I spent yesterday checking the copyedit of my new novel. A Humble Companion won’t be published till June but that’s the way of publishing these days. You need to get proof copies out to reviewers, movers and shakers ASAP.
A good copy editor (and I’ve been lucky enough always to get good ones) can save a writer many a blush. It’s the last chance to catch anachronisms and other such bloopers before the typescript goes to the printer. Checking the copy edit isn’t hard but it is tedious. It requires close concentration and sometimes a bit of humility. ‘Hmm’, you find yourself thinking, ‘what exactly did I mean by that?’
So I finally left my desk at 8pm last night, bog-eyed and with a stiff neck, but also feeling very slightly excited about this book. It’s been a long time coming. And having worked 12 hours straight I felt justified in taking a half day today and indulging in a very pleasant diversion: buying books for two granddaughters who have birthdays very soon. They’re both too young to read this blog so it’s perfectly safe to share with you that my purchases include David McKee’s Not Now, Bernard, Claire Freedman’s Aliens Love Underpants, and Julia Donaldson’s Tyrannosaurus Drip.
Now we’re all wi-fi in this house Mr F often sits downstairs by the fire and emails me. A message from him just plinked into my Inbox. I looked at the clock and thought, ‘Ah, the cocktail hour.’ But no. The message just says ‘sssssssss’. A slow puncture perhaps.
Full debrief of the pantomime now posted at The Sunday Growler.