Substantive editing sample 28:
Incessant reminders

In this quirky dark novel, not only did I break up long paragraphs (enabling each speaker in a dialogue to have a dedicated paragraph) and remove commas from a restrictive reference, but I alerted the author to a problem he needed to address: The reader might incorrectly infer that the narrator’s sister had left only one phone message. You can see (in BLUE BOLDFACE ALL CAPS) how the author addressed the problem in his review of my markup.

Note that the author preferred to italicize many words and phrases I would have left without italics; he insisted this was his stylistic choice, reminiscent of the works of authors Michel Houellebecq and Thomas Bernhard.

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.

I stayed home waiting for another email from Monica, some elaboration, some verification that her first message had been more than a matter of mere etiquette—and for all my waiting received a call from my sister, Vicky, instead. I was paralyzed, physically incapable of picking up. Anyway, I knew what she was going to say, she’d already sent out a mass email that had somehow made it through my inbox’s stringent spam filters: She was calling to remind me that the remains of the family were gathering at her house in Rhode Island for Christmas. Frankly, I did not see the value in dropping a full paycheck on a round-trip flight to Providence only to waste some dismal portion of my holiday break putting on an atavistic and ultimately disingenuous show of genetic solidarity. Regardless, I called her back an hour later. I was drunk, of course: There is really no other way to hold a conversation with a sibling. Eschewing salutation, Vicky instantly scolded me for calling her so late. It was a little past ten-thirty; at the moment, there was a two-hour time difference between Phoenix and Providence. Eschewing apology, I asked her why she insisted on blowing up my answering machine with these incessant reminders about Christmas. “Because you never answer your fucking phone,” she explained curtly. After taking a moment to calm herself, she added, “And because we never know whether you’re alive or dead.” “Well, the life of a film scholar is not without its dangers, so I guess that’s valid . . .” “Gordon—please.” “I’m not coming,” I said bluntly. “Can’t afford the ticket.” “I find that hard to believe.” “The ticket prices are outrageous this time of year. It’s price gouging, pure and simple.” “Well, if you hadn’t waited until the last minute you could have gotten a cheaper flight,” she pointed out. “You’ve had plenty of time. I’ve been trying to get an RSVP from you since, like, August.” “Well . . . I’ve been preoccupied.”

Markup
Click to go to the author’s review.

I stayed home waiting for another email from Monica, some Monica—some elaboration, some verification that her first message had been more than a matter of mere etiquette—and for all my waiting received a call from my sister, Vicky, instead sister Vicky instead. [No commas, because narrator Gordon has more than one sister. The name “Vicky” is necessary to identify which one of Gordon’s sisters is being referred to (that is, the name is “restrictive” and should not be set off with commas); if he had only one sister, however, then “Vicky” would be extra (“nonrestrictive”) information and would need to be set off with commas, just as the author had it originally.] I was paralyzed, physically incapable of picking up. Anyway, I knew what she was going to say, she’d say; she’d already sent out a mass email that had somehow made it through my inbox’s my in-box’s stringent spam filters: She was calling to remind me that the remains of the family were gathering at her house in Rhode Island for Christmas. Frankly, I did not see the value in dropping a full paycheck on a round-trip flight to Providence only to waste some dismal portion of my holiday break putting on an atavistic and ultimately disingenuous show of genetic solidarity. Regardless, I called her back an hour later. I was drunk, of course: There is course; there is really no other way to hold a conversation with a sibling. [I broke the paragraph here.] Eschewing salutation, Vicky instantly scolded me for calling her so late. It was a little past ten-thirty past ten thirty; at the moment, there was a two-hour time difference between Phoenix and Providence. [I broke the paragraph here.] Eschewing apology, I asked her why she insisted on blowing up my answering machine with these incessant reminders about Christmas. [(1) So, there had been repeated messages from Vicky about this? From the foregoing text “Anyway, I knew what she was going to say; she’d already sent out a mass email that had somehow made it through my in-box’s stringent spam filters: She was calling to remind me that the remains of the family were gathering at her house in Rhode Island for Christmas” the reader infers that the mass email was the only prior notification from Vicky and that this telephone message on the answering machine, which Gordon is just now responding to, is the only one (that is, there have been no “incessant reminders about Christmas”). Still, there must have been more than one such message, because in the next paragraph, Vicky complains that he never answers his phone—and later that she’s been nagging him since August. (2) I broke the paragraph here.] “Because you never answer your fucking phone,” she explained curtly. After taking a moment to calm herself, she added, “And because we never know whether you’re alive or dead.” “Well, the life of a film scholar is not without its dangers, so I guess that’s valid . . .” “Gordon—please.” “I’m not coming,” I said bluntly. “Can’t afford the ticket.” “I find that hard to believe.” “The ticket prices are outrageous this time of year. It’s price gouging, pure and simple.” “Well, if you hadn’t waited until the last minute you minute, you could have gotten a cheaper flight,” she pointed out. “You’ve had plenty of time. I’ve been trying to get an RSVP from you since, like, August.” “Well . . . I’ve been preoccupied.”

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

I stayed home waiting for another email from Monica, some Monica—some elaboration, some verification that her first message had been more than a matter of mere etiquette—and for all my waiting received a call from my sister, Vicky, instead sister Vicky instead. [No commas, because narrator Gordon has more than one sister. The name “Vicky” is necessary to identify which one of Gordon’s sisters is being referred to (that is, the name is “restrictive” and should not be set off with commas); if he had only one sister, however, then “Vicky” would be extra (“nonrestrictive”) information and would need to be set off with commas, just as the author had it originally.] TO ADDRESS THE MAJOR PROBLEM YOU HIGHLIGHTED BELOW, PLEASE INSERT THE FOLLOWING SENTENCE: “ANOTHER CALL, I SHOULD SAY, AS SHE’D BEEN RINGING ME FOR DAYS.” I was paralyzed, physically incapable of picking up. Anyway, I knew what she was going to say, she’d say; she’d already sent out a mass email that had somehow made it through my inbox’s my in-box’s stringent spam filters: She was calling to remind me that the remains of the family were gathering at her house in Rhode Island for Christmas. Frankly, I did not see the value in dropping a full paycheck on a round-trip flight to Providence only to waste some dismal portion of my holiday break putting on an atavistic and ultimately disingenuous show of genetic solidarity. Regardless, I called her back an hour later. I was drunk, of course: There is course; there is really no other way to hold a conversation with a sibling. [I broke the paragraph here.] Eschewing salutation, Vicky instantly scolded me for calling her so late. It was a little past ten-thirty past ten thirty; at the moment, there was a two-hour time difference between Phoenix and Providence. [I broke the paragraph here.] Eschewing apology, I asked her why she insisted on blowing up my answering machine with these incessant reminders about Christmas. [(1) So, there had been repeated messages from Vicky about this? From the foregoing text “Anyway, I knew what she was going to say; she’d already sent out a mass email that had somehow made it through my in-box’s stringent spam filters: She was calling to remind me that the remains of the family were gathering at her house in Rhode Island for Christmas” the reader infers that the mass email was the only prior notification from Vicky and that this telephone message on the answering machine, which Gordon is just now responding to, is the only one (that is, there have been no “incessant reminders about Christmas”). Still, there must have been more than one such message, because in the next paragraph, Vicky complains that he never answers his phone—and later that she’s been nagging him since August. SEE ABOVE. (2) I broke the paragraph here.] “Because you never answer your fucking phone,” she explained curtly. After taking a moment to calm herself, she added, “And because we never know whether you’re alive or dead.” “Well, the life of a film scholar is not without its dangers, so I guess that’s valid . . .” “Gordon—please.” “I’m not coming,” I said bluntly. “Can’t afford the ticket.” “I find that hard to believe.” “The ticket prices are outrageous this time of year. It’s price gouging, pure and simple.” “Well, if you hadn’t waited until the last minute you minute, you could have gotten a cheaper flight,” she pointed out. “You’ve had plenty of time. I’ve been trying to get an RSVP from you since, like, August.” “Well . . . I’ve been preoccupied.”

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

I stayed home waiting for another email from Monica—some elaboration, some verification that her first message had been more than a matter of mere etiquette—and for all my waiting received a call from my sister Vicky instead. Another call, I should say, as she’d been ringing me for days. I was paralyzed, physically incapable of picking up. Anyway, I knew what she was going to say; she’d already sent out a mass email that had somehow made it through my in-box’s stringent spam filters: She was calling to remind me that the remains of the family were gathering at her house in Rhode Island for Christmas. Frankly, I did not see the value in dropping a full paycheck on a round-trip flight to Providence only to waste some dismal portion of my holiday break putting on an atavistic and ultimately disingenuous show of genetic solidarity. Regardless, I called her back an hour later. I was drunk, of course; there is really no other way to hold a conversation with a sibling. Eschewing salutation, Vicky instantly scolded me for calling her so late. It was a little past ten thirty; at the moment, there was a two-hour time difference between Phoenix and Providence. Eschewing apology, I asked her why she insisted on blowing up my answering machine with these incessant reminders about Christmas. “Because you never answer your fucking phone,” she explained curtly. After taking a moment to calm herself, she added, “And because we never know whether you’re alive or dead.” “Well, the life of a film scholar is not without its dangers, so I guess that’s valid . . .” “Gordon—please.” “I’m not coming,” I said bluntly. “Can’t afford the ticket.” “I find that hard to believe.” “The ticket prices are outrageous this time of year. It’s price gouging, pure and simple.” “Well, if you hadn’t waited until the last minute, you could have gotten a cheaper flight,” she pointed out. “You’ve had plenty of time. I’ve been trying to get an RSVP from you since, like, August.” “Well . . . I’ve been preoccupied.”