Production Editors and Expectations of Copyeditors

Correspondence sent recently to a managing editor

I'm not holding this against you, although you can hold against me the lateness of the project, because it's ultimately my fault. But please, never again tell me a project is in good shape unless you know it firsthand from reading it cover to cover—and if that is never destined to happen, that's perfectly fine by me. I'd just as soon go into a project blind as with wrong expectations, because it then messes up my schedule and the publisher's schedule when the assessment of the manuscript is incorrect. I've got literally seven different projects in various stages of completion, partially because this thing wasn't off my desk much sooner. Again, my fault entirely. I start feeling weird if I have two projects going simultaneously. And this one seems to get worse as it gets further; maybe it's just me.

Don't, however, cut this guy any slack. First-time published authors who aren't great writers and who construct a manuscript full of citations as if they're not familiar with the form shouldn't get to dictate how their manuscript appears with a publishing house of your stature. I don't care who this guy is. He should be happy y'all care enough to make him look better.

I've Been in a Mood

I'd say it started about two weeks ago. The czarina had gone off to Atlanta to stay with friends in their recently rebuilt home in what used to be a fear zone close to downtown. When our friend moved there 25 years ago, Domino's wouldn't deliver. Now, it's great. The czarina left essentially to lay eyes on our older son, who was there to be in a wedding of some people he'd met while acting. We hadn't seen him since, uh, July, and before that it was way back in, uh, June. Yeah, well, whatever. 

A hurricane was moving through Atlanta, so the wedding was moved across the street. It was supposed to be where the czarina and I were hitched, oddly enough. Our son was going to be a groosman at the same place. They still dressed there, and the restaurant, now under a different name, had at least one Thornton Dial on the wall, as well as some other cool stuff. Mitchell had everyone talking about the art.

I was here in Bristol, baby, with the shedding menagerie. My father's eighty-fifth birthday would have been the seventh of the month; my work game has been off; the electronic gig had backed up two weeks of work into about four days, on top of the usual Lucy and the chocolates; mid-October was coming; eating, sleeping, basic maintenance, all shot to hell . . . I'm down to 177, and the last time I saw that, I was on my way to 145. Couple years after my mother died. "Lotta ins and outs. Lotta what-have-yous."

So—how much you getting paid for this?—I just sent off an index for a book to a company that has certainly in some way affected your life in a significant way (this readership's life) with ramifications, published by a university you know, by some coeditors who are or were the equivalent of C-suite gentlemen in this particular field. "Not exactly lightweights," judging from their bios. 

I'm feeling a little better having accomplished something, and I guess I was feeling my oats. This was after asking the receiver of the invoice if I could send and he could process speedy delivery. I've never worked with the guy or any of these people before, except the press, which won't be involved until I send the index to them author-approved.

Nine hours after the fact, I'm rereading the email I sent them. I guess it's professional enough. The letter is verbatim from Gmail. I love it because I can use it again and again. Absolutely generic, except I did take out the name of the university. It's somewhere east of the Mississippi, I'm pretty certain.

A peek behind the curtain. The underlying tone is, "I really hope you leave this thing alone." I'm almost scared to send off an index anymore. It's also coming up on the one-year anniversary of that experience. I'm not sure I ever addressed that incident in this space. Lordy. Pathetic. Talk about some horseshit scholarship. 

+++

Hi, all. First, thanks again for your patience, and apologies for the earlier bait-and-switch.

I've attached the index manuscript as well as a marked-up PDF noting some things I saw along the way. You've probably already caught most of these issues while reviewing the page proofs.

From looking at your distinguished bios, I'm guessing y'all have been to this rodeo before, but a few notes:

* Multiauthor books present a challenge in that different chapters, especially if they've been printed elsewhere before, might refer to the same concepts using slightly different language. I've tried to consolidate different terminology here, so please keep an eye out for where I may have misinterpreted. I've also presented a lot of cross-references but may have missed opportunities for additional ones. Feel free to add.

* Another challenge with this type of book is avoiding the rabbit hole of trying to present data in the index in addition to the conceptual items. Of course, with an index, a guide to the book's data is not desired. The index would become unwieldy very quickly, and it's also against standard indexing practices, as XXUP's guidelines aver.

* If you want to make or handle any changes on your side, please do so, although track the changes so that I can see what you've done, to ensure that the index still adheres to standard protocols.

The deadline for the press is Monday, 10/23. Hopefully you'll find the index to your liking and any back-and-forth will be brief (although, of course, the index needs to satisfy the authors, within reasonable constraints). I do have a few very minor queries in the index. If you could address to those, I'd appreciate it. They may result in no changes at all.

If you have any questions, let me know. Thanks for an interesting read.

Crossing the Great Magnet

The good doctor Hunter S. Thompson cranked out a lot of great phrases. The one that serves as the title of this posting I've always taken to mean that when you interfere with the greater powers that control the universe, you're inevitably going to get sucked back across whatever line you've violated and slammed back down onto the pavement.

My technology update of a few posts ago? Well, well, what's happened since?

Old computer finally became unworkable, particularly due to the huge and steady flow of nonsense that Google Chrome forces on it. So I took it up to my computer genius, who explained to me that you can only put so much water through a hose, or whatever metaphor he used.

I also took up there the computer on which I'd had him disable the Internet when I purchased it a few years ago. It has more memory and enough additional processing power to handle my limited needs. I'm also using Firefox now, which helps.

But since I'd bought this computer a few years back and it's never been hooked up to the Internet, I had a few hundred (yes) and probably 24 hours worth (yes) of updates to install. I think that computer is finally working mostly OK, although I'm getting some undebuggable script message whenever I'm online too long. And the older computer now . . . I'd removed Office 360 from it, hoping to free up some space. However, in doing so, Mr. Gates reverted my system to the original Word 2003. While Mr. Genius found and downloaded the service pack for it, the 2003 -> 2007 converter is now missing. I'll need to take both back eventually, although now at least I'm able to work.

Paraphrasing Warren G. Harding, "My shredder, my goddamn shredder" -- the piece of equipment that prompted the other blog post . . . I tried to feed too much paper at once through the thing, and it jammed. I took out some not entirely sharp instrument to try to clear the jam, thinking, I won't hurt myself with this.

Uh-huh. The moral equivalent of a redneck's last five words: "Hold my beer. Watch this."

I ended up jamming some blunt force object from about the base of my index finger about two inches into my hand. Filled up four paper towels with blood, not to count the amount that I washed down the drain just letting water run over it. Pint of blood maybe? Who knows?

Three stitches later . . . and a tetanus shot tomorrow.

Let me go on record as saying I love technology. Absolutely love it.

PS: And just how stupid am I? My hand is swelling and turning purple (this is the hand I didn't break in December and let go untreated for a month, leaving me with a pinky finger that's permanently at half staff and something that looks like a double-size and slightly off-center knuckle), but what's the first thing I do when I get home? Certainly not attempt to get back on track with deadlines that were thrown out the window because of a week lost to exchange student, computer, and health issues . . . nooo, that would make too much sense. I'm obsessed with clearing the shredder, so I have out an exacto knife and a Swiss army-type knife to fix it. Mission accomplished and life is peaceful . . . until the next freakout, which'll probably be about three hours from now, if everything remains on schedule.

George McGovern, RIP, and Other Stuff

Of all the tomes I read in my younger days, I'd say that none politicized me like Hunter Thompson's Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72 -- not for forming my political opinions, but for raising my interest in the political process. And that was an interesting year, given that two years later, both the elected vice president and president who trounced McGovern would be gone from office in separate scandals. As I saw McGovern quoted in one of his obituaries, "We'd have had a better chance two years later." Indeed.

One of the lines that Thompson quotes -- I believe from Jeremiah -- is "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved."

Of course, I'm prone to misinterpretation and plucking quotes out of context, but I feel like my harvest just past with one of the most ridiculous work stretches I've ever encountered. The red leaves tell me summer has ended. Salvation? Don't get me started.

Just finished a mildly interesting book on the mutual dialogue ("trialogue") of Christianity, Islam, and Judaism. The Jews don't have much to say about the afterlife. What happens now is what counts.

One of the chapter's authors brings up the interesting point, though, that a religion that excludes people in its afterlife necessarily is saying something about how the religion will treat those excluded people in this life.

I've found myself giving rather specific advice to a couple of editorial newcomers lately -- as far as mapping out a freelance career and how to approach editorial changes. I enjoy doing that, and I hope they get something out of it. Some folks helped me along the way.

I'm enjoying a moment of relative calm. One of the hardest things about being a freelancer is making yourself work when you'd really rather not. It's been months and months since I've felt like I should be doing anything with my waking hours but working, so that I've not even had to face the choice. I have nothing due in the morning, and my world's not going to fold like a napkin if I don't work to exhaustion. It's a nice feeling.

More Interludes Than Running Text

A book designer and I have worked together for years, occasionally contentiously, but I think that often came from the stress of dealing with mutual clients who really have no idea what they're doing. And that's OK; we're professionals with decades of experience doing this kind of work, and they are not.

One book series we worked on, or tried to, came from an author who didn't understand that most good books have a story -- you know, a beginning, a middle, and an end. When things work out really nicely, even individual chapters read that way.

This author would include so many sidebars and boxes and pull quotes and illustrations that determining the actual theme of the book became damn near impossible. As a copyeditor, that's a problem for me, because part of my job is coding the text: instructing the designer how each element of the book should be treated. When a chapter is 75 percent non-body-text, it's a sign of bad organization.

As much as my book designer pal and I tried to explain it to the author, the concept never really seemed to sink in.

Another problem is that this author is the type who wants to sit down with a designer and create each page to accommodate all the switches and turns. That might have been OK decades ago. No one has the time anymore. It's an age of specialists. And if you're an author reading this, take away this one fact: In a perfect world, the person designing your book should never have to read a word of it, nor care in the least what the book is about. The text should arrive at the designer's coded and ready to go.

And here's a little secret, too: I don't really care what your book is about either. When an author asks if I want to know what a project is about, I'll generally say, "It doesn't really matter, but if you want to tell me, go ahead."

What's my point? I have a few.

A. I'm too busy to be writing this blog entry. But I'm avoiding a very particular project. Why am I avoiding that project? Because it involves me getting down and dirty with artwork. Czar don't do artwork -- at least not with a smile on my face. But I know that once I get started, it'll be easy and I won't dread it next time . . . that is, unless I wait for the muscle memory to fade.

B. If you came here expecting the further tales of Ulysses, it's going to have to wait. I might just go Raoul Duke and start repurposing emails I sent during the course of the project to some of my pals. It's a story that must be told, because it informs much of what I do. That is, how do I approach a stack of paper when my goal is reaching the bottom of that stack of paper in the most efficient manner, regardless of its content?

For example, I just finished working on a collection of short stories and poems -- the kind of stuff I studiously avoid in the New Yorker, because fiction and poetry ain't my bag. But what do I do when I'm in the middle of a really intense short story and I don't want to turn the page because I'm already emotional as hell and living on the edge, and nothing at all can send me into weeping spasms? I was reading one story in particular, and I was in good page-turning, moneymaking mode, and I got to a point where I didn't want to know what was going to happen next -- because I didn't know how my fragile psyche would respond.

That's a good story. My usual metric for whether I like the fiction (novels) I'm paid to read is if I care about what happens to the characters by about 30 pages into the manuscript. In a short story, though, that number of pages is vastly compressed.

Frankly, I never had that feeling about Ulysses. But I personally don't think that Joyce's book was designed to make readers care about those characters either. Maybe I'm wrong.

C. I've said this three times today to different people: Anyone who is good at what they do seems absolutely exhausted these days. And the exhaustion just seems to attract more work. There's really no way out.

But . . .

I just lined up 5 days at the Abbey of Gethsemani. Early October.

If you see me there, ignore me. I promise you I'll do my best to give you the same treatment.

The Art of the Snarky Query

Trying to do a week's worth of work in a day, so not much time for a post. I don't feel right leaving that haiku stuff up too long, especially as it spills into another Haiku Monday -- which, if you're playing at home, is available at Fishy's fine pond this week.

In the meantime, I offer an email I just sent to a managing editor, one who fears showing up in this column of the blog. But that's what she gets for loading me down with crazy, though remunerative, deadlines.

Ah, the power of the virtual press.

***

Just a few to get your heart started. And this is a second edition, huh?

page 36, line 2: uppercase bible.

page 39: Hitler's first name was Adolf. Adolph's is a brand of meat tenderizer.

page 42: period at end of paragraph.

page 48: you can't elide digits on BCE numbers, for very obvious reasons.

page 51: with the script, it's a little hard to discern, but I'm about 99 percent sure that seder plate is upside down. the three-letter word on the plate is the Hebrew pesach, and it should read correctly in the photo

Good thing I'm not reading this book too carefully. 

For GVB and Moi

This song has helped me immensely through today. I think I've listened to it 30 times via the following link. Don't think I've ever made it through a minute watching the video, although I like the one with her playing it in an LA park with Bon Iver, in which you can watch her and a band. Check it out if you're so inclined.

Rough few days, folks. Don't know what's up here lately.
And I don't even like to dance.
Love this, though.


PS: It's not hard to trace the line from there back to the song below. And, yes, if you're keeping score at home, singing in the following video would be Maureen Tucker (lower right), drummer in perhaps (ahem) the most influential rock band in history as well as future Walmart assistant manager, future Tea Party advocate, and future partial inspiration for a Haiku Monday entry:

Random Notes

Mostly because I'm tired of the guy pictured below.

1. An old friend/author/client popped into my head recently -- a guy I worked with in Atlanta whom I came to know through some freelance work on the political newsletters and then some ad agency work. He eventually wrote a novel and then moved to New York as a late career change . . . actually to teach in the inner-city schools: a rather noble and admirable pursuit. I'd edited a draft of a novel of his some years back. I thought yesterday, I need to get in touch with him and see how he's doing -- unrelated to his book. I'm working at the computer today, and an email from him comes in, saying the new draft of his novel is almost ready, and could I work on it? I wrote him immediately, Strange thing. I thought of you out of nowhere yesterday. He wrote back, Haha. that's great. I just started thinking about contacting you yesterday! Universe works in funny ways.

2. Yes, funny ways. I dreamed last night that Moi and I were shopping in New York City. Not sure if this is dream or nightmare or somewhere in between. I can imagine spending time with Moi in NYC in any number of pleasurable pursuits from which I could benefit from her vast knowledge: museums, food festivals, dingy nightclubs with echoes of long-lost genres. Shopping with Moi in NYC? Nyet.

3. I am in the middle of about five consecutive indexes, which means I am psychically about to come off the rails. Lord, deliver me.

been a while

Sorry for you regular reader(s) out there. I have not been so diligent about posting. More work to do than thoughts about it these days.

The indexing onslaught continues. Did come across this in a book about the downslide in Protestant seminaries in the U.S.:

Some kinds of activities cannot be made more efficient. It probably takes about as much preparation and effort to produce Hamlet or perform a Beethoven symphony in the 21st century as it did centuries ago. Activities that have at their core human effort, training, practice, attention and presence cannot be made much more efficient. No technological invention or social innovation makes it possible to reduce the level of input into such activities and still get the same level of output, so enterprises organized around such activities cannot be made more efficient without a reduction in quality.

Nicely put.

Received a book today from one of my clients that is trying to position itself to produce all the books in this one publisher's new series. Because they want to do a particularly good job on the book, the production manager said to me, "This was sent to our best proofreader." That felt nice. I've often said, although perhaps not here, that proofreading is the one what brung me, and unless I'm really tearing into something good, my proofreading skills rank above my other tasks, although judging from business these days, no one is finding much fault with copyediting or indexing either.

Well . . . perhaps not so fast. In the interest of full disclosure, I did have a publisher recently bounce an index back to the authors (not me) for additional work on the subentries because mine perhaps were too detailed and did not point readers in the correct overall direction. I take this as constructive and not totally unwelcome criticism, but I place part of the blame on two issues: (1) the use of run-in entries, and (2) the slavish adherence on the part of this publisher to have all entries and subentries begin with nouns.

I won't address the latter as much as the former here. To me, run-in entries are absolute hell to read and reduce the value of an index. Very difficult to pick out topics in a run-in index, as opposed to an index with tabbed entries. Sure, they save space, but at what cost? Hell, set the dedication on the copyright page, shorten the acknowledgments, and let the book dictate the index and its quality.

I have a 178-page book coming up where the publisher says, "No more than a four-page index." I can see this sometimes where a publisher wants not to convey the idea that a book is particularly dense, but when you actually have a dense book, detail is what the nonnovice reader will want.

Medical note: I've been semi-sidelined lately with odd gastrointestinal distress. Went to the doctor today, and will be having a CAT-scan tomorrow to check for diverticulitis or colitis. I am hoping it's neither, of course, but the doctor seemed to be somewhat concerned after pressing on my belly and also doing the one-finger wave Down There. First time I've had that, not counting the non-chemically-aided flexible sigmoidoscopy back in '96. Yow.

Actually working on an interesting book now about a private industrialist in Franco's Spain. Knowing nothing about Franco before picking up this book, I'm learning a lot, which of course I will forget in a day or two. Maybe the tiredness I feel these days is the effect of a constant spiking of my IQ while I'm reading/working and then the rebound effect back to the addled, slackjawed slug I am at rest. My lovely wife back in our early years used to not believe me when she'd ask me, "What are you thinking about?" and I'd say, "Nothing." Now I think she understands.

at it again

I've sent a few folks here recently, and it probably doesn't look good that the site's not been updated. So, I'm checking in.

To say that I've been too busy to post is not an exaggeration. I really have not had the time. Potential clients, take note: Don't use this admission as an indication I don't want to hear from you. I always want to develop new relationships, because the old ones can come and go. I came damn near to firing perhaps my best client today because I just can't continue to accept the invariably impossible jobs they routinely send me. Admittedly they don't put out many easy ones, but when I look at their catalog I think, Hell, they could have sent me that, for a change. I just finished indexing another book from them that was right over my head, and I'm embroiled now in reading a dictionary that's like the vegetables your parents gave you growing up -- the more you chewed, the bigger they grew in your mouth. It seems like the more I work on this book the more I have left to do on it. And it's not a particularly difficult one. Just . . . so . . . damn . . . long.

And I've had some contact lately with potential new clients for whom I'd like to make some room, and then there are those to whom I have emotional ties, and then there are actually some where I enjoy the reading. I shouldn't have reason to complain, as I'm busier than anyone has any right to be, but, well, I'd like to see my family once in a while. Both my boys are home, and I feel like an absentee father, while they're walking around on the floor above me. However, they are the occasional source of relatively inexpensive labor for tedious tasks. And they're not bad at it. I'm not trying to give them career advice at this point by any means. For all I care, they can become indie rock gods or CIA agents or both or neither. I did tell one of them the other day though, that if he remembers nothing else that I've told him over the last 18 years remember this: Don't ever get yourself into a position where working 24 hours a day is not enough. That's about where I am now.

But, hell, I'm not in a coal mine or being shot at. I did have a potential new client ask how I got to be doing what I'm doing, and I explained that it's this or working at the Amoco station down the street. I have no other marketable skills. Thankfully, I have a market. I know at least one designer who is out of work, and a good friend is hanging on by the skin of her teeth as a newspaper reporter. I've received 2 newspaper articles in the last 2 days about papers either getting rid of copyeditors or outsourcing the task to India. An author I know (the father of a friend of my son's) who writes law texbooks when he's not lawyering says that his company has recently begun outsourcing copyediting to India. When I asked him how it was going, he said that they queried or tried to change all the jokes or puns because they didn't understand them. He finally told them just to let it slide and to trust him. The readership will understand.

I could go on, but my 24 hours are slipping away. Thanks for reading.