Developmental editing

In a neverending quest to learn about what I’m doing as a writer (and hopefully get published), I am sending the latest copyedited manuscript for Prodigies (this is the one I needed the Polish translation for, Marcel) to a developmental editor.

Whereas a proofreader reads for punctuation and grammatical mistakes, and a copy editor goes a little deeper into confusing and awkward sentences, a developmental editor reads for bigger pictures — flow, characterization, troublesome developments, places you lose the reader.

I don’t know how this will turn out, but I want to get to the bottom of why I’m not finding an agent, and the idea is for me to get as smooth and refined as possible.

I must be out of my depression, because I’m once again believing that maybe, just maybe I can get published someday.

Chasing the Muse

My muse appears, elusive in the street,
skipping through foot traffic, disappearing
in the crowd. The chase begins again
at the edge of the forest where the light
through the branches conceals. I never
touch his arm, he never kisses me, we do not
ever meet.

Slamming the door on my head again?

Oh, Gods — I’m thinking of submitting queries again after this latest edit.

I can think of all sorts of reasons not to — all of them in terms of rejections I have already gotten. I keep fixing it, and I keep getting rejections.

On the other hand, if I don’t send queries, nobody will get to see whether it’s publishable or not.

I’m still not ready to self-publish, mostly because self-publishing in the academic world means that you haven’t been peer reviewed and, thus, your work is not legitimate.

I am so torn …

Life without coffee

This morning, my husband said to me, “I didn’t roast any coffee yet and we’re out of emergency beans. Would you like tea this morning?”

I felt my vision narrow into a grey-hazed tunnel and my body curl into itself. “Help?” I moaned weakly. “Coffee?”

Tea would just not cut it. Don’t get me wrong — I love tea, from the deep earthy murk of pu-er to the light fragrance of a Chinese green. I drink Darjeeling the way others drink wine — literally, because I’m no longer allowed to drink alcohol. It’s just that tea doesn’t have the body, the mouth feel, the fortifying nature of coffee. Tea is an afternoon indulgence; coffee is a trusty helper.

I am not a coffee addict. Truly I am not. I can quit anytime I want … except, apparently, this morning. Because I begged my husband to go out and get some coffee, and here I sit, now drinking the elixir of life. Richard is the hero of this piece by bringing me coffee.

Juggling cats

I’m juggling cats.
Hefty cats.
With claws out.

This is what my schedule seems like lately. In addition to editing books, I’m taking an online course, putting together what is roughly a manual for doing moulage, putting together an online course for fall, and visiting interns on site. If this is a summer vacation, I’m not vacationing much.

Oh, yes, and I got my psychological first aid certification, so there’s that.

And I’m managing to do this all while recovering from a depressive episode. Yay me!

Today, the excerpt is from the manual for moulage. It’s somewhat drier than my fiction, so apologies in advance —

In the case of disembowelments, this author has used inflated condoms and pork sausage casings as the simulated bowel material, which show some promise but at the same time have limitations. Condoms must be inflated and tied together, a feat impossible to do if the condoms are lubricated. The casings must be soaked in lukewarm water to remove the excess salt and likewise inflated and tied, a task not for the squeamish. Actual pork intestines yield the highest fidelity in constructing a disembowelment, but its characteristics (slipperiness, smell) might be a deterrent to its use in moulage.

Happy breakfast!

Back to Camp

I’m back at CampNaNoWriMo, Camp NaNo for short. It’s the second summer session for the virtual campers to work on books. I’ve signed up for 30 hours of revising (yet again) Mythos after my beta-reader went through it.

I’m feeling the heat of the summer deep in my bones, weighing me down with indolence and a total feeling of “meh” about writing. I don’t feel hopeless about being published, I don’t feel distraught about not being published, I just don’t feel like much of anything, especially as regards writing. I don’t like feeling this way — ok, I like not being drenched by despondency, but I rather miss that belief that something could happen any day now that could result in a writing career.

Perhaps this “meh” feeling is what I end up with. If that’s so, then maybe it’s time to give up writing. I know, I keep threatening (or promising) to give up writing, and I don’t. But if it ceases to spark something in me, I may have to find something that does.

This might be depression — I’ve been struggling with that for a while, no matter how happy and bouncy I look. I have an eye on it.

A poem from the book I’m editing

I’m taking a quick pass through one of the books I’ve neglected before Camp Nano — July session happens. This might be my most transgressive poem — something about the mud ..

I don’t know whether I want to hold you
Till I feel your heart in my chest,
And we entwine like the Trees,
Or mate with you
In the mud, in the rain, in plain sight.
Either way, we become something new.

Heatwave

The high temperature today will be 100 degrees, with a 105 heat index. This means I’m likely not going anywhere today — no coffee shop stop, no morning walk, no visiting with people. I’m sentenced to involuntary indolence for the day

Here’s an (old) poem for your viewing pleasure:

Heat Wave in Rural Missouri

The sun burns sagging porches,

bleaching petunias and salvia.

The afternoon gasps its last.

From my window, nothing stirs –

I alone live, breathe.

Swooning,

I spy you strolling through a deluge of rain,

bearing me pansies and muguet,

your bowler and grey linen suit still crisp,

the last mirage before I fade –

Knowing I exaggerate, and my demise

is not imminent in this air-cooled room

does not detract from my reverie.

Poem

Tell me a story
in a vaulted cathedral at midnight,
give me your story
as the flood roils down the creek,
tell me more
in a pasture turned minefield,
I’ll hold your secret
in the silence of the eye of the storm.

What I look for in Beta Readers

I need more beta-readers.

Before you all rush out to volunteer, here’s what I look for in a beta-reader:

First and foremost, the beta-reader should be willing to read a whole book, unless they find it so unbearable that they cannot finish. Then they should have the courage to tell me that and give specifics.
The beta-reader should be honest and specific. “I hate this book” may be honest but not specific. “It’s a nice book” is neither honest or specific. “I like this book” is honest (I hope) but not specific. “I loved finding out that X …” (no spoilers here) is honest and specific.
The beta-reader doesn’t have to be a copy editor or proofreader. If they want to point out the extra period on page 53, that is fine, but that’s not what I expect.
The beta-reader should focus on:

Readability — Are the words too big? Are the sentences incomprehensible? Does the book bog down in places? Does the reader get lost? Does the narrative “flow”?
Characters — does the reader identify with the characters? Believe in the characters?
Plot — does the reader follow the plot? Is it confusing? Is it internally logical?

Finally, the beta-reader should not be afraid to hurt my little fee-fees. As long as you don’t say “This is the worst book I’ve ever read” (which is not specific and hopefully not honest), I can handle it.

The benefits of being a beta-reader:

You will be named in the acknowledgements.
You will get a free autographed copy if I ever publish.
You will have read the book before anyone else has.
Although you will not get paid, you will have the satisfaction of helping make something happen.

Now, do you want to be a beta reader? Find me at lleachie (at) gmail.com