Substantive editing sample 31:
Before the wake

In this sample, you can see that I was keeping track of the date and passage of time in the narrative (and even needed to check the time of sunset on that date and latitude), and I commented whenever there was some incongruity. I also suggested transitional words that even employed a metaphorical entendre. I was alert to instances of poor word choice, and addressed occasional vagueness. You can see (in BLUE BOLDFACE ALL CAPS) how the author addressed my queries and comments in the markup.

Skip this sample and advance to the next one in the series.

This sample is presented here with the author’s permission.

Original
Click to go to the markup.

Death is no joke, I know: the frailty and dementia, the biological decrepitude, the blank advance into oblivion’s ever welcoming arms . . . No joke at all, and yet when I tried to picture myself actually attending the memorial for a woman (Tanya) who had played such a short role in my life, however impactful that role may have been, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. It had grown dark outside, the wind was billowing against the window; the hotel room was starting to feel too small. I closed the files on Kaurismäki and set the computer to hibernate mode. I slept poorly, afflicted with nonsensical dreams repeating themselves in short, jarring loops. I spent most of the next day in bed, racked with hunger yet oddly indifferent to the pain. I could sense the apathy descending like judgment from the sky. It wouldn’t do to stay cooped up like this; you have to get out, interact with your surroundings, stay moving. At sundown, I went out and walked the quarter mile to the storefront. There was a small theater playing films that had already left the major chain theaters. I didn’t recognize any of the titles, although of course the faces of the actors beaming from the posters were all hideously familiar—the usual overexposed suspects. As a member of the critical community, I am more or less alone in my contempt for actors. I’ve always been partial to filmmakers who pluck their casts from the streets, as it were; I subscribe to the theory that the more recognizable the face on screen, the greater the viewer’s resistance to the immersive experience—the voyeuristic trance—of cinema. Still, I came perilously close to purchasing a ticket for the new post-apocalyptic bonanza staring Viggo Mortensen. The only other business open was the Dunkin Donuts. Without looking at me as I scraped slush off my shoes, the girl at the counter wished me a premature Merry Christmas. I approached her warily, uncertain of exactly what it was I wanted from her. She looked like she was dying of some grievous venereal disease. The lighting was too intense, the holiday music too loud; in a daze I ordered a dozen donuts and an extra-large coffee. The young mendicant looked appropriately miserable as she fulfilled my order. I offered a commiserating half-smile and ferried my purchases to the farthest possible table from the register, in a windowless corner near the restrooms, where, as I methodically pushed one doughnut after another into my throat, washing them down with gulps of scalding black coffee-product, I began to think of Kaurismäki’s Total Balalaika Show (1994), the concert documentary featuring a collaborative performance between Finnish rockers Leningrad Cowboys and Russia’s Alexandrov Ensemble. How, if at all, could the film’s shoddy footage, devoid as it was of narrative or connotative content of any kind, be included in a textual analysis of Kaurismäki’s oeuvre? The question had plagued me since I’d first posed it to myself months earlier. Another question: Had Kaurismäki made enough films to truly merit a full-length book, or would a longish essay suffice? I walked up to the counter to order another coffee and asked the girl if she had ever heard of Aki Kaurismäki. She shook her head, no. Then I asked if she’d ever heard of Lukas Moodysson (the equivalent of picking a name out of a hat). She squinted, unsure, and relayed the question to her coworker, a tall, lanky, acne-scarred kid whose lapel button informed me that he was the shift manager. He shook his head regretfully. I decided to take things down a notch and asked if either of them had ever heard of Jean-Luc Godard. They both seemed to recognize the name, although, to their knowledge, they had never viewed one of his films—thus confirming my suspicion that the insidious Godard is the most overrated artist ever exported by France.

Markup
Click to go to the author’s review.

Death is no joke, I know: the frailty and dementia, the biological decrepitude, the blank advance into oblivion’s ever welcoming arms . . . No oblivion’s ever-welcoming arms. . . . No joke at all, and yet when I tried to picture myself actually attending the memorial for a woman (Tanya) who had played such a short role in my life, however impactful that role may have been, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. [I broke the paragraph here] It had grown dark outside, the outside. The wind was billowing against the window; the hotel room was starting to feel too small. I closed the files on Kaurismäki and set the computer to hibernate mode. the computer (and myself) to hibernate mode. [Insertion of “(and myself)” okay? (as a transition to the next sentence, about going to bed for the night and attempting sleep); also, associating “myself” with “the computer” is reinforced by “short, jarring loops” in the next sentence, reminiscent of recursive loops in a software program.] I slept poorly, afflicted with nonsensical dreams repeating themselves in short, jarring loops.[I broke the paragraph here] I spent most of the next day in bed, [this would be Sunday, December 23] racked with hunger yet oddly indifferent to the pain. [Wait a minute. How can he be in bed most of the day? I recommend changing “I spent most of the next day in bed” to “The next day, I spent until noon in bed”; the wake is at four p.m. (“her mother’s wake was scheduled for the twenty-third at four p.m.” in chapter 2 of Part Two1), and narrator Gordon will be walking “the quarter mile to the storefront” and spending time in Dunkin’ Donuts (after considering spending a couple of hours watching a Viggo Mortensen film) before trudging through the slush to the wake, “less than a mile from my hotel.”2 On the other hand, consider specifying an ending time for the wake, enabling Gordon to arrive later than four p.m.] I could sense the apathy descending like judgment from the sky. It wouldn’t do to stay cooped up like this; you have to I had to get out, interact with your surroundings, with my surroundings, stay moving.[I broke the paragraph here] At sundown, I went out I went out [deletion of “At sundown” okay? In southeastern Connecticut on December 23, the sunset is 4:23 p.m., and the wake starts at 4:00 p.m. (also, see my previous comment about the time needed to fool around before the wake); on the other hand, to accommodate Gordon arriving at the wake later than four p.m., specify an ending time for the wake, and mention that he planned to show up after four] and walked the quarter mile to the storefront. [What storefront? It has not been mentioned earlier. Also, “storefront” implies a single store, whereas Gordon looks at a cinema and patronizes a donut shop. I recommend changing “a quarter mile to the storefront” to “a quarter mile to a group of “downtown” stores, most of them closed” (with “downtown” enclosed in ironic “scare” quotes, emphasizing that only two businesses are open: the cinema and the donut shop).] There was [if you agree with the preceding suggestion, “There was” should change to “However, there was”] a small theater playing films that had already left the major chain theaters. I didn’t recognize any of the titles, although of course the although, of course, the faces of the actors beaming from the posters were all hideously familiar—the usual overexposed suspects. As a member of the critical community, I am more or less alone in my contempt for actors. I’ve always been partial to filmmakers who pluck their casts from the streets, as it were; I subscribe to the theory that the more recognizable the face on screen, the greater the viewer’s resistance to the immersive experience—the voyeuristic trance—of cinema. Still, I came perilously close to purchasing a ticket for the new post-apocalyptic bonanza staring bonanza starring [spellcheck would not have caught this] Viggo Mortensen. The only other business open was the Dunkin Donuts. was Dunkin’ Donuts. [apostrophe necessary; no need for the “the” (although “a” would be okay)] Without looking at me as I scraped slush off my shoes, the girl at the counter wished me a premature Merry Christmas. I approached her warily, uncertain of exactly what it was I wanted from her. She looked her; she looked like she was dying of some grievous venereal disease. [(1) I fused the two sentences with a semicolon because the second one seems to be the reason for the first. (2) What specifically about her made her look like “she was dying of some grievous venereal disease” and later that she “looked appropriately miserable”?] The lighting was too intense, the holiday music too loud; in a daze loud. In a daze, I ordered a dozen donuts and an extra-large coffee. The young mendicant [why “mendicant”? she’s not begging] looked appropriately miserable as she fulfilled my order. I offered a commiserating half-smile commiserating half smile and ferried my purchases to the farthest possible table from the register, in a windowless corner near the restrooms, where, as I methodically pushed one doughnut after one donut after another into my throat, washing them down with gulps of scalding black coffee-product, I began to think of Kaurismäki’s Total Balalaika Show (1994), the concert documentary featuring a collaborative performance between Finnish rockers Leningrad Cowboys and Russia’s Alexandrov Ensemble. How, if at all, could the film’s shoddy footage, devoid as it was of narrative or connotative content of any kind, be included in a textual analysis of Kaurismäki’s oeuvre? The question had plagued me since I’d first posed it to myself months earlier. Another question: Had Kaurismäki made enough films to truly merit a full-length book, or would a longish essay suffice? [I broke the paragraph here] I walked up to the counter to order another coffee and asked the girl if she had ever heard of Aki Kaurismäki. She shook her head, no. head no. Then I asked if she’d ever heard of Lukas Moodysson (the equivalent of picking of my picking a name out of a hat). She squinted, unsure, and relayed the question to her coworker, a tall, lanky, acne-scarred kid whose lapel button informed me that he was the shift manager. He shook his head regretfully. I decided to take things down a notch and asked if either of them had ever heard of Jean-Luc Godard. They both seemed to recognize the name, although, to their knowledge, they had never viewed one of his films—thus confirming my suspicion that the insidious Godard is the most overrated artist ever exported by France. The following footnotes were not in the markup the author reviewed. 1. This information was on another page in the author’s manuscript, and you can see it in the editing sample “The landing time,” which will open in a separate window. ↩ 2. This information was also on another page in the author’s manuscript, but it is not provided in these editing samples. ↩

The Author’s Review
in BLUE BOLDFACE ALL CAPS
Click to go to the second-pass result.

Death is no joke, I know: the frailty and dementia, the biological decrepitude, the blank advance into oblivion’s ever welcoming arms . . . No oblivion’s ever-welcoming arms. . . . No joke at all, and yet when I tried to picture myself actually attending the memorial for a woman (Tanya) who had played such a short role in my life, however impactful that role may have been, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. [I broke the paragraph here] It had grown dark outside, the outside. The wind was billowing against the window; the hotel room was starting to feel too small. I closed the files on Kaurismäki and set the computer to hibernate mode. the computer (and myself) to hibernate mode. [Insertion of “(and myself)” okay? (as a transition to the next sentence, about going to bed for the night and attempting sleep); also, associating “myself” with “the computer” is reinforced by “short, jarring loops” in the next sentence, reminiscent of recursive loops in a software program.] OKAY. GOOD POINT I slept poorly, afflicted with nonsensical dreams repeating themselves in short, jarring loops.[I broke the paragraph here] I spent most of the next day in bed, [this would be Sunday, December 23] racked with hunger yet oddly indifferent to the pain. [Wait a minute. How can he be in bed most of the day? I recommend changing “I spent most of the next day in bed” to “The next day, I spent until noon in bed”; the wake is at four p.m. (“her mother’s wake was scheduled for the twenty-third at four p.m.” in chapter 2 of Part Two), and narrator Gordon will be walking “the quarter mile to the storefront” and spending time in Dunkin’ Donuts (after considering spending a couple of hours watching a Viggo Mortensen film) before trudging through the slush to the wake, “less than a mile from my hotel.” On the other hand, consider specifying an ending time for the wake, enabling Gordon to arrive later than four p.m.] CHANGE TO "I SPENT THE FIRST HALF OF THE NEXT DAY IN BED" I could sense the apathy descending like judgment from the sky. It wouldn’t do to stay cooped up like this; you have to I had to get out, interact with your surroundings, with my surroundings, stay moving.[I broke the paragraph here] At sundown, I went out I went out [deletion of “At sundown” okay? In southeastern Connecticut on December 23, the sunset is 4:23 p.m., and the wake starts at 4:00 p.m. (also, see my previous comment about the time needed to fool around before the wake); on the other hand, to accommodate Gordon arriving at the wake later than four p.m., specify an ending time for the wake, and mention that he planned to show up after four] DELETION OKAY and walked the quarter mile to the storefront. [What storefront? It has not been mentioned earlier. Also, “storefront” implies a single store, whereas Gordon looks at a cinema and patronizes a donut shop. I recommend changing “a quarter mile to the storefront” to “a quarter mile to a group of “downtown” stores, most of them closed” (with “downtown” enclosed in ironic “scare” quotes, emphasizing that only two businesses are open: the cinema and the donut shop).] CHANGE "THE STOREFRONT" TO "MAIN STREET" There was [if you agree with the preceding suggestion, “There was” should change to “However, there was”] a small theater playing films that had already left the major chain theaters. I didn’t recognize any of the titles, although of course the although, of course, the faces of the actors beaming from the posters were all hideously familiar—the usual overexposed suspects. As a member of the critical community, I am more or less alone in my contempt for actors. I’ve always been partial to filmmakers who pluck their casts from the streets, as it were; I subscribe to the theory that the more recognizable the face on screen, the greater the viewer’s resistance to the immersive experience—the voyeuristic trance—of cinema. Still, I came perilously close to purchasing a ticket for the new post-apocalyptic bonanza staring bonanza starring [spellcheck would not have caught this] Viggo Mortensen. The only other business open was the Dunkin Donuts. was Dunkin’ Donuts. [apostrophe necessary; no need for the “the” (although “a” would be okay)] USE "A" Without looking at me as I scraped slush off my shoes, the girl at the counter wished me a premature Merry Christmas. I approached her warily, uncertain of exactly what it was I wanted from her. She looked her; she looked like she was dying of some grievous venereal disease. [(1) I fused the two sentences with a semicolon because the second one seems to be the reason for the first. (2) What specifically about her made her look like “she was dying of some grievous venereal disease” and later that she “looked appropriately miserable”?] (1) OKAY; (2) ADD "FROM THE PALLOR OF HER SKIN AND THE COLD SORES ON HER LIPS, SHE LOOKED..." The lighting was too intense, the holiday music too loud; in a daze loud. In a daze, I ordered a dozen donuts and an extra-large coffee. The young mendicant [why “mendicant”? she’s not begging] CHANGE TO "LABORER" looked appropriately miserable as she fulfilled my order. I offered a commiserating half-smile commiserating half smile and ferried my purchases to the farthest possible table from the register, in a windowless corner near the restrooms, where, as I methodically pushed one doughnut after one donut after another into my throat, washing them down with gulps of scalding black coffee-product, I began to think of Kaurismäki’s Total Balalaika Show (1994), the concert documentary featuring a collaborative performance between Finnish rockers Leningrad Cowboys and Russia’s Alexandrov Ensemble. How, if at all, could the film’s shoddy footage, devoid as it was of narrative or connotative content of any kind, be included in a textual analysis of Kaurismäki’s oeuvre? The question had plagued me since I’d first posed it to myself months earlier. Another question: Had Kaurismäki made enough films to truly merit a full-length book, or would a longish essay suffice? [I broke the paragraph here] I walked up to the counter to order another coffee and asked the girl if she had ever heard of Aki Kaurismäki. She shook her head, no. head no. Then I asked if she’d ever heard of Lukas Moodysson (the equivalent of picking of my picking a name out of a hat). She squinted, unsure, and relayed the question to her coworker, a tall, lanky, acne-scarred kid whose lapel button informed me that he was the shift manager. He shook his head regretfully. I decided to take things down a notch and asked if either of them had ever heard of Jean-Luc Godard. They both seemed to recognize the name, although, to their knowledge, they had never viewed one of his films—thus confirming my suspicion that the insidious Godard is the most overrated artist ever exported by France.

The Second-Pass Result
Click to go to the next sample in the series.

Death is no joke, I know: the frailty and dementia, the biological decrepitude, the blank advance into oblivion’s ever-welcoming arms. . . . No joke at all, and yet when I tried to picture myself actually attending the memorial for a woman (Tanya) who had played such a short role in my life, however impactful that role may have been, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. It had grown dark outside. The wind was billowing against the window; the hotel room was starting to feel too small. I closed the files on Kaurismäki and set the computer (and myself) to hibernate mode. I slept poorly, afflicted with nonsensical dreams repeating themselves in short, jarring loops. I spent the first half of the next day in bed, racked with hunger yet oddly indifferent to the pain. I could sense the apathy descending like judgment from the sky. It wouldn’t do to stay cooped up like this; I had to get out, interact with my surroundings, stay moving. I went out and walked the quarter mile to Main Street. There was a small theater playing films that had already left the major chain theaters. I didn’t recognize any of the titles, although, of course, the faces of the actors beaming from the posters were all hideously familiar—the usual overexposed suspects. As a member of the critical community, I am more or less alone in my contempt for actors. I’ve always been partial to filmmakers who pluck their casts from the streets, as it were; I subscribe to the theory that the more recognizable the face on screen, the greater the viewer’s resistance to the immersive experience—the voyeuristic trance—of cinema. Still, I came perilously close to purchasing a ticket for the new post-apocalyptic bonanza starring Viggo Mortensen. The only other business open was a Dunkin’ Donuts. Without looking at me as I scraped slush off my shoes, the girl at the counter wished me a premature Merry Christmas. I approached her warily, uncertain of exactly what it was I wanted from her; from the pallor of her skin and the cold sores on her lips, she looked like she was dying of some grievous venereal disease. The lighting was too intense, the holiday music too loud. In a daze, I ordered a dozen donuts and an extra-large coffee. The young laborer looked appropriately miserable as she fulfilled my order. I offered a commiserating half smile and ferried my purchases to the farthest possible table from the register, in a windowless corner near the restrooms, where, as I methodically pushed one donut after another into my throat, washing them down with gulps of scalding black coffee-product, I began to think of Kaurismäki’s Total Balalaika Show (1994), the concert documentary featuring a collaborative performance between Finnish rockers Leningrad Cowboys and Russia’s Alexandrov Ensemble. How, if at all, could the film’s shoddy footage, devoid as it was of narrative or connotative content of any kind, be included in a textual analysis of Kaurismäki’s oeuvre? The question had plagued me since I’d first posed it to myself months earlier. Another question: Had Kaurismäki made enough films to truly merit a full-length book, or would a longish essay suffice? I walked up to the counter to order another coffee and asked the girl if she had ever heard of Aki Kaurismäki. She shook her head no. Then I asked if she’d ever heard of Lukas Moodysson (the equivalent of my picking a name out of a hat). She squinted, unsure, and relayed the question to her coworker, a tall, lanky, acne-scarred kid whose lapel button informed me that he was the shift manager. He shook his head regretfully. I decided to take things down a notch and asked if either of them had ever heard of Jean-Luc Godard. They both seemed to recognize the name, although, to their knowledge, they had never viewed one of his films—thus confirming my suspicion that the insidious Godard is the most overrated artist ever exported by France.