When we change a sentence, we change what the sentence says.
Even small changes to a sentence—replacing a pronoun, changing the position of commas, finding a more specific verb—contribute to ensuring that a sentence says what it is supposed to say and not something else entirely.
Often, in my editing, this means identifying a sentence that sounds fine—and by “sounds fine,” I mean “sounds acceptable to an ear conditioned to clunky academic prose”—and recognizing that it doesn’t say much of anything (or conversely, that is trying to say too much).
I ask, what is this sentence doing? Why is it in existence right here? What is the author trying to communicate or emphasize with this sentence? What is the experience of the reader when they get to this sentence in context and read their way from its beginning to end?
I ask: what is this sentence saying? And then, I ask: what is it supposed to be saying? Writers often don’t realize what a large gap there is in their work between the answers to these questions. My task is to help them close the gap.
To answer the question, “What is this sentence saying?” I read the sentence as it appears on the page, as if it is the only information I have. I take the sentence seriously, as if its construction is intended just the way it is. This earnest reading exposes when seemingly fine sentences hide imprecise ideas. (Learning to see sentences this way—to notice them, to pay attention to their details, to read them without reading into them—takes skills developed through years of practice. Learning to write sentences this way, so that every sentence you produce is intentional, takes years more. On the blog, I provide resources for learning these skills).
To answer the question, “What is this sentence supposed to be saying?,” I draw on my qualifications and my intuitions—as a reader, as a philosopher, and as an editor. First, I am your reader. I’ve read your piece: the pages, paragraphs, and sentences before and after the sentence I’m working with. I use my knowledge of your argument to figure out what this sentence is doing—whether it is introducing a new idea, posing an objection, qualifying a previous point. I am also a life-long, voracious reader, familiar with conventions across genres from modernist poetry to detective fiction to popular science. I delight in the incredible variety of things language can do, and I want to help you accomplish what you intend to in your writing.
My training as a philosopher also helps me discern what a sentence is supposed to be saying. I have more than a decade of experience analyzing the logical progression of ideas, identifying implicit assumptions and connections, and finding the most charitable interpretations of an argument. I look for places where objections loom, and I speculate about possible replies to those objections. I bring this curiosity, attention to detail, and commitment to ideas to your work.
Finally, I use my skills as an editor to figure out what your sentence is supposed to say and how it can best say it. I look it up—in style guides, grammar books, usage guides, and dictionaries. I double-check. I consider alternative word choices and sentence structures. I look for words that can be cut and sentences that needlessly repeat one another. As an editor, I work for your future readers, eliminating mistakes that might trip them and getting rid of confusing ambiguity. I want your sentence to reach your readers.
I am remarkably good at figuring out what a sentence is supposed to say. My clients find that a majority of my changes fit into the first category (and that they are happy to accept these changes, at higher rates than they accept the changes of copyeditors at journals for instance). And when a client discovers a sentence where I interpreted them wrong, they are also thrilled: they see themselves through the eyes of a careful reader and have a chance to prevent a misunderstanding among future readers. Sometimes—and these are my very favorite moments as an editor—through my mistaken interpretation, a client articulates to themselves for the first time just what they want to say.
This kind of editing can provide your work with a crucial advantage—you don’t want to leave your reader to do the interpretive work to reconcile what you say and what they think you mean. They might not be careful enough at this task. They might be rushed, bored, preoccupied, or tired. You want your reader to be able to trust your sentences, to trust that they say what you mean. As Verlyn Klinkenborg puts it, “What can the reader possibly believe? Your sentences or you?”
Interested in reading more about the gap between what we say and what we mean to say? This follow up post addresses the writers who don’t see how this gap is a key problem in their writing.