Copyediting sample 31:
The toddler daughter

In this sample, I segmented one unrelenting glob of text into several paragraphs, enabling the reader to “take a breath” now and then. In his review, the author disputed a couple of my proposed paragraph breaks (see his review responses in BLUE BOLDFACE ALL CAPS). On the other hand, one of his responses, “HOLY HELL, GOOD CATCH!” was appreciative of my pointing out that the name Tina belonged not to the strip dancer herself but to her eighteen-month-old daughter.

Note that the author preferred to italicize many words and phrases I would have left without italics (for example, “twerking” and “safety”); he insisted this was his stylistic choice, reminiscent of the works of authors Michel Houellebecq and Thomas Bernhard. I generally deferred to his firm preference; he did, however, acquiesce with my removing italics from some words, as you can see in my markup commentary.

By the way, the character named Reagan is not the former U.S. president.

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 sat at the bar and tried to avert my gaze from the stage, where there were apparently only two girls on rotation, dancing in tacky Christmas-themed outfits (“sexy elf” or “Mrs. Claus” costumes, antlers, etc.). Hadn’t Christmas already passed? I had no idea what day it was. At present I was the only one in the audience, it was impossible to maintain anonymity, the girl on stage was calling out to me, “Yoo-hoo,” curling and uncurling her index finger, indicating that I should approach the stage. It would have been insulting to ignore her, so I shuffled over and took a seat right in front of her. I didn’t want to watch her try turning me on, pushing her tits in my face, twerking, etc., so I struck up a conversation instead (by and large, strippers are natural conversationalists—I think it is one of the job requirements, or in any case it’s the only way for them to feel some modicum of safety in an otherwise completely vulnerable state). She looked like the type of girl who no one would fuck in high school. Presently she was wearing a pair of knockoff cowboy boots and red underwear with fluffy white trimming, her pendulous tits dangling over my gin and tonic as she shouted her life story into my ear. Her boyfriend was one of the bartenders and had gotten her this gig after she’d been fired from the casino for refusing to sleep with her boss. In what she presumed was a seductive tone, she informed me that I did not fit the usual demographic in this particular bar. “You look all fancy,” she said, which I took to mean that I was more well-groomed than the usual riffraff who paid to slap her tits around every night. It made sense: I was, after all, a scholar of film. She told me that I was not bad-looking for a guy my age. “We don’t get too many guys with teeth around here,” she said. “Most of my regulars come in with grubby beards and grease-stains all over their hands and clothes from working on motors all day . . . things like that.” I felt for her and was sincere in telling her so. It was fairly easy to imagine the kind of misogynist bullshit she had to endure in order to make a living and I did not wish that upon anyone, at least not anyone as fundamentally decent as this girl was turning out to be. “You want me to show you my pussy?” she asked, snapping her peppermint chewing gum in my ear. At this point I would have paid her not to show it to me. It looked like she was about to make good on the threat, she had slipped a finger into her underwear, preparing to pull it to the side. In order to distract her, I asked about her kid (the C-section scar was plain as day). She was happy to talk about it, one might even say she was prodigiously self-actualized for a woman of her profession. She told me that her daughter, Tina, was eighteen months old. Then she turned around and bent over in front of me. The flimsy red string of fabric running up the crack of her ass did little to hide the brown ring of her anus; for the life of me, I could not avert my gaze. Peering at me upside-down from between her legs, she asked if I had any children. I said no and she wanted to know why not. I told her that I could only think of one seriously compelling reason to procreate: in order to relive, vicariously, the childhood you never really lived in the first place. She seemed to understand, donning a thoughtful expression before twirling around to kiss me lightly on the cheek. She was a sweet girl. It is easy to forget that, though they may represent the extreme minority, there are good people everywhere—even in strip joints. I felt a crying jag looming and, after depositing a wad of one-dollar bills on the stage, got up to fetch myself another drink. several chapters (106 pages) later Billy sniggered at me. “Even if Reagan knows something, he won’t tell you shit. You’re being swindled, old man.” Until then, I’d assumed that Billy and Reagan were in cahoots. Now I was beginning to detect a note of adversity; in actuality, they were competitors. “That fuckwad’s been siphoning my girls,” he explained, gesturing toward the empty stage—which I took to mean that Reagan had been recruiting Billy’s dancers with the promise of a substantially greater return on an astronomically riskier investment. The world of vice, to put it in terms of criminal law, was a dense vascular latticework, and this manner of petty competition was the primary mechanism for pumping blood from one part to another. Briefly, I remembered Tina, the amicable dancer I’d spoken to here just before Christmas, and I wondered if she was one of the girls who’d been “siphoned”; I was inclined to hope not.

Markup
Click to go to the author’s review.

I sat at the bar and tried to avert my gaze from the stage, where there were apparently only two girls on rotation, dancing in tacky Christmas-themed outfits (“sexy elf” or “Mrs. Claus” costumes, antlers, etc.). Hadn’t Christmas already passed? I had no idea what day it was. [By my calculations, it is Monday, December 24 (and in chapter 3 of Part Four is Gordon’s remembrance of this particular evening: “Briefly, I remembered the amicable dancer I'd spoken to in Billy’s bar just before Christmas”)] At present I present, I was the only one in the audience, it audience; it was impossible to maintain anonymity, the girl anonymity. The girl on stage was calling out to me, “Yoo-hoo,” curling and uncurling her index finger, indicating that I should approach the stage. [I broke the paragraph here] It would have been insulting to ignore her, so I shuffled over and took a seat right in front of her. I didn’t want to watch her try turning me try to turn me on, pushing her tits in my face, twerking, etc., so I struck up a conversation instead (by and instead. (By and large, strippers are natural conversationalists—I think it is one of the job requirements, or in any case it’s case, it’s the only way for them to feel some modicum of safety in an otherwise completely vulnerable state). vulnerable state.) She looked like the type of girl who no girl whom no one would fuck in high school. [I broke the paragraph here] Presently she Presently, she was wearing a pair of knockoff cowboy boots and red underwear with fluffy white trimming, her pendulous tits dangling over my gin and tonic as she shouted her life story into my ear. Her boyfriend was one of the bartenders and had gotten her this gig after she’d been fired from the casino for refusing to sleep with her boss. [I broke the paragraph here] In what she presumed was a seductive tone, she informed me that I did not fit the usual demographic in this particular bar. “You look all fancy,” she said, which I took to mean that I was more well-groomed than the usual riffraff who paid to slap her tits around every night. It made sense: I was, after all, a scholar of film. She told me that I was not bad-looking for a guy my age. “We don’t get too many guys with teeth around here,” she said. “Most of my regulars come in with grubby beards and grease-stains all and grease stains all over their hands and clothes from working on motors all day . . . things like that.” [I broke the paragraph here] I felt for her and was sincere in telling her so. It was fairly easy to imagine the kind of misogynist bullshit she had to endure in order to make a living and living, and I did not wish that upon anyone, at least not anyone as fundamentally decent as this girl was turning out to be. [I broke the paragraph here] “You want me to show you my pussy?” she asked, snapping her peppermint chewing gum in my ear. At this point I point, I would have paid her not to show it to me her not to show it to me. It looked like she was about to make good on the threat, she threat; she had slipped a finger into her underwear, preparing to pull it to the side. [I broke the paragraph here] In order to distract her, I asked about her kid (the C-section scar was plain as day). She was happy to talk about it, one might it; one might even say she was prodigiously self-actualized for a woman of her profession. She told me that her daughter, Tina, was eighteen months old. [I broke the paragraph here] Then she turned around and bent over in front of me. The flimsy red string of fabric running up the crack of her ass did little to hide the brown ring of her anus; for the life of me, I could not avert my gaze. Peering at me upside-down from between her legs, she asked if I had any children. I said no and no, and she wanted to know why not. I told her that I could only think of one could think of only one seriously compelling reason to procreate: in order to relive, vicariously, the childhood you never really lived in the first place. [I broke the paragraph here] She seemed to understand, donning a thoughtful expression before twirling around to kiss me lightly on the cheek. She was a sweet girl. It is easy to forget that, though they may represent the extreme minority, there are good people everywhere—even in strip joints. I felt a crying jag looming and, after depositing a wad of one-dollar bills on the stage, got up to fetch myself another drink. several chapters (106 pages) later Billy sniggered at me. “Even if Reagan knows something, he won’t tell you shit. You’re being swindled, old man.” Until then, I’d assumed that Billy and Reagan were in cahoots. in cahoots. [No highlight necessary for this word.] Now I was beginning to detect a note of adversity; in actuality, they were competitors. were competitors. [(1) Same for this word. (2) I broke the paragraph here] “That fuckwad’s been siphoning my girls,” he explained, gesturing toward the empty stage—which I took to mean that Reagan had been recruiting Billy’s dancers with the promise of a substantially greater return on an astronomically riskier investment. [I broke the paragraph here] The world of vice, of vice, [no highlight necessary for this word] to put it in terms of criminal law, was a dense vascular dense, vascular latticework, and this manner of petty competition was the primary mechanism for pumping blood from one part to another. Briefly, I remembered Tina, the amicable dancer remembered the amicable dancer [Gordon did not learn the name of “the amicable dancer”; Tina was the dancer’s daughter: “She told me that her daughter, Tina, was eighteen months old.”] I’d spoken to here just to in Billy’s bar just [the word “here” can be confusing in a past-tense narrative] before Christmas, and I wondered if she was one of the girls who’d been “siphoned”; I was inclined to hope not.

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

I sat at the bar and tried to avert my gaze from the stage, where there were apparently only two girls on rotation, dancing in tacky Christmas-themed outfits (“sexy elf” or “Mrs. Claus” costumes, antlers, etc.). Hadn’t Christmas already passed? I had no idea what day it was. [By my calculations, it is Monday, December 24 (and in chapter 3 of Part Four is Gordon’s remembrance of this particular evening: “Briefly, I remembered the amicable dancer I'd spoken to in Billy’s bar just before Christmas”)] OKAY At present I present, I was the only one in the audience, it audience; it was impossible to maintain anonymity, the girl anonymity. The girl on stage was calling out to me, “Yoo-hoo,” curling and uncurling her index finger, indicating that I should approach the stage. [I broke the paragraph here] It would have been insulting to ignore her, so I shuffled over and took a seat right in front of her. I didn’t want to watch her try turning me try to turn me on, pushing her tits in my face, twerking, etc., so I struck up a conversation instead (by and instead. (By and large, strippers are natural conversationalists—I think it is one of the job requirements, or in any case it’s case, it’s the only way for them to feel some modicum of safety in an otherwise completely vulnerable state). vulnerable state.) She looked like the type of girl who no girl whom no one would fuck in high school. [I broke the paragraph here] Presently she Presently, she was wearing a pair of knockoff cowboy boots and red underwear with fluffy white trimming, her pendulous tits dangling over my gin and tonic as she shouted her life story into my ear. Her boyfriend was one of the bartenders and had gotten her this gig after she’d been fired from the casino for refusing to sleep with her boss. [I broke the paragraph here] In what she presumed was a seductive tone, she informed me that I did not fit the usual demographic in this particular bar. “You look all fancy,” she said, which I took to mean that I was more well-groomed than the usual riffraff who paid to slap her tits around every night. It made sense: I was, after all, a scholar of film. She told me that I was not bad-looking for a guy my age. “We don’t get too many guys with teeth around here,” she said. “Most of my regulars come in with grubby beards and grease-stains all and grease stains all over their hands and clothes from working on motors all day . . . things like that.” [I broke the paragraph here] I felt for her and was sincere in telling her so. It was fairly easy to imagine the kind of misogynist bullshit she had to endure in order to make a living and living, and I did not wish that upon anyone, at least not anyone as fundamentally decent as this girl was turning out to be. [I broke the paragraph here] “You want me to show you my pussy?” she asked, snapping her peppermint chewing gum in my ear. At this point I point, I would have paid her not to show it to me her not to show it to me. It looked like she was about to make good on the threat, she threat; she had slipped a finger into her underwear, preparing to pull it to the side. [I broke the paragraph here] NO In order to distract her, I asked about her kid (the C-section scar was plain as day). She was happy to talk about it, one might it; one might even say she was prodigiously self-actualized for a woman of her profession. She told me that her daughter, Tina, was eighteen months old. [I broke the paragraph here] NO Then she turned around and bent over in front of me. The flimsy red string of fabric running up the crack of her ass did little to hide the brown ring of her anus; for the life of me, I could not avert my gaze. Peering at me upside-down from between her legs, she asked if I had any children. I said no and no, and she wanted to know why not. I told her that I could only think of one could think of only one seriously compelling reason to procreate: in order to relive, vicariously, the childhood you never really lived in the first place. [I broke the paragraph here] She seemed to understand, donning a thoughtful expression before twirling around to kiss me lightly on the cheek. She was a sweet girl. It is easy to forget that, though they may represent the extreme minority, there are good people everywhere—even in strip joints. I felt a crying jag looming and, after depositing a wad of one-dollar bills on the stage, got up to fetch myself another drink. several chapters (106 pages) later Billy sniggered at me. “Even if Reagan knows something, he won’t tell you shit. You’re being swindled, old man.” Until then, I’d assumed that Billy and Reagan were in cahoots. in cahoots. [No highlight necessary for this word.] Now I was beginning to detect a note of adversity; in actuality, they were competitors. were competitors. [(1) Same for this word. (2) I broke the paragraph here] “That fuckwad’s been siphoning my girls,” he explained, gesturing toward the empty stage—which I took to mean that Reagan had been recruiting Billy’s dancers with the promise of a substantially greater return on an astronomically riskier investment. [I broke the paragraph here] The world of vice, of vice, [no highlight necessary for this word] to put it in terms of criminal law, was a dense vascular dense, vascular latticework, and this manner of petty competition was the primary mechanism for pumping blood from one part to another. Briefly, I remembered Tina, the amicable dancer remembered the amicable dancer [Gordon did not learn the name of “the amicable dancer”; Tina was the dancer’s daughter: “She told me that her daughter, Tina, was eighteen months old.”] HOLY HELL, GOOD CATCH! I’d spoken to here just to in Billy’s bar just [the word “here” can be confusing in a past-tense narrative] before Christmas, and I wondered if she was one of the girls who’d been “siphoned”; I was inclined to hope not.

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

I sat at the bar and tried to avert my gaze from the stage, where there were apparently only two girls on rotation, dancing in tacky Christmas-themed outfits (“sexy elf” or “Mrs. Claus” costumes, antlers, etc.). Hadn’t Christmas already passed? I had no idea what day it was. At present, I was the only one in the audience; it was impossible to maintain anonymity. The girl on stage was calling out to me, “Yoo-hoo,” curling and uncurling her index finger, indicating that I should approach the stage. It would have been insulting to ignore her, so I shuffled over and took a seat right in front of her. I didn’t want to watch her try to turn me on, pushing her tits in my face, twerking, etc., so I struck up a conversation instead. (By and large, strippers are natural conversationalists—I think it is one of the job requirements, or in any case, it’s the only way for them to feel some modicum of safety in an otherwise completely vulnerable state.) She looked like the type of girl whom no one would fuck in high school. Presently, she was wearing a pair of knockoff cowboy boots and red underwear with fluffy white trimming, her pendulous tits dangling over my gin and tonic as she shouted her life story into my ear. Her boyfriend was one of the bartenders and had gotten her this gig after she’d been fired from the casino for refusing to sleep with her boss. In what she presumed was a seductive tone, she informed me that I did not fit the usual demographic in this particular bar. “You look all fancy,” she said, which I took to mean that I was more well-groomed than the usual riffraff who paid to slap her tits around every night. It made sense: I was, after all, a scholar of film. She told me that I was not bad-looking for a guy my age. “We don’t get too many guys with teeth around here,” she said. “Most of my regulars come in with grubby beards and grease stains all over their hands and clothes from working on motors all day . . . things like that.” I felt for her and was sincere in telling her so. It was fairly easy to imagine the kind of misogynist bullshit she had to endure in order to make a living, and I did not wish that upon anyone, at least not anyone as fundamentally decent as this girl was turning out to be. “You want me to show you my pussy?” she asked, snapping her peppermint chewing gum in my ear. At this point, I would have paid her not to show it to me. It looked like she was about to make good on the threat; she had slipped a finger into her underwear, preparing to pull it to the side. In order to distract her, I asked about her kid (the C-section scar was plain as day). She was happy to talk about it; one might even say she was prodigiously self-actualized for a woman of her profession. She told me that her daughter, Tina, was eighteen months old. Then she turned around and bent over in front of me. The flimsy red string of fabric running up the crack of her ass did little to hide the brown ring of her anus; for the life of me, I could not avert my gaze. Peering at me upside-down from between her legs, she asked if I had any children. I said no, and she wanted to know why not. I told her that I could think of only one seriously compelling reason to procreate: in order to relive, vicariously, the childhood you never really lived in the first place. She seemed to understand, donning a thoughtful expression before twirling around to kiss me lightly on the cheek. She was a sweet girl. It is easy to forget that, though they may represent the extreme minority, there are good people everywhere—even in strip joints. I felt a crying jag looming and, after depositing a wad of one-dollar bills on the stage, got up to fetch myself another drink. several chapters (106 pages) later Billy sniggered at me. “Even if Reagan knows something, he won’t tell you shit. You’re being swindled, old man.” Until then, I’d assumed that Billy and Reagan were in cahoots. Now I was beginning to detect a note of adversity; in actuality, they were competitors. “That fuckwad’s been siphoning my girls,” he explained, gesturing toward the empty stage—which I took to mean that Reagan had been recruiting Billy’s dancers with the promise of a substantially greater return on an astronomically riskier investment. The world of vice, to put it in terms of criminal law, was a dense, vascular latticework, and this manner of petty competition was the primary mechanism for pumping blood from one part to another. Briefly, I remembered the amicable dancer I’d spoken to in Billy’s bar just before Christmas, and I wondered if she was one of the girls who’d been “siphoned”; I was inclined to hope not.