Random Reflections on Old Londontown

Positively saturated with good-looking men. Not even in Mexico are the men so fine as they are in Old Blighty. And the British accent is divine. Slightly different in every voice.

People are quite friendly and kind. They seem genuinely happy.

I swear I saw Daniel Craig buying a coffee in a small coffee shop near Harrod's. I swear it. He had the bluest eyes I've ever seen and he looked right at me. Alan was in the loo, and by the time he came out he was gone, so I have no one to confirm my lucky encounter. But I will remember the moment for the rest of my life.

Everyone in London wears a scarf. I noticed this is true in New York too, but not as much as in London. So I bought myself a lovely red chenille scarf and gloves; then I fit right in.

No sales tax when you buy things. If it says 15 pounds, that's how much they ask you for, not 17.87 with tax. Sort of strange.

British children speak with British accents too. Every time I heard the sweet angelic little voices around me, I turned expecting to see Peter Pan or Mary Poppins standing nearby. "Petah! Please, let's fly away to Nevah-Nevah land now, shall we?"

Some people drive these teeny-tiny little cars. Like something I would consider buying as a toy for my son. Like something there's no way you could fit an adult inside of, but they do somehow. Really bizarre.

London is both old and new at the same time. Thoroughly soaked in ancient history, yet completely modern and hip.

I believe they drew the streets of London by putting a drunken Irishman on a wild horse and letting him drag a stick behind. The streets go every which way, in loops and curls and wild staggering lurches in random directions. It was quite an advenure for a Yankee like me, trekking around on foot alone the first day. I thought I would cry with joy when I finally found my hotel.

That Becker quote, "whenever I go to London, I am home," feels so true to me. I found another home there.

In Which I Pose an Ethical Question

Here’s how it works.

Someone writes a book and then sets out to find an agent or a publisher. He submits his query and sample to the agent, and the agent writes back requesting more samples or perhaps the full manuscript for review. So Julio sends his manuscript to the agent, who then writes back to say “Yes, we’re interested in representing this work,” and sends a contract.

Julio signs the contract and does the hallelujah dance (“Yes! I’ve got an agent!”).

I don’t know what the contract says, but it probably says something like “I will be your literary agent and represent your manuscript on the publishing market. I will receive some fee (a percentage of royalties probably) for my services if the manuscript is sold to a publisher.”
The agent tells Julio that his manuscript is not yet in a presentable condition to send to publishers. He refers him to a company, let’s call it Editing, Inc. which can provide editing and other services to help him get his manuscript ready for submission to publishers.

So Julio contacts Editing, Inc. to inquire about their services. They offer a few different options. He can have the first 20 pages of his manuscript edited by a professional editor who will provide him with a detailed commentary and suggestions for revisions to his work. This service costs several hundred dollars. Or he can have the entire manuscript edited and receive an even more detailed commentary and more assistance. This service is about a thousand dollars, or more if it’s a really honkin’ big manuscript. Or he can hire an editor for a set number of hours to be his coach. In this case, the editor not only reads and edits his work but works with him on the phone to coach him and discuss in detail the revisions needed. Another service offered is a rewrite—if an editor needs to do something way more involved than line editing, like shuffling chapters around, rewriting large sections of it, helping with plot and character development, etc. This service is very expensive: two or three thousand dollars. Other services offered by Editing, Inc. include assistance with query letters, bios and synopsis sheets. Basically, this company provides anything the writer may need to get his manuscript ready to submit to publishers, but also provides valuable writing tips and coaching to improve the quality of Julio’s writing in general.

But all these services are shockingly expensive (to me).

So Julio decides to pay a few hundred dollars or maybe a thousand dollars to have some or all of his manuscript edited. The agent receives a commission from the company for referring Julio to them for editing services. Technically, I don’t know for a fact this is what happens, but I assume so because there would be no other reason for an agent to establish a relationship with the editing company and send all his clients to them. In fact, when you see the writing sample below, you’ll understand what I mean when I say this commission from the editing company has to be the only incentive the agent has for signing this writer as a client. The editing money (from the writer/client) is the only money the agent could ever make on this deal, as there’s no way he expects to truly sell it to a publisher.

In fact, the most likely truth hidden in this situation is that the "agent" is really just a cardboard extension of the editing company Editing, Inc. whose only purpose is to find writers and give them incentive to purchase editing services.

This is where I come in, the professional editor. I print the manuscript, read it and mark it up with a pen, then transfer my edits to the screen via Microsoft Word’s Track Changes feature. The writer can see every change that I make and can choose to accept my edits or reject them. I correct punctuation, spelling, grammar, point out inconsistencies in the story or put comments in the text showing where something needs to be clarified. Sometimes I may do a little minor rewriting here and there to improve things. If the formatting of the text is terribly wonky, I will fix that and let the writer know about standard publishing format (font size, line space, margins, etc.). I write up a commentary giving Julio my impression of the work and my suggestions for improvement.

As a relatively new editor (two years), I tend to have too much of a “light touch” when tearing into another writer’s work. But as my confidence and experience grow, I think I’m more comfortable now to really rip it up (constructively, of course). I figure this writer didn’t pay a thousand dollars or more just to have me come back and say, “Hey, this is good. I fixed your margins and corrected a couple of spelling mistakes.” When I edit a manuscript, I do it with an eye toward making it as good as it can possibly be, whatever it needs. I try to tell the writer what I feel he really needs to understand in order to be a better writer.

So the edited manuscript goes back to the writer and I’m out of the loop. I don’t know what then happens between the writer and the company or the agent. But apparently what happens sometimes is the writer gets pissed off when his book doesn’t get published. After spending all that money and doing what the agent told him to do, suddenly there are crickets chirping over at the agent’s office and he’s not heard a word. He feels he’s been cheated and he sues the agent and the company for fraud.

I find that the better the writer is, the more realistic his perception of what he’s getting for his money. If he’s smart enough to write a decent manuscript (not publishable maybe, but not bloody awful) then he’s typically smart enough to understand the service he’s getting from me his editor, from the company and from the agent. He truly appreciates the edit work and the commentary and seeks to improve his craft, regardless of whether his book gets published or not. This guy is not the problem.

There are, apparently, a great many people out there in the world who have somehow come to the mistaken conclusion that they are writers. They produce thousands of pages of the most horrible stuff you could imagine. As a writer, it actually hurts me—a real physical pain in my heart—to see my beloved craft butchered and bludgeoned so carelessly. I weep sometimes as I read this stuff, I really do. I’m going to post a little sample so you can see how bad it is—there are simply no words to describe the horror.

After what seemed a long morning he was able to get a hold of Mark they agreed to meet at JD’ys it was a little café. Toby went to his sister’s room, told her to get ready, then left they walked hand in hand she was only six but she still liked to hold hands Toby didn’t mind as long as no one saw them especially Jade a girl he liked, he didn’t want her to think he was a sissy or something. When Toby and his sister made it to the Y he let go of her hand and walked her to the bus. All her friends liked him because he was a lot older then them. He really didn’t mind he liked little kids he even babysitted them for free. After he singed her name on the paper (a parent needed to sign it they said he would do). He then left her she seemed scared to leave but she did he walked all the way home, got his bike after telling his parents that he was leaving to go out with Mark. He peddled down South Ave. he then turned down Franklin Street there was JD’ys, he looked in the window and saw Mark sitting at the counter with his back to the window. Toby walked in he saw Jade in her uniform he smiled. She saw him and waved to him. He walked over to her “Hey you ready for school to start?” Toby asked she looked at him then answered “Yes I ‘am it’s been a long summer, I’m tired of watiressing for idiots.” She laughed in spite of her self. Toby walked over to Mark sat down next to him. Mark looked over at him “Your late.” He said Toby shrugged “My sister took forever to get ready.” Toby then reached for a menu he ordered a turkey sandwich. “School starts tomorrow-high school it might be fun.” Toby said this last thing with ununderstanding Mark looked paler then usual. Mark ate his food in silence, Toby kept on looking at Jade over his shoulder she also kept on looking at him, but as soon he would notice she would turn around and walk away swinging her hips.Toby got on his bike; Mark didn’t have his bike with him so he had to sit on the handle bars. “Where to Mark?” asked Toby “To my house.” Toby started slow but got going Toby took the main road to Marks house he knew it would be quicker the taking spring street. Also they didn’t want Quigley to chase them Quigley was Toby’s next door neighbor dog that liked to chase them; when they where little they used to tease Quigley until Toby got bite then they stopped. When they reached Marks house Mark got his bike, “Let’s go to the bowling alley Jade said she would be there.” Said Mark, he also liked Jade but he already dated her in the fifth grade they’re good friends now. “Okay.” Toby was more then willing to get to see Jade again. Toby and Mark then peddled down Pine Street toward the bowling alley. The bowling alley came into view the red pillars outside of it and the big pin ball.

Okay, that’s a really long sample, but you see what I mean. No paragraph breaks, punctuation at random. Nothing interesting happening in the story, no real plot or character development. Let me tell you, to read and edit seven hundred pages of this stuff feels a bit like smacking yourself in the face with a crowbar for ten hours. I want to tell this person—beg him—to stop. Find another hobby. This writing thing is not working out--hey, you gave it a shot, maybe you can try your hand at painting? Clearly, after spending countless hours, days, months writing this huge monstrosity and spending a thousand dollars or more to have it edited, the writer cares about this manuscript very much and must be handled with care. I do my best to teach him what I know and help him do better.

Reader, this is the guy who comes across with the idea that his book is in the process of getting published because he has found an agent and an editor. Ironically, it’s the writers who have the least chance of being published who persist with the delusion that they will be published! They come to me with questions like, “Is there anything else that needs to be done to this before I send it back to my agent for publishing?” or “So this is ready for publishing now?” And I don’t know what’s been told to him by his agent, so I have to be diplomatic. I say, “Well, the editing work is done. Work on implementing my suggestions and you should be in better shape.”

So some of these guys (and ladies) have sued the company to which I contract my editing services. Fraud. I can understand their frustration—I’ve played the “publish me, please!” game myself. And the money these people have dished out is a lot! If they did so under the impression that they were in the process of publishing their book, no wonder they’re pissed when they find out it was money spent on nothing—a book that will never see print in anybody’s lifetime.

What do you think, based on what I’ve told you (which is all I know). Is it fraud? Is it ethical? (I’ll put my opinion in the comments section.)

Em's story

Y’all remember Auntie Em, my sweet cool punk rock friend, the one who's going to hell for assaulting a handicapped person? She called me last night to tell me the good news, that she’s probably getting married. She’s flying out to NZ next month (that’s friggin New Zealand!) to meet her intended, whom she met on MySpace.

She told me a little about this bloke, he sounds perfect for her. She said he’s got kind of a wild past. For instance, he shagged a midget, just for the novelty of it.

The two lovebirds had their first big fight last week. As always, Em had me squealing with laughter as she told me about it.

In the course of conversation, her kiwi fella happened to mention that there’s a limit to the amount of sexual experience he’d accept in a woman. Literally, there’s a specific number in his head—if she’s had any more sex partners in her past than this number, she’s just too slutty for him and he could never be in a relationship with her.

With some trepidation, she asked, “What number?”

“20”

Well she thought about it for a week. And then she bucked up and did the courageous thing.

“Uh, baby, you remember when you said...” and she went on to confess that at the age of 30, having been in a punk rock band in the Pacific Northwest, and being adventurous enough in her soul to travel halfway around the world to meet him—she’d certainly had more than 20 sex partners in her past. If this was a deal-breaker for him, she wanted him to know it now.

We discussed this at length—a very interesting question. Should she have told him? He had not specifically asked her how many she’d been with, she certainly could have simply never brought it up again and saved herself the drama. But, she decided, if her future husband considers her a slut based on the number of men she’d been with before she met him, then she wanted to know this and wanted him to know it as well. So she bravely went forth into the breach.

They had the whole preliminary, “Uh, so the number’s bigger than 20? How much bigger?” conversation, which progressed to the “Oh my god, you whore!” stage and culminated in him actually vomiting (with her on the phone) in total distress and repulsion. He hung up on her. And then called back 20 minutes later to apologize.

Em’s mother said, a man is very open-minded about a woman he doesn’t want to marry.

As she told me about their argument, I asked her, “What did you say?”

She said: “I said, ‘Excuse me! Fucked a midget!’ You exploited a little person! And you’re going to judge me?”

This had us rolling on the floor laughing for several minutes. We decided, this is her trump card. During any argument they may ever have, all she ever needs to do is say, “Fucked a midget!” and the argument is over.

Ladies, this is the secret to arguing with a man. Find your trump card and use it wisely.

No More Moles, Warts, or Skin Tags. Yay!

I like to use odd things for divination. Today, I turned to my Spam Folder in my email. I guess this would be Spamomancy. I will attempt to divine deep spiritual insight from the spam in my junk folder.

My Past:

Be a Champion in the Bedroom. Hmm, yes, I vaguely recall something like this in my distant past. Introducing the Stronger, Longer-Lasting male enhancement system. Increase her satisfaction. Vivid virility. Yeah, okay, this is the Relentless Tease. Combine this with a handful of spam about easy-credit short-term loans, and I understand that all that satisfaction and vivid virility came with a hefty interest rate. Paid that sucker off, and I'll be stashing away my goodies until I have enough saved up for another Champion in the Bedroom.

My Present:

I'm ready for a change - how about you? Why yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Mate1 Intimate Dating: You should sign up, it takes only 5 secs. Only 5 secs to Intimate Dating, huh? Cool. Combined with the next spam in the list: She's looking for you, I'm thinking the "change" I'm ready for may be more drastic than I thought. Hmm, she's looking for me. I wonder what she looks like. Nice soft belly, sweet lips. Blue eyes. Note to self: find out if there's some kind of form that has to be filed in order to officially become a lesbian.

My Future:

Can you be like a man? Well shoot, if I'm gunna start shagging women, I guess I can be like a man in some kinda way. C1alls Soft Tabs is the new impotence treatment drug that everyone is talking about. You need only 15 minutes till you feel the effect. Fifteen minutes and I can be like a man. Damn. Do I have to be exactly like a man? Can I just be strong and unfeeling like a man, yet still be smart and intuitive and feminine like a woman?

No more Moles, Warts or Skin Tags. Oh, thank God. I don't think I could survive another Wart. I'll be happy enough if all the moles, warts and skin tags could just stay right the hell away from me from now on. Watch your moles and warts disappear! Well, yeah, they do that. No more burning, freezing or products that don't work. But, you know, I might miss the burning just a little bit. Learn about the quick, painless way people are removing moles, warts and skin tags. And it's a bright outlook for my future. I will learn how to get rid of those pesky Warts quickly and painlessly next time.

Sweet Silver Angels Over the Sea

Ship's Log, Day 1
Thursday, Aug. 31, 2006
We were four hours on the Party Bus to Galveston drinking mimosas with a guy named Tim who promised to "take care of us." Sissy brought seasickness wristbands to keep us from getting sick. They're little black bands for each wrist with a white bump in the middle for an accupressure point on the inner wrist. I took mine off the first night, but she's still wearing hers.

We got leis'd as we got off the bus, then we were herded through the checkin/boarding process. I watched very closely, reader, and I did not see a single pirate among the passengers. Only redneck families with children, couples in love (aww!!) and juvenile college guys wearing bachelor party tee shirts.

After learning how to work our life preservers, we were all set to party. Bring me that horizon. Sissy went off to find a dancefloor and I went off to discover that the "hot tub" is really more of a "bubbly water tub." I long for warmth, please, some warm place to submerge myself. Inside, the ship is as cold as a meat locker. Out on deck at night, the air is crisp to my delicate skin. I'd give anything for a parka.

What kind of an idiot goes on a cruise and forgets to pack condoms?!? Oh well, it would appear that the ship is filled with people I wouldn't shag anyway, so it's just as well I have no condoms. It would be depressing if I'd packed them and then brought them home unused.

At dinner, we were assigned seats. Sissy, myself, and four other women looked around dubiously at each other before one of them called a waiter over to ask "Why am I seated at the wallflower table?" The waiter, I think his name was Julio, did not appear to speak English. He said "Yes, ma'am," and walked away. It all made more sense when George, the president of the group we're with, came to take his seat at our table. I assume he made the seating assignments since he's the only man lucky enough to be assigned to a table with six women and no other men.
When I returned to our cabin after the hot tub, our beds were turned down, with mints on our pillows, and someone built a sculpture of an elephant out of towels on our window sill. Good night. /tess

Ship's Log, Day 2
Friday, Sept. 1, 2006
Sometime during the night our ship, the Ecstasy, was boarded by pirates. Stealthy they came, their ship crept up in the night and lay against our cruiser like a malevolent shadow. They must have changed clothes in the Skallywag Lounge, for they were dressed in proper clothes when I first spotted them by the pool. They were cleverly disguised, but you know Tess knows a pirate when she sees one. I ate three lobster tails for dinner. What kind of an animal eats three lobster tails (with butter) at one sitting? Found the hot tub that actually gets hot. Tonight's towel sculpture was a puppy dog. /tess (in Ecstasy...)

Ship's Log, Day 3
Saturday, September 2, 2006
We went aground this morning in Cozumel. Just as we left the ship we hooked up with Tim again, who promised again to "take care of us." Very quickly Sissy disappeared, leaving Tim and I to fight off the natives on our own.

Lots of Mexicans in Cozumel. They kept referring to Tim as my husband. I practiced my Spanish. I said, "Buscando un esposo nuevo, por favor! Un esposo Mexicano!" I think I said it right, for several of the natives responded quite favorably.

We saw some Federalis arresting some woman, or maybe just writing her a ticket or something, I don't know, but I noticed there is something much more sinister and intimidating about the Mexican police. American police are almost comical, with their goofy hats and their mailman uniforms. You see an American cop and you almost just wanna mess with him for fun. Not so the Federalis. In their helmets and riot gear, with their lean bodies and dark malevolent featuers, they do not invite any sort of monkey business or jokes at their expense. I took a picture of the two we saw, and Tim cautioned me, "They don't like it when you do that." He jerked his head in a frantic "follow me, come on, come on" gesture and grabbed my hand.

I ignored him and waited for the pirate policeman to arrest me. He came near, looking down from his intimidating height, his boots tapping on the sidewalk. His face was unreadable, his Latino features set firm in disapproval. With a gentle yet forceful hand on my chest, he backed me to the wall and leaned in close to whisper something in Spanish that I could not understand.

"Give me your hands," he said and I held them out weakly, unsure what I hoped he would do with them. My adrenaline rush made it hard to hear him or to focus my eyes on his sinister gaze. The blood beat steady in my ears. Taking my wrists together in one strong hand, he yanked my arms above my head, causing me to drop my camera.

"Hey!" I said, before being twirled smoothly around in an instant to find my face and chest against the wall, my hands now pinned behind my back. He leaned in against me, whispering again in Spanish, and shoved his knee betwwn my thighs. I felt him strong and hard against my ass and wondered if that was himself or his weapon I felt there.

Okay, okay, not really. I took the picture, Tim said "They don't like it when you do that." The police scowled at me, and we walked on.
Ah, but those policemen did appear later in my dreams, you bet. Tonight's towel sculpture was a monkey.