Editor Insights: Make Us Care About Your Characters

Part 2 of the 'Evaluate Your Work Like an Editor' Series with Steve Chang

Art by Mariam Chagelishvili

This lesson is part of the Evaluate Your Writing Like an Editor series with Steve Chang — check out all the workshops HERE to explore what editors wish writers knew about crafting, revising, and submitting, with behind-the-Submittable insights that will transform your stories.

Read Like an Editor: Crafting a Character Arc

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Today, we’re looking at pre- and post-revision versions of Lindsey Peters Berg’s It’s Me, a Selfie (don’t read it yet), a lightly satirical flash about a woman who’s moved to L.A. and developed an unhealthy obsession with Instagram.

To be fair though, who has a healthy obsession with the ‘Gram?

The work is timely and relatable, so much so that—fun fact!—the English Teachers Association of Western Australia used it on standardized tests. Listen, when your work is used to stress out some kids? That’s capital L literature 😎

I’ll talk to Lindsey about how we revised for publication and touch on:

• How to humanize satire

• How to convert a Situation to a Story: Part II

• And how your work can pass (or fail) the merciless test of So What?

First, check out the pre-revision draft below and roleplay as an editor. Wherever you see thought bubble 💭 questions, take a minute to consider your own responses to the story. (No need to write anything down, but feel free to bring your ideas to the comments at the end of the lesson.)

💭 As you’re reading, think back on last week’s discussion and consider whether this piece is a Situation or a Story. And why?

It’s Me, a Selfie by Lindsey Peters Berg

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Daisy posted a picture of herself in a spaghetti-strap crop top, sitting on her living room floor. She captioned it, “Are you there, external validation? It’s me, a selfie.” She thought it was so clever that she searched the phrase on Twitter to make sure she hadn’t accidentally stolen it from an old tweet she saw but forgot about. This yielded zero results, which first made her feel like the funniest fucking bitch on the planet, then second, created concern that perhaps the caption actually made no sense. She put down her phone and told her thoughts to shut up. To her mind, she said, “I’m disengaging from the conversation,” stilted cadence matching the nasally voice of the Real Housewife she was quoting. None of her friends watched the show, so she had to make those kinds of little jokes with herself.

Daisy took a day-old bottle of wine from the fridge and poured herself a glass, feeling powerful for taking a two minute break from looking at her phone. Especially after posting content, she thought. When she picked it back up, her home screen showed three notifications, all emoji responses from female friends. Nice. She opened Instagram and clicked the shimmering circle around her profile picture. Red hearts burst from the lower corner of her screen as the story opened up, and she reviewed it again. Are you there, external validation. It’s me, a selfie. She was pretty sure it did make sense. Daisy took a sip of wine, already enjoying the warmth in her stomach. The bottom of her screen beckoned her with three small photos of her followers and the word Activity. She clicked it. Someone she considered a good friend watched the story and did not comment, which confirmed to Daisy that this person was mad at her and/or actually hated her. Daisy scanned her mental files for reasons she could be hated, landing upon potential contenders like annoying, into herself, weirdly pretentious even though her music taste hasn’t evolved since she was sixteen, and seems nice at first but then when you get to know her actually isn’t which had led some of her dearest loved ones to cautiously and politely refer to her as ‘sharp.’ Then she decided that, in fact, it was her good friend who was actually the bitch for hating her when she didn’t even do anything. Daisy clicked the friend’s story and responded to her latest outfit pic with a fire emoji, hoping that this cleared the air. She returned to her own story, the Activity list longer now, and scrolled down to see the name she was looking for.

Kevin. He was her high school crush. They were thirty now. But of course she’d be interested. Of course she was curious about whether he’d looked. He followed her last year, she guessed as some automatic byproduct of a Facebook contact-list merger, because there’s no reason he would intentionally follow her so many years after graduation. They talked maybe four times in their four years as classmates, usually about math homework but once when he told her not to go in the girls’ bathroom because his girlfriend had just thrown up in there. Daisy followed him immediately after he followed her and saw that he was living in the suburbs of Illinois, a neighborhood she loved to remind people that she moved away from. Now she lived in a city with palm trees and mountains and grown women wearing children’s clothes, mostly just watching Netflix inside her sweltering 1 Bed 1 Bath but occasionally attending things like graveyard movie screenings so that she could post a picture of it. Kevin. It was such a boring name.

She clicked on his profile. He had two kids and a receding hairline. There were three pictures on his grid: one of him golfing, one of the birth of his daughter, and one with his wife and two babies standing outside their house. Daisy entertained an internal Family-Feud-style guessing game as to which mall store the wife bought her outfit from, Daisy’s own thoughts playing the roles of both family and audience. She cast votes on Madewell and Guess but stopped herself once she landed on Buckle, remembering that she’s a feminist. What was their life like? Daisy focused on the ranch house in the photo and imagined its insides: a plastic baby gate blocking stairs to the basement, woven baskets from Target filled with crusty stuffed animals, a bar cart that Wife bought after browsing Pinterest to add a little flair to the home. She pictured Kevin holding a glass of mid-range whiskey and tapping through his Instagram stories, landing on her picture and pressing his thumb on her chest so he could look at her face longer. Are you there, external validation? It’s me, a selfie. He’d breathe through his nose to suggest a laugh. He wouldn’t laugh out loud because he wasn’t a psychopath. But he’d think, Funny, and then he’d look at her and think, She looks great. With her glass of wine empty, Daisy allowed herself to imagine him thinking, I missed out, or maybe, Why didn’t I realize she was cool, or even, I love my wife and I love my kids but sometimes, when I look at her, I wish I never had them.

Daisy clicked her screen to sleep and rinsed out her wine glass. There were dishes in the sink, but she didn’t feel like doing them. She slipped into bed without brushing her teeth and looked at the moon through the window beside her. It was a weird orange-red color, vampiric and full. She thought it must be the result of some astrological phenomenon. Her room had a balcony attached to it, and she considered getting up, sliding open the door, and leaning against the metal railing for a closer look. Instead, Daisy stayed in bed and wondered if it was a Blue Moon or a Harvest Moon or a Super Moon. She tried to guess why it looked so unusual. She didn’t have the answer. She closed her eyes and made a story up.

💭 What do we think? Is this a Situation or a Story?

I loved the playful spirit here, the lilting chatter. It’s all slightly madcap but still deeply kind. Like much of Lindsey’s writing. This protagonist posts and spirals and cares too much. She’s had a long and draining day! …online!!

It’s fun and there’s much to love here. But I had to wonder: So what?

Do the things that happen in this piece have consequences? Overall, is it enough?

💭 What do we think? What’s intriguing about this rough draft? What does it want to do or be? What adjustments should we recommend to shape it?

An Interview with Lindsey Peters Berg: Part 1

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Steve: Lindsey, what was the genesis of this story? Its original intent?