Copyediting sample 10:
Truck or SUV? (or car?)

In this sample from a mystery novel, I resolved a continuity problem: What was Jefferson driving—a truck, an SUV, or a car? There was also some inconsistency with tense.

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.

As we got to his truck and opened the door, a foul smell emptied out with a blast. “What the fuck is that?” Jefferson asked. “Geez. What’d you have for lunch?” I asked. “Just shut up and look around.” I held my nose as we looked around inside the truck. In the back, on the floor behind the driver’s seat, I spotted a pile of dead fish, or rather a pile of fish parts: guts, heads, and tails, mostly. “I didn’t know you went fishing today,” I said. “I didn’t,” Jefferson said, his face and fists tightening. “I don’t fish.” “So where did the fish parts come from? A souvenir for your daughters?” “I didn’t buy them, didn’t put them there. If this is some kind of sick joke on your part, you’re paying to clean it up.” “It wasn’t me,” I said, trying not to laugh. “So if neither one of us put them in your car, who did?” “Don’t fuck with me, Frank. Did you put that shit in my car?” “Absolutely not,” I said. As it started to sink in that neither one of us was responsible for the pile of fish remains, I didn’t feel so calm anymore. 3 pages (one chapter) later Jefferson dropped off his SUV at a car wash for a thorough cleaning—it was still carrying more than a hint of fish stink—so the three of us got into my rental car and drove to the Parthenon Bistro, a cozy neighborhood place near Loras College that hosts a popular Sunday brunch. It’s the kind of place that ambitious politicians can’t resist, like ribbon-cuttings on highway bridges and back rooms with check-writing millionaires.

Markup
Click to go to the result.

As we got to his truck [in the next chapter, you call it an “SUV” (and sometimes you refer it it as a “car”), but I am keeping Jefferson’s vehicle a “truck” throughout] and opened the door, a foul smell emptied out with a blast. “What the fuck is that?” Jefferson asked. “Geez. What’d you have for lunch?” I asked. “Just shut up and look around.” I held my nose as we looked around inside the truck. inside. In the back, on the floor behind the driver’s seat, I spotted a pile of dead fish, or rather fish—or, rather, a pile of fish parts: guts, heads, and tails, mostly. “I didn’t know you went fishing today,” I said. “I didn’t,” Jefferson said, his face and fists tightening. “I don’t fish.” “So where did the fish parts come from? A souvenir for your daughters?” “I didn’t buy them, didn’t put them there. If this is some kind of sick joke on your part, you’re paying to clean it up.” “It wasn’t me,” I said, trying not to laugh. “So if neither one of us put them in your car, who your truck, who did?” “Don’t fuck with me, Frank. Did you put that shit put this shit in my car?” my truck?” “Absolutely not,” I said. As it started to sink in that neither one of us was responsible for the pile of fish remains, I didn’t feel so calm anymore. 3 pages (one chapter) later Jefferson dropped off his SUV at his truck at a car wash for a thorough cleaning—it was still carrying more than a hint of fish stink—so the three of us got into my rental car and drove to the Parthenon Bistro, a cozy neighborhood place near Loras College that hosts a that hosted a popular Sunday brunch. It’s the brunch. It was the kind of place that ambitious politicians can’t resist, [present tense “can’t resist” is OK here because it describes things always true about “ambitious politicians”; on the other hand, I revised “It’s” (“It is”) to “It was” because the narrative present’s simple past tense is appropriate for what Frank and his friends were experiencing on that Sunday in July 2015] like ribbon-cuttings on highway bridges and back rooms with check-writing millionaires.

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

As we got to his truck and opened the door, a foul smell emptied out with a blast. “What the fuck is that?” Jefferson asked. “Geez. What’d you have for lunch?” I asked. “Just shut up and look around.” I held my nose as we looked around inside. In the back, on the floor behind the driver’s seat, I spotted a pile of dead fish—or, rather, a pile of fish parts: guts, heads, and tails, mostly. “I didn’t know you went fishing today,” I said. “I didn’t,” Jefferson said, his face and fists tightening. “I don’t fish.” “So where did the fish parts come from? A souvenir for your daughters?” “I didn’t buy them, didn’t put them there. If this is some kind of sick joke on your part, you’re paying to clean it up.” “It wasn’t me,” I said, trying not to laugh. “So if neither one of us put them in your truck, who did?” “Don’t fuck with me, Frank. Did you put this shit in my truck?” “Absolutely not,” I said. As it started to sink in that neither one of us was responsible for the pile of fish remains, I didn’t feel so calm anymore. 3 pages (one chapter) later Jefferson dropped off his truck at a car wash for a thorough cleaning—it was still carrying more than a hint of fish stink—so the three of us got into my rental car and drove to the Parthenon Bistro, a cozy neighborhood place near Loras College that hosted a popular Sunday brunch. It was the kind of place that ambitious politicians can’t resist, like ribbon-cuttings on highway bridges and back rooms with check-writing millionaires.