Protagitron: Editorial Assistant, With Kung Fu Changes Tracking Action!

Greetings from... almost a month after my last post! Good Lord. I didn't realize that the soggy post about crying at work would remain front and centre for over a month, or else I would have written about a book cover, or my cat, or anything else to push it down the page.

This September I turned 27, wound up with a different job at work, signed up for two continuing education classes, got some bad news, and bought a new bike. I'm now an editorial assistant, so it should be little surprise that one of the classes is for copyediting. The copyediting class is a humbling experience - I went through school when teaching the fundamentals of grammar was out of fashion. I've read enough that I can fake it sometimes, 'sensing' that things are wrong without being able to explain why. Now I have to face that my understanding of when to hyphenate compound words is quite shaky, best described as 'when it doubt, hyphenate.'

I also find myself quietly resentful of the online message board, which is full of people's well-articulated questions about cases and tenses, that is, well-articulated evidence that they probably aren't working 9-5 EVERY SINGLE DAMNED WEEKDAY.

Yeah, you heard me, "Ruth." Take five minutes away from the keyboard, sometime.

I think I will like copyediting though. Reading every word very slowly and constantly referring to the style guide capitalizes on my all-consuming anxiety. I also yearn for consistency, and have a certain megalomaniacal urge to turn chaos into order, so style guides are right in my wheelhouse. I'll just have to remember that I can't rewrite everything to sound like me: sentence fragments, caps lock, and chock full of puns.

Why You Should Read William Langewiesche

Every week, or at least whenever I can remember, I link to one piece of non-fiction writing on my Twitter. I try to vary the authors and magazines as much as I can, which is hard. Because all I want to do is share William Langewiesche's work, and that would take the better part of a year of faithful linking. I guess I'm a Langewiesche fangirl, in the way other people geek out over G.R.R. Martin or Neil Gaiman. He has a beautiful style, without being a beautiful stylist. His prose is direct and his diction rarely surprises, but he's a genius at presenting the facts at their proper facets, so they can illuminate each other. He's at his best when he describes the failures of machines - shuttles that explode, ships that sink, airplanes that collide with each other - or of the men who run them, and at his worst with one-subject profiles. Profiles are all about the colour and texture of the notable they're describing. They circle instead of heading straight for the problem. As a former pilot, Langewiesche is more direct. He describes the circumstances of every collapse, then works through to the end with clarity and grace, so that it almost seems like fate. Here are the final sentences of my favourite piece, "Columbia's Last Flight," from the November 2003 issue of the Atlantic:

As had happened with the Challenger in 1986, the crew cabin broke off intact. It assumed a stable flying position, apparently nose high, and later disintegrated like a falling star across the East Texas sky. 

And now you have something to read for the rest of your Sunday.

3 Day Novel Fail Pt. 2

As a continuation of my 3-Day Novel Fail, I've collected some of my most misanthropic lines so you can share in the gloom.

Something I forgot to say yesterday was that, after I realized my novel was going South, South 'til it had gone all the way around and was going North, North, I made one addition. Inspired by my recent Penguin Gothic Reds kick, where the story is often presented as some kind of found manuscript within the plot, I wrote in a prologue and an epilogue that had a team of adventurers discovering the work in a Chevy Cabriolet in the backwoods and then going mad. I think I might be the only one who'll read it and get the joke though.

Here they are, the 3-Day Novel Greatest Misses

On health:
"After all, there were only so many yoga classes Allison could take before veganism and spandex blends began to seem like a reasonable lifestyle." p. 6
"Allison wondered if it counted as justified vacation if she had to go home because her feet had fallen off, and she was dragging bloody stumps along the floor to deliver Snapping Taco Dippers." p. 33


Pillow talk:
“What you’re going to need to do is cut off all the bad parts, throw ‘em in the trash, and throw all of the good parts in this sterilized bucket.” p. 14
“Oh, fuck you. You fucking cunt. You are so hung over.” p. 23
“A buddy of mine bought a condo with his harpy wife. They offered me the basement pretty cheap so they could have some help with the mortgage. But it’s still a pretty broke-ass place. I’ve got my own entrance though." p. 38

Sexy time:
"Since then, Caroline had said “cunt,” “cottage cheese cum” and “anal tearing,” but Allison had stopped caring." p. 20
"Was Caroline speaking in full sentences? Were they discussing puppet erotomania? And worse, was that going to be the note on which they were going to fuck? " p. 21
"He was, on most levels, repulsive. Allison had seen him at work once take a hand mirror and gouge out an ingrown hair on his chin. In the middle of the kitchen." p. 27
"They would fuck right against the dishwasher. No, better yet in the walk-in refrigerator. Or perhaps that would be too cold. Allison sighed. The actual logistics could be ironed out later." p. 32

On work:
"But until then, she had to get this family its food and get them out to the CN tower, the Eaton’s Center, or wherever else they were planning to buy a t-shirt." p. 17
“Unemployed freelancers. It was sort of like holding a mirror up to a mirror and seeing a small cheque in the middle.” p. 58

Deep moments:
"But his eyes seemed kind under the flashing neon sign, and he gripped her shoulder with something like tenderness. He looked her in the eye. Allison knew he was about to speak. He opened his mouth. She looked at him. And then he hurled into the gutter." p. 22
"They were genetically predisposed to failure, she supposed." p. 64

Oh, The Punnery:
"Was this how her quest would end, not with a bang but a night manager?" p. 30

Clearly, my sense of how humorous the pathetic is remains intact no matter what my intentions. Although the appreciation for terrible puns is new, and possibly porn-related.

3 Day Novel Fail

So, the novel is finished... but at what cost? I started out thinking I was writing an offbeat but endearing love story about two misfits. Instead, when I went to review my finished draft Sunday night, I realized I had instead written 76-odd pages of unrelenting misery, starring two people too miserable to be with anyone but each other.

I was finishing it up with some of my co-workers, and I would read out choice cuts of misanthropy- the hero's ingrown hair, romantic chitchat about rancid chicken, thoughts on being a freelancer- and swear that I gave them souls at some point in the story. But at page 63, I realized it was just never going to happen.

Furthermore, I had a few technical complaints about my work. It was disillusioning to see every one of the quirks of people who write but shouldn't be writers. Awkward shifts between dialogue and description, pedestrian and purple pose, telling but not showing and worse, worse my complete abuse of the word "apparently." Apparently, I trust nothing as a writer, especially not the thoughts of my own characters.

I wouldn't say this had put me off writing completely. But I am taking some time off before finishing one of my other projects. If it's also a textbook on depression and hateful people, maybe it's time to finally look into a banking jobs.

Still, I wrote 76 double-spaced pages in 3 days and packed in a breakfast at Dusty's. And all it cost me was a trip into the dark, dank and moldy reaches of my soul... bitches.

3 Day Novel Contest

In a fit of insanity I signed up for the 3-Day Novel Contest. Which means I'll be finding a state somewhere past insanity over the next few days. Post-modern insanity. Po-mosanity if you will. I will let you know how it all went on Monday. Until then, go go writing fingers.