The copy-edited manuscript did not arrive today, because apparently Australia Post do not believe in standing by their promises, so instead I have the first slab via email. This means I have a scan of a photocopy of the edits, so some of the comments are a little too pale to see … and it's still daunting.
Wish me luck. And perhaps send me some supplies. I'm going in.
We may or may not be entering a realm of radio silence: some, if not all, of the edit letter has arrived, and the first slab of the copyedited manuscript is en route, and now the work begins. Again.
All of a sudden I'm glad I gave in to that urge to not re-read the manuscript, to not tweak at anything as soon as my editor mentioned it. By the time I've finished grovelling through this round of edits, I suspect I'll be yet more glad.
So forgive me if the posts become a little scanty over the next little while. In the meantime, have a photo of Spawn:
What she's doing here is diligently filling the window bays of the Three Little Pigs' house with dry cat food. The true genius of this moment was that, after she'd filled the bays to her satisfaction, she carefully carried the house into the kitchen and deposited it on the shelf where the cats eat.
Now why didn't we think of feeding the cats this way?
After much dragging of my heels, and much cursing at my substandard internet connection, I have uploaded some of my photos from the Bhutan trip.
You can find them over on the new (and imaginatively named) Gallery page. They're not captioned yet, because, well, I haven't quite gotten around to that.
I'm testing out a new plugin for displaying these, so if you find any bugs or slowness or nefarious problems, please do let me know.
My hairdresser has a Facebook page. I don't know why this amuses me, since I'm in the minority in considering it an evil website, but nevertheless amuse me it does.
After my visit to said hairdresser, I now have trimmed locks and therefore stand an improved chance of not looking entirely shabby for my publicity photos next week — which, as I predicted, will be taken scarce hours before I go under the knife for the great face stitching. Better than scarce hours after, when I will no doubt present a more than passing resemblance to a stoned Phantom of the Opera 
In other book-related news, I am reliably informed that my edit letter will arrive later this week, upon receipt of which I will have "a little while" to make all the necessary fixes. Eep!
Since I had the opportunity to sit down and chat with my editor last week, for values of chat equal to she grilled me about all the holes and flaws and broken bits in the story1, I'm not expecting too much in the way of surprises. I am, however, utterly unversed in edit letters and estimating how much time making requested fixes will take. Although estimates are perhaps a moot point, given the publishing schedule will impose a deadline.
Perhaps it's lucky I'm going to be on sick leave from the dayjob. I shall be able to spend the days tucked in bed or on the couch with the laptop, moving commas and resurrecting and slaying characters as the whim and direction takes me. The pain meds should make it interesting, if risky for the quality of my work!
I have discovered Cyanide and Happiness:
This is going to make my writing this afternoon ever so much easier. Or at least interspersed with giggles. Almost the same thing.
Rage just started playing Creedance Clearwater Revival's Looking Out My Back Door.
This makes me ludicrously cheerful.
Today's walk home, or at least 1km thereof:
It doesn't look too bad, does it? This, however, is one of those hills which remains difficult. There's one particularly steep stretch where, on stopping to rest, I find myself leaning forward to counteract the sense of standing poised on a precipice and in danger of tumbling backwards.
On arriving home, it was to find the boycat had been effectively filed…
… under Spawn's dolly cot. Poor boycat. Presumably there was sunshine under the cot at one point, but the girlcat wasn't letting him out for love or money. One day he'll figure out he weighs twice as much as she does and could win easily…
This week saw me in Sydney for my consult with the surgeon who will be removing the freckle. He will be doing a flap repair procedure which will, when the bandages are removed and the skin has knitted, result in a Z-shaped scar. Yes, that's right: I am going to look like I tangled with Zorro and lost, and am therefore some detestable oppressor of the people.
The surgeon does not share my sense of humour.
I suppose I can forgive him this, if his hands prove steady.
After the consult, it was off to the headquarters of Allen & Unwin to meet a slew of lovely people and to chat about the edits of Bound, which will be landing on my desk soon and need to be sent back only a little bit after soon. Here's hoping there's not too many tricky fixes, eh?
Here's also to hoping a proper title for the manuscript surfaces during the edits!
The words, they are hiding.
So far in tonight's stint, I have managed to get my protagonist through the front door. And I'm pretty sure I'll end up cutting those words.
Oy vey.
"What kind of books?" the receptionist asks. "You mentioned that you write novels. What kind?"
"Fantasy," I say, "and some science fiction."
Her face falls flat. "Oh. I don't read those kinds of books."
I'm used to this response — it's not an uncommon one. So I shrug, and smile, and say nothing.
"Having said that," she brightens, "I did see the Spiderwick Chronicles the other day, and I quite enjoyed that…"
This, too, is not uncommon.
"Well," I say noncommittally, "that's fantasy."
She gives a little shudder. "Yes. I definitely don't like fantasy."