Copy editor

Very few authors do not require the services of a book copy editor to tidy their manuscript. That’s why every publishing house in the country sends each author’s manuscript through both a copy editor and a proofreader before publication.

If your book (ebook or print) is to be clear, accessible, interesting, memorable and effective, the language needs to be of a good standard. Some authors need only minimal support, others need more intensive copy-editing; but all authors, no matter how accomplished, experienced or skilled, can benefit from a copy editor’s input.

 

Successful editing depends on a good relationship with the writer. To reach the goal of a readable, successful document, both the editor and the writer need to work as a team, unified in reaching this goal. This goal is jeopardised if writers view the editor as a ‘problem’. To prevent this, the editor needs effective communication to deal with individuals and groups working on a writing project.

Four key communication skills are:

1. Active listening

This means concentrating on what the speaker means and checking information through paraphrasing and asking probing questions, such as ‘What do you mean by…’.

2. Confidence

Editors need to demonstrate that they are confident in their abilities without becoming aggressive with writers.

3. Consideration

Editors may become so intent with changes that they forget the writer’s sense of professionalism is involved. Writers themselves may find it difficult to separate criticisms about the writing from criticisms about the person.

 

 

4. Nonverbal strategies

Editors can underline their authority by using effective nonverbal strategies, such as environment (e.g. The setting of an editing conference), dress, and facial, voice and other bodily cues.

Perhaps the biggest problem writers face, when editing their own work, is simply getting too close. Even when holding the questions listed above in your mind, writers can still find it just too hard to detach themselves. But this is understandable, in fact I would go as far as saying this is essential. Just how a writer detaches themselves from the tangle of their own narrative is hard to explain and I suspect it is very personal skill.

• Is the book’s organisation and content suitable for the intended audience, medium, market, and purpose? [Structural]
• How can the book’s meaning be clarified, the flow improved and the language smoothed? [Stylistic]
• Have you ensured the correctness, consistency, accuracy, and completeness of the document? [Copy]

 

The essence of any COPY edit is grammar and spelling but this is NOT an edit. An edit is so much more. It is important that a writer avoids becoming obsessed with spelling. Yes, spelling is important, and yes you must be as accurate as possible. However, grammar is just part of the puzzle. A good edit consists of all three questions listed above – spelling is just one aspect.

Yes I do want to be a children’s writer, what’s wrong with that?

 

Why is that whenever I say I want to write for children, do people roll their eyes and act as though I am not an actual writer?

So what is so different between children’s writing and adult fiction?

Do I not use the English language?

Is the grammar that different?

I sometimes find such snobbery in writing, that I feel like the writing version of the  bad relation. No my characters do not swear, they are not into drugs. I want to write books that brought me the same joy as a child that ‘The Famous Five,’ or ‘Narnia’ did.

Some children don’t  like sci-fi or Zombies, or they are not interested if it’s a one parent family. They just want something that will take them away from the sometimes harsh realities of life.

I love writing for children, it’s something I have wanted to do for a long time.

Yet or the years I have begun to become jaded and have lost some of that joy, mainly because I don’t feel as though I am taken seriously or encouraged. I feel like I am always looking through the window, where other authors who write adult or Young Adult fiction sit in a group all encouraging one another. But I always feel as though I cannot enter.

It’s a shame there isn’t more children’s authors at festivals, or more available workshops and talks by children’s authors. Young adult always seems to be well represented and its a shame. If we can’t continue to aid children’s authors more, then good children’s writing will not continue.

 

The Porky Pie

 

Another car casts its light on the window, and shadows danced on Jess’s bedroom wall. She turned and glanced at her clock, the green light said 1.34pm.  

        With a sigh, Jess decided to give in; sleep was the last thing she was going to do tonight.  Easing herself out of bed, she slipped into her fluffy slippers, and walked across to her door using the lights outside as her only source of illumination. There was a slight chill on the steps as she descended, and she shivered pulling her dressing gown tighter to her body.

Turning on her kitchen light, she filled her kettle and got a cup from the top cupboard. Yawning, she stood next to the kettle listening to its light bubbling, and gazed out of her window to the street outside.

Friday nights were always busy on her estate. People coming from the pub, others coming from work, or maybe even starting. As her eyes adjusted to the scene outside, she could see the wind rustling through the trees, ripping leaves off branches and hurling them into the air. Next door’s cat sat on the gate, cleaning its face with its paws, then stopping alert, fixing its stare on the bush in front of it. It slowly climbed down, crouching as if sensing a victim near. The last thing she saw was it pouncing into the mass of branches, and out of the other side, clutching some small half-alive creature. It shot across the road, disappeared into a hole in the fence, and was gone.

The click of the kettle told her it finished boiling. She put the water in the cup, and prodded the teabag with a spoon, then pushing it against the side of the cup; she squeezed out the last dregs of tea from its bag. Tossing it in the bin, she then added some milk, and sat at the kitchen table in silence, savoring the warmth of the tea as it seeped into her stomach. She jumped when she heard the noise, spilling some of her tea on her dressing gown; she frowned as went to the front door, easing it open slightly, and peering out into the darkness.

It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the dimness, but soon shapes, and images began to form, and she glanced down the path that lead to the street.

‘Sorry lass, did I disturb you?’

She strained her eyes again trying to focus on the shadow that was standing over the garden wall to her left.

‘I was just putting the rubbish out, if not the missus gets a little riled.’

Suddenly next-doors security light casts a beam on the shadow, and Jess recognised Burt, he elderly neighbour.

‘Sorry Burt, I heard a noise, it scared the living daylights out of me.’

‘It was just me lass, I couldn’t sleep, I would have left this till tomorrow, but my missus likes a clean house.’

He stuffed the bag into the bin, and closed the lid with a thud.

‘ Did you hear the fire engine earlier, nearly woke the whole neighbourhood up, bet its them damn kids stealing cars, and setting them alight, should be made to do conscription. The army would sort them out.’ I smiled back at him, and opening the door a little wider, I stepped out onto my front step.

Burt was leaning against the wall, and I saw him put his hands into his pockets, and pull a crinkly paper bag out.

‘The estate was much better when I first moved here; you knew your neighbours, and you helped one another.’

He lifted something to his mouth, and took a bite, crumps dropping onto the front of his cardigan. He held it up to the light to show me.

‘The doctor says my cholesterol is way too high, says I have to cut down on fats. Never heard anything so stupid, I have eaten this food all my life, never had any problems. But the missus is worried, so I am eating like a flipping rabbit.’ As he lifted the object in the light, I realised it was a pork pie, I could see the grisly meat protruding out from where he had bitten it, the greasy sheen on its crust. He took another mouth full, licking crumbs from his lips.

‘ I have a hidden stash, keep it in my hut, then I sneak out at night when she’s asleep, and have a little nibble.’ He smiled, and winked.

Waiting for me to reply, he took another bite savouring his secret treat.

‘A man has to have something filling, and wholesome to eat, if I keep eating the muck she wants me to eat.’ He points up to his front bedroom.

‘They will be carrying me off in my coffin.’ He chuckled.

Jess smiled, and nodded her head, shuffling her feet in her slippers as the frosty night air was beginning to turn them to ice.

Burt put the last piece of the pie in his mouth smacking his lips in appreciation, then he licked his fingers as if wanted to prolong the experience.

‘You better be getting in luv, or you will catch your death a cold.’

I again clutched my dressing gown as if agreeing with him. I quickly turned, and began to walk back to the door. Before I entered, I turned, and glanced again at the wall, and Burt. He was standing in deep thought. Was he thinking about how things had changed, or was he trying the savour the last taste of the pork pie on his tongue.

I closed the door gently behind me, making sure it was locked. I went back to the kitchen to finish the cup of tea. The tea was cold, a thin skin had formed on the top. So I picked the cup up, took the spoon, and scraped the slimy layer off the top, plopping it into the bin. I poured the remaining cold tea down the sink, leaving the cup on the side, angry that I had wasted the tea. I reached to turn the light off and slipped  up the stairs. Once in my bed, I snuggled beneath the covers, and waited for sleep to claim me.