When I mention to people that I'm an editor, their first instinct is to choke, and to fidget, and to finally confess, "I hope you're not judging me. I never did well in high school English."
As if I would condemn those who scraped through English 30! Math 31 gave me a good dose of humility--nearly kicked the daylights out of me. I have nightmares of having failed to complete high school math (thereby destroying my entire career and worth as a human being). I can empathize with those who fear words, for I fear numbers. Even now, when I attempt to visualize basic addition in my mind, the numbers, mischievous imps, conspire against me by jumping around. [As a small grade schooler, I was shocked that I'd even be asked to, say, add three to ten. Three is a surly number, and ten is such an optimist: what sort of masochist would pair these two at all? No, leave three with five (who is fairly even-tempered and can handle three's mood swings), and they will mate to produce a healthy, spirited number eight.]
When it comes to grammar, the truth is that I'm not judging people. Though when I've edited too much, I tend to punctuate their sentences in my mind as they speak. It's a rather irritating quirk, much like my tendency to occasionally dream in fluent German (which I do not speak, but learned enough of in University to recognize fluency!), or to have every action I make in my dreams narrated.
Another assumption people pass when they discover that I edit is that the work is drudgery. Can grammar be riveting? Why, yes, certainly. I think so. However, what is truly fascinating in my line of work is the opportunity to work with those creatures called "authors." Even more intriguing are those who aspire to be authors.
I've edited all sorts of books written by all sorts of people--from a crime novel written by an inmate at the Kingston Penitentiary to a children's book written by an author in Oman. I've worked with tech-savvy professionals, and clever academics, and with one older gentleman who click-click-clacked out his entire novel on a typewriter, undoubtedly with two fingers. A surprising number of people say that they feel God has led them to me--that I am destined to edit their work. (In one case, God plumb forgot that I was nine months pregnant and bursting at the seams.)
I have appreciated all (or most) of these experiences, and I've decided to feature a few of my favourite authors in the weeks to come. So, if you like books, and if you'd like to know what it's actually like to work with those who write them, pull up a chair and read along. I'll never judge you.
July 25, 2015
July 22, 2015
The Ramblings of Our Subconscious Minds
My brother once told me of a friend who had a most eerie pursuit dream...
Chasing dreams (where the dreamer struggles to escape from a persistent foe) are nothing out of the ordinary. That said, I'm not convinced my chase dreams are, in fact, typical. Usually I'm being pursued in the mall and try as I might to fly through the skylight or automatic doors, I fail to find an exit. In another familiar sequence, I'm doing quite well outside a different mall entirely--until I encounter the electrical wires. Frantically, I flap my arms as I try to decide whether to cross over or under. These pesky electrical wires have ruined many a fine flight.
However, as my brother Brent told me with a mixture of awe and trepidation, his friend had a dream that occurred once every year, one that continued wherever it left off. Every year a new, brief episode. Every year a new cliff hanger. Every year the same series of uneasy questions: What is the significance of this dream? How is it possible that a dream sequence could unwind bit by bit? And what, pray tell, happens when I reach the end? Is it . . . gulp . . . the end?
Who knows what our minds are capable of. On one occasion, I found myself (in a dream) at the back door of my parents' house. Something was amiss; I was nearly knocked over with a sense of loss that permeated the darkness around me. Then my father came to me in a transparent form and said, "Your mother and I were just in a terrible car accident. I wanted to tell you and to say good bye."
I woke up with a sense of dread. My parents were traveling at the time, and I hoped this was not a premonition. But I shook off the uncomfortable feelings and went about my daily life routine. When I spoke with my father a day or two later, he casually mentioned how close he and my mother had come to being involved in a head-on highway collision.
I kind of knew that already, I thought. But I am not going to ponder this matter...no thank you.
While we're on the subject of dreams, one dream pattern I have is more irritating than eerie. Deep in sleep, I come to the awareness that I am, in fact, dreaming. It's a little like being caught in that catchy Queensryche tune (the "heavy metal" 90s band that ripped off Pink Floyd). This dream, however, is going nowhere fast: I can feel a nightmare approaching. So I decide to break free, to go through the struggle of propelling myself out of REM sleep and back into the safer confines of my bedroom. The process feels much like being a swimmer struggling to reach the surface. Unfortunately, though I am conscious that I am dreaming, I am unable grasp that the characters in my dream are not real and not in mortal danger. Their existence--if it can be called that--is dependent on my mind. And yet I apologize to them profusely, begging them to forgive me for abandoning them, for waking up when that option is unavailable to them.
Good grief, the stress.
Perhaps the worst dreams of all involve excessive housework. I will sometimes waste a perfectly good dream canvas by spending my time cleaning the brushes rather than actually painting. In other words, I'll have a lengthy dream in which I clean the house, or go through the mundane routines of self care needed to get ready for the day. Many times I will pack a suitcase to nowhere, ensuring that the correct items are tucked away. And then I wake up . . . and realize that I have not, in fact, packed, or cleaned, or showered. Then I go through the process a second time, feeling thoroughly cheated.
But alas, who is to blame? I can't really point a finger at my own subconscious mind, can I?
[Feel free, dear reader, to share your quirkier dream experiences.]
Chasing dreams (where the dreamer struggles to escape from a persistent foe) are nothing out of the ordinary. That said, I'm not convinced my chase dreams are, in fact, typical. Usually I'm being pursued in the mall and try as I might to fly through the skylight or automatic doors, I fail to find an exit. In another familiar sequence, I'm doing quite well outside a different mall entirely--until I encounter the electrical wires. Frantically, I flap my arms as I try to decide whether to cross over or under. These pesky electrical wires have ruined many a fine flight.
Who knows what our minds are capable of. On one occasion, I found myself (in a dream) at the back door of my parents' house. Something was amiss; I was nearly knocked over with a sense of loss that permeated the darkness around me. Then my father came to me in a transparent form and said, "Your mother and I were just in a terrible car accident. I wanted to tell you and to say good bye."
I woke up with a sense of dread. My parents were traveling at the time, and I hoped this was not a premonition. But I shook off the uncomfortable feelings and went about my daily life routine. When I spoke with my father a day or two later, he casually mentioned how close he and my mother had come to being involved in a head-on highway collision.
I kind of knew that already, I thought. But I am not going to ponder this matter...no thank you.
While we're on the subject of dreams, one dream pattern I have is more irritating than eerie. Deep in sleep, I come to the awareness that I am, in fact, dreaming. It's a little like being caught in that catchy Queensryche tune (the "heavy metal" 90s band that ripped off Pink Floyd). This dream, however, is going nowhere fast: I can feel a nightmare approaching. So I decide to break free, to go through the struggle of propelling myself out of REM sleep and back into the safer confines of my bedroom. The process feels much like being a swimmer struggling to reach the surface. Unfortunately, though I am conscious that I am dreaming, I am unable grasp that the characters in my dream are not real and not in mortal danger. Their existence--if it can be called that--is dependent on my mind. And yet I apologize to them profusely, begging them to forgive me for abandoning them, for waking up when that option is unavailable to them.
Good grief, the stress.
Perhaps the worst dreams of all involve excessive housework. I will sometimes waste a perfectly good dream canvas by spending my time cleaning the brushes rather than actually painting. In other words, I'll have a lengthy dream in which I clean the house, or go through the mundane routines of self care needed to get ready for the day. Many times I will pack a suitcase to nowhere, ensuring that the correct items are tucked away. And then I wake up . . . and realize that I have not, in fact, packed, or cleaned, or showered. Then I go through the process a second time, feeling thoroughly cheated.
But alas, who is to blame? I can't really point a finger at my own subconscious mind, can I?
[Feel free, dear reader, to share your quirkier dream experiences.]
July 20, 2015
A Tribute to Dirt in Unexpected Places
We are not an especially tidy family. It's difficult maintaining a spotless home when small children and even smaller pets move about at will. Our mantises and frogs and perpetually pregnant guppy and rabbits and guinea pig and budgies all work together to give our home a cheery albeit somewhat disorganized feel.
I am baffled by those women who, in the midst of birthing infants and rearing toddlers and managing the complex lives of grade schoolers, have pristine floors and sorted toy bins in cheery colours. My hairdresser, God bless her, washes her floors on a daily basis, so fearful is she of a speck of dirt. I can't imagine running such a tight ship. And I'm sure she'd find my decision to allow my daughter to bring a dozen isopods into the house at a time for the purpose of feeding a frog incomprehensible. (Personally, I find those dear little wood lice a pleasant addition to the family and gently pick them up whenever I discover an escapee.)
Indeed, I feel much more secure around mothers whose sippy cups runneth over and whose laundry is frozen in various stages of sorting. I feel especially good around those women who simply dump all of their unsorted clothing into baskets from which their children must draw their daily outfits. I love the mother of three who admitted that, whenever she cleans, she must put up with her daughter's puzzled questions. "Who's coming over, Mommy?" her daughter will inevitably say. "You're tidying up."
I recently discovered that my eldest daughter was conducting yet another set of science experiments (unbeknownst to me). In the past D. has made balls from toilet paper she has painstakingly coloured with markers and then soaked. She has made concoctions from berries and leaves and dirt and flour stolen from the kitchen, sweetening the mess by adding sticky hard candy, the remnants of Halloween. Like any good absent-minded inventor, she moves on to the next question, the next project, leaving me with a puzzling collection of bacteria to discover under the bed. Her latest idea was to clean rainwater by using a pot of dirt (of all things) as a filter, followed by rocks, and then paper. D. conducted her experiment in the bathroom, and I'll admit I nearly lost my temper upon encountering a random and seemingly pointless mess.
Fortunately, she was able to explain this project to me, and to beg me to take her to a thrift store so that she could purchase her very own funnel. Her bright enthusiasm warmed my heart. I thought back to my own childhood. My mother, for brief window of time, attempted to put the household in order--to raise children who would put things in their places. Fortunately for me, she quickly realized that she was raising a family of inventors, and dabblers, and hobbyists, and avid animal collectors, and messy painters of enormous canvases, and she decided that living was more important than cleaning. And so we children discovered our worlds, and ourselves, within a happy and disorderly environment.
So, while I strive to keep the frog in its enclosure, and the piles of dirt in the outside world, I savour these moments with children who invent, and discover, and misplace, and forget, and grow bigger all the while.
I am baffled by those women who, in the midst of birthing infants and rearing toddlers and managing the complex lives of grade schoolers, have pristine floors and sorted toy bins in cheery colours. My hairdresser, God bless her, washes her floors on a daily basis, so fearful is she of a speck of dirt. I can't imagine running such a tight ship. And I'm sure she'd find my decision to allow my daughter to bring a dozen isopods into the house at a time for the purpose of feeding a frog incomprehensible. (Personally, I find those dear little wood lice a pleasant addition to the family and gently pick them up whenever I discover an escapee.)
Indeed, I feel much more secure around mothers whose sippy cups runneth over and whose laundry is frozen in various stages of sorting. I feel especially good around those women who simply dump all of their unsorted clothing into baskets from which their children must draw their daily outfits. I love the mother of three who admitted that, whenever she cleans, she must put up with her daughter's puzzled questions. "Who's coming over, Mommy?" her daughter will inevitably say. "You're tidying up."
I recently discovered that my eldest daughter was conducting yet another set of science experiments (unbeknownst to me). In the past D. has made balls from toilet paper she has painstakingly coloured with markers and then soaked. She has made concoctions from berries and leaves and dirt and flour stolen from the kitchen, sweetening the mess by adding sticky hard candy, the remnants of Halloween. Like any good absent-minded inventor, she moves on to the next question, the next project, leaving me with a puzzling collection of bacteria to discover under the bed. Her latest idea was to clean rainwater by using a pot of dirt (of all things) as a filter, followed by rocks, and then paper. D. conducted her experiment in the bathroom, and I'll admit I nearly lost my temper upon encountering a random and seemingly pointless mess.
Fortunately, she was able to explain this project to me, and to beg me to take her to a thrift store so that she could purchase her very own funnel. Her bright enthusiasm warmed my heart. I thought back to my own childhood. My mother, for brief window of time, attempted to put the household in order--to raise children who would put things in their places. Fortunately for me, she quickly realized that she was raising a family of inventors, and dabblers, and hobbyists, and avid animal collectors, and messy painters of enormous canvases, and she decided that living was more important than cleaning. And so we children discovered our worlds, and ourselves, within a happy and disorderly environment.
So, while I strive to keep the frog in its enclosure, and the piles of dirt in the outside world, I savour these moments with children who invent, and discover, and misplace, and forget, and grow bigger all the while.
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