Say I’m neither brave nor young,
Say I woo and coddle care,
Say the devil touched my tounge -
Still you have my heart to wear.

But say my verses do not scan,
And I’ll get me another man!

–Dorothy Parker

Authors shouldn’t respond to reviews. That’s fine. Most of us don’t. We understand that reviews are for readers, not for writers. I don’t even like the “they can be helpful/constructive” because no, they really aren’t constructive, and they don’t help me, and more to the point, they don’t have to be. There is absolutely no reason in the world why a reader should have to remember a writer’s “feelings” when writing a review. There is absolutely no reason in the world why a reader shouldn’t say whatever they like about a book. It’s totally allowed.

But more to the point…who allows it? Nobody. There have been writers out there who’ve been shitty about “amateur” reviewers, and gone around huffing and puffing that they shouldn’t be listened to, or that no one should be allowed to write negative reviews ever, or whatever other self-entitled silliness. Funnily enough, last time I checked that didn’t actually stop anyone from blogging their opinion of a book, or from reading that blogged opinion and giving it whatever consequence the reader chose. Last time I checked, no gang of writers in a black windowless van started making the rounds of reviewers’ homes, grabbing them off the street and releasing them, naked, in a public park several miles away after telling them they won’t be writing any more reviews if they know what’s good for them, dig?

Last time I checked, a reader did not need a writer’s permission to read whatever they liked, and to say about it whatever they liked. So why the idea has come about that writers can or somehow are trying to “censor” readers, I don’t know. Where the idea came that the opinion of writers on that subject matters worth a fidder’s damn, I don’t know either.

Readers can say whatever they want.

Writers cannot.

I accept that. As I’ve said before, I knew that getting into this. I knew there were a lot of subjects I could no longer be myself on. Frankly, it’s a privilege to be in that position, and I’m grateful for it. Of course, I foolishly believed that standing up for readers every time the situation arose would mean people would remember that later; I foolishly believed that going out of my way for people, that being a good person, would mean something, but that’s neither here nor there.

The point is, I totally understand, accept, and whole-heartedly approve of the idea of writers staying away from reader reviews, and keeping their mouths shut regarding opinions of them. Fine. Just as I don’t have any overwhelming need to review books on my blog, nor do I have an overwhelming need to blog about readers and their reviews. I mention them, yes, because as I’ve said before, when a reader shows appreciation for my work I like to repay that; they work hard on their reviews. I want to give them credit for that work and let them know how much I value it, and them. Some of them–most of them–are damn good writers, and it makes me proud to have such smart and awesome people recommend my work. I won’t stop doing that, either, because my readers are important to me.

But the only real thing I’ve ever said on the subject is that readers can say whatever they want. Then I said readers who review and wish to become writers–who review as part of their aspiring writer persona–might want to be aware that they could find some writers who aren’t really eager to do them favors if they’d been negatively reviewed in the past. Funnily enough, last time I checked a favor was just that: a favor, something people are under zero obligation to do for someone else, and can turn down for any arbitrary reason. “I don’t feel like getting my lazy ass off the couch” is an acceptable excuse to refuse a favor, frankly, so I’m not sure how this is different. Favors aren’t obligations.

And for a long time things have been pretty smooth. But now? Now I’m finding that not only is it not okay for me to respond to reviews publicly, not only is it not okay to respond to them privately, but I’m not even allowed to have feelings about them.

Sure enough, the “My books aren’t me and they’re totally separate from me and I’m so professional and detached that I don’t care what people say” crowd leaps in to prove how much more professional they are than those of us who admit negative reviews can be hurtful or sad or disappointing, as if they’re far better than us pussybaby freaks with an emotional attachment to our work. That their work isn’t them, and they are totally detached from it, as if it was something they spat into the sink, because they’re True Professionals.

Sorry, but no.

I fully accept that not everyone is going to love my books or even like them. I know that. I can take it. I knew going into this business that there would be people who don’t like it. I’m happy to stand back and not engage. I don’t let them have their say–it’s not up to me–but I’m glad they have it. More power to them. I have never once tried to quiet another person or keep them from expressing their opinion.

What I will not stand for is the idea that not only can I not reply, not only can I not reply privately, but it’s not even okay for me to feel something about a review. Even feeling privately hurt or upset or down is now wrong and unprofessional. And fuck that.

My books are not my babies. I have babies. I have books. They’re different. But you bet your ass my books are part of me. Every word on every page came from me. Every word on every page matters to me.

Now it’s not supposed to.

Or at least, it’s not supposed to if I write genre fiction. I’ve found a few articles/discussions about literary fiction writers who made the Mistake; funnily enough, no one writing those articles or commenting on them implied that it was wrong of the writer to even feel bad about the review. It was understood that their work was important to them, that they would care about the response it gets, that they would have opinions on those responses. No other literary fiction authors jumped in to say how ridiculous they were for wanting people to like their books, or for feeling kinda bad when they didn’t. It would never occur to most people that those writers aren’t supposed to be personally invested in their work. (For that matter, it would never occur to most people that anyone isn’t supposed to be personally invested in their work. I worked at a Dairy Queen once in high school; I made the best damn Strawberry Shortcakes and Peanutbuster Parfaits you ever saw. My Dairy Queen curl was always perfect. Why? Because I cared. Because I liked the satisfaction of knowing I’d put something of myself into my work, to give someone else the best possible experience.)

And I ask you to show me someone whose boss told them their work wasn’t good enough, wasn’t acceptable, who didn’t feel the slightest twinge of sadness or pain because of that. It’s expected that people will be a bit hurt. It’s expected that they react professionally; no screaming “Shut up, asshole!” It’s expected that they not take it hugely personally and freak out, or be inconsolable for months, or tell that person they’re obviously morons, but it’s expected that it might be a bit hurtful.

But it seems that over the last few years, and of course especially the last couple of weeks, there’s this attitude–sometimes spoken, sometimes implied–of “It’s not like your work is important. You only write genre fiction, you know. It’s not important, what you do. You only churn out a product. So shut up about your feelings.”

You know what? I think that’s utter bullshit. I think if you can detach from your books that completely, maybe you’re not really putting enough of yourself into that book.

My books are not a churned-out product. My books are not a fucking TPS report that’ll go in the shredder as soon as the boss gets a glance at the numbers. My books are not a paint-by-numbers picture of a unicorn that anyone can put together.

My books are mine. My books are me. I’m in there. I’m in every word and every page and every character. Megan? Me. Chess? Especially me. My past. My outlook. My dreams. My thoughts on the world and people in general. My books are what they are because I make them that way. They come from my conscious mind; they come from my subconscious. They speak to parts of me I’m familiar with and parts I don’t know exist.

In other words, my books are me stripped bare. My heart and soul is on every page of every book. They are part of me.

Why? Because I think I owe it to you. Because you as a reader want something, and I want to give it to you. You want a book that will make you think and feel; that is what I want to give you. And how the fuck can I expect to make you feel, really feel, if I’m not feeling when I write it? How can I expect you to have an emotional reaction to my work when for me it’s just another fucking day at the office, whatever, toss out some words and who cares what they are because as soon as the book is finished I’ll emotionally disavow it anyway?

My books are not written according to some formula. My books are not thrown together with a “That’s good enough for the likes of them” sort of casualness, for me to dust off my hands when they’re done. My blood, my sweat, my tears, my pain, my joy, my thoughts, my feelings, go into every goddamn page. My books matter to me. They are important to me.

Yes, my books are genre fiction. So what? Does that mean they can’t be meaningful? Does that mean I have to shrug them off when they’re done, like they’re just some widget I built on an assembly line? Does that mean I’m not trying to say something big with them, that they don’t have a theme that’s important to me, that they aren’t a plea for change or a light being shone on something negative or anything else?

Some writers think we all should be able to completely detach from the book and not care if people like it at all, have it not effect them emotionally in any way. Well, just as they obviously think something is wrong with me and I’m unprofessional for caring if people like my work, I frankly think their work can’t be that damn good or meaningful if they’re so easily able to wash their hands of it and not care about how people take it. When I pour my heart into something I don’t just walk away when it’s done. When I really connect to something and it really matters to me, I don’t just shrug it off when it’s finished and forget it ever mattered. And I think it’s bullshit that I should be expected to. Fuck that.

Yes, it’s just genre fiction. Yes, of course there will always be people who don’t connect with certain books or characters. We all know that; it’s a given, and it’s fine. But don’t you dare tell me that because I just write genre fiction I’m not allowed to care about my books, and the only professional way to write genre fiction is to view it as some sort of toenail clipping, something that came from me but to which I have no attachment whatsoever.

My work matters to me. My work is part of me. I put everything I have and everything I can into my work.

Quite frankly, if I don’t feel deeply when I’m writing it, if I don’t dig deep and push myself and expose everything I can…how the hell can I expect readers to feel something when they read it?

They deserve everything I can give them. And I deserve to not be ridiculed for caring about my work in the privacy of my own home. Because I will never stop caring about my work, and I will never stop trying to make it the best it can be.

An endnote. This will be my last post on writing/writerly topics. I’m tired of it and I’m done. It’s not worth it to me. Yes, I know the people who read and enjoy my books are smart enough to know what I’m actually saying and not what some alarmist claims I’m saying. Yes, I know those who read this and haven’t read my work but know what I’m actually saying are just the sorts of people who probably will like my work. But giving time and energy and feelings to shit like this takes away from what I should be giving time and energy and especially feelings to, and that is my books. (This isn’t just related to stuff on the blog; you AW members may have a good idea of some other things that have contributed to it.) So I’m making some changes here on the blog, and that’s one of them. I will probably be blogging more often, but shorter posts, and I will no longer be commenting on things happening in the online writing world. I don’t want to be part of it anymore; I haven’t wanted to for a long time, actually. I’m happy to let other people have their opinions on things and rarely feel the need to challenge them; the same courtesy is not usually extended to me, and the way to avoid it is simply to stop posting opinionated things, and that’s what I’m doing.

I will always be open for suggestions on topics, and I will always be happy to answer questions here on the blog; I’d like to do that regularly, actually, so I encourage you all to ask away.

It’s funny how the internet has really become such a go-to place for information. I mean, it’s not funny ha-ha, but funny in that as little as fifteen years ago, nobody really even knew what an internet was. I remember my ex telling me about how somebody showed him this really cool site online called Ebay, where you could actually buy all sorts of stuff from all over the world, and you might get it really cheap!

Anyway. The things that make the internet so great–accessibility,* information, multiple viewpoints, etc. etc.–are the things that make it so dangerous. We all know the stories about women or young girls who’ve gone to meet an internet boyfriend and ended up murdered or raped. We all know about internet stalkers and all of that stuff.

But there’s another danger on the internet, one that’s a bit more…sly. And granted, it’s a lot less dangerous, in that you won’t be raped or murdered. You’ll be robbed, sure, but it’s kind of willingly, so there you go.

Here’s the problem. Anybody can be an expert online. Anybody. All you have to do is call yourself an expert, and people will believe that you’re an expert. This is how writers fall for PublishAmerica’s scam all the time; PA claims it’s a big publisher, look at our happy authors, we publish lots of books, we don’t want your money! So they submit their books (and PA will famously accept anything) and then discover that no, actually, PA does want their money very badly, and will do just about anything to get it (and treat the writers like shit along the way; they don’t even get a reach-around). Why do PA authors fall for it? Because PA has a big website, and pats themselves on the back, and because these writers don’t think to do the single most important thing they could do for research: Go to the bookstore and see if any of that publisher’s books are on the shelves.

This is something I see a lot. I’m sure it’s prevalent in all industries, but of course I see it in the writing community because that’s the one I’m part of and the one I pay attention to. I see all kinds of people shilling their “How to Get Published” guidebooks and classes, their conferences and workshops, their critiques and edits. All for a fee, of course. Often for a pretty high fee.

I saw one recently that surprised me a bit in its scope. I’m not going to name names or post links here, because I don’t really feel like dealing with angry sockpuppets at the moment, and this particular group of people is famous for both the number and the viciousness of their sockpuppets. Let’s call them Group A.

So group A is run by Joe B (his name isn’t really Joe & he may actually be female). Joe B started an online zine for stories in the genre he writes. He’s written a few shorts himself, and “sold” them to magazines which don’t actually pay money. He wrote a novel and “sold” it to a nonprofit publisher with no distribution (that means no books in bookstores) who requires writers to enter a fee-charging contest in order to submit. It’s a solid little press; I don’t mean to put it down. But the fact remains that Joe B has never made a commercial sale (that means selling to a commercial house, i.e. one of the Big Five in NY, or a successful epublisher).

So Joe B decides to run some conferences based on how to get published, and says he’ll teach new writers how to do that. He puts up ads and, more importantly, send out his sock-puppet army to start visiting writers’ sites and start blogs discussing his conference and how valuable and worthwhile it is, and how very well-connected Joe B is in the publishing industry.

Joe B himself has a website for his conference. The conference site links to several blogs with comments like “Writers On Top confirms we run the best conference in town!” That sounds great, until you look at the fine print on Writers On Top and realize that of its four or five authors, one of them is Joe B, and the others are people who work on his online zine as well. In fact, the more you look around, the more you realize that almost every website that talks up Joe B’s conference is written by someone connected to Joe B. You see posts in all kinds of writers’ forums about how great the con was, but all of those saying it seem to be sockpuppet drive-bys; a single post, and that’s it. You notice that when someone posts a negative experience or any questions, they get personally attacked by a little gang of sockpuppets defending Joe B.

All of which is fascinating, yes, and speaks volumes about the professionalism of Joe B and his little ship of fools. And I’m sure anyone reading this can see that Joe B isn’t someone to whose advice they should listen, because my blog readers are so clever and wonderful and smell like a meadow and all of that. But a random new aspiring writer? Not so much, because Joe B is very, very careful to list, for example, his webzine, the little group he’s set up to help run the webzine, and all of those non-paying magazines he’s given his work to, and his novel, and it sounds pretty impressive when you read it. And, really, it is. It’s perfectly fine. Obviously Joe B is passionate about writing, and what he does. Obviously it matters to him. Obviously he wants to help.

But what help can Joe B really provide? That’s where the problem comes in, because, see, for all of the experience he’s gathered in self-publishing and hanging out with the lower tiers of the magazine world, Joe B has not a single minute of commercial publishing experience. Joe B has never written a novel which was represented by an agent or bought by an editor at a commercial publisher. Joe B has never sold a short story to a professional market. Joe B may be a great writer, sure. Joe B may be very talented. Joe B may enjoy doing his own thing and not be interested in moving to the commercial publishing world, and that’s fine.

Or at least, it would be fine, if Joe B didn’t insist on charging money–a not inconsiderable sum of money–to “teach” new writers how to write a book that will sell to a commercial publisher, how to create a marketable idea, how to query, all of that. (Notice that actual writing isn’t part of Joe B’s syllabus. Note also that without good writing, none of that other stuff is worth a doohicky damn; not that it really is anyway, very much, but still.)

Why do people pay all this money to take Joe’s class or attend his conference? Well, because Joe B calls himself an expert. And it’s easy to look at him and think that must be the case. He sounds impressive, after all. It’s only when you start really looking and thinking about it that you realize Joe B is claiming to be an expert in doing something he himself has been unable to do. Joe B is going to tell you how to create a concept/plot that will sell to a commercial house, when Joe B has not himself ever accomplished that himself. Joe B is going to tell you how to get an agent when he himself has never been successful in securing his own representation.

Likewise, there are tons of “experts”–often they call themselves “marketing experts,” and as a kicker they add “Bestselling Author,” which means they had ten friends buy their book off Amazon at the same time so they could shoot to the top of the bestseller list in their niche category–who claim that everybody’s publishing career started with vanity presses, or that they know the Inside Secrets or can do some special service for you by getting you an agent or publisher or whatever. (Oh, and we do all know how useless the Amazon bestseller thing in a niche is, right? My Strumpet series is almost always in the top ten for its particular little categories: romance writing guides, authorship, etc. It’s nice to see it there, and it’s nice to see it has reviews, but believe me, it’s not selling at levels we think of when we think bestseller.)

These “experts” rely on the fact that new writers–they’re almost always looking for new writers, unpublished writers, first-time writers–don’t understand how the industry actually works and won’t know how to check up on them. A lot of them are “Marketing” experts in that they’ve created dozens of websites celebrating themselves and have them aggregated all over the web, so when you Google them you get thousands upon thousands of hit referring to them as “Bestselling authors,” and you start to believe it must be true.

Anybody can call themselves a bestselling author. I could call myself a bestselling author in, let’s see…I’m the best-selling author in my house. I’m the best-selling author of books about junkie witches. I was the best-selling author at my local B&N when two of my friends bought my books one after the other. It’s all bullshit, and quite frankly, when I see someone calling themselves “Bestselling Author,” unless it says “USA Today,” “New York Times,” or “Nationally” before it, I ignore it (“Nationally Bestselling” usually means the author hit one of the aforementioned lists, but the long list. Like if you write a book that ends up on the NYT “extended,” let’s say at #33, you can’t call yourself a NYT bestseller but you can call yourself a bestseller. See?). I know it sounds cruel, but “Bestselling Author” on the website of someone who’s never been near one of those lists says to me that the writer doesn’t understand how “Bestselling” actually works; it’s puffery, and it’s silly. I’ve been a bestseller at several places online; while it’s nice, it doesn’t mean anything at all.

I’m rambling a bit now, but here’s my point: Before you pay an “expert” a dime, make sure they actually have some experience in what they’re talking about.

If Joe B were doing conventions where he taught about starting webzines I’d say go for it! I’d totally believe he’s an expert in that, or pretty darn close to it. If he stayed to what he actually knows I wouldn’t give him another thought. But he’s not. Lots of these self-proclaimed experts don’t. They’re clever, and they’re sly, and they want your money. Don’t give it to them. Remember to research anyone you see who’s claiming to be an expert, and remember to be skeptical until proven otherwise.

It’s the internet, and anyone can claim to be something they’re not. People lie. Credentials don’t. Make sure you check them well, and check them from multiple sources.

* Accessibility for most people, anyway; some people can’t afford it, and that bothers me n several levels.

So what I’m going to do today, anyway, is discuss copyedits. (This is a long, image-heavy post, FYI.)

After edits are complete–often several rounds, including line edits–the ms is printed, and the printout heads to a mysterious, homicidal, troll-like basement-dweller* known as a copyeditor. I always picture them chained to a floor, wearing rags and snarling over desks held together by Duct tape and rage. The copyeditor’s job is to inspect each and every word with a magnifying glass, using at least one grammar reference book, nitpick the hell out of your ms. with the Pencil of Doom, and examine everything with “What if I were a totally stupid person?” and ask questions thusly.*** (For more on this, check out my series from August about the publishing process: How Babies are Made parts one and two.) People often think copyeditors use a red pen; nope. They use a pencil, not always red, and you have to respond in pencil, too. But not a #2 pencil. A colored pencil. As a result, I have colored pencils and artgum erasers all over the place. I digress.

The copyeditor focuses their nasty little eyes on the pages, and starts marking it up with odd and obscure lines and squiggles–some of which I suspect are made up just to fuck with writers–while giggling maniacally.**** They’d rub their hands together if they weren’t so busy drawing bizarre alchemical symbols on the ms.**** Once they’ve sufficiently scribbled all over the book, they send it to the editor, who sends it to the writer.

So. Here are some of my actual copyedited pages. These are from UNHOLY MAGIC (which, as you’ll see on the first page, was originally titled DOWNSIDE GHOSTS. Then we decided to find a new title, and they started calling the series that, but there you go). This is the ms that was sent to me, that I went through page-by-page, printed from my original file–the one I emailed my editor and she approved (I write my books in 12-pt. Dark Courier, so that’s what you’ll see; they don’t even change my font). The copyeditor fixes any minor grammar issues I may have, clarifies things, suggests minor changes,points out factual errors or mistakes, stuff like that.

I had the hubs scan these and send them to me as jpegs, so if you click them twice they’ll go full-size and be very easy to read. You’ll be better able to see them that way, and I’ve added comments to each one to explain what everything is. Sorry, but there are so many images I really need to keep them smaller. I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience.

Title page (my explanatory comments are in blue, and any explanations of my responses are in red):

So there you see the lines for capitalization, and just how those title pages are laid out. There’s a page for the “Other titles by,” too, and a copyright page–even that is copyedited, yes–and dedications & acknowledgments pages.

Then there’s the ms.

Now. Just as in “regular” edits, you are not obligated to accept every change. If you don’t want to accept the change, you write STET in the margin. Very rarely are comments made IN the ms. Here the CE uses a blue pencil, and mine is green. The checkmarks were made after the fact, presumably as the person entering them finished each one (I’ve cropped this one, and most of the others will be cropped from here on):

Sometimes the CE points out logical errors, or asks for clarifications:

(Since I mention how italics are underlined in that one, let’s discuss that for a second. For a long time the advice to writers was “Underline anything that should be in italics.” Now, since everything is done digitally, I don’t think it’s such a big deal. I know a lot of people still do it, though, and some people still tell you it’s what you should do. I asked my editor about it, if I should start using underlines instead, but she told me it didn’t matter and italics are fine. So that’s my editor’s opinion, anyway, and I don’t worry about it anymore.)

Here’s a page with lots of questions–I’ll do it as two cropped images. Some changes I okay, some I don’t, some questions are just answered, and in the first one I suggest a line that may go into the final ms and may not; I’m happy to leave that up to my editor (who’ll look over these herself) and she can decide which she prefers:

And here are some wording suggestions, and some clarifications (like that Terrible doesn’t wipe his nose, because that’s just not the sort of thing I want to write. Heroes don’t need to wipe their noses):

A clarification that requires me to add more than just a word or two, and an overused word:

Sometimes I catch an error or issue in the course of re-reading, too. Usually the CE is done a few months after the initial edits have been finished, so it’s like reading with fresh eyes. I do a little detail fact-checking during CEs, too:

Of course, the CE also does make changes, and it’s the writer’s job to approve or disapprove–STET–them. Remember, the ms is ultimately the writer’s, and the writer should have approval on everything. You don’t have to accept changes you don’t want. Here I okay a change:

And here I don’t, with explanation. This part, I feel, is a voice issue, and I don’t like anything that interferes with my voice, or with the way the sentences flow:

This one is the same:

This last one is just kind of for fun, to show you how the epigrams work. There’s also a couple of wording suggestions, one of which is one of those forehead-smack kinds of things which made me laugh; the kind of thing that makes edits so much fun. I actually enjoy copyedits. It’s page proofs I hate; we’ll do those Wednesday.

I’m sure I could do the chapter heads above the epigrams, but I don’t, because…well, just because, really. As I’ve mentioned before, the epigrams come last; FOUR (which will hopefully have a title this week!) doesn’t have them at all yet, because I add them after edits so they reflect the chapter in some way. They don’t always do it really obviously, but anyway. (Also, in CITY OF GHOSTS there’s a Poltergeist reference in an epigram: the apartment complex in which Erik Van Helm rents his place is called “Cuesta Verde,” which is the name of the subdivision in that movie. I don’t know if anyone’s gotten that one; I know a couple picked up on the Ghostbusters joke/homage with “Tobin’s Spirit Guide.”)

So. Those are copyedits. As I said above, I enjoy them, for several reasons: One, I just enjoy editing in general, because polishing the ms and making it all shiny-clean and perfect makes me happy. Two, because it makes me really realize this is an actual book, and look at all those pages I filled with words! And most importantly, Three, because again as I mentioned, by the time copyedits come I haven’t read the ms in a while. I’m separated from it; I don’t remember it very well. And since I usually dislike my books when they’re done (they’re never as good on the page as they are in my head) I am–not to sound egotistical–always really surprised and pleased to see how good they actually are. All those lines I forgot I wrote that I really like, all the little clues and subtle emotions and stuff that I like slipping in there…it’s fun to read the books as if they’re not actually mine, written by me. Copyedits are where I really become fond of the books, and they’re really the only chance I get to read the book with fresh eyes. (They’re not totally fresh, no, but again it’s the closest I can get to that.)

Some houses do electronic copyedits. I know I had one of those at Ellora’s Cave, but edits and formatting work a bit differently there. I’ve never seen electronic copyedits aside from that, so have no experience with them.

But copyedits are fun (unless you get a bad one, which does occasionally happen to people) and I enjoy them. And they’re very thorough; I see vanity presses claiming that “editors don’t edit anymore” in a bid to get people to pay them for their garage-bound books, and every time I see that I want to grab a sheaf of copyedited pages that wave it in front of them, shouting “Oh yeah? Well what about this, huh? WHAT ABOUT THIS?!”

On the other side of the spectrum are the people who claim they “don’t need to know spelling or grammar, because that’s an editor’s job.” How lazy can you get, really. And sorry, but a ms filled with typos and bad grammar will never get to the copyediting stage, because it’ll be rejected. You’ll notice that in those pages above, I think there was maybe one typo? Of course there are a couple throughout any manuscript, but I frankly pride myself on turning in a book as error-free as possible, and on having my final published book be the same.

And honestly? I kind of think that any writer should; it should be our goal, because we should care about words, what they mean and how they’re used. We should know how to avoid run-on sentences and tense errors. We should know that it’s “grin and bear it” not “grin and bare it,” “bated breath” instead of “baited,” “lose” not “loose,” and “for all intents and purposes” not “for all intensive purposes.” (And any number of other errors like that; they make we want to hit someone, really, I hate them that much.) Those mistaken phrases, btw, are called mondegreens, or more specifically eggcorns, apparently. I had no idea they actually had a name!

And more than knowing, we should care. We should care about words and language. We should care when people get stuff like that wrong; not to the point of being a jerk and correcting them all over the place, but it should annoy us, because words should matter to us. (My favorite these days are the people who insist the word “puritanical” is being used wrong when it refers to someone who’s very uptight/anti-drinking/sex/drugs, because the Puritans were actually rather ribald. They may well have been, but “puritanical” is an actual word [first known use was over 400 years ago], and as such it has a dictionary definition, and that definition is: very strict in moral or religious matters, often excessively so; rigidly austere. / strict in moral or religious outlook, esp in shunning sensual pleasures. / Exaggeratedly proper / Being prim or prudish / being austere, ascetic or straitlaced. Yes, the second definition of “puritanical” is “of or relating to Puritans,” but that absolutely doesn’t mean the first is invalid. So quit being so smug and snide about it because you mistakenly think it makes you look smart and impressive and logical. It doesn’t. It makes you look like a moron who doesn’t know what a dictionary is.)

Anyway, enough of that rant. The point is, copyedits don’t get you off the hook of learning how to communicate properly in writing, and a writer should be abhorred at the very idea, as far as I’m concerned. That’s our job. Communicating through the written word–using those words to express just what we need them to express, playing with them–is our job. Laziness or some kind of cavalier “just throw any damn word in there, whatever” sort of attitude doesn’t belong in our work, and it pisses me off just thinking about people who think it does. Almost as much as people who want to be writers (because they think it’s glamorous and lucrative, I guess) but who–either admittedly or just obviously judging by their work–never read books or go to bookstores.

But copyedits are still necessary, and they’re valuable, and I enjoy them. And that’s what they look like.

So. Any questions? Is there anything you don’t feel like I clarified enough, or showed well enough?

Wednesday I’m going to post some page proof images. I hate page proofs. Sigh. But I think it’ll be interesting to see.

* No, they’re not, they’re just regular non-lizardy/troll-like people
** No, they don’t, I believe most of them work from home (I could be wrong)
*** They’re very smart and necessary, and really are helpful and good and worthy of praise
**** This one may very well be true

Second…well. My last post got considerably more attention that I ever anticipated, so that was quite a surprise. And I have some follow-up questions about it, but those I think will wait until another time. At the moment I just want to address one thing quickly, and another in a bit more detail.

First, as always, when you put things out on the internet and people see it, they’re going to react, just like when you write a book and put it out there people are going to react. And really, part of being a writer is learning to accept that and let the negative stuff roll off your back, or learn from it. It really doesn’t bother me anymore, and the comment I want to discuss didn’t bother me personally, I just find it’s indicative of what the whole point of my post the other day was.

I discovered, quite by accident, that apparently there are some people who feel that Moira and myself, and any other writer who shares our opinions, are simply kissing ass. I find this extremely sad, I have to admit. Is this what the world has come to, that when people see a wrong and speak up about it they’re immediately assumed to have some sort of ulterior motive?

Have we really reached a point where “Writers hate readers” has become the default position, so any writer who claims to actually like readers and want to see them treated well is automatically suspected of just being a big old liar, who probably spends their private, secret hours lurking in bookstores and tripping innocent readers as they pass by, just for fun? Or who runs around various reader blogs and sites leaving anonymous comments along the lines of “You’re all just thieves why don’t you go fuck yourselves you selfish bastards?” Seriously. Am I the only one who finds it really sad that we live in a world where a writer who says “I love readers, and want to please them, and want to see them treated like human beings instead of dogs,” must be an ass kisser, because the person making the accusation apparently can honestly not imagine any other reason why a writer might feel that way and express that feeling?

The thing is, I’ve been writing for about eight years now. I’ve been seriously writing–with an eye toward publication–for about five, and I’ve been publishing for almost five. Now, math is not my strong suit at all, but that’s about 6% of my entire life that I’ve spent as a professional writer. I’ve been a reader since I was four, which means I’ve been a reader for about 95% of my life (I think).

Which brings me to the other topic. As I followed links back to my post and other people having discussions about this topic, I found a sizable minority of readers who seem to honestly believe that writers hate libraries. I even found one who said an author she knows (she actually said “a new author,” which I find very telling) informed her that libraries who loan ebooks are thieves who violate the law, and that if she had her way every library would be made illegal because they all steal profits from writers.

Personally? I think if you show me a writer who doesn’t love libraries, I’ll show you a writer who really doesn’t care about literacy or reading or the craft of writing, but is merely interested in writing-as-get-rich-quick-scheme and in playing Author: The RPG.

Because a writer is supposed to care about reading. And about reading being something for all people. You guys already know my feelings on a future where literacy is only accessible to the wealthy. That’s not just a future where everyone has to pay to publish, it’s a world without libraries.

We didn’t have a lot of money when I was a kid, and I was a voracious reader. I read anything and everything I could get my hands on. And where did I manage to get my hands on books? At the library. We went every two weeks to return a stack of books and check out a new one. I read so many books the library gave me a special dispensation to go over the limit, because at that time children weren’t permitted to take out more than, I think, five at a time.

My fifth birthday present was a library card. I’d been getting books from the library already, of course, but my mom had to check them out for me because you had to be five to have your own library card. So bright and early on the morning I turned five, my mom took me to the library so I could get my Very Own Library Card. I’m sure I got other gifts that year, but that library card is the one I remember; it was one of the best presents I ever got.

Every year the library had a summer reading program, where you read books, filled out a little report on them, and handed them in to get stickers and prizes. Every year my little sticker row was full by mid-July.

There is no way in hell my parents could have afforded to buy me enough books to feed my habit. The library was all I had.

I think it’s pretty safe to say that I wouldn’t be a writer today if not for the library, for all libraries (because when we’d exhausted our local we’d visit some of the other libraries in the system). I would never have had access to all the wonderful books I read as a kid and a preteen and a teenager if not for the library.

And I want other kids to have that. I want them to be able to escape into books the way I did. I want them to grow up knowing that just because you don’t like one book doesn’t mean there aren’t thousands of others out there just waiting for you. I want that because I care about people reading. I want people to keep reading. I want kids to grow up reading and to love reading.

Because I love reading. I love words. I love it all. The process of writing is a sensory one, a sensual one, a journey of discovery every time. Finding new ways to play with words, to make them fit together, to use them so that when a sentence is done it says exactly what I mean it to say…that’s exciting. It’s always exciting. It’s always fun. I believe firmly, and I always have, that if you can read, and understand what you read, you can do pretty much anything; reading is the basis of intellect.

So it shocks me to find a writer–or someone who calls him- or herself a writer–who believes that literacy and books should only be accessible to those who can pay for it. There’s no sense there of the beauty and wonder of words and how they can change and touch people’s lives. This is someone who sees words not as tools for expression and the building blocks of our entire society, but as clicks in a cash register. I have a hard time believing that person truly loves writing, which makes it hard for me to believe there’s any real passion in their writing, which makes it hard, frankly, to believe they’re any damn good at it.

Libraries and piracy are totally different things. There is no similarity there. The fact that libraries buy their books–and usually buy them for more than cover price, sometimes considerably more–isn’t the issue. The issue is respect. Pirates hurt me; libraries make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

So there I go, I guess, kissing ass again.