What It Is (posts below left; rate sheet, client list, other stuff below right)

My name is Bob Land. I am a full-time freelance editor and proofreader, and occasional indexer. This blog is my website.

You'll find my rate sheet and client list here, as well as musings on the life of a freelancer; editing, proofreading, and indexing concerns and issues; my ongoing battles with books and production; and the occasional personal revelation.

Feel free to contact me directly with additional questions: landondemand@gmail.com.

Thanks for visiting. Leave me a comment. Come back often.

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Vietnam Labyrinth from Texas Tech UP


It’s not often I shill for my publishers (and especially authors), but it’s not often I receive an email like this:

Bob: Just want to let you know that I've set up a Facebook page for Vietnam Labyrinth--& one of 1st items I posted was a “thank you” to you & Richard Comfort, who also worked with me on the book. Both of your contributions were significant, & I wanted to acknowledge that, especially since each of you seemed to take special interest in the project, a personal involvement, if you will. I was very touched by your comment that Labyrinth was one of the 2011 books that you were proud to have worked on; meant a lot, coming from a pro like you.

Thanks again for helping make 25 years of effort a reality!

If you want an amazing history of the Vietnam War from about as inside a perspective as you can get from the Vietnamese side, this is the book.

And if you find any copyediting mistakes, keep ’em to yourself.





Friday, March 22, 2013

apologies: word verification enabled on comments

Sorry, folks. It's gotten out of control. Not like I've got a legion of followers anyway. I need to keep this place tidy.


Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Why Even Bother? Style Sheet Wars

Contra many earlier posts, I'm becoming a fan of style sheets -- good ones, that is. I've actually even created a few lately.

What I don't like, but which seems increasingly common, are copyeditors who, presumably from force of habit, start off a style sheet saying that they've followed Chicago 16 and Merriam-Webster's 11th Collegiate, but the words listed on the style sheet and the text itself show little desire to actually enforce what those two volumes suggest.

Ugh.

==

On the eye front, had the last exam yesterday, except for the six-month follow-up. Received a new prescription and went straight to the local mall optical store. For the first time in my life, I had glasses made in one hour.

Not enough of a treat?

Once the glasses were made and slapped on my face, the gent handed me a little card to read. At about an arm's distance, I read the bottom lines on the page.

He said, "That's 20/15."

Of course, anything less than arm's length, I'm still a little fuzzy -- not that I'm complaining. He did say that my vision might still improve a little more as everything begins to come together.

What's hard -- almost painful -- is bright sunshine. The ophthalmologist said that's not surprising once the cataracts are gone. It's like walking out of a dark closet. Just need time to adjust.

Anyway, back to work.


Monday, March 4, 2013

A Little Music While You Wait


We might be here awhile.

Thursday, February 21, 2013

Proud Papa

Yes, that would be my son on the left, in the role of The Mute.

Equity show at a very well-regarded theatre.

Pinch me.

Florida Repertory Theatre: "The Fantasticks"

The Fantasticks by Tom Jones & Harvey Schmidt

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

End of an Era

In about 52 minutes, I'll be signing in at the doctor's office to begin the quick procedure of replacing the lens of my left eye.

When the gauze comes off tomorrow, if past history is any indication of future results, I should have 20/20 vision in both eyes. Unassisted. For the first time in my life. My fixed right eye sees so much more than my left, glasses-corrected eye, it's silly.

Then this blog will stop this Twitter feed approach and maybe get back to talking about editing 'n' stuff.

Having said that, I just found out that the clan is considering a complete family Bonnaroo experience in June. Lineup was announced yesterday. I'm told it's killer.

Bonnaroo. No sweat on the glasses. Being able to see from far back. Yowza.

Whole new world.







Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Haiku Monday: Getting Down to Business

All: Apologies for the apparently less than inspirational or motivational prompt. Thanks for participating. All entries were thoughtful and appreciated.


Show: Moi

Libertarian
Creed: Hands off. Ask first. No one’s
business but our own.

The combination of type and image helped, which is one reason for the mention and the reason for the centered type here. Posted under the image, "Libertarian" came across more like a caption or pronouncement on its own rather than as an adjective for "creed," thus leaving the last two lines standalone. Nifty.

PS: No matter what I do, I can't change the highlight behind this verse, even if I retype it. Moi, you are a wizard.


Place: Foam

Mercenariness.
Unencumbered greed stampede.
So screw Black Friday.

Those first twelve syllables are just killer.


Win: Becca

jumping, giggling 
Laughter runs wild through the house 
Monkey business fun

Yes, Becca, it wasn't your finest. And the dictionary shows "giggling" as two syllables, but does anyone here really pronounce it that way? I don't. 

I like the lowercase start-off -- intentional or not -- which separates the action of the presumably youthful actors from the more mature observation of the last two lines. The anthropomorphism of "laughter run[ning]" is wonderful. "Monkey business" offered a creative use of the prompt word and managed to tug a subliminal Marxist heartstring (see the previous exchange with Karl) on this end.

Hmm. I wonder if in spite of Becca's image (not referenced in her posting and thus noncanonical [you can tell where my head's been]), this haiku might actually have been a subversive, collective-unconscious Marx Brothers homage?

The business of childhood is fun. The business of the Brothers Marx was laughter and running wild. Our winning haikuist managed to cover both. In literature, it's not the words that are being read, but the reader, right? Some school of thought holds such.

Becca: You've got an extra bit of business on your plate next week. Enjoy.

Thanks, all.

czar

Friday, February 8, 2013

Haiku Monday: Like Nobody's

Thanks, Karl, for the handoff. I have to write fast because I have, of all things, an employee coming shortly.

Who I really need working for me is someone like this:


But, alas, some Baptist pastor has thrown in her lot with Land on Demand -- yes, "her" and "Baptist pastor." And it's not exactly Land on Demand, perhaps, entirely, in the long run. And while she's probably tough in her own way, she's no Reid Fleming.

Some changes goin' on.

After the last few days mulling over the pros and cons of two excellent HM prompts, an entirely different one just popped into my head based on current events -- those current events being that as of about 5 this morning, I'm now officially running a new enterprise, with an LLC and an EIN and everything. Website development began last month, logos being designed, copy being written, ad strategies, bank account. All new concepts for me, but in pretty familiar territory.

I'm starting a publishing house, sort of a different kind of home for authors who want to self-publish. Let's just say that now folks can buy it wholesale.

This week's topic, I don't think covered before, is business. Whatever that word inspires is fine. 5-7-5. Submit whatever you like in the comments section below; indicate two for judging. Audiovisual addenda be fine.

I just heard from a publisher in upstate NY that she's going home because of a snowstorm. Ah, another deadline diverted. Even so, I gotta head back down to the dungeon. Need to get that Protestant work ethic thing going.

And as Reid Fleming says, "Tell your friends."


Saturday, January 26, 2013

Another Set of Eyes, Part 2

I felt like writing the first part; the follow-up, not so much.

After a king-hell panic attack on the morning of the ophthalmologist's appointment (like, let's get him to the doctor and find out why he's acting like he's got the DTs), I finally managed to make it to the ophthalmologist's another day.

Long story short: cataract in the right eye, about 75 percent developed -- taking my otherwise sterling -14.25 vision to something closer to -22, and uncorrectable.

Cataract in the left eye, getting started, enough to justify replacement of both lenses -- the ones that fit in my head.

After a literal lifetime of blurry vision, and 47 years of a foreign object on my face, I go into the doctor this week for the first of two surgeries to restore my sight to a place it's never been . . . fingers crossed.

And the new "another set of eyes" -- courtesy of some biomedical lab somewhere -- should get a good spin around the block rather quickly. February and March are already crazy.

addendum

I didn't mean to cut it that short. I'm not wanting to jinx anything, but it's obviously on my mind. And I don't want to talk too much. I fear the czarina was over it long ago.

I've begun to wonder what "blind" really means. I always presumed "darkness." But someone with two eyes of the current condition of my right eye could not live without assistance -- yet could "see" a whole range of things. As some guy I spoke to locally said a few months back, even before I knew about the recent developments, "People who don't see like we do don't understand that, for them, a speck of light in a dark room is a speck, but for us, it's a big glow." Exactly right, and I never thought of it that way.

Just like with, uh, Rush Limbaugh, who did his show while "deaf" for three months. I can't imagine that "deaf" in that case meant "entirely without receiving any sound." If it was, that's a hell of an accomplishment -- and I don't understand it. (Then again, I don't understand radio.)

Time for Dr. Frankenstein to replace a few bolts.





Sunday, January 20, 2013

Another Set of Eyes, Part 1


It’s not a cliché as much as a commonsense statement that might spill out of anyone’s mouth: “This document needs another set of eyes.” That’s what I’ve been doing, one way or the other, for most of my life: serving as someone’s other set of eyes. Publishers are people, too, my friend.

“Another set of eyes” is shorthand for “I’m so tired of this document that I don’t want to think about it anymore. I’ve long lost any perspective on it, and I’m certain that I can’t uncover any remaining errors or improve it any further.”

When those eyes are in the head of a professional copyeditor or proofreader, people and publishers are willing to pay for renting them for a little while. Obviously they are — or you can make a dinner reservation for me at the Salvation Army Bistro.

But when that other set of eyes happens to be mine, things get a little tricky.

I was reading at age three. My great-aunt Etta Kaganov, a New York City schoolteacher back in the 1940s–1980s, told her principal that her three-year-old grandnephew was reading the New York Times. I think that when the principal disputed it, I was hauled in to prove it.

[My father said a few weeks ago I was probably just reading headlines. I’ll bet Aunt Ettie would beg to differ.]

Apparently I was a smart child. From the Jewish Community Center on Staten Island where I went to nursery school in the early 1960s, some way misinformed person thought it might be a good idea if I skipped kindergarten and first grade and went straight on to second grade.

Sure, that’d be a good idea in the long run. Put an already-too-shy five-year-old in with second graders. Add about seven years to get into the dating years, and watch the serious emotional damage really take hold.

Anyway.

Thankfully I didn’t make the jump to second grade. However, my folks did send me somewhere other than kindergarten for a day or so (maybe to be tested at the school I would be attending?), and the report came back: Is something wrong? The kid’s an idiot. He doesn’t belong here.

Hmmm. Let’s check his eyesight. Maybe he can’t see the blackboard.

Ya think?

I’ve been wearing glasses since I was five years old. I ended up in first grade, still a year younger than my classmates. It was the first step in how I ended up graduating college at age 20 — not because I was a great student (I wasn't, by any means — after fifth grade, anyway), but  more out of a desire to get to work and get the hell out of school.

When I was a teenager, optometrists said, “Your eyes will stop getting worse when you’re around 18.” I’m almost 53. Hasn’t happened yet. My prescription even impresses optometrists.

Bottom line: My only set of eyes (everyone else’s other) has sucked for years. They’ve always been pretty much correctable, though, as long as I didn’t mind inch-thick lenses, and I didn’t. (Yes, I measured. And this isn’t male enhancement.) Contacts never worked for me — first because the hard ones were too painful in the mid-1970s, and when I tried them again about six years ago, they ultimately didn’t give me the correction I needed.

I’ve said for years that my right eye wasn’t correcting as well as my left. No one listened.

In October, I went in for an eye exam because I realized that my right eye was no longer in focus, even with glasses. Like, not even close. With my glasses on, I need to be two inches away from the computer screen to read with my right eye only.

I’m at the optometrist, and we’re doing the usual “Is it better now . . . or now? 1 . . . or 2? 3 . . . or 4? 5 . . . or 6?” If you have glasses or contacts, you know the drill. But this time — after 47 years — with the right eye, nothing is better.

Panic.

Think of how I make my living. Think of how a professional pianist might feel if she was losing the ability to move her fingers.

I peered around the device and asked the optometrist, “Can you please tell me what the hell is going on here?”

She reveals nothing and does a few more tests, which only exacerbate my dread.

“I’m going to recommend you for a cataract evaluation.”

To be continued . . .

Monday, December 31, 2012

Happy New Year

My brother, proofreader extraordinaire and usually an astute observer of culture, said a few years back that he eagerly awaited the end of the decade of the 2000s, so that we wouldn't have to look at any more stupid eyeglasses on New Year's Eve.

Brother, I wish they'd listened.



Happy New Year to everyone who reads this. My wishes are for everybody's safety and good health going forward.

bl

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

My Stablepan Overfloweth


The photo at the bottom of the previous post notwithstanding, I’ve tried to keep this blog pretty PG-rated, especially if you discount the comments section and the occasional YouTube link. Yet a particular word has been running through my mind lately to describe not just a few recent projects but the whole genres of books of which they are a part. And I’m going to use that word here. These days, if it were the only such word in a script, the production would merit a PG-13.

Along with the word comes one of the dark secrets of this line of work that I’ve not explored in detail:

Some of the books I edit, proofread, or index are pure horseshit.

There. I’ve said it. Now I can talk about it.

I am surprised, frankly, that the horseshit percentage is not greater than it is now. But over time, I’ve come to identify almost from the get-go certain types of books that have this pungent quality.

First, though, we can note that authors who are overly protective of their writing styles are supreme primers of the horseshit pump. Cowering behind such self-assessments of their prose as “literary” and “subtle” delivered in whiny manifestoes to managing editors, these types of authors bully professionals around them into accepting unclear manuscripts under the excuse of “my voice.” Horseshit. These types of authors are generally masking writerly deficiencies and have too big an ego to accept editorial changes. They’ll routinely trumpet their thirty years of experience in a field, not realizing that their editor has the same thirty years of experience trying to make horseshit writing come across a little better, regardless of the field.

Now, I have no problem with authors who have a particular style that works. I’m thinking in particular of a few pieces of agrammatical experimental fiction that, once I surrendered to the sparse writing styles, read just fine. On the other hand, I had an author once say that a few hundred random commas in the manuscript were intended as pauses for when the book is read aloud. (And actually, this book was not horseshit at all, but I’m speaking to nonworking writing styles.) Well, that’s a horseshit excuse, because you’re writing a book that will be read silently, not a script for an audio book.

Overly protective authors, however, are not the only ones who produce books that, regardless of subject matter, go in the General Horseshit classification of the LandonDemand Card Catalog:

1. Books that try to appear scholarly by association.

2. Books in which authors make themselves part of the research.

3. Books that try too hard to tell you what they are all about.

In good academic or homiletical style, I address each in turn.

1. Books that try to appear scholarly by association.

“I have an idea that some Horseshit Theory can be applied to a particular element of the human psyche. Because A affects B, and studies show that B might affect C, and since C relates to my D . . . well, there you go: A to D, thanks to me. Here’s 240 pages over seven chapters detailing serious studies addressing A and C, and at the end of every 20 pages or so, I’m going to ask you, ‘Now, wouldn’t all that serious stuff lead nicely into my own very special brand of horseshit?’ The answer is, ‘We really don’t know, because I’m not bothering to do any hard research myself. I’d rather do a literature survey, and then fancy myself a scholar by piggybacking my own horseshit onto some earlier, legacy horseshit.’”

("Legacy horseshit." I like that.)

Folks, if you have kids in college (I have one in and one just out), keep in mind that some PhDs under whom your little darlings may be studying have received their pedigree by passing off such garbage as scholarship. You’d not believe the horseshit books I read that are slightly massaged PhD dissertations, and I’m not talking about the obscurity of the topic. It’s the lack of quality of the scholarship.

You’d be well within your rights to ask, “Well, you’ve just got a 30-something-year-old horseshit BA degree in English and political science. What do you know?”

Damn good question.

What I know is a good book versus a bad book. That comes from reading more than a hundred books a year for many years, every character, cover to cover, and I can tell horseshit from something meaningful.

Occasionally I look at the institutions that grant authors their degrees. And I’m amazed. You’re better off not knowing.

2. Books in which authors make themselves part of the research.

Good lord, these might be the worst. Let me qualify the following statement by saying that I’m not talking about anthologies or anything like that. I’m talking about one- or two-author books about some subject of presumptive interest to someone other than a dissertation committee or the authors’ moms.

Readers, take note: Anytime you have front matter — preface, foreword, acknowledgments, special note from the author — that totals more than 20 pages, the horseshit sensors should start going off like mad. If, even after lxvi pages of front matter, the author is still referring to herself or himself by about page 50 of the running text, you know that the book’s featuring a healthy amount of horseshit content.

“I have an idea that some Horseshit Theory can be extended to spiritual practice. I tried it on a really good, statistically scientific sample: Me. You’re reading my book, so I know that in your mind, I’m a celebrity. I know My Self to be the ipsissimus of pious and well-meaning generalities, although I’ll play mock humble for my readers. Because I claim that my practices work for me, they are certainly going to work for you. I’ve read some very important books that back me up, and occasionally these folks are friends of mine, and sometimes I’ll recommend whole systems of life that you can start learning about if you buy their books [and ancillary materials for $400].” (Thankfully, the money thing is rare.)

Note two: If you run into an author who claims that only poetry can sufficiently express what’s going on at that point of the text — and you’re about 150 pages into the book — you’d better strap on some protective gear, because you are getting ready to read some horseshit poetry. Prose horseshit is one thing. It really doesn’t get much worse than horseshit poetry.

I’ve mentioned it back in the bowels of this blog, but I once was reading some front matter — and yes, it was on about page xlviii of the front matter, so by that time I already knew I was in trouble on several horseshit fronts — and the author busted out with, “Thanks to Professor SoandSo, who praised my poetry before I named myself Poet” (bold added, but not the capital P). Alzheimer’s will need to be pretty well established before my brain will cleanse itself of that horseshit.

3. Books that try too hard to tell you what they are all about.

Books in this category are not immediate horseshit deliverers in the manner of the categories above, but their presentation drives them into the fetid realm. For this horseshit, I can partially blame in-house editors for not asking the writer to deliver a tighter manuscript.

In a well-organized and well-written book, an author should not have to remind readers every 10 pages of where they’ve been, where they’re going, or what the book is going to do. Some books are so choked with cross-references that I wonder when the actual content appears.

As an indexer, such horseshit occasionally works in my favor, as I refuse to index content that the author repeats throughout a book as reminders for what the book has already discussed. In a recent book, I was able eventually to skip over the first two pages of the final chapters as the author went through the twelve-days-of-Christmas routine for every previous chapter of the book.

Then there’s “which we will discuss in chapter xx” or “which we covered in chapter xx.” Once in a while, such a phrase may be helpful. Repeated too often, it’s filler — that is, horseshit.

Someone had to say it.


Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Tricks of the Trade, lesson 114



To an overseas author with whom I’ve worked before, who has written to ask me about copyediting a project next year.

============

I was just writing you a follow-up, then I’ll leave you alone.

Clarification: The work doesn’t take [four to five weeks], obviously, but it’s the usual turnaround that publishers and authors would expect for a manuscript of that length. If you found yourself in a position where you needed the work done, say, in two to three weeks, that’s not a problem -- especially if you’ve kept me apprised of scheduling along the way.

Do, please, let me know if or when I should lock this in on my schedule. I have a few publishers these days who tell me about their whole seasons two months in advance, so sometimes my work schedule starts filling up oddly for a particular month that’s far down the road.

If you don’t mind my asking, I have an unrelated item that’s been on my mind for some time. June Bug referred to you as her editor at Such-and-So Press. If I remember correctly, you’re a rather well-traveled and in-demand scholar. Do you do acquisitions for Such-and-So on the side? Or maybe you were an in-house reviewer for her book? 

Of course, I’m asking for mercenary reasons. If, by chance, you do have any role with Such-and-So Press that puts you in contact with authors or production people who might need editorial vendors, I’d welcome your passing my name along. Sometimes a UK press would like to have an American copyeditor or proofreader, and I index books as well -- a pathology that crosses borders. If you know any production managers whose names you could pass along, that would be great, too. It’s rare these days that I send out any feelers looking for work, but this little item’s lodged itself in my head, and there’s usually a reason for it.

Thanks.



A managing editor in a religious publishing house once told me,
"Bob, you know what we call you around here? 'The whore.'"

Saturday, December 1, 2012

Letter to an Author


An author I've worked with for many years finally came out with a self-published edition of a book, and is discouraged after no sales and a rejection from Books-a-Million. The topic is one about which the author is passionate, but based on the discouragement, the author is entirely ready to throw in the towel and, so to speak, close the book on the entire endeavor. This author, moreover, is typically upbeat.

Names changed, and correspondence slightly edited.

———

Jan: I’m sorry to hear this, especially from a person as typically positive as you are. What I’m about to write might seem like a little tough love, but I do care about you.

I’m not sure what you’ve done from your email or conversations with you to market the book. A rejection by Books-a-Million is to be entirely expected. The chances of Books-a-Million accepting a book from an unpublished author on a topic of, yes, limited interest are about the same as Walmart agreeing to put on its shelves Jan’s Great Breakfast Cereal. You’re talking about extremely valuable real estate, and you received a form letter response; the “and/or” indicates to me they didn’t even read it, and I’m not sure why they would read it, as they probably receive tens of thousands of unsolicited submissions each year. I’m also not sure why that’s a litmus test anyway; most people I know who buy books probably haven’t been in a Books-a-Million or any chain bookstore in ten years, except just to kill time. You’ll be around longer than Books-a-Million. Also, if you were dealing with a local or regional marketing person, I don’t think you’re working with someone who is necessarily in the position to assess the value of the book.

Have you done the festival route? That’s a proven way to sell books and make contacts in your area. Have you spoken with Jamie’s group or any of those authors? Have you begun signing up for festivals and authors’ signings for 2013? The local authors who are selling books are doing just that. And they sell books. And write more.

Have you contacted small presses — sending them a copy of the book, along with notice that you’re a professional lecturer and a topic expert, and you’d be willing to do anything to promote this book if they accept it? You could do two small presses a month for a year, in areas that would be interested in this book, at a total cost of about $40. 

You’ve experienced what every author experiences: a rejection. So what? Writing and researching for you were the easy part. If you want to get published or sell the books, it takes work, too — and it’s not the fun kind. I’ve probably told you, or you already know, that the authors of the first Chicken Soup for the Soul books received 150+ rejections. A hundred million copies later . . . 

I dropped a quick note to a writer about your email. Part of the response is as follows:

Is the book great literature? No. Is it scholarship? No. Will it make Jan millions or even tens of thousands of dollars? No. But it does represent a very good effort on Jan’s part to bring something Jan is rightly passionate about to light. Thousands of similar books are published each year to great response that are more poorly written and with less exciting a topic. I think Jan has something here that IS appealing — just needs to find the market.

Jan, I don’t think I’ve made any secret along the way that the publishing world is not going to beat a path to anyone’s door who is not a known and very saleable quantity. With all the tools these days, hundreds of thousands of people annually are publishing books, some with very wild expectations of the results. Even big publishers tell authors, and I’ve heard them say it to a room full of them, “Don’t expect that we’re going to do the work of marketing for you. That’s your job.”

I’m not sure what I can say that you’ve not heard from other writers or me numerous times before. At this point, selling the book becomes personal. No book, especially one on a limited topic by an unknown author, will get recognized except through the author’s efforts, which need not cost much at all. It sounds like you’ve put up your registration money and done all the training for a race you were really looking forward, then decided to stop because a cloud came out. I’m sure I’m missing something, because this isn’t the Jan I’ve come to know.

Apologies if I’ve overstepped my bounds.

Bob

Thursday, November 22, 2012

Author Contact, Codes, Thanksgiving

Some presses put me directly in touch with authors. I speak of dreading that experience, but the exchanges are often pleasant and rewarding.

Most of the time, a press's managing editor sends me a job, and I edit and return it to the managing editor. No mess, no fuss. I also can say certain things to the managing editor about a book that would be more difficult to say to an author.

[Sometimes, though, I wonder if presses don't always know when there's such a problem with the manuscript, and they want the anonymous copyeditor to blame when they bring the hammer down on the author.]

When I'm put in touch with the author, I can't hide behind the anonymity that copyediting usually provides. Thankfully I've never had the paths cross of Author Contact and Rancid Book. I recently had one back to back with the other, and I started thinking how fortunate that the author I was dealing with had written a very nice book and wasn't trying to pass off a bunch of financial and demographic research done in 2004 in the present tense as if it were still relevant.

But I digress. Imagine that.

In a recent project I copyedited, the press had coded the book before it came to me. Thus, the material below in angle brackets appeared before most blocks of copy. The material following the second bracket is what the code stands for:

<2HT>Second half title
<A>A-head
<ACK>Acknowledgments
<B>B-head
<BIB>Bibliography
<BMH>Back matter head
<BML>Back matter list
<BMT>Back matter text
<BQ>Block quote
<CN>Chapter number
<COT>Chapter opening text
<CPT>Chapter part title
<CT>Chapter title
<DED>Dedication
<DIA>Dialogue
<ESIGN>End of <SIGN>
<FMH>Front matter head
<HT>Half title
<L>List, unnumbered
<LH>List head
<LTR>Letter opening
<LTRT>Letter text
<N>Notes
<NH>Notes head
<NL>Numbered list
<NLH>Numbered list head
<P>Poem
<PN>Part number
<PST>Part subtitle
<PT>Part title
<SB>Strong break
<SIGN>Used for newspaper article titles, etc.
<T>Regular text
<T1>First paragraph of text
<TFL>Text flush left
<TOCBM>Table of contents back matter
<TOCCN>Table of contents chapter number
<TOCCT>Table of contents chapter title
<TOCFM>Table of contents front matter
<TOCPN>Table of contents part number
<TOCPST>Table of contents part subtitle
<TOCPT>Table of contents part title
<TP>Title page

NOTE: Ethnographic sections, which should be typographically distinct from regular text, are indicated by an “E” preceding individual code elements (e.g., <ETFL> for ethnographic text flush left, etc.).

This manuscript has more elements than most, but a list half this size isn't uncommon for most books. Part of what I do -- when the press doesn't do it first -- is put similar codes in the manuscript myself, thus telling the designer how to lay out the book. Put as simply as my brain can understand it, the designer can set up a certain style for chapter heads, search all text coded <CH>, apply style to code, and voila. Of course, there's a whole lot that goes on after that and before that, and nothing is quite that simple, but that's what the codes are for.

For this reason, authors, the look of a manuscript ultimately doesn't matter. 

Theoretically you could send a manuscript to a typesetter in 4-point Ridiculous, superscripted, and as long as these codes are in place, the designer should be able to work jes' fine.

The obverse (?) is also true. No matter how much you try to fancy up your manuscript, there's a point of diminishing returns for everyone down the line -- and you, too. A properly coded manuscript needs no formatting other than bold and italics and a few other things that import into design software. Boxes and shading and all that goes away, and a designer needs to re-create it. 

That's why an author should never put boxes and shading and auto-lists and all that other unnecessary noise in a manuscript in the first place.

Not that this author did. Well, actually I don't know, because the press obviously intervened on the manuscript before I saw it. But when I compiled my answers to some of the author's concerns, I noted that many of them dealt with how the manuscript looked, and the codes -- which, after all, are significant to me (duh, like knowing proofreading marks and reading subway maps -- aren't these universal survival skills?) -- weren't much help to the author.

My email to the very nice author follows, and please note that this was not my initial correspondence with the author. We'd already established a rapport and worked some things out between us, with some give and take on both sides. This email was sent essentially after my work was complete.

Hi. Just responding to some of your queries, so you don’t worry about this stuff.

1. The columns of contributions not lining up -- actually, they are, in theory. There’s a tab space between each number on each line, but just not a tab in the ruler, so the spacing is all different in appearance. Once the designer imports that text, the tabs will be there, and everything will line up pretty.

2. <LH>Oyster Dressing.

You’d wondered about this not being bold. The designer determines all those specs at typesetting time. The LH indicates it’s a head. I’m sure it’ll all make sense on the page.

3. You should be reborn a human being so that you will have a good life.” [Q: Shouldn’t there be end quote marks here (or somewhere) to close the instruction?]

No, because the text preceding it is set as a prose extract.

4. [Q: Can we put a blank line between the ends of all the poetry sections and the next paragraphs?  It bothers me that it all looks so crowded.]

Again, that’s a design thing that will be resolved at typesetting. There’s typically space around extracts and lists in most books. Don’t worry about how the manuscript looks. The designer goes by the codes, not the spacing on the page.

5. <CT>Silk Stories [Endnote 1 is here after “Silk Stories,” not at the end of COT]
No can do. Note markers after chapter titles, heads, etc., are verboten. Needs to go after the first next logical block of running text, usually the first sentence -- as done here.

6. Need to keep “nowhere” lowercase in “middle of nowhere”: From Merriam-Webster’s 11th Collegiate: middle of nowhere : an extremely remote and isolated place  *ran out of gas in the middle of nowhere. 

If we wanted to uppercase the term, really it would be Middle of Nowhere, Montana, but we shouldn’t do that either.

Hope that helps.

===

Happy Thanksgiving, folks. Hope it was a good one. We forsook the home event, and three of us -- myself, my wife, our younger son -- drove to Weaverville, NC, to a nice little restaurant and had a delightful meal and walked around a little afterward. Back home, nothing but another night at home. Nice change of pace. No preparation, no clean-up, and 90 minutes or so of quiet conversation that might be better than we'd get at home, with all the jumping up and down around the table that would be going on. My younger son's the type whom sometimes you don't know what's going on until you ask, and some of the time you don't even know what to ask, so the occasional direct answers and questions we get out of him in such situations are always helpful. His older brother has gone through parts of his life when we seemed to hear most of the goings-on in his head. That has never, ever been the case with our younger issue. I guess there's benefits to both. And it comes and goes. Once our younger son gets on a roll, it's nice to find out what's happening in his life.

I'll probably fry a turkey at Christmas, but I think we just made it a family tradition to get the hell out of town and go eat somewhere else on Thanksgiving. I guess it's our Central Appalachian version of Thanksgiving in Chinatown, which we've also done. With Asheville and environs 75 minutes of a beautiful drive down the road, that's not a problem.


View from 19/23, Tennessee/North Carolina

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Why It's Always Better to Query

Alrighty, put on your copyediting or proofreading hats. What do you notice about the following sentence?

At the funeral home, I wrapped up all the ashes from the burned part of the family money gift [tshuab ntawv vam sab].

Careful readers will note that the "v" in "vam" is not italicized. [Be honest. Did you see it?]

Most cases, one might simply think it's an error and italicize it, right? I queried, and received this pretty fascinating answer from the author:

"Nonitalicized if spoken aloud; italicized if thought. Stet."

I hope Hmong copyeditors get paid the big bucks.


Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Haiku Monday Winner: Southeast


After announcing the theme of "southeast," I remembered an I-don’t-think-entirely-apocryphal story from Atlanta back in the 1970s. Chickory may be familiar with this incident. It happened soon enough before I arrived in Atlanta that I don’t think it emerged out of whole cloth. Fleur may know it, too.

In a long-demolished shopping center known as Broadview Plaza near Piedmont and Lindbergh and Buford Highway was an intimate concert venue known as the great southeast music hall. They served buckets of beer -- about the equivalent of four and a half cans — and a glass. And you sat on the floor, as they had padded backstops you could lean up or pass out against. I saw a few very good concerts there. I think.

Back in the mid-70s, before he broke through on Saturday Night Live and elsewhere, Steve Martin did a show at the Great Southeast Music Hall. So few people showed up that he did only a quick set . . . and then took the audience bowling at the lanes nearby. Talk about a brush with fame.

Times have changed. Broadview Plaza is long, long gone. Atlanta has been torn down and rebuilt three times since Sherman finished his own mode of urban renewal. Steve Martin is now very self-consciously high culture.

Times have changed in Southeast Asia, too. With the CIA in the news lately, I wonder what’s going on in the parts of the world we don’t hear about so much anymore. As with any relationship gone south(east), in our national collective mind — and in the national subconscious — do we ever really walk away? In other generation or two, will we be back for another round? The words “Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos” mean little if anything to my children, who are not uninformed yutes. Will those names mean something again to their children?

Consider this little ditty, from 1974 (I hope the author/compiler, who previously checked in on the blog, doesn’t mind): “I took the rock [from Laos] to Lausch Test Labs in Seattle. They assayed this material, and it assayed out at 1.1 ounces of gold per ton. Oh my, that’s a high gold content! More than double anything in Alaska or the rest of the U.S.! Also there was 0.58 ounces of silver, and the rest was iron. When I got that assay report I called Bethlehem Steel and I talked to their exploration department. I said, ‘Would you guys be interested in something like this?’ They said, ‘My God! Where is it?’ I said, ‘I’m sorry but you won’t be able to get to it at this time. Not for at least a quarter of a century.’” Bethlehem Steel might still be waiting. Maybe not. We don’t know.

But your neighbor might. And that’s OK. I wish I had a marketable skill to lead me to a life of intrigue.

Where was I?

Fishy: Nice pieces evoking Florida beach culture. We lived at the beach in FL for two years -- although not a spring break destination. What I used to love in those years was going inland to I-95 to eat at the Waffle House during Bike Week. Great clientele. And Waffle House would issue special Waffle House Bike Week uniforms.

I like “Tops down flirty girls,” on a number of levels. I remember one year when I was still not yet old enough to drive legally (it might even have been right after I fell asleep at the wheel) and Dad Czar rented me a Camaro convertible for use for a week in Miami; I think it was to keep me out of his hair. So, sure, I had a Camaro convertible when I was 16 years old for a week in Miami. Unfortunately it was still me behind the wheel. No get lucky. Wouldn’t even know how to try.

Serendipity one (Alaska): Interesting story. You live a life with which I am unfamiliar. I also have tried to make the point that in these grand disasters that happen in life, not every person who dies is necessarily a saint or didn’t have it coming — although maybe they didn’t go in exactly the way someone imagined.

Moi: That’s just hilarious, as was the video. I must admit that I still get the occasional “pin”/“pen” thing wrong with the czarina. Dad czar says my vowels are all wrong since moving down here. “Rurnt”!

Becca: Great entries. Florida is an odd amalgam — if I might stretch your second one there, too. As a two-year Florida resident, I remember the excitement of receiving in the mail our first fall there an offer for a Florida residents’ pass to all the Disney properties — something like unlimited usage for three months for $99/person. At the time, we had a nine- and a six-year-old. I’m not sure we ever would have gone to Disney otherwise. And there is nothing like an ocean. As Mark Twain said upon his first view of the Atlantic, “It appears to be a success.”

Serendipity two (sunset over your shoulder): Sublime and witty. I see those colors often around here. Quite nicely done.

BlazngScarlet: A lot of past and present Floridians checking in. My heart doesn’t really yearn for anywhere, but there are certain state borders I cross over and think, “Back home.” Two are in the Southeast. I don’t see myself returning north in this lifetime, but I think at this point I’d feel out of place. On the ’Bama thing . . . the czarina grew up in Alabama, and her whole family went there. I need to be careful. Although she’ll pull for Georgia, her alma mater, over Alabama. And I think at this point she’d pull for Virginia over either of them.

Karl: Ever the man who can make as much sense in seventeen syllables as anybody, and with a lilting rhythm, yet.

Chickory: I need a lifeline. I know the Mason-Dixon line, and I know the gnat line. What’s above the gnat line and it’s not so important that it’s below the Mason-Dixon line? What am I missing? Arrggh! Thankfully, for me, we have syllable issues that add to the mystery. But I’m sitting here messing with Venn diagrams.

This week’s winner grabbed me right off, and while I might discount eating up five syllables with one’s own name, when one’s own name captures the moment and the haiku as it does here, I’m not one to quibble.

And you need the visual and the story:

http://serendipitouswildmoments.wordpress.com/2012/11/11/sunset-in-the-southeast/

A southeast sunset?
Serendipity reflects;
surprise from behind!

It was a delightful surprise for me, too — with an interesting and multifaceted twist to the theme, and a timeless look at a theme that's ever in flux. The win goes to Serendipity. Thanks, all, for another grand time.


Friday, November 9, 2012

Haiku Monday, 11/12/2012

In some fit of Savannah-induced euphoria or election-induced despair, Fishy gave the local liberal the nod for a Castro-inspired haiku in a week that also included a national election that, well, didn't break the way many folks around here hoped.

Personally, I was insulted to see a vote total at one point in the night for my home state that included Virgil Goode's numbers, but not Gary Johnson's. I went to the secretary of state's website, and Johnson was pulling more than twice as many votes at that time as Goode. So what's the takeaway here?

Don't forget, folks, I spent much of my adult life voting Libertarian. This year, I realized that the vote I made for the Libertarian ticket in 1980 included one of the Koch brothers as vice president. Yowza.

Savannah and youth and change have something to do with this week's theme.

Sunrise at Isle of Hope, Savannah
I'm working on a large and rather interesting volume about the CIA's secret war in Laos from the late 50s/early 60s to the mid-70s, the evacuation of the Hmong, Hmong funeral rituals . . . all told through the life and death story of a smokejumper who was over there for many years, and died and was buried in his early 40s under mysterious circumstances.

It's 170,000 words of mostly oral history and reprints, and that's a nice few days on the farm for a copyeditor. Not a lot to do.

Interestingly, I was familiar with the Laotian cast of characters from this little ditty (no, you don't have to watch it):


The book I'm editing is part of a series on Southeast Asian history and U.S. involvement in it during the post-World War II era -- from Texas Tech University Press. If you're interested in military history and U.S. history in the 1960s and 1970s, the books are well worthwhile. And no, folks, it's not a bunch of anti-U.S. claptrap. Not at all. Texas Tech is devoted to Vietnam and Southeast Asian studies.

Believe it or not, Laos has something to do with this week's theme. Texas, thankfully not. Ginsberg? Nothing much I'm aware of, except for his appearance at University of Alabama in Huntsville in 1977 -- a tape of which was the first recording I heard of the song above.

(It was part of the same speakers' series in which I met Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, a native of Louisville, KY, the next year.)


Back in the days even before I was old enough to start voting Libertarian, I spent a lot of time traveling up and down I-95. Dad Czar and I, like good New York Jews, would drive dutifully down to Miami Beach in the middle of every December (1967-1976), and then in 1977 I began my regular New York-Atlanta-New York drives for three years, continuing them off and on for many years after that.

I always knew I was firmly back in the Southeast when I'd emerged from the Baltimore/Washington nonsense, and made it through the perpetually under construction freeway through downtown Richmond, to break onto traffic-less highway and inhale deeply the smell of the RJ Reynolds tobacco plant -- a strange and surprising and welcoming odor when you're driving 65 miles an hour in the middle of the night.

We're back where we started. Savannah to Richmond. My Montgomery, AL, native wife and my two sons born in Atlanta would be proud.

This week's Haiku Monday theme is southeast.

That might be Asia, or the United States (my adopted home, whether the locals like it or not), or for those of you of a more directional bent, something the compass kicks off. For those of you who enjoy American football, there's always the SEC. You don't have to worry about my having favorites in that conference; I dislike them all, some more than others.

And it doesn't have to be southeast geographically; whatever you can take away from the word is fair game.

Visuals: Smoke 'em if you got 'em. Links: Yeah. Music: If it's good. Just haiku? Delightful.

Limit two entries, please. I'm strict on syllables but little else (although I will say this: punctuate purposefully). Other than that, post entries in the comments below. Deadline is midnight PST on Monday.

Have fun, folks. Thanks, Fishy.

Monday, November 5, 2012

Haiku Monday: New Yorker Covers

The host is the inestimable Fishy at her pond, and the theme -- with a wonderful accompanying write-up -- is New Yorker covers.

Smoldering island's
Ashen past; dreams wintering,
Caribbean-style.



Seasons go and stop—
In the black strip ’tween Mom’s grin
And child’s pigtailed angst




Saturday, November 3, 2012

Storm Update: It's All about Me

I mean, you can get news and worldwide significance elsewhere, right?

Sandy plows fiercely through czar's childhood: Staten Island, where I grew up, and Breezy Point, on the same spit of land where I worked for two summers.

Not, of course, that I think of Sandy as divine judgment, but lyrics of a certain song came to mind when I heard of the events at Breezy Point. And I want to emphasize that I don't think anyone deserved what happened here. They're just lyrics, and I can't really stop the linkages -- not that I have to report them here, either.

I wish I could find the John Miller version of "Where Shall I Be" online, but it's impossible to find any John Miller on youtube from the mid-1970s, or much at all. If you like blues, gospel, American songbook, high-quality finger-picking guitar, and a voice kinda in the range of Alan Wilson from Canned Heat, find John Miller music. (I've got all the albums, and one day I'll digitize them. Of all the albums I have, those are close to the top of the list. And Fahey.)

[I throw it open for discussion: What's the one song you wish you had a digital version of but, as far as you know, has never been digitized? The first song I digitize is Cool It Reba, "Money Fall out the Sky."]

Lyrics of "Where Shall I Be" (trad., arr. John Miller; not the song in the video below):

Where shall I be when the first trumpet sounds
Where shall I be when it sounds so loud
Sounds so loud it'll wake up the dead
Where shall I be when it sounds?

I'll be trying on my robe when the first trumpet sounds
Trying on my robe when it sounds so loud
Sounds so loud it'll wake up the dead
Where shall I be when it sounds?

God gave Noah the rainbow sign
Won't be water but the fire next time

Sounds so loud it'll wake up the dead
Where shall I be when it sounds?

Plenty of interesting versions of "Where Shall I Be" on the youtube, but none I found included the lyric highlighted above.

I heard from my brother, a Staten Island resident who thankfully lives about 400 feet above sea level. He has made it through so far with only a crushed and totaled car, 37 hours without power or hot water, and a live-in 85-year-old recently immigrated Russian mother-in-law whose cognac supply was almost exhausted. Lucky indeed.

Staten Island lost 19 people of the 94 dead from Sandy so far, and was also disproportionately the most affected locale by the events of September 11, 2001, in terms of loss of life.

Horrible events, and I'm very sad to see my hometown take another devastating hit.

[More from my brother: just received another message. His wife and mother-in-law went yesterday to be with some folks they know who were understandably upset at seeing corpses washing ashore. My brother also did some exploring last night. Said that there were 300 vehicles lined up for gas at midnight near our family's old car dealership . . . at a station that wouldn't open for another seven hours.]

In the meantime . . .