Substantive editing sample 43:
The computer interface

In this short story set decades in the future, I suggested revisions to ensure that the dialogue, description, and setting worked together to create an overall mood (the narrator’s dying). For one thing, I suggested revisions to clearly establish the setting—for example, that the scene takes place in the year 2065. I suggested breaking up long speeches (resembling the tedium of “talking heads”) with short cinematic actions that revealed something intrinsic to the character, and I inserted short phrases to clarify the ensuing actions or simply to capture the author’s intent (for example, to denote the deterioration of one of the narrator’s organs by using ironic quotation marks: “my pancreas only ‘kind of’ works” was more effective than the unsuitably hopeful “my pancreas kind of works”). Finally, I addressed connotation issues to ensure the most suitable word choice.

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

Original
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My breathing is more labored now…getting more so by the day as my second set of lungs fail. They still receive electrical signals from my brain to inhale, and do so, but not as deeply as they should nor for as long as they should. And when the command to exhale comes, the air has to fight through bronchial tubes that are nearly clogged with scar tissue. My liver is shot, my pancreas kind of works and my heart is really struggling. Unfortunately, my brain is fine. I wish I was in a coma. Then, even if I were in some way subconscious of the fact that my lungs were failing, I would be dead before I could know it as anything other than an abstract thought. No, that would be too easy. So here I lay, in my hospital bed in Milwaukee, with my second set of bad lungs. “Good morning, Mr. Bishara,” says a nurse as she comes in for her morning rounds. I grunt in her direction. I haven’t seen her before, but she seems competent. She checks my vitals, silences the alarm that tells her that my blood is not oxygenated enough, and sighs through a smile. I’m grateful for her. I’m grateful for all of them. It’s not their fault that proper treatments for cystic fibrosis didn’t come to Palestine until it was too late for me. “The doctor will be by in about an hour,” she informs me. “That’s wonderful,” I say. I should have kept my mouth shut. Now I’m coughing up a storm. When the fit subsides, I angrily add, “What is she going to do for me?” “Make the pain stop, I hope.” Life has been very painful lately. “Thank you,” I say, humbled. My pain is not the nurse’s fault. “Please, there is a notepad on the side table. It has an important phone number in it.” She ignores me, focused on her readouts. “You are from Palestine, correct?” “Yes.” “Your English is really good!” “Thank you,” I say. I lean over and hack out phlegm. Then I say, “I’ve had a lot of practice.” She cocks her head like wondering if I mean I got my practice in hospitals, then moves on. “And you are…let’s see…” She looks at the screen of the bedside computer interface. “Fifty-seven years old.” She punches a few virtual keys on the bedside computer interface. Without looking at me, she says, “I bet you’ve seen some things in your lifetime.” “I was born during the 37th war with Israel,” I say, and then cough. “For real?” I shrug. How do I know? I’ve lost track. And anyway, it doesn’t matter how many wars I think our two sides have fought. What some would call a war, others would consider a conflict and still others would refer to as a skirmish, so who knows what number we were really on when really up to when I was born. All I know is that the 37th certainly wasn’t the last war fought and those wars were largely responsible for my decay. In almost every other part of the world, cystic fibrosis was eradicated or at least controlled. Not in Palestine, though. It was alive and well in that little godforsaken strip of land. The nurse swipes the data off of the computer interface and smiles again. I realize that I haven’t even answered her question. Before I can, she puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “Doctor will be by soon.” Lot of good that does me.

Markup
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My breathing is more labored now…getting now. . . . [The University of Chicago’s Manual of Style (CMoS for short), the “bible” of the trade publishing industry, stipulates spaces between the periods of an ellipsis. An ellipsis has three spaces, but at the end of a sentence, the three-space ellipsis follows the period that regularly ends the sentence (making four periods altogether). By the way, the inserted spaces are MS Word’s “nonbreaking spaces,” which ensure that the ellipsis will not break at the end of the line.] It’s getting more so by the day as my second set of lungs fail. They still receive electrical signals from my brain to inhale, and do so but not as and they do inhale—but not as deeply as they should nor for as long as they should. And when the command to exhale comes, the air has to fight through bronchial tubes that are nearly clogged are almost completely clogged [“nearly” is ambiguous; here it can be misread that some clogging might happen to the narrator’s bronchial tubes, which have so far been completely unclogged, but that is not your intended meaning] with scar tissue. My liver is shot, my pancreas kind of works pancreas only “kind of” works, and my heart is really struggling. [My revision of the preceding sentence is to keep each item of the series explicitly negative; “my pancreas kind of works” sounds almost hopeful, that the organ is recovering from a worse state. The revision, enclosing “kind of” within ironic quotes, denotes a clear deterioration of the pancreas.] Unfortunately, my brain is fine. I wish I was in I were in a coma. Then, even if I were in some way subconscious of subconsciously aware of the fact that my lungs were failing, I would be dead before I could know it as could “know” that fact as anything other than an abstract thought. No, that would be too easy. So too easy! [An exclamation mark emphasizes the sarcasm.] So here I lay, in I lie, in my hospital bed in Milwaukee, with my second set of bad lungs. “Good morning, Mr. Bishara,” says a nurse as she comes in for her in on her morning rounds. I grunt in her direction. I haven’t seen her before, but she seems competent. She checks my vitals, silences the alarm that tells her that my blood is not oxygenated enough, and sighs through a smile. I’m grateful for her. I’m grateful for all of them. It’s not their fault that proper treatments for cystic fibrosis didn’t come to Palestine until it was too late for me. “The doctor will be by in about an hour,” she informs me. “That’s wonderful,” I say. I should have kept my mouth shut. Now I’m coughing up a storm. When the fit subsides, I angrily add, “What is she going to do for me?” “Make the pain stop, I hope.” Life has been very painful lately. “Thank you,” I say, humbled. say, quelling my anger. [The word “humbled” denotes (or implies) a diminution of pride, not especially of anger.] My pain is not the nurse’s fault. [My insertion of the preceding sentence, “My pain is not the nurse’s fault,” okay? It explains why the narrator quelled his anger, and it illustrates his self-awareness (and thoughtful need for self-correction).] “Please, there “Please,” I murmur as loudly as I dare, trying to suppress my next cough, [is my inserted interruption “I murmur as loudly as I dare, trying to suppress my next cough” okay? (making the speech soft, nearly inaudible, provides an excuse for the nurse not to comprehend it)] “there is a notepad on the side table. It has an important phone number in it.” She ignores me, focused on her readouts. [(1) The syntax of the original could be misread that the narrator is focused on her readouts; (2) also the connotation of “ignores” is negative, implying that the otherwise kind nurse cruelly disregards her patient.] Focused on her readouts, she apparently doesn’t register what I had painfully just said. “You are from Palestine, correct?” correct?” she asks. [The insertion of “she asks” is necessary to prevent a momentary misreading that the narrator is speaking; also, the exposition establishes the identity of each speaker in the ensuing uninterrupted dialogue.] “Yes.” “Your English is really good!” “Thank you,” I say. I lean over and hack out phlegm. Then I say, Then, struggling: “I’ve had a lot of practice.” [No need to repeat “I say”; eliminating that obvious exposition enlivens the scene by resuming speech that had been interrupted by hacking. The word “struggling” (rather than “I say”) makes the hacking more concrete (that is, more real).] She cocks her head like wondering head, as if wondering if I mean I got I meant that I got [a shift to past tense is appropriate here, because the speech that the nurse is maybe “wondering” about (about having had “a lot of practice”) is already in the past, though only a moment earlier] my practice my linguistic practice [or “my language practice”?] in hospitals, then moves hospitals. Then she moves on. “And you are…let’s see…” are . . .” She looks at the screen of the bedside computer interface. “Let’s see . . .” [Inserting a short description of action in the middle of dialogue—particularly, when one character’s speech has an ellipsis pause—makes the story cinematic (relieves the tedium of “talking heads”).] “Fifty-seven years old.” She punches a few virtual keys on the bedside computer interface the computer interface. Without looking at me, she says, After a few moments, still without looking at me: “I bet you’ve seen some things in your lifetime.” “I was born during born in 2008, during the 37th the thirty-seventh [(1) insertion of “in 2008” okay? (He would be emphasizing what the nurse can probably read in the computer interface.) Later we have this exchange between the doctor and the narrator: “Tell me,” she says, “why did your childhood clinic wait so long to treat your CF?” “Your blockade.” The blockade of Gaza began in 2007 and persisted for years (with the narrator born in its second year), and with the narrator now being fifty-seven years old, this would place the story in the year 2065, establishing it clearly in the future (with CF’s near eradication, future technology, etc.) and establishing this story clearly as science fiction. Also, “the thirty-seventh war with Israel” could be according to the narrator’s reckoning, referring to all the conflicts between Israelis and Palestinians between Israel’s birth in 1948 (or even before) and the narrator’s 2008 birth, even though Israelis wouldn’t have referred to those conflicts as “wars.“ (2) CMoS stipulates, for nonscientific prose such as a short story, spelling out numbers (cardinal or ordinal) less than 101 (unless they are in a context of numbers 101 or greater); actually, within dialogue, all numbers should be spelled out (though dates, such as “2019,“ are an exception)] war with Israel,” I say, and say and then cough. “For real?” I shrug. How do I know? How would I really know? I’ve lost track. And anyway, it doesn’t matter how many wars I think our two sides have fought. What some would call a war, others would consider a conflict and conflict, and still others would refer to as a skirmish, so who knows what number we were really on when really up to when I was born. All born? All I know is that the 37th certainly the thirty-seventh certainly wasn’t the last war fought and fought, and those wars were largely responsible wars have largely been responsible [the present perfect, rather than the simple past, to refer to a cause (“those wars”) that was gradual, iterative, and progressive rather than a single occurrence (just as “the thirty-seventh war with Israel” would have been)] for my decay. In almost every other part of the world, cystic fibrosis was eradicated fibrosis had been eradicated, or at least controlled. Not in Palestine, though. It was alive and well in that little godforsaken strip of land. The nurse swipes the data off of the computer [why is she erasing the data? wouldn’t she have recorded the narrator’s assertion that he had been born during the thirty-seventh war? the doctor later refers to “the thirty-seventh war” in a rather mocking way that indicates she doubts there have been that many wars, so she must have read that assertion in the computer interface; consider the following suggested revision:] blanks the computer interface and smiles again. I realize that I haven’t even answered her question. [The shrug was a kind of answer, but your sentence is okay.] Before I can, she puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “Doctor will be by soon.” Lot of good that does me.

Result (after the author had reviewed the markup and answered my queries)
Click to go to the next sample in the series.

My breathing is more labored now. . . . It’s getting more so by the day as my second set of lungs fail. They still receive electrical signals from my brain to inhale, and they do inhale—but not as deeply as they should nor for as long as they should. And when the command to exhale comes, the air has to fight through bronchial tubes that are almost completely clogged with scar tissue. My liver is shot, my pancreas only “kind of” works, and my heart is really struggling. Unfortunately, my brain is fine. I wish I were in a coma. Then, even if I were in some way subconsciously aware of the fact that my lungs were failing, I would be dead before I could “know” that fact as anything other than an abstract thought. No, that would be too easy! So here I lie, in my hospital bed in Milwaukee, with my second set of bad lungs. “Good morning, Mr. Bishara,” says a nurse as she comes in on her morning rounds. I grunt in her direction. I haven’t seen her before, but she seems competent. She checks my vitals, silences the alarm that tells her that my blood is not oxygenated enough, and sighs through a smile. I’m grateful for her. I’m grateful for all of them. It’s not their fault that proper treatments for cystic fibrosis didn’t come to Palestine until it was too late for me. “The doctor will be by in about an hour,” she informs me. “That’s wonderful,” I say. I should have kept my mouth shut. Now I’m coughing up a storm. When the fit subsides, I angrily add, “What is she going to do for me?” “Make the pain stop, I hope.” Life has been very painful lately. “Thank you,” I say, quelling my anger. My pain is not the nurse’s fault. “Please,” I murmur as loudly as I dare, trying to suppress my next cough, “there is a notepad on the side table. It has an important phone number in it.” Focused on her readouts, she apparently doesn’t register what I had painfully just said. “You are from Palestine, correct?” she asks. “Yes.” “Your English is really good!” “Thank you,” I say. I lean over and hack out phlegm. Then, struggling: “I’ve had a lot of practice.” She cocks her head, as if wondering if I meant that I got my language practice in hospitals. Then she moves on. “And you are . . .” She looks at the screen of the bedside computer interface. “Let’s see . . .” “Fifty-seven years old.” She punches a few virtual keys on the computer interface. After a few moments, still without looking at me: “I bet you’ve seen some things in your lifetime.” “I was born in 2008, during the thirty-seventh war with Israel,” I say and then cough. “For real?” I shrug. How would I really know? I’ve lost track. And anyway, it doesn’t matter how many wars I think our two sides have fought. What some would call a war, others would consider a conflict, and still others would refer to as a skirmish, so who knows what number we were really up to when I was born? All I know is that the thirty-seventh certainly wasn’t the last war fought, and those wars have largely been responsible for my decay. In almost every other part of the world, cystic fibrosis had been eradicated, or at least controlled. Not in Palestine, though. It was alive and well in that little godforsaken strip of land. The nurse blanks the computer interface and smiles again. I realize that I haven’t even answered her question. Before I can, she puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “Doctor will be by soon.” Lot of good that does me.