Category Archives: Editor

Fact or Fantasy

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I recorded my latest song (listen below!) last week, while recovering from Covid. Please enjoy the nasal, throaty, almost feverish quality of the vocals. A few days into being sick, as I lay in bed with one of the most impressive headaches I’ve ever had (and I’ve had quite a few), I thought, “Is this the day I die?” Clearly, it wasn’t.

“The Day We Never Met” is unusual, I think, in that it doesn’t have a chorus, and the title appears only in the very last line. For the recording, I utilized my latest (and greatest) stringed acquisition, a parlor-size acoustic/electric guitar from Zager. A gorgeous instrument of solid African mahogany, it’s designed to be easy to play; I haven’t noticed this feature yet, but I’ve heard practicing can be very good for that.

My mother is my most devoted fan, along with her cat, Asher. (You might argue that Asher has no choice but to listen, especially since his favorite spot is on my mother’s legs, but he could hide in the closet if he wanted to.) Mom likes to know what my songs are about, even if I don’t always know myself, so I will try to provide a little background here.

If you’re a longtime lurker of this page, and even managed to keep up during the two-and-a-half-year hiatus (kudos!), you will likely have noticed that I once trafficked in the published word, as a writer, editor, and proofreader. Yet even I am amazed at the sheer volume of words being produced today for public consumption. People look at their screens for hours on end, and they need something to read—in the form of e-books, news stories, magazine articles, social media posts, blogs, advertisements, and the like.

“The Day We Never Met” is about considering the source of what you read—and being a considered, and considerate, source yourself. More specifically, the song’s theme is to be careful when you talk about someone you don’t know. But a theme doesn’t make a song—or, for that matter, a poem or a play or an essay about the queen. So, I crafted a story around my chosen theme, set it to music, and ta-da!

The Day We Never Met

Profile

Title:
“The Day We Never Met”

Number:
11

Length:
2:37

Vibe/inspiration:
Patsy Cline

Key:
C major

What I imagine people might say:

  • “I wish I never met this song. Come on, it was too easy.”
  • “If this song had a chorus, my disappointment would only have been compounded.”
  • “Have I stumbled into the rhyming Olympics?”
  • “I’d worry this song might glamorize smoking, but you’d have to have an audience for that to be a problem.”

Lyrics:

Well, you’ve been writing about me
About the man you claim to be
Filling pages
For the ages
Is it fact or fantasy?

What makes you think you know so much?
You’ve never even been in touch
’Stead of knocking
You kept walking
Now you’re saying such and such

[Instrumental verse]

You flew in on a private jet
You lit another cigarette
I was waiting
’Ticipating
On the day we never—

You were late ’n’
Hesitating
On the day we never—

You’re narrating
Punctuating
The story of the day—

I was waking
Mind was aching
On the day we never—

You were making
Plans forsaken
On the day we never—

Now you’re taking
Bows for breaking
The story of the day—

Monday night ’n’
Not a sighting
On the day we never—

Tuesday quiet ’n’
Nail-biting
On the day we never—

Wednesday light ’n’
You’re a-writing
The story of the day—

A day I can’t forget
I haven’t seen you yet
We won’t sing a duet

About the story of the day—
The day we never met

Nice Job! Not.

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sumi-e

The other day, I was chatting with a new resident at my mother’s retirement community. When I told her (solicited) that I was a writer and editor, her response was nearly explosive—about how ill-suited she would be to such a line of work, due to an auditory learning challenge she shares with her son. I maintain a running, mental list of jobs I would be terrible at myself. Here is a sampling, accompanied by the reason(s) for my inadequacy:

  1. Taxi driver. I get nervous with people in my car, have a terrible sense of direction, and would probably decline to “step on it” if asked. I do, however, drive my husband to and from the airport frequently. His name for this service begins with B and rhymes with Uber.
  2. Roofer. I would look down, get dizzy, and fall off—the first day. Years ago, the twin boys across the street, about six at the time, would play on top of their house—as I watched in horror, wondering if I should call Child Protective Services. Incredibly, they are still alive.
  3. Alaskan king crab fisherperson. I have an intense aversion to drowning, hypothermia, and crippling injuries. The hours are long, cold, wet, and dangerous, whereas I prefer short, mild, dry, and safe.
  4. Restaurant server. I lack the upper-body strength to carry a bunch of plates at once. When I was a girl, I saw a waitress pour a tureen of scalding soup down a patron’s neck. I went on to enjoy my own (delicious split pea) soup, but the incident stayed with me.

This month, I have considered adding a profession to the list: nurse. With my mother in the hospital for four days and in a skilled nursing facility for sixteen (and counting), I have witnessed the dedication of nurses, certified nursing assistants, and nurse’s aides up close. These men and women possess all sorts of demeanors—friendly, businesslike, sweet, funny, comforting, cheerful, encouraging, serious. But universally, they are patient. And hard-working. And flexible, moving ceaselessly from patient to patient, wherever and whenever they are needed.

Thank you to Adam, Alex, Daisy, Feybe, Franklin, Marion, Nicole, Sandra, and Vic, who represent many others.

Confessions of a Ghost Editor

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ghost editorFor four weeks, I had to pretend to be someone else. I messed up once, signing my own name to an e-mail. I concocted an excuse for the mistake, and didn’t sign an e-mail after that.

The person who sends me most of my work was out of the country, without her computer. She didn’t want our projects to lag during her absence, so she asked me to deliver work via her account. I didn’t really mind.

I am a ghost editor. I am not anonymous, because I don’t exist—even namelessly. Rather, my work is presented as someone else’s. As I temporarily assumed this person’s identity, I couldn’t help but wonder: How important is it to get credit for what we do?

This question strikes me as one the ego would ask, as well as rush to answer. Naturally, the part of us concerned with accomplishing something demonstrable in the world desires to be openly acknowledged. Or at least not to have its being negated.

It’s not my business why someone would allow a client to think she did work she didn’t. What is my business is why I have remained contentedly in the shadows for so many years, not developing my own reputation—a name for myself, based on merit and achievement.

In Shakespeare’s Othello, Cassio laments the loss of his good name: “Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial.” I think I disagree.

Reputation is the estimation of others. But the “immortal part of us” is beyond estimation. So reputation must be associated with the “bestial” aspect of our nature—our body, acting upon the earth.

The immortal part of me doesn’t care about seeing its name in the acknowledgments.

Not that it has a name.

The Accidental Profession

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olivetti

The “vintage” Olivetti I learned to type on (not the actual machine but the same model, available on eBay)

copyediting

Copyedited manuscript page

About a week ago, I read the description of an online workshop being offered by Writer’s Digest University, called “Introduction to Copyediting.” The first thing I noticed about the course outline was its random capitalization, which either ironically undermined the validity of the curriculum or was a sly statement on the importance of copyediting. The topics covered seemed to capture what a copyeditor does. For example:

  • “How to properly use Quotations”
  • “Proper use of Commas, Colons, and Semicolons”
  • “Avoiding Redundant Words”
  • “Keep an eye out for consistency”
  • “How to prevent a writer from making all sorts of embarrassing mistakes”

I wondered, “How did I manage to collect these skills?” Based on my experience, here are the steps to becoming a copyeditor:

  1. Be exposed to the word editor at an early age. My first-grade teacher asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I said “writer.” The girl next to me said “editor.” I wasn’t quite sure what an editor did, but I felt it had something to do with books.
  2. Learn how to type. When I was about 12, I taught myself from a manual, on a manual.
  3. Have Mr. Thorn for English. Almost everything I know about grammar I learned in junior high.
  4. Edit your college roommate’s paper. When I was a freshman, my roommate asked me to look over an essay she was about to turn in. It was my first editing job. She got a B and was very happy.
  5. Apply for a job as a secretary. A week or two after graduating with a BA in English Literature, I answered a newspaper ad for a secretary at a publishing company. I aced the typing test. (See item 2.)
  6. Get promoted. Over the course of eight years, I worked my way up to the position of senior editor. One of my tasks was to manage the work of copyeditors; I observed what they did and became overly familiar with The Chicago Manual of Style.
  7. Go freelance. Eleven years ago, I began offering my services as a copyeditor.
  8. Learn something new every day. Each manuscript presents its own challenges, providing a constant education.

My first supervisor called publishing the “accidental profession.” While becoming a copyeditor may have been a bit random, certain things in my life pointed toward a career in publishing. As a child, I made tiny books to sell; I vaguely recall unloading one for a dollar. I remember being inspired by an arts-and-crafts toy from the drug store, the final product of which was a bound book about a grasshopper. In junior high, I produced an anonymous newspaper, calling myself the “Phantom Editor.”

I’m sure there are doctors, lawyers, firefighters, astronauts, professional athletes, rock stars, actors, architects, teachers, artists, and writers who always knew what they “wanted to be.” And perhaps people who pursue advanced degrees or seek vocational training have a pretty good idea. But I imagine that the majority of professions are accidental. For example, the other day, I found myself musing, “Who sets out to work at a property management company?” Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I wonder if my precocious six-year-old classmate ever became an editor. Or a property manager.