I realize that I've written a couple times in the past about the ease with which I dismiss (especially) book bloggers who don't know how to write. My favorite blog opening line (I am not making this up): If your a author, than you better read this review."
I realize I have my shortcomings. I tried apologizing in advance for them, but many of you simply will not take a pay-it-forward approach toward excusing my transgressions.
Why the contrition? Well, over the weekend, I had a chance to look through the final copy edits for next year's The Marbury Lens. This is the last thing that happens to a manuscript before it goes off and gets typeset for galleys. [and, yes, the use of jargon there did kind of make me feel manly]
So, as I was looking through it (very carefully, I might add, because I want to be sure it is exactly what I sent off as my own "final"), I started thinking about what a copyeditor must think of dweebs like me:
This asshole doesn't even know the proper length of an em-dash.
[rolls eyes] Honestly, who isn't completely clear on when to write out numbers and when to use numerals?
[Aside: Was that even the proper use of the words "numbers" and "numerals"?]
The word is T-shirt, not "tee shirt," you fucking moron.
As a result, I have decided to start being nicer, to embrace each day and celebrate my body imbecile. I am throwing away the quiver of sharpened mental blue pencils I carry with me everywhere, replacing them with feathered, pink nerf-tipped arrows of tolerance and acceptance.
I think someone emptied a bottle of tequila into the coffee pot over night.
