People, the thing about being one’s own editor and proofreader is that IT NEVER STOPS. There’s no one to please at this point but me, and I am never completely satisfied. Almost 60,000 words, much of it dialogue, and the chances for punctuation errors are endless. I made the mistake of mentioning this bit of stress to Mark the other night, and he said something like, “Just catch all the big mistakes. No one cares.”
So then there was a delay for shallow-grave digging.
I will miss him.
Anyway … I am happy to report that I am done.
Fightball: Dying of Suck is ready to go.
Except for the print-version cover, which I have to design this weekend. Photoshop is the devil, people. Sigh.
Kallan peers over my shoulder as I stare at the finished manuscript on my screen. “How many people bought your first book, Hope Lies in Less?”
(OK, she didn’t actually mention Hope Lies in Less by name … work with me.)
I supply a number, and she turns her head to stare into my eyes, her eyes so close to mine that our eyelashes touch, which I HATE, and she says, “You are perhaps crazily unsuccessful as an author.”
I shove her out of my eyeballs. “Whatever. People like funny. This one might sell better.”
She twirls away from me. “For some reason, I imagined Fightball was going to make me famous. Good to know I won’t have to make that adjustment.”
“Seriously, though … I hope it sells more copies than Hope Lies in Less.”
(Again, she didn’t actually mention Hope Lies in Less by name.)
I assure her, “Well, I don’t imagine you are going to be famous, but you may end up being mildly locally well-known for a short period of time.”
She laughs and twirls some more. “When I am grown-up and actually FAMOUS, I am going to share the charming story of my mother the struggling author and how she promised me that I would one day be mildly locally well-known for a short period of time.”
“I am not struggling,” I protest.
She leans over my shoulder again and points into the screen. “Shouldn’t there be a comma there?”