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?
