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Posts Tagged ‘P G Wodehouse’

One of the lessons my Guardian Angels have taught me is that when one is overly critical of the task being done by someone else, they ensure that one willy-nilly ends up playing that very role for some time. Being in that person’s shoes (or sandals, if you prefer) helps one to realise exactly where the shoe pinches, literally as well as metaphorically. From being a critic, one turns up being a reluctant admirer of the art and craft of the task at hand. One develops empathy for the party of the other part. Scales fall from one’s eyes. It dawns upon one that the person performing the task in question is perhaps more to be pitied than censured.  

Take the case of a husband who occasionally takes a jaundiced view of the quality of cooking of his spouse. However, after a heated argument, when she decides to go off in a huff to her parents’ house, all hell breaks loose. Regularly gobbling down instant noodles and takeaway food from nearby joints soon loses its charm. Deciding to take the matter into his own hands, he enters the kitchen arena, much like a Roman Gladiator showing up at the Colosseum. Finding the right raw materials and other ingredients in the kitchen becomes a major challenge. Locating either the right pots and pans or an appropriate ladle for whatever is planned to be dished out sounds tougher than overpowering a lion which has been deprived of its quota of vitamins for many days. Sweating profusely while seated on the dining table and trying to put some semi-cooked stuff down the hatch, he starts appreciating the cooking skills of his spouse. The post-cooking clean-up in the kitchen leaves him gasping for breath. Pretty soon, he decides to bury the hatchet and rush off to his in-laws’ place to charm the wife into accompanying him back to their abode. The dove of matrimonial peace restarts flapping its wings at home.

But I digress. After I hung up my corporate boots and decided to become an author, I had come to view editors of all sizes, shapes, and hues with a thinly veiled contempt. Most of them believed in following the dictum that silence conveyed a polite rejection. Even if they were to accept a manuscript for scrutiny, there was seldom a commitment as to when it might crawl up to the top of the pile on their cluttered tables. And yes, I dreaded the day when I would receive their detailed feedback. By then, they would have poked so many holes in the manuscript that it might as well be compared to Swiss cheese. Of course, the most traumatic experience was when I was asked to reduce the word length by close to 30% of what it was. To an author, it is akin to asking someone to perform a delicate surgery on oneself, sans anaesthesia of any kind!                 

However, my Guardian Angels soon decided to intervene and change my perspective. Somehow, I ended up becoming part of a three-member editorial team that has pious intentions of publishing a philosophical tome comprising as many as fifteen essays from as many authors located in different parts of the world.

For me, a voracious reader, it is obviously a pleasure to go through varying perspectives on the same subject. One’s mind opens up, much like a sunflower trying to soak in as much Vitamin D as possible. One’s outlook broadens. Each author’s voice is unique. The frequency, the amplitude, and the tone and tenor of each composition are different. At a casual glance, all these might sound like a cacophony of sorts. But together, they all generate a symphony of sorts, presenting a harmonious blend of the key message of the anthology.

Empathising with Editors

Thus, the task of editing offers quite a few perks. But it also makes one face many challenges in the process. Here is an indicative list of some of these faced by the team so far.

  1. Ensuring that the content of any contribution fits into the overall purpose of the collection.
  2. Maintaining the originality of the author’s voice, while suggesting improvements which would connect the narrative better to the key objective of the anthology.
  3. To improve the readability of a paper, each one needs to be checked and ranked on a hypothetical Richter Scale of Comprehensibility. Those scoring higher than a threshold must be politely advised to tone down the narrative.   
  4. Having patience with contributors who are first-time authors. Supporting them to improve the general flow of the article. Assisting them in connecting disparate sections or paragraphs more smoothly.
  5. Even though all contributions may be in the same language, the sentence construction, the choice of words used, and the way of conveying an idea vary widely. This requires a type of verbal dexterity which could leave one fogged, nonplussed, and perplexed.
  6. Ensuring that a contributor is not trying to promote his/her own business interests through the paper submitted by them. One, that would be unethical. Two, if readers suspect that a commercial motive is embedded in any essay, our own credibility and brand image take a hit.
  7. In case an expert has contributed a paper on a subject which is not understood by any of the members of the editorial team, referring it to a domain expert for a peer review makes eminent sense. Coordinating between the author and the expert helps in bringing about a better balance in the paper.
  8. Since the idea is to deliver a book to our readers which does not leave them fretting and fuming over linguistic bloomers in the manuscript, the services of an external editor need to be hired. In many cases, this may entail a back-and-forth exchange of ideas between the author and the external editor.  If the author has chosen to quote references and mentioned a few weblinks to support the arguments being advanced, a rigorous check of the same could be handled by him/her.
  9. With advances in technology, a basic check to ascertain the AI-infestation level of any essay needs to be considered a sine qua non.   

It transpires that editors need to be made of sterner stuff. Overcoming our prejudices and being impartial does not come easily. A bulldog spirit is essential. Nerves of chilled steel are required for picking up something written by someone else and transforming it into the kind of stuff potential readers would gleefully lap up, much like your pet relishing a slice of fish.

Having undergone an instructive experience of this kind, one may safely conclude that editors are more to be pitied than censured.

In fact, it was this experience that prompted yours truly to publish a detailed blog post earlier, capturing the kind of challenges faced by the owners and editors of journals in the oeuvre of Sir P. G. Wodehouse.

Choosing a Title and Subtitle

Once the manuscript is almost ready, thoughts of the team obviously turned to the challenge of choosing an appropriate title and subtitle for the collection.

The snag we always come up against when deciding upon these can be summed up as an existential dilemma between two vastly different atmospheric levels – the troposphere, closer to the ground realities which are showcased by different articles, and the stratosphere, which denotes the loftier goals with which the anthology was conceptualised, to begin with. This deserves serious thought. Both must be catchy and readily comprehensible. It is something one does not want to go wrong about, because one false step and the whole compendium is sunk. If a lay reader, while searching for something fresh to devour, does not become curious about what a book is all about, and does not get a promise as to what precisely to expect, they could not be blamed for failing to get attracted to the offering. Their short attention span of a few seconds makes them move away to greener pastures. They simply walk out on one.

Thus, if the title represents the loftier goal of the anthology in a rather obtuse manner, the subtitle must hasten to clarify what it is all about and what it promises to deliver.  

So, one needs to put one’s thinking cap on, surf through the internet to locate the titles and subtitles of comparable works, if any, and then make a judicious call. The last thing one wants is to leave one’s public at a loss, simply raising their eyebrows, twiddling their thumbs, and trying to figure out what one is talking about.   

The Challenge of Whipping Up an Introduction

The existential dilemma mentioned above also pervades this aspect of the book. While crafting an introductory chapter to the collection of voices presented in the anthology, a balance needs to be struck between the stratospheric level of the high ideals which the book intends to convey to its readers and the tropospheric real-life situations reflected in the different papers presented therein. Not an easy task! Recalling that sordid experience, one could be forgiven for quivering like an aspen, if you know what I mean.

If one starts describing the contents of different papers in brief, one leaves the audience wondering where the collection is headed. Of course, one does it with the best of intentions, trying to provide a bird’s-eye view of the whole affair. But even the most conscientious readers could be left clueless as to what purpose will be served by their having to trudge through as many as fifteen odd essays, each having a different ‘intellectual density’, with few connecting points between them. They would miss the woods for the trees.  

On the other hand, if one takes too long to capture the beauty of the woods, create an atmosphere, and state the loftier goals which prompted one to curate a delectable collection of so many essays, many readers may simply call it a day and quietly walk out on one.

Perhaps wisdom lies in putting the salient facts as briefly as possible and linking them to the overall purpose of the book, prompting the reader to go ahead and start exploring different chapters, either sequentially or otherwise, one by one. It can be done the other way round as well. In any case, one needs to make sure that while going through the introductory chapter, one minimises the chances of letting readers’ attention wander even for a minute or two. By the time it ends, they need to be left curious enough to start their own journey by exploring the book in detail.   

We have miles to go before we sleep…

Well, finalising the manuscript is only the first 35% of the story. What follows is a far more arduous journey: getting it produced, marketing and promoting it, and the like.

As Robert Frost says: “The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep…”

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Wodehouse’s fiction, though celebrated chiefly for its whimsical aristocrats and shambolic bachelors, also furnishes a surprisingly detailed anatomy of the Edwardian and inter-war publishing world. He uses owners, publishers, and editors not merely as comic foils, but also nudges us towards a broader meditation on responsibility, power, and vocation. Through a kaleidoscope of characters—from absentee proprietors who think of their periodicals only while pronging a kippered herring on their plate with a gloomy fork, to editors who sacrifice sleep, dignity, and occasionally their trousers—Wodehouse rehearses the perennial tensions between commerce, conscience, and creativity.

Three Types of Owners

Wodehouse distinguishes three archetypes. The “absentee capitalist,” embodied by Mr Benjamin Scobell in The Prince and Betty, treats a publication as an elegant bauble within a far wider portfolio. The “romantic acquirer,” who buys a journal under the influence of either Cupid or a literary crush and sheds it as soon as the passion cools. Finally, we have the “hands-on mogul,” typified by Lord Tilbury of the Mammoth Publishing Company, who prowls city streets incognito lest aspiring scribblers hurl unsolicited manuscripts through omnibus windows. Lord Tilbury’s hunger for “juicy memoirs” and his ruthless eye on circulation figures epitomise the hard-nosed side of media ownership, reminding readers that even genteel magazines are ultimately businesses subject to profit and loss.

Editors: The Lion Kings

However, the slender shoulders on which the burden of keeping the publishing activity alive and kicking falls invariably happen to be those of the editors. They are the eager beavers who keep a sharp eye on the circulation figures and decide the nature and form of the content that gets routinely unleashed upon hapless readers like us. They happen to be industrious little creatures who work hard and shrink from the public gaze. They are the lion kings of their publishing fiefdom and are the masters of all they survey. Bosses love them when circulation figures show an upward trend. Yet, they are hated by authors whose manuscripts they keep throwing into the nearest dustbin in their office. In Plum’s world, alluded to above as Plumsville, editorial life is equal parts chess match and boxing bout; success demands both strategic foresight and literary prowess.

No case illustrates editorial resilience better than Aunt Dahlia Travers and her chronically unprofitable women’s weekly, Milady’s Boudoir. She marshals fox‑hunting grit, occasional grand larceny (commandeering a painting for a scoop), and the incomparable cuisine of Anatole to keep the presses rolling. Her magazine’s survival hinges not only on high finance but on familial diplomacy—extracting cheques from her dyspeptic husband, Uncle Tom, trading serial rights to pay printers, and manipulating Bertie Wooster into sartorial columns. Thus, Plum applauds tenacity while exposing the precarious economics of niche publishing.

Conversely, Cosy Moments—the ostensibly saccharine “journal for the home”—demonstrates how editorial ethos can metamorphose a title’s fortunes (Psmith, Journalist). When the fatigued Mr Wilberfloss departs for a rest cure, deputy Billy Windsor, aided and abetted by the restless Psmith, transforms the paper into a crusading watchdog. Exposés on New York tenement squalor replace homely recipes. A “fighting editor” is recruited to deter mob intimidation. Circulation soars, advertising revenue floods in, and Cosy Moments becomes “red‑hot stuff.” We discover the perils of mission-driven journalism: bribery, kidnapping, and street‑corner brawls lurk behind every righteous paragraph. Plum thus warns that social crusades, however noble, exact a steep personal price.

Hiring and firing supply further comic ammunition. Lord Tilbury, ever allergic to falling readership, sacks Monty Bodkin from Tiny Tots for peppering copy with whisky bottles and betting jargon, then dismisses Jerry Finch of Society Spice for failing to match Percy Pilbeam’s flair for fashionable scandal (Frozen Assets).

By contrast, editors like Joseph Kyrke of The Mayfair Gazette and Alexander Tudway of the Piccadilly Weekly (“The Kind-Hearted Editor”) discover that excessive kindness breeds calamity. Kyrke inherits the wreckage of predecessors who indulged amateur contributors; Tudway, having “improved” the dreadful manuscripts of Aubrey Jerningham and clan, ends up enslaved to an entire family of mediocre wannabe authors after marrying one to soothe her tears. Through these narratives, Plum demonstrates how editorial milk of human kindness could become a long-term liability.

A recurrent motif is the pursuit of sensational memoirs. Lord Tilbury’s frantic chase for the Hon’ble Galahad Threepwood’s reminiscences (Heavy Weather) and Florence Craye’s demand that Bertie incinerate Uncle Willoughby’s scandal-laden Recollections of a Long Life (“Jeeves Takes Charge”) dramatise both the cash value and moral hazard of exposé literature. Editors and owners salivate over sales figures, yet risk libel suits, family ruptures, and even the gobbling up of a manuscript by the Empress of Blandings.

Legal jeopardy surfaces again when Kipper Herring’s blistering anonymous review of Reverend Upjohn’s prep‑school history in the Thursday Review provokes threatened litigation (Jeeves in the Offing). Jeeves’s diplomatic ingenuity averts the writ, but the incident underscores an editor’s obligation to balance candour with accuracy.

Advertising masquerading as editorial content offers another ethical minefield. In “Healthward Ho,” quack doctors flood multiple periodicals with letters questioning the modern diet while discreetly touting their Spartan cure. Overworked editors struggle to distinguish between covert marketing and genuine debate, revealing how commercial pressures can erode editorial independence. Here, Plum, decades ahead of today’s “native advertising,” warns against blurred boundaries that compromise reader trust.

Romantic entanglements complicate these professional dilemmas. Editors woo rejected contributors to soften disappointment (“The Kind‑Hearted Editor”), propose marriage to avoid publishing dire stories, or, like Egbert Mulliner, fall in love only to discover their muse has begun penning bestselling fiction that traps them in promotional drudgery (“Best Seller”, the Mulliner version). We get to realise that the heart and the column space can conflict irreconcilably.

Sudden success in love enables Sippy, the editor of Mayfair Gazette, to stand up to his old headmaster. (“The Inferiority Complex of Old Sippy”)

Plum also cautions lovers about the perils of taking the romantic tips dished out by such columns as Doctor Cupid at face value. If so, much chaos, heartache, and hilarity could ensue (“When Doctors Disagree”).

Humour Laced with Social Conscience

Behind the laughter runs a social conscience. While Plum rarely preaches, the transformation of Cosy Moments and the tenement crusade reveal a genuine sympathy for the urban poor. He demonstrates that a periodical can transcend mere entertainment to serve as an agent of civic improvement, provided its guardians possess courage, networking prowess (even with underworld figures), and an unwavering purpose. The narrative demonstrates that there is indeed a socialistic streak in Plum, rebutting claims that he wrote solely for and about the idle rich.

Plum makes us realise that media, like all institutions, depend on people who must reconcile personal values with systemic demands. His brilliance lies in revealing that reconciliation as an endlessly inventive dance—sometimes dignified, often chaotic, always instructive.

More to be pitied than censured?

Having considered some of the journalistic escapades of quite a few of Plum’s characters, one may safely conclude that they are more to be pitied than censured.

When it comes to those who keep the giant wheels of the publishing universe spinning, Plum paints a broad canvas of the kind of constraints they work under.  Financial pressures.  A rigorous scrutiny of the content they decide to publish. Hiring the right talent and firing the deadwood is an area of concern. Interpersonal and legal challenges must be faced with a chin-up attitude. Ethical issues need to be tackled with aplomb. Relationships with authors and other stakeholders deserve to be managed with empathy and firmness. Cosying up to celebrity authors. If a major social concern is to be addressed, networking with the underworld and strongmen becomes crucial for achieving success.

Plum’s light-hearted depictions of publishing contain a rich commentary on leadership, ethics, and resilience. Owners personify strategic intent, whereas editors incarnate operational reality. He demonstrates that humane stewardship—anchored in empathy, clarity, and principled resolve—can turn the perilous art of publishing into an enduring public good.

While capturing the nuances of professional hazards faced by doctors, lawyers, bank managers, dog-biscuit marketeers, rozzers, detectives, principals, politicians, movie magnates, actors, musicians, artists, painters, accountants, secretaries, valets, butlers, cooks, gardeners, pig-keepers, et al, Plum’s sharp eye does not miss much. Likewise, when it comes to describing a journalistic life, he does not disappoint.

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