The Editing Process: Your cheeky is showing

I am asked, fairly often, how much what I write gets edited before publication.

The answer is that it varies. Some publications edit more extensively than others. Some have a stricter “voice”. But, to answer the question, and because I loves me an empirical answer — here’s a lifecycle of a short little something I wrote recently, submitted to a publication with a Very Strong House Style. Hold on to your version control socks!

Version 1 – Short “proof of concept” test:
An early short version sent to editor for style check — I know when I’m in the cheeky danger zone.

“Once upon a time, there was a burrito. And that burrito didn’t have grapes in it. And the burrito didn’t know what it was missing, because it didn’t know that grapes in a burrito are awesome. But then one day, the good people at The Drake Hotel said “don’t be sad little chicken burrito, for you shall know fruit!”

And lo! The chicken curry burrito was made. And it was good. And its goodness went forth and multiplied, with zippy apples, and crunchy walnuts. And unto the walnuts and apples was added creamy curry and tender chicken. And the burrito saw that it was delicious, and it said “let me be priced so reasonably that all the people might enjoy my bounty!”.”

Result: Editor agreed it was funny, but wrong style for publication.

Version 2 – For realsies this time:

“The Drake Hotel pities the fool who doesn’t have time for a sit-down lunch. No, actual
pity. In the form of making us sandwiches, so that we can grab them and go. Aptly titled
their “Grab + Go” menu. (Decidedly more congenial than “Grab + Get Out”)

Nothing says grab and go quite like the mother of all one-handed sandwiches, the
burrito, so we tried The Drake’s Chicken Curry version. And, for the win: these
pitywiches aren’t the standard shrink-wrapped, cardboard-laced, essence du cubicle
fare.

Look at that picture. Now back to me. Now back at the picture. Yes, those are grapes.
Burritos didn’t know what they were missing and what they were missing was grapes.
It’s fruitapalooza in the Chicken Curry Burrito. Yes, there is chicken (nice’n’moist). And yes, there is curry. But when the chicken turns his back, the fruit understudies steal the spotlight. Juicy grapes, zippy apples, and crunchy walnuts. All unexpected, and all delicious, and all priced at the extremely reasonable $5.95.”

Version 3 – Editor’s edit:

“The Drake Hotel is showing a bit of mercy to busy office workers who don’t have time for a sit-down lunch. Their new (and aptly titled) “Grab + Go” menu features one-hand-required burrito-style sandwiches that break away from shrink-wrapped, cardboard-laced cubicle fare. The chicken curry version is fresh, filling and even surprising. Yes, it comes with moist meat and just the right amount of spice, but its most impressive features are fruit and nuts: juicy grapes and apples, set off by crunchy walnuts. Available when the café opens at 8 a.m., the sandwich can be procured mid-commute and even stays crisp until midday.”

Version 4 – My edit of the edit:

“The Drake Hotel is showing a bit of mercy to busy office workers who don’t have time for a sit-down lunch. Their new (and aptly titled) “Grab + Go” menu features one-handed “Type + Eat” sandwiches that break away from shrink-wrapped, cardboard-laced cubicle fare. The chicken curry burrito version is fresh and filling. It comes with moist meat and just the right amount of spice, but its most impressive features are fruit and nuts: grapes, apples, & walnuts. Available when the café opens at 8 a.m., the sandwich can be procured mid-commute and the grapes and walnuts ensure the sandwich is still both juicy & crunchy by midday.”

::::

So peeps. When you say “that doesn’t really sound like you”, now you know why.

Next week: “We’re humped” ; )

I haz bunneh.

(Not pictured: “I can haz alpaca!” and “I can haz llama!”)

Yay for friends who take pictures of me doin’ stuff. Like going to the RWAF and nomming on bunnehs! Especially thanks for people like Amy who are all “OMG GO STAND WITH THE COWZ & PIGGIES & I’LL GET MY CAMERA! DO IT DO IT!”.

Bunneh.

Cowz

And thanks to the nice lady who let me hold her cow. Yes, the cow is totally lickin’ my fingers. I’m cool like that.

Farmers Feed Cities Y’all!

Posterity Reindeer

… says “What up?”

First try at using a pen & tablet. The resulting Reindoodle:
Reindeer
Shamelessly modified from a christmas card I bought today. : )

Great. Now the post title totally has me needing to draw his butt.

BRB.

ETA:
ReindeerButt

Oh little reindeer. Your posterity is showing!

You sing your carols, I’ll sing mine.

The first person ready to go in full scarves and mittens at the front door reserves the right to sing distracting songs while the second person scurries around looking for wallets and socks and keys.

There were flurries in Toronto this morning (w00t!!!), so I thought it fitting to sing something “seasonal”. In category, if not spirit. ; )

See this morning’s impromptu lyrical genius below. Sung to the tune of “Winter Wonderland”. If you can’t make the lyrics fit, you’re not squooshing them hard enough.

“In the meadow you will build me a snowman
And I’ll check to make sure you did it right
If you didn’t, I’ll be very an-gry
And teach you about the importance of symmetrical spheres.

Later on, you’ll be cryin’
But it’s meee who’ll be dyin.
Cuz you didn’t do it properly
And I’m ashamed to be seen with you
Walkin’ in a winter wonderland.”

ETA: Husband’s reaction? “Oh yeah, you’re definitely not allowed to have kids.”

Mr. T, the Old Spice guy, and “fruitapalooza”

What do they have in common? My revised copy for a lunch pick. One of them has got to make it through!

Nah. Not really. In fact, I wouldn’t be the teeny tiniest bit surprised if none of them make it through. That’s how you know they’re finished making it sound like them: when it stops sounding like me. In the end, it’ll probably say something like “the moist chicken was delightful, and had us coming back for more!”. (Oop! Spoiler alert! CHICKEN!)

I try to swallow my voice and write in theirs, I really do. But some days, it just feels dirty. And maybe chalky? Just a soupçon?

My voice will out.

p.s. I also used the word “pitywich”. COME ON!

p.p.s. This is my second pass at copy after my first version was rejected flat out. While it made my editor laugh, it wasn’t “right” for the brand. But, I ask you, what can possibly not be right about a lunch review as biblical parody?! Other than eternal damnation, I mean.

I’ll post V1 once the final version’s online. : )

CANDY.

The child in me (“No candy thank you. Unicef?”) just ran in a circle screaming “OMIGODOMIGODOMIGOD!!!”, and then fell over in excitement.
CANDY

AND THERE’S MORE WHERE THIS CAME FROM.

My tummy hurts.

Update: If you ever wonder if sugar-bans lead to addiction, allow me to share this morning’s IM exchange with my big brother:
me: CANDY
him: Candy candy candy candy canday
me: candycandycandy

White Squirrel!

If I believed in omens, and these were Ye Olde Tymes, White Squirrels would totally be good omens.

As I do not believe in omens, and these are Ye Modyrne +1m35, White Squirrels will have to settle for just being FLUFFY & BADASS.

Did You Know?: While the acorn-hucking, baby-tripping regular park squirrels only listen to thrash metal, white squirrels prefer standards. I mean, they’re cool with a bit of Metallica now and then, they just know what they like.

Fight, win!

I hear the easy way of doing things is amaaaaazing.

Me though? Trial by fire. All. The. Way. That’s why it’s called Trial by Fire bitches. Because if it was called “Trial by Fluffy Bunny Rabbits”* it wouldn’t be worth doing. If I’m going to learn to do something it’s going to be hard and mean and a real renameyourpethamsterandpouryourchocolatemilkonthefloor bitch of an undertaking.

Which is why The Universe decided it was important that instead of this bollocks about “learning incrementally” and “step-by-step” approach to riding, the heavens should part and dump some brimstone on my poor n00b bike riding ass.

I checked the weather report. I budgeted the time. And yet, 10 minutes into a nearly 3 hour ride home, something hit my visor. Then another thing. Then another. Things that were shaped an awful lot like oh holy shit you’re kidding me rain.

As it got colder. And darker (country roads don’t have streetlights little city mouse). And wetter.

But like the fucking champion I am, I did it. So if you saw a very very (very very) wet person on Saturday night (and you may have, since I single-bikedly cut across most of the GTA), driving along with their visor up (so. much. rain.) and a gleam of crazy in their eye, possibly shouting something like “AHAHAHA I’M ALIVE! I’M ALIVE!! GO BIKEY GO!”, that was me.

Still. One of the better moments of my life? Pulling into the parking lot.

One of the other better moments? Submerging hippo-like into a very hot bath. Until it got cold, and I got out to order motherfucking chicken wings and onion rings, because when your hands look like this You. Need. Chicken Wings. Like. Now:

BikeGloves

The End.

P.S. That’s a total fucking lie.* “Trial by Fluffy Bunny Rabbits”?! How fucking awesome would that be? Think of the robes alone! Gavels made out of carrots?! Would they be tough but fair? Cruel and mercurial? What would the bribes look like?! THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS.

P.P.S. Fight, win!

“After his hard day, meet your husband in a nice dress and a pair of heels.”

“I want you to really, fully absorb what I’m wearing right now. Check this action out, head-to-toe.”

Earlier in the day the husband and I went out for lunch. He kept commenting on how nice I looked, though I felt quite “dressed in the dark” chic. Then I realized that I’d come straight from a meeting to lunch, and so was still dressed for work. As in, grown-up clothes.

I posited that just maybe I didn’t actually look that nice at all, but because he’d been coming home a bit late recently, he was only ever seeing me in Home Office Standard. That I had inadvertently calibrated his expectations to mismatched cargo pants and tank top as an “outfit”.

He, sweetly, denied any such thing and insisted I just looked really nice. Until this evening.

When, as we were chatting about why the cup he found on the counter was full of candies (I have my reasons), I suggested he take a minute to really, fully, look. To drink in the full extent of the mad style I treat him to around the house.

I will tell you what I was wearing. But first, hear it through his eyes:
“Oh… Huh. Maybe you’re right — maybe I am dazzled by you wearing normal clothes. Right now you look sort of like you found a pair of pants in the garbage, and you threw on a gunny sack [he’s half-Scottish so he sometimes he uses made-up words], and I don’t even know what to say about your feet… Your hair looks kind of nice.”

Here is the actual inventory of the visual feast I was providing: I was wearing the floopy bamboo chemise-y thing I was planning to sleep in, overtop of my rolled up cargo pants that I wear every day (because I got half-changed and then walked around the house for a while, as is my wont), and on my feet: my cow socks. My hair did look kind of nice.

So, though I think we can agree that what he meant to say about my feet is that they looked AWESOME, I rest my slovenly case. In the adorably love-is-blindspot of his eye.