We have to steal The Declaration of Independence!
I think this latest Harlequin manuscript was written after the author got a little drunk on rosé and fell asleep in front of National Treasure on HBO. How else do you explain this line of dialogue:
"Then go ahead and call the police," he taunted. "And while you're at it, make sure you tell the dispatcher that I'm a federal agent for the [National] Archives."
If today had been a little less irritating, I would be laughing at this. But since my day has been a clusterfuck of arguments about tennis, trying to read gossip magazines in Spanish, PDF editing programs that CRASH ALL THE FUCKING TIME, and seriously obnoxious people thinking it's the research department's job to keep an eye on not only photo credits but also design errors, I feel like slamming my head in a car door.
For future reference, Our Hero is tall, dark, green-eyed and dimpled. I will spend the rest of this book picturing my high school friend John as the cop from the National Archives. That, at least, should make this a little less grating.
Oh! The best part? Remember how I told you the Canadian overlords switched from an hourly rate to a flat rate? Yeah. So the rate is based on the level of copyediting required, light, moderate, or aggressive. This one is flagged light. But also requested in the CE instructions: Correct geographical errors (in the greater D.C. area, not Austria, lucky me!), verify foreign language terms, make sure the timeline and ages are consistent, and flag plot holes. Does that sound like a "light," meaning "spelling, typos, basic grammar and punctuation only" edit to you?
ETA: This author has a real problem with metaphors. So far she's said, "The last man Stacy had ... introduced her to had turned out to be an alcoholic and a wife-beater" and "the doubt that suddenly pulled at her like a molester in the night." (I know that first example isn't a metaphor.) Jesus, lady. How about we just say the guy had grabby hands and she was kind of edgy? No need to get all crazy right at the beginning.
"Then go ahead and call the police," he taunted. "And while you're at it, make sure you tell the dispatcher that I'm a federal agent for the [National] Archives."
If today had been a little less irritating, I would be laughing at this. But since my day has been a clusterfuck of arguments about tennis, trying to read gossip magazines in Spanish, PDF editing programs that CRASH ALL THE FUCKING TIME, and seriously obnoxious people thinking it's the research department's job to keep an eye on not only photo credits but also design errors, I feel like slamming my head in a car door.
For future reference, Our Hero is tall, dark, green-eyed and dimpled. I will spend the rest of this book picturing my high school friend John as the cop from the National Archives. That, at least, should make this a little less grating.
Oh! The best part? Remember how I told you the Canadian overlords switched from an hourly rate to a flat rate? Yeah. So the rate is based on the level of copyediting required, light, moderate, or aggressive. This one is flagged light. But also requested in the CE instructions: Correct geographical errors (in the greater D.C. area, not Austria, lucky me!), verify foreign language terms, make sure the timeline and ages are consistent, and flag plot holes. Does that sound like a "light," meaning "spelling, typos, basic grammar and punctuation only" edit to you?
ETA: This author has a real problem with metaphors. So far she's said, "The last man Stacy had ... introduced her to had turned out to be an alcoholic and a wife-beater" and "the doubt that suddenly pulled at her like a molester in the night." (I know that first example isn't a metaphor.) Jesus, lady. How about we just say the guy had grabby hands and she was kind of edgy? No need to get all crazy right at the beginning.