What We're Writing: Jenn's in Copyedit Mode

 JENN McKINLAY: One of my favorite phases of book producing is the copy edits. Hopefully when the edits arrive, enough time has passed that I've forgotten the book and can now look at it with fresh eyes. I am currently working on the edits for WITCHES OF QUESTIONABLE INTENT and I just got the cover art, which is absolutely stunning but I can't share the whole cover yet. 

I can, however, share an itty bitty piece of it and I'll share a snippet of the story so you know what the glimpse of cover refers to. 

Here's the bit of the cover:

 

So, who/what is this little fella? Here's the snippet from a scene where the protagonist Zoe is visiting a magical midnight market: 

     I glanced around Marvello’s trove of items. There were clocks, mirrors, sets of dishes, maps, lanterns and books…so many books. It was easy to see why Tariq loved Marv’s booth the most. I began to sort through the titles of books, looking for items of interest. I was reaching for a volume on a nearby shelf when a tiny flicker of flame shot out at my fingers followed by a puff of smoke.

     “Ouch!” The flame had grazed my finger but hadn’t burned me. “Marv, I don’t want to alarm you. but I think there’s a fire in your books!”

     “Oh, no!” Marv and Tariq hurried over to the shelf.

     “Right there!” I pointed. Sure enough another little lick of flame appeared.

     Marv laughed and said, “Oh, don’t worry that’s a bookwyrm hatchling.”

    Tariq noted my confusion and explained, “A baby dragon.”

    I clapped my hand against the side of my head a few times as if I was trying to dislodge water. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that because it sounded like you said a baby dragon?”

     “I did.” Tariq gestured to where Marv was moving aside books and reaching into the shelf.

     I felt my jaw drop when Marv pulled his hand out of the opening and pinched between his thumb and forefinger by the scruff of its neck was a tiny black dragon, no bigger than a baseball.

     “That’s not…you’re pranking me,” I said.

     “Hold out your hand,” Marv said. “This little fellow is named Titus. He won’t hurt you.”
     My hand shook a little bit but I held it palm up and Marv dropped the bookwyrm hatchling into it. The little fellow stretched his neck, sniffing the air between us. He was stupid cute and I desperately wanted to pet him or squeeze him, but I didn’t want to terrorize him as he was so tiny, so I didn’t do anything.

     He circled my palm, his tail twitching and his tiny leathery wings flapping, like a dog trying to settle into the best position for a nap. Once he settled, he folded up his wings and tucked in his tail. A puff of smoke came out of his tiny nose and he closed his eyes. I would have thought I was hallucinating but I could feel the pin pricks of his tiny talons on my palm, his steady heartbeat, and his slow inhale and exhale.

     “But…I don’t…isn’t it dangerous to have a little guy who emits fire near all of your books?” I asked.

     “Oh, he’s not the only one,” Marv said. “I have five bookwyrms. They eat mold and dust, and they’re fire is like witch fire where it doesn’t burn but it does clean the books quite nicely.”

This is one of those moments where I desperately wish that what I write could be real. Wouldn't it be cool to have a bookwyrm, maybe two to keep each other company, on your bookcase? 

Reds and Readers, what/who/where is something you've read in a book that you wish was real?

WITCHES OF QUESTIONABLE INTENT comes out Nov 10th. It was originally Oct 27th, so who knows if it will move again, but it'll be this autumn either way. Here's a more detailed description: 

A librarian witch must use her bookish knowledge to track down a dangerous, magical tome, in this enchanting novel from New York Times bestselling author Jenn McKinlay.

Thanks to her training as a librarian and her newfound magical abilities, Zoe Ziakas thinks she has a handle on her job at the Museum of Literature safeguarding the secret collection of enchanted tomes known as the Books of Dubious Origin. But when Jasper Griffin—the colleague she’s been crushing on—reports that their most volatile acquisition, The Book of Shadows, has been stolen, Zoe’s carefully cataloged world unravels.

This isn’t just any magical text. It carries unquestionable power, twisting truth into illusion and turning allies into enemies. Once its power is unleashed, no one can trust what they see or who they are.

To track down the book, Zoe, Jasper, and the rest of the BODO team plunge into a perilous hunt that takes them from shadowy midnight markets to demon-infested streets, all while wrangling an unpredictable hellhound puppy. But when the thief begins to invoke the book’s darkest spells, Zoe faces an impossible challenge: How does she stop a curse that can rewrite reality itself?

If she can’t separate fact from fiction, the story won’t just end—it will be erased.

Rhys on What I am Writing. I wish I knew.

 RHYS BOWEN:  What am I writing?  Well, at this moment you can take your choice.  If those of you who are not writers imagine the writer sitting alone in the garret, waiting for the muse to strike while someone else brings coffee and cookies, please reimagine.

This morning I have done two loads of laundry, including bed sheets and mopped all the hard floors of the house before settling at the computer where I am not quite sure what to do next.

1.         I am in the middle of writing the next Royal Spyness novel that takes place at the house of Chanel during a fashion show. So lots of research and lots of mental juggling about how a certain crime could possibly have been committed. I get brilliant ideas like…. Wouldn’t it be fun if a woman was killed in the middle of a fashion show when all the doors are locked? And? Not quite sure yet.

2.         I am also doing a final edit on my next Molly book which has to go to the publisher on December 1. This is the series I’m writing with daughter Clare so we’re each doing our final clean up and John is doing his final read through to tell us that the whole thing needs to be re-written.

3.         I have just received the copy edits for my next big stand-alone WHERE THE SKY BEGINS. They are due on Monday and I’m dealing with things like queries that say , “You said three miles from town. Shouldn’t that be kilometers?” Picture one of those cartoons with head blowing off steam.

So a certain amount of juggling is involved as I try to work through all three of the above while also juggling a request to write an article on Agatha Christie for an upcoming book, to write a piece on historical novels for an upcoming book etc etc. Ah for that peaceful garret! I have to add that John does bring me coffee.

So I thought I’d share a small snippet from the book I’m trying to write, the next Royal Spyness called something to do with Paris and fashion and murder and runway. Title suggestions please? Runway of Death, In the Paris Fashion, Dressed to Kill, etc etc.

Georgie is staying with Belinda but suspects her husband Darcy is on a dangerous mission in Paris. She is being taken up the Eiffel Tower by Belinda’s new beau, a French count.

We went across to the tower, paid our money and joined the line for the lift. The first lift took us to a broad platform. We walked around, taking in the view from all sides. Louis-Philippe was a good tour guide. He pointed out the gardens and fountains of the Trocadero on the other side of the river, the Arc de Triomph looking quite small and insignificant from this height. Then we followed the river to the Isle de la Cite, that tiny island in the middle of the Seine with its medieval looking fortress and the twin towers of Notre Dame. Louise-Philippe told me that no building in Paris is allowed to be built higher than the cathedral. He named gardens and parks, the impressive expanse of woodland that was the Bois de Bolougne and on the far side of the city a building with glistening white domes that even I knew was the Sacre Coeur on Montmartre. It was all quite breathtaking and somehow gratifying to know that monuments I had dreamed about really did exist and I was among them.

Then I looked down onto the Seine below us, the river busy with pleasure boats on a Sunday afternoon. On the quayside I spotted a man with a bald head, pouring over a large map. As I focused on him he approached a passing stranger, pointing at the map. The man stopped obligingly and also pointed out a route. The first man nodded thanks then set off.  The other man watched him for a moment before turning away.

                From this height it was impossible to see faces but I could have sworn that the man who gave the directions was Darcy.  Was he just being polite to a tourist or was this more? I tried to recall exactly what I had seen. Wasn’t there something about the man with the map that hinted at being German? Something about the cut of his jacket. Had he just pointed at the map, or had something passed between them? A small piece of paper? As if in answer to my question I saw two men who had been standing at the coffee kiosk on the quay move out of the shadow and set off after the man with the map.

So far so good. We've set up danger and conflicting missions. And I'm really enjoying spending time in Paris. But a title would be good. Any brilliant suggestions?

Rhys is still Dreaming of Venice

RHYS BOWEN:

I have just finished my least-favorite part of the writing process—the dreaded copy-edits. You’d think the process should be fairly straight-forward. Your editor has made the editorial suggestions—can we see more emotion in this scene? Could we speed up the tempo here? And you have addressed those.  The copy edits are (or should be) just the polishing: one word overused in a section, one sentence not quite clear, no serial comma (God forbid). So sometimes they are a breeze.

Other times they can be a nightmare. A copy editor who is a frustrated writer and who changes sentences. Then it is necessary to write STET in large letters. A copy editor who forgets that it’s fiction and points out a tiny point of history (like, in my book, she could find no reference to German gunboats being hidden in the Venice lagoon. I replied that they were allies. A German gunboat would have been welcomed, especially during the invasion of Greece and Albania.)

One is tempted to reply either “It’s fiction, dammit,” or “does it bloody well matter if it was early closing day on Wednesday therefore she wouldn’t have done her shopping then!!!!”

But it is done. I have survived with only a few more gray hairs. Now it’s just the proof reads during which the writer decides that every sentence is clumsy and rubbish and should be re-written.

However, on this occasion it was comforting to spend more time in Venice, since we can’t travel this year. I’ll give you a quick trip there too. Oh and I have the most gorgeous cover to share too!

 From THE VENICE SKETCHBOOK.

I tried to find a good spot to sketch the Bridge of Sighs but realized that the best views were from the waterfront side. I retraced my steps to the water front and stood on a small stone bridge sketching the Bridge of Sighs. Several tourists tried to peer over my shoulder. Oh dear. My art skills are certainly not good enough for public scrutiny yet. I hurriedly closed my book and at that moment the great bells from the Camponile rang out. Twelve O’clock. Golly. I’d better get back for lunch or Aunt H. would be worried. I made my way back to St. Marks Square and attempted to retrace my route home.  I must have come out of St. Mark’s Square by a different archway because I didn’t recognize where I was. There had not been a little canal running beside the street when I came in.  I pressed on, in what I hoped was the right general direction. I was just crossing the canal by a little stone bridge when I heard a sound. At first I thought it was a baby crying. It was coming from the canal beneath me. Then I looked down and saw a cardboard box floating past. And from the box came the sound. Not a baby, but what sounded like the mewing of kittens. Someone had thrown a box of kittens into the canal to drown them!

I looked around. Nobody in sight. I couldn’t just let the kittens float away until the box became sodden and they drowned.  I went back to the side of the canal where there was a walkway,  held onto a post and reached out as far as I could. The box was too far away for me to reach and was moving slowly but steadily past. Soon it would pass between tall buildings where there was no footpath. There was nothing for it. I put my bag down, took off my hat, held my nose, and jumped in. The water was surprisingly cold. I gasped and swallowed a mouthful, but struck out valiantly for the box. I hadn’t had much opportunity for swimming in England, apart from in the sea at Torquay when one bobbed in the waves and I realized too late that my skirts  had become awfully heavy , clinging to my legs. I tried to hold the box above me as I kicked out for the side. I managed to place it up on the walkway, then tried to climb out. That was when I realized the walkway was a good foot above the water and there were no steps in sight. I had no way out.

My sodden clothing and shoes were pulling me down now and I was tiring fast. I tried to remember the Italian word for help—if I’d ever known it in the first place. What was it in Latin? If only I’d paid more attention to Miss Dear!  I tried to cling to the side but there was nothing to hang onto. Above my head the kittens kept mewing and the box shook as if they might get out at any moment. Then suddenly I heard a noise. The put-put of an approaching motor boat.  It drew level with me and I was afraid it would run me down or go past without seeing me. I released one hand and waved. “Help!” I cried.

            A man’s face appeared over the side. “Dio mio!” he exclaimed. “Momento!” He cut the motor. Strong arms reached down and I was unceremoniously hauled aboard. He stared at me for a moment before saying, “You are English. Si?”

            I nodded. “How did you know?”

            “Only an English girl would be foolish enough to go swimming in a canal,” he said in very proficient English. “Or did you fall in?”

            “I wasn’t swimming. And I didn’t fall in. I jumped in, to save some kittens.”

Will this early encounter in a Venice canal have repercussions later in her life? You'll have to read it to find out. It is published April 13.

And do share: where are you dreaming of at the moment?

The Weekend

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Yay, it's THE WEEKEND! 

But wait--this is how I'm spending my weekend.
 

I'm doing my copy edit. And I think I have worked every weekend since, oh, September? And darn it, I like weekends. I know I'm self-employed, and we have this years' long argument in our house, where the hubby says since I can set my own hours, weekends shouldn't matter. I should do my errands when other people don't do them, like on a Tuesday. But I like to look forward to having a couple of days off in a regular schedule, and I like taking my days off when other people are free, too, like my kiddos and my friends. So give me Saturday and Sunday, please!

I think that some of us prefer to write seven days a week, but for me that's a necessity, not a choice! I like to have a couple of brain-rest days, get all my chores and errands done, and chill out a little bit. Then I feel ready to dig in on Monday morning.

REDS and writer friends, do you write seven days a week? Or do you take weekends off?

And what are you doing this weekend (that I'm not... sigh.) 

Binge-watching Netflix? 

Watching March Madness? (I have no understanding of March Madness, but it's a big deal, right?) 

Planning your garden? 

Shopping for spring clothes?


Rain in the forecast here so I won't feel quite so deprived...

RHYS BOWEN:  If nothing is scheduled I work all weekend until I have a first draft finished. I don't like to take a break when I have a story in my head. But I do like the idea of lazy weekend days, picnics, walks beside the ocean. I used to love breakfast at college. We'd collect food and coffee from the dining hall, buy the Sunday papers and take them to someone's dorm room. Now there is always something to do!


DEBS: Rhys, I want your college weekend NOW.

HALLIE EPHRON: It's dark and dank here in New England so no playing outdoors for me, either this weekend. I'm between books but I have some writing workshops coming up so I need to put materials together for them. And as far advance in as it is, I'm working on getting ready for my 8/6 book launch. There's a ton to get done. If there's a break in the rain, I'd like to get over to the beach and take a walk in the only-sightly freezing weather.

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: I'm also editing this weekend, Debs! Not at the copy edit yet - this is the Big Editorial Letter edits, following the really Big Scene Edits and undoubtedly preceding the Fiddly Little Bits Edit.

I'm not a seven day a week worker - if I were, it wouldn't take me so long to finish a book! But I know myself, and I need at least a day  off each week. Those of you who comment here will notice I'm not on social media Sundays (except to post the Maine Millennial's column on my Facebook page.) I believe it's especially important to take time away from the internet once in a while - I try to stay completely off the computer on Sunday.

This weekend, I'll be having dinner at frequent Reds commentor Brenda Buchanan's house, and will also be seeing CAPTAIN MARVEL with my daughters. We spend so much time working, being on, being available - it's good to spend some time in the real world, with people who love you.

Readers, are your weekends reserved for relaxing? Tell us what you're up to!

R-r-r-revisions!

LUCY BURDETTE: First of all, before I forget, our Jungle Red newsletter is going out this week. If you haven't already, sign up to receive very occasional news from our gang--fill in your email in the box to the right and hit send!

Now onto today's business. For the last two weeks I've been immersed in revising and editing TOPPED CHEF (coming next May!) For readers who haven't been through the process, this means reviewing my "completed" manuscript and incorporating (or at least considering!) the notes my editor has made. And by the way, I consider myself really lucky because I love her editing. She understands so well what I'm trying to do with the characters and the plot, and she's able to put her finger on the places where the story isn't completely working. This time one of the big questions was whether the way the victim was killed (public hanging in costume) fit with the motives of the killer. Pretty important to get that right!

I also see things that I didn't notice when I was sunk up to my eyeballs in the book. For example, in one of the scenes Hayley Snow and her Key West buddies are talking to her mother on Skype. I'd put her mom's new boyfriend at the kitchen table chatting away and eating Chinese food with everyone else. Second time around, it occurred to me that Hayley had never met this man--virtually or otherwise. So I needed to slow down, include an introduction and use the resulting tension to good effect.

How about you Reds? Do you like the revision process? Any horror stories or happy ending?

RHYS BOWEN: I'm really happy with both my editors. They make excellent suggestions but usually like what I do and don't try to change too much. It's in the area of copy-editing that I sometimes have gripes. Copy editors who don't ever want me to have an incomplete sentence, who put in too many commas or who add words of their own. I confess that I do need a good proof-reader as I type very fast to keep up with my thoughts and can't often see my mistakes. Like the time Katy Kellgren (whom I interviewed last week and who reads my audio books) emailed to ask whether I really meant to call a character Huge Beastly-Bottome. I didn't. His name was Hugo Beasley-Bottome. That had slipped through editors and proof readers!

HALLIE EPHRON: Laughing, Rhys! Reminds me of a salad I once tossed in a bowel.

Over and over I hear people say, "Too bad editors no longer edit books." I don't know what editors they're talking about. That's never been my experience. I love my editor at Morrow, Katherine Nintzel. Her eagle eye frees me to go over the top because I know she'll tell me when I should dial back the ick. She also keeps me from repeating myself. Like a heat seeking missile, she asks all the questions I don't want to hear but need to address.

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN:I love revising. LOVE. Oh, my goodness,  it's my favorite.  The story is all there, hurray! And I get to make it better.There are moments when you see the way to make it shine--that's such a treat. Moments when you realize--oh, THIS is what I meant! And that's so exciting. It's like when the real statue comes out of the piece of marble. The way the story was meant to be.

My editor is brilliant, too.  She really sees the themes, and the big picture, and pushes me on motivation (the characters', not mine) and points out that I have too many people whose names begin with "S."

Rhys, the comma thing. Grrr. My battles are usually over hyphens.  I love them. Copy editors don't.

JAN BROGAN: I live to revise. Or maybe I write to revise.  LIke Hank said. It's where the fun and the magic happen. But you guys, I don't consider commas and hyphens revising. I consider that copy editing.  Although certainly it needs to be done, it's not my happy time.

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Rhys, I think you should have left Huge Beastly Bottome in!!! I can just see him...

I'm with Hallie on the "editors don't edit anymore." Mine does! Not only big thematic or structural edits, but lines edits. (I've had three top editors with US publishing houses in my career, and they have all edited.) My current editor's favorite margin notes are: "Cut." ""Tighten." "Too much sat nav." (referring to my tendency to give detailed descriptions of how the characters get from one place to another.) And her favorite: "Show, don't tell!"

And the thing is, she's always right. She's especially brilliant at seeing  how to increase the tension in a scene.

I'm an obsessive self-editor as I write, and I think knowing that my editor is so good has allowed me to relax and enjoy the writing process a bit more.

So, back to Lucy's original question--I don't mind revision. It's usually fast. Because I revise as I write, I don't do endless drafts, and the editorial revision really gives me a chance to see the book as a whole.

 HANK: Oh, my editor for the "TIME" series was SO terrific and SO polite. Her favorite was "please address." As in "The reader will not be clear on where  Charlotte is. Please adddress."  (So now I say that to Jonathan all the time. "The dishwasher is full. Please address.")

LUCY: Hysterical Hank! and does he hop right to? How about you JRW readers? Any glitches you wish had been caught in the books you've read? (Cartoon courtesy of Writer's Digest)

To Fizz or Not to Fizz

Deb: I've just finished my second copy edit in the last three and a half weeks, the first for the UK, the second for the US. The scribbled-on manuscript went into the Fed Ex drop at at quarter to six this afternoon, just under the wire. We writers all know what a HUGE relief that is . . . sort of.

But it's also wrenching, the last birth pang of a book that's taken us a good few months, and sometimes years, to bring to life. It's our last chance to get it right, to participate in the story, to check our logic, to make sure that our characters have done and said all the things we'd like for them to do and say. Because the next time we see these pages, they will be typeset--a real BOOK. And although we'll read for type-setting errors, we will then be outside the story. Observers, not writers.

Today, the book is out of my hands. So elation is mixed with a smidgen of sadness. My brain is fried. (I meant to blog about a very interesting true crime, but discovered I simply could not contemplate the repercussions of DNA testing. Not today.)

So what did I do to celebrate? Champagne? Dinner at Rick's Chophouse? (the most elegant option in my town.) Not exactly.

I was thrilled to wash my hair. I made tortellini and watched a little mindless TV. I thought about how much I would LOVE to clean my house and do a little work in the garden Read a good book. Sleep.

But by tomorrow, I suspect that the next book, put in abeyance these last few days, will be making nagging demands. And that perhaps I can contemplate that champagne cocktail.

So what about you, my fellow Jungle Red writers, and you, dear readers? How do you celebrate the last touches to a book, or a major milestone?