Ten Things We Hate About You: Part Deux

I don’t want to write this post. I really don’t. I’m now eight months pregnant, with an empty tea mug and a raging headache I’ve named Chuck for no other reason than I was reading Wendig’s blog when I decided to entitle my skull pain. Plus, I’m sick of naming my headaches after my husband and kids. It gets confusing after awhile, especially when I expect tasty red pills to make my husband Rick go the fuck away and never bother me again – and they don’t.

No, I need stronger, bluer pills for that, I think.

Maybe a straightjacket and some padded walls.

Or a gun.

Yeah, the gun would probably work best.

Regardless, there are about a hundred other things calling out for my attention right now. I’ve got a Woodsman in Lord of the Rings Online who needs to master the 5^th tier of farming, there’s that book review of The Gathering Storm I’ve been thinking about writing since Wednesday when I finally finished the fucking thing, episodes of Grey’s Anatomy I didn’t catch on TV to watch, and a whole lotta other procrastinating to do. Plus, there’s the whole “I didn’t make any strict scheduling promises to you or this blog, asshole”.

Unfair, I know. Rick’s been really forgiving with my mood, attitude and general malaise lately. He doesn’t have to be; I’m now far too pregnant to maintain my speed in any long chase, and if he truly pissed me off, it wouldn’t be too hard to escape me.

Just ask the kids.

Ten Things We Hate about You: an Editor’s Perspective on the Crap You Send Us

I’m the kind of person you love to hate. I correct people’s grammar mid-sentence or -post. I take the kind of delight in pointing out spelling mistakes and syntax errors that small children experience on Christmas morning. I love my enormous vocabulary and utilize every presented opportunity to flaunt it. Thusly. I rarely fall prey to Muphry’s Law (and ten points to the first person to pick out whatever ends up being my hypocrisy in this post). I can diatribe for twenty minutes straight over a published book’s editing – or lack thereof – without repeating any of my points.

I’m a natural-born editor, baby.

I don’t have a list of credentials as long as my arm to prove my worthiness to edit a body of work. I don’t have set rates or what you’d call a “client list”. I don’t even always get paid for my work – yes, sometimes, I whore myself out for free. Nevertheless, in a vague, murky sense of the word, I am, or have been, a “professional” editor in that I’ve been paid to edit manuscripts.

Besides, this is the internet. I’m as credentialed as I need in order to be loud and opinionated.