Copyediting sample 18:
At the run-down motel

In this vignette, narrator Frank interviewed the owner of the motel. Besides taking care of routine style matters (punctuation mostly and dedicating paragraphs to each speaker’s part of the dialogue), I needed to ensure that a character was introduced properly—that the reader realizes right away that he has a beard. I also had to ensure that the dialogue made sense—that the narrator responded logically to what the motel owner had just told him.

Note: In the first paragraph, you do not see any editorial markup. I leave the author’s prose alone if I detect no problem with it.

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

Original
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A couple of miles south of the bridge, I pulled into the driveway of the Rugged Bluffs Motor Inn, one of the businesses on the paper that Stacy Smith had slipped to me. It was a vintage motel, a 1930s-era establishment where you parked right in front of the door to your room. I loved those places, especially when I had a lot of gear to unload at the end of the day. This place was showing its age, though. The dark brown wood trim around the windows was fading and cracked in a few places, and the whole place felt like it was about five years overdue for a makeover. I didn’t have any trouble finding a place to park. I went into the office and tapped the brass bell on the counter in front of the reception window. While I waited, I looked around and didn’t see anything on the tables except a few leaflets and a doily. After a couple of minutes, I was about to give it a harder tap when a harried-looking middle-aged man finally walked in through a door behind the reception desk. “How can I help you, sir?” he asked. His face was ashen and the skin around his eyes drooped. He looked like he hadn’t slept in years, or like he was about to sleep permanently. I introduced myself and told him that I was researching a story about sand mining and tourism. “Those fucking trucks are killing my business.” He looked down at the counter but not enough to hide the scowl in his face. “How so?” “Just listen for a minute.” He looked up and nodded toward the highway. Sure enough, I heard a rumble that grew progressively louder, rattling the windows for a few seconds until it faded away. “That’s my life now. Hundreds of times a day those trucks blow by, and this whole motel feels like it’s going to collapse into a pile of dust.” The window between us intercepted a soft spray of spit. “I’m going to guess that it has had an impact on your business.” I pulled out a notebook and jotted down a quick note about the truck traffic. “Your goddamn right it has.” As he looked around, his shoulders slumped. “We used to have a good thing going. Been running this place for nearly thirty years. We’d fill up on weekends—lots of bikers—and this would turn into a home-away-from-home for our guests.” He stroked his beard, which was thick enough to house a nesting starling or two. “We’d have a few barbecue grills going, and some folks would hang out around the pool or hot tub. It was a friendly atmosphere. But once those trucks started rolling by,” his nose crinkled and he pointed toward the highway, “the noise and the shaking drove people away. I had regulars—lots of regulars—people who’d been staying here for years, who quit coming. They were nice about it, apologized and all, but they said it wasn’t fun anymore with all the noise.”

Markup
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A couple of miles south of the bridge, I pulled into the driveway of the Rugged Bluffs Motor Inn, one of the businesses on the paper that Stacy Smith had slipped to me. It was a vintage motel, a 1930s-era establishment where you parked right in front of the door to your room. I loved those places, especially when I had a lot of gear to unload at the end of the day. This place was showing its age, though. The dark brown wood trim around the windows was fading and cracked in a few places, and the whole place felt like it was about five years overdue for a makeover. I didn’t have any trouble finding a place to park. I went into the office and tapped the brass bell on the counter in front of the reception window. While I waited, I looked around and didn’t see anything on the tables except a few leaflets and a doily. After a couple of minutes, I was about to give it a give the bell a harder tap [disambiguation needed here; “it” refers to “the bell,” but some readers might momentarily misread the sentence, assuming that “it” refers to the most recently mentioned noun, “a doily”] when a harried-looking middle-aged man [the man needs to be described as “bearded” right here, when the reader first encounters him; otherwise, the sentence several paragraphs hence, where he strokes his beard (“He stroked his beard, which was thick enough to house a nesting starling or two”), will come as a shock] finally walked in through a door behind the reception desk. [I broke the paragraph here; in dialogue, each speech usually warrants a dedicated paragraph.] “How can I help you, sir?” he asked. His face was ashen and ashen, and the skin around his eyes drooped. He looked like he hadn’t slept in years, or like he was about to sleep permanently. I introduced myself and told him that I was researching a story about sand mining and tourism. [I broke the paragraph here; now the motel owner will speak.] “Those fucking trucks are killing my business.” He looked down at the counter but not enough to hide the scowl in his face. “How so?” “Just listen for a minute.” He looked up and nodded toward the highway. Sure enough, I heard a rumble that grew progressively louder, rattling the windows for a few seconds until it faded away. “That’s my life now. Hundreds of times a day those trucks blow by, and this whole motel feels like it’s going to collapse into a pile of dust.” The window between us intercepted a soft spray of spit. “I’m going to guess that it has had an impact on your business.” [There is no need for Frank to “guess”; the motel owner had already said it had a terrible impact: “Those fucking trucks are killing my business” and “this whole motel feels like it’s going to collapse into a pile of dust.” Consider my suggested revision with the following two inserted sentences:] “I’m sorry to hear that. What was you business like before all the trucks?” I pulled out a notebook and jotted down a quick note about the truck traffic. “Your goddamn right it has.” [And, of course, with the preceding revision, this sentence needs to go. Okay?] As he looked around, his shoulders slumped. “We used to have a good thing going. Been running this place for nearly thirty years. We’d fill up on weekends—lots of bikers—and this would turn into a home-away-from-home for a home away from home for our guests.” He stroked his beard, which was thick enough to house a nesting starling or two. “We’d have a few barbecue grills going, and some folks would hang out around the pool or hot tub. It was a friendly atmosphere. But once those trucks started rolling by,” his by”—his nose crinkled and crinkled, and he pointed toward the highway, “the highway—“the noise and the shaking drove people away. I had regulars—lots of regulars—people regulars, people who’d been staying here for years, who years—who quit coming. They were nice about it, apologized and all, but they said it wasn’t fun anymore with all the noise.”

Result
Click to go to the next sample in the series.

A couple of miles south of the bridge, I pulled into the driveway of the Rugged Bluffs Motor Inn, one of the businesses on the paper that Stacy Smith had slipped to me. It was a vintage motel, a 1930s-era establishment where you parked right in front of the door to your room. I loved those places, especially when I had a lot of gear to unload at the end of the day. This place was showing its age, though. The dark brown wood trim around the windows was fading and cracked in a few places, and the whole place felt like it was about five years overdue for a makeover. I didn’t have any trouble finding a place to park. I went into the office and tapped the brass bell on the counter in front of the reception window. While I waited, I looked around and didn’t see anything on the tables except a few leaflets and a doily. After a couple of minutes, I was about to give the bell a harder tap when a bearded, harried-looking middle-aged man finally walked in through a door behind the reception desk. “How can I help you, sir?” he asked. His face was ashen, and the skin around his eyes drooped. He looked like he hadn’t slept in years, or like he was about to sleep permanently. I introduced myself and told him that I was researching a story about sand mining and tourism. “Those fucking trucks are killing my business.” He looked down at the counter but not enough to hide the scowl in his face. “How so?” “Just listen for a minute.” He looked up and nodded toward the highway. Sure enough, I heard a rumble that grew progressively louder, rattling the windows for a few seconds until it faded away. “That’s my life now. Hundreds of times a day those trucks blow by, and this whole motel feels like it’s going to collapse into a pile of dust.” The window between us intercepted a soft spray of spit. “I’m sorry to hear that. What was you business like before all the trucks?” I pulled out a notebook and jotted down a quick note about the truck traffic. As he looked around, his shoulders slumped. “We used to have a good thing going. Been running this place for nearly thirty years. We’d fill up on weekends—lots of bikers—and this would turn into a home away from home for our guests.” He stroked his beard, which was thick enough to house a nesting starling or two. “We’d have a few barbecue grills going, and some folks would hang out around the pool or hot tub. It was a friendly atmosphere. But once those trucks started rolling by”—his nose crinkled, and he pointed toward the highway—“the noise and the shaking drove people away. I had regulars—lots of regulars, people who’d been staying here for years—who quit coming. They were nice about it, apologized and all, but they said it wasn’t fun anymore with all the noise.”