When I saw the blockbuster Jurassic Park on the big screen, I turned away, not-so-impressed. Reason? I had read the book a few years earlier. The book had so much more to offer. There was so much more going on in the heads of the characters – debates on science, ethics, genetic engineering, biological tinkering, and chaos theory – all of which, made for a thrilling, educative, and fascinating read. The film, despite its landmark computer-generated special effects, great sound effects, and intense media coverage, did not come close. Perhaps, I was too influenced by the book. Perhaps, in my imagination, the book delved into so many more dimensions. Perhaps, my imagination coupled with the skill of Michael Crichton created an intensely personal and unique experience. Interesting, is it not – the power of print? The power of those pages of black and white?  

But then again, I cannot say that books are more capable of capturing a person’s imagination. I recently saw the Lord of the Rings trilogy – and not even on the big screen. I was hooked. There were just so many themes running in parallel to make for this absolutely amazing experience. The power of belief, the willingness to stand for something that is right, the ability to face up to a challenge, the undying faith in friendship, the pitfalls of obsession, the grandeur of bravery, the fear of the unknown, the positives of earnest reflection, the ability to bounce back after a fall, the steadfast belief that one can find ways in total desolation, the grit and determination to achieve what one has set out to do, the ability to cope with disaster. And, that little space for magic. I admit, I have not read this epic tale from J.R.R Tolkien – but I sure want to. This time around though, I’ll try to judge if the experience of the book matches up to the film.

Urmilla Chandran
The author is co-founder and Director, Content Development at Steta 

Many people presume editors just check grammar and spelling. What makes a good editor? The truth is, I don't really know. I am not a trained, professional editor, although I love editing. I’ve had the good fortune to work with some wonderful editors at the National Institute of Design. Now, my partner at Steta is an editor par excellence. So, I can just sum up a few things I have learnt from editors.

Ability to See the Whole, as well as the Parts
Editors analyze text from the holistic point of view, as well as look at each part closely. This ability gives them a birds-eye view as well as a grasshopper view. They can tell you several priceless things about your text, such as:

• If the order of topics, or the structure of your text makes sense to a reader.
  
• If the text is being repetitive, and where you can reduce that repetition.
  
• If the titles and sub-titles are doing justice to the text. 
  
• When and where you can add examples.  
  
• Where you can reduce the length of text, and where you need to get into more detail.
  
• Where you need to add some context.
  
• When a certain expression or thought is inappropriate, not required, or is not adding anything significant to the text. 
  
• If, what you, as a writer, are trying to convey is being communicated clearly.
  

Knowledge of the Quirks of Grammar
English grammar is a fascinating and confusing set of rules, with an equally large set of exceptions. Editors can point out things that the rest of us don't really see such as when to use the active voice and when to use the passive voice. Besides this, the many subtle nuances to language that editors may suggest, can streamline reading.

Ability to Check for Consistency
Editors make sure that the entire text is consistent. Lack of consistency can be one of the biggest hiccups in any written matter. Editors can easily point out inconsistent spellings such as say, color vs. colour. 

All in all, an editor improves on a writer's work. They tidy it up, maybe rearrange parts of it, and polish it so that it can shine. 

Through much of my schooling years, my favorite writer was Enid Blyton. Once a year, on my birthday, my mother would take me to Manney's Book Store, a 40-year old establishment in our town. I used to dash through the slightly foggy glass door, past rows of books piled high, down the passage, turn left at the cashier's desk, then turn right immediately again behind it. There, in that sacred little alcove were two beautiful bookshelves at right angles to each other. They were devoted solely to Enid Blyton. While my mother patiently browsed the cookery, philosophy, or yoga sections, I would remain immersed here. I would slowly pull out one book, look at the cover, read the back cover, dip inside, read a few random paragraphs, then put it back. Then pull out another. This ritual would go on for around half an hour. I was always torn between choosing the biggest and fattest one (as that implied more hours of reading), or choosing a more exciting but slimmer one. Even as I yanked book after book off the shelves, I would make mental notes for some, deciding that I would buy this one next year perhaps. Or I would start plotting about who would give me my next gift. If I got lucky in a few months I would get my granny down to this shop, and I would get another treasure.

It would be ages before I could decide which book I wanted for my birthday each year, for what a momentous decision it was! In earlier years, The Naughtiest Girl in School, the Adventurous Four, the Faraway Tree, and Six Cousins were among my hot favorites. Then there were the 'school' phases. Should I buy 'Twins at St Clares' or 'The Second Form at Malory Towers'? Of course there was always the lifelong ambition of owning the entire Famous Five series, and this threatened the purchase of any other of her titles. The truth is, I wanted most of the books on those shelves, even though I had a prodigious collection at home. Escaping into the Enid Blyton world was one of the best parts of childhood. With her high teas, perfect farms, butter-churning, boarding schools, dorms, midnight feasts, smugglers, kidnappers, helpful dogs, pranks, secret islands, hidden castles, magical forests, golliwogs, ginger beer, scones, and ham sandwiches, Enid made a perfect world for us to inhabit. It was sheer joy to dive into those pages. She covered every emotion of childhood. The fun of picnics, the joy of playing with friends, the jealousy towards someone who has more or does more, the girl who so wants to be a boy, the unquenchable desire to have a dog, that terrible apprehension on the first day of school, the thrill of sneaking around at night, the fear of unknown places, and the knowledge that there is always a warm secure home to return to. These are emotions only children can feel, and somehow she was able to make millions of children re-live them with absolute authenticity. 

In recent years Enid Blyton has had several criticisms hurled at her, including being racist (golliwogs must account for that), sexist, and colonial. Some people believe it is wrong to stuff the heads of Indian children with things they can't have, and a life that is far removed from their reality. But the fact is, I never expected my life to turn into an Enid Blyton book. We never asked for ginger beer, or expected to discover a secret passage below our house (though we did beg for a dog). The essence of fiction is to let you travel and live in a different time and space, and this she accomplished with ease. Dive into one of her books, and a whole afternoon could pass in blissful absorption. Is it wrong to keep a child gleefully reading for days, even years on end? Her books, often simply yet beautifully illustrated, have led generations of children well into adulthood. In some cases, her books are the reason children remain avid readers well beyond childhood. She made the habit of reading so addictive and enjoyable, one could never dream of not reading.

Today is Enid Blyton's birthday. She was born in 1897, and has been enriching childhood since she started writing. Incidentally, just yesterday I was at Crossword, a popular bookstore. While my better half was poking around in the fiction section, I found myself wandering into the children's section - it's often quite entertaining there. I came upon a high pile of Enid Blyton books, hard bound, with her name written on the top in it's signature style. Even twenty years later, it was a moment of pure joy to open these titles, see the large serif type, and, for a glorious ten minutes, read about toys having a problem in the nursery.