long-standing concerns. This is especially useful if one’s argument rests on a large expanse of time.
Unfortunately, a linear chronological argument does not function well if the argument or the narrative does not rely on this specific kind of movement in time. For instance, if the plot is driven by memory, then you may require a structure that moves according to the logic of memory. If the plot is driven by reflection (which can be rather different from memory), then you may need to start at the ending. If your argument is circumscribed to a shortened time period, then you can move according to another logic. If your argument compiles patterns, then you can begin with the most convincing pattern or most obvious and expand your argument outward. There are some academic books where time is less relevant to the argument: anthologies work this way as do essay collections as do theoretical volumes.
Let me drill down on this idea using my own work. Neither my monographs nor my edited volumes follow the logic of chronology. In addition to my philosophical resistance to chronos, this was a practical decision. For New Body Politics, I traced how embodied experience functioned to create social and political critique. So, I followed a logic that allowed me to move through the body: I began with the intimate experiences of breath and touch. Then, I moved into thinking about illness written on the body. Finally, I combined the intimate experiences of breath and touch (specifically orgasm and pain) and illness in the public sphere (cancer narratives). Prior to settling on this structure, I thought I should move through chronology: begin with Audre Lorde’s 1980 publication and end with Alicia Erian’s 2008 film adaptation of her novel. The problem here was that my argument was not motivated by time, but rather the body. I had to ask myself the most basic questions about structure:
What do I need to prove first? Where does my implied reader need to land first to be convinced of my argument? What is next? After that?
I can see why linear chronological structures appeal to all of us. They make the march through time do the work of proof. But, it is worthwhile to remember that linear chronology can function as an imposition on the mind. The logic of the argument or the plot may not function according to it.