Funny things that came out of editing: *over use of words* *how the beta made me cry*
as of the date I write this post for Love Lane, *whispers* I’ve not started the edits yet. I’ve been ill, honest. However my editor for the Hairy Harry series always starts my edit with ‘179 uses of look’. She suggests ever so politely that I change
some all of them. Another editor of mine complained the people drank too much coffee. Yes, I am a coffee addict. Is it noticeable? Only one editor made me cry and threaten to quit altogether. I’m experienced enough to know that I’d never go through that again. The best editors are the ones who let the author have their voice. Thankfully, I’ve had some brilliant editors. As a reader I notice editing mishaps although when I’m staring at my own I can’t see it. Do you notice missing words/wrong spellings?
The Last Wolf (Sapphire Ranch Wolves – #1) Blurb:
The only good predator is a dead one, as far as Joe Lowther is concerned.
That is until the day he shoots a wolf, only to watch the animal turn into a naked Callum Pope. Cal is being hunted by a group of humans who eradicate shifter packs for sport.
Excerpt: That afternoon Joe had sat for an hour before his father awoke, ostensibly working on his new book. Joe was a college professor, although he’d taken a year’s sabbatical to look after his father and the ranch. In truth, he was thinking about an unwelcome visitor he’d recently discovered.
“You ain’t doing much,” his daddy mumbled. “Ain’t gonna make your first million if you daydream all day.”
Joe glanced over to see his father blinking sleepily. Ignoring the twinges in his back, Joe stood and helped his father sit up.
“I keep telling you, the only people who’re gonna read this book are a few history professors, and they’re only reading it to find the mistakes.”
“Then why’re you writing it? Write something that’s gonna make us some money.”
Joe huffed loudly. It was an old, old argument. “I’m a nerdy academic, not a fiction writer. Much as I’d love to write about true love, wizards or blowing shit up, I’m expected to write books about long-dead people and politics.”
“I need a drink.” As Joe reached for the cup on the side table, his daddy went on. “No reason you can’t write both, is there? Then you can stay on the ranch and write.”
With great difficulty, Joe refrained from stuffing the straw of the drink up his father’s nose. He had the greatest dad in the world who’d understood that his only son was destined for something other than sheep ranching and encouraged him to attend college and become a professor. Joe knew his father was lonely since the death of Joe’s mother and itching to find a way to get his son to agree to come back to Sapphire Ranch permanently before he was carried out in his box. Now Joe was acutely aware that day might be sooner rather than later.
“We’ve got more important things to worry about than what I write.”
“I saw a wolf over in the back paddock last night.”
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