Substantive editing sample 25:
In the campus café

In this quirky dark novel, I suggested that the narrator's assessment of his “demoralizing experience” could be more poignant by shifting from the second person (which made the reader a character) into the first person (keeping the experience painfully personal). I also suggested breaking up the long paragraph into two paragraphs easier to digest, repaired a misplaced modifier, and suggested a more precise word for what the narrator professor was doing to his students.

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

Original
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It must have been the apparition of Monica Barnes weaving between the cars on her way to the Media Arts building that finally snapped me out of paralysis. Already late for my first class, I hurried toward the campus café, where standing in line for a coffee proved the usual demoralizing experience: surrounded by people half your age, their youthful eyes moving over you with barely-masked disgust while they assess your biological and social obsolescence, forming quasi-Darwinian judgments. Sometimes I would catch one of the students peering at me as if I were some rare or cryptozoological specimen that had strayed from the obscurity of its natural habitat. Finding the sensation of being looked at unpleasant, it was difficult for me to justify to myself the choice to teach, and yet I went on teaching, went on standing in that line every day surrounded by the inaccessible genitals of America’s future. Whenever I glimpsed an attractive young student, I would feel an icy pang at the bottom of my chest (this occurred about once every twenty seconds on campus—they were everywhere). Basically, I felt old, or like some delegate from a foreign land sent to some backward desert to illuminate its savages. Youth always gives the impression of deep stupidity. In my eyes, the boys were a murky, sinister mass of dumb animal impulses, and the girls: cunts on legs.

Markup
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It must have been the apparition of Monica Barnes weaving between the cars on her way to the Media Arts building Arts Building that finally snapped me out of paralysis. Already late for my first class, I hurried toward the campus café, where standing in line for a coffee proved the usual demoralizing experience: surrounded by people half your age my age, their youthful eyes moving over you with barely-masked disgust me with barely masked disgust while they assess your biological my biological and social obsolescence, forming quasi-Darwinian judgments. [Especially considering the following sentence, I changed the “you” and “your” to “me” and “my” to keep the “usual demoralizing experience” poignantly personal. Okay?] Sometimes I would catch one of the students peering at me as if I were some rare or cryptozoological specimen that had strayed from the obscurity of its natural habitat. [I broke the paragraph here (the reader needs some relief from unrelenting text)] Finding the sensation of being looked at [there is no need for the italic highlight] being looked at unpleasant, it was difficult for me to justify unpleasant, I found it difficult to justify [here the active voice can repair a misplaced modifier] to myself the choice to teach, and yet I went on teaching, went on standing in that line every day surrounded day, surrounded by the inaccessible genitals of America’s future. Whenever I glimpsed an attractive young student, I would feel an icy pang at the bottom of my chest (this occurred about once every twenty seconds on campus—they were everywhere). Basically, I felt old, or like some delegate from a foreign land sent to some backward desert to illuminate [consider instead “to enlighten”] its savages. Youth always gives the impression of deep stupidity. In my eyes, the boys were a murky, sinister mass of dumb animal impulses, and the girls: cunts on legs.

Result
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It must have been the apparition of Monica Barnes weaving between the cars on her way to the Media Arts Building that finally snapped me out of paralysis. Already late for my first class, I hurried toward the campus café, where standing in line for a coffee proved the usual demoralizing experience: surrounded by people half my age, their youthful eyes moving over me with barely masked disgust while they assess my biological and social obsolescence, forming quasi-Darwinian judgments. Sometimes I would catch one of the students peering at me as if I were some rare or cryptozoological specimen that had strayed from the obscurity of its natural habitat. Finding the sensation of being looked at unpleasant, I found it difficult to justify to myself the choice to teach, and yet I went on teaching, went on standing in that line every day, surrounded by the inaccessible genitals of America’s future. Whenever I glimpsed an attractive young student, I would feel an icy pang at the bottom of my chest (this occurred about once every twenty seconds on campus—they were everywhere). Basically, I felt old, or like some delegate from a foreign land sent to some backward desert to enlighten its savages. Youth always gives the impression of deep stupidity. In my eyes, the boys were a murky, sinister mass of dumb animal impulses, and the girls: cunts on legs.