Working for/on the Weekend

Over the past few weeks, I've been working on editing a couple of things for the freelance side of my job. I do this fairly often (since my base pay is kind of bare minimum, it's how I afford to do fancy things like put gas in my car and buy new socks), and I usually get a good mix of manuscripts to work on.

I've worked on a lot of fiction (my favorite, I'll admit), as well as some political rants (from multiple sides of the aisles), some religious essays (and some religious tirades), and a bunch of memoirs. I guess that's what you get when you're working in self-publishing. Everyone is writing whatever stories they need to tell, and the strange and/or unsaleable isn't really weeded out along the way.

Some things I've edited have really not needed an editor (I've read a few things where - frankly - I only made one or two comments per chapter), and some have been really really bad. Things where the document wasn't even spell-checked. Or where the full "documentation" was something like "Wikipedia." Or one piece of fiction where the hero miraculously ran a mile across rain-slicked grass in a massive storm in the middle of the night, all with his hands in his pockets. And don't even get me started on the piece where one "journal entry" started in 1985 and ended 50 pages later in 1992...

But in each piece I've tried to find some glimmer of hope. Some spark to hold on to. The fact that Wikipedia guy had strong convictions. Or that the hero - with just a few keystrokes - was able to check his pocket for his keys, then take his hand back out to catch himself before he fell. Or that the journal entry (though in need of a major slice-and-dice) was filled with great details.

And then there came the past two things I've worked on.

One detailed the death, by drug overdose, of the author's child. It could have been a really moving story, had it not been written - and sent for publication - all within 8 months of the time the child died. So much anger and frustration and blame floating around in the manuscript. I wanted to sit the author down and say "Stop. Wait. Listen to what you're saying." But I know that other people in the office have already tried that, so I did my best to soften the edges of that book and sent it on its way desperately trying not to let it depress me - either for the subject matter or the serious damage done to the English language.

The piece I've been working on this weekend is a memoir of the author's parent's life, which was filled with love, abuse, alcohol, and - eventually - murder. About 1/4 of the book details the abusive relationship. About 1/2 of the book details the murder investigation and trial. About 9/10 of it is depressing, even though the author clearly means it to be a cautionary tale for others in the same position.

I feel pretty bad for Christopher when I'm working on things like this. They're so depressing to me, and I have to both read them for content while also paying close enough attention to make sure that they're all correct on the page. No skimming allowed. So I find myself barricaded in the basement for hours trying to get through these things and desperately looking forward to getting out the other side. (And then, ironically, in a month or so, I'll probably be writing some winning sales copy for the back covers in the hopes that the books will sell...)

From time-to-time on days like today I come upstairs and watch total fluff on TV, hug Christopher, scratch the pup, and hope that the next manuscript will be lighter.

Christopher uses times like this to remind me that it's extra money.

I use times like this to remind myself that my life is pretty darned good - especially since I have Christopher around to remind me of, well, anything.