𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈

Had Keenan starved enough to steal food? Maybe he twisted a few things? I kept reading, eyes scanning paragraph after paragraph, page after page, and chapter after chapter. I paused again, rereading a scene where Andy was abandoned in a park, specifically in the playground, where a drug deal had gone bad. I thought that Keenan voicing his hate for playgrounds was a random thing. Could it be?

Before my trail of thoughts could get any longer, there was a notification from my PC. Walking to my balcone, the screen displayed a newly received file—an edited version of the one I sent. Fast as always. I slept after that. Or tired to. I needed sleep for work the next day, but of course, we can't always get what we need. In the time between eleven and two, my guesses turned darker and darker. They followed me into my dreams, projecting fragments of a young Keenan in a shitty apartment shielding himself from an intoxicated parent's fist, the boy's face blurry when I tried to recall it the next morning.

I didn't feel like eating breakfast. I wasn't distinctly sad, but my appetite was nowhere to be seen, almost as if I'd left it the previous night. It took me longer than usual to choose my outfit, partly because I nagged at myself for not planning it the night prior. In the end, I settled with a silky baby blue blouse tucked into a good pair of jeans. Only when my left foot had met the ground floor of Contented's building did the anxiety appear. I'm still a newbie, my every move calculated.

But how do you get used to something without beginning? Happy thoughts, Gianna. I pressed the button to my floor and felt the lift rise beneath my feet. Minutes later, I found myself behind my new desk.

I'm not a wood expert, but my stepdad had woodworking as a hobby amongst other activities. I was able to distinguish that the table was made of beech wood. It was a meter wide, I suppose, by two feet. Its height was average. Some-fucking-how, thinking about study desks led me to Keenan Travino again and the sturdy oak one in his mansion. It was fucking sturdy, all right, as tested by me in inappropriate means.

Below the beige surface was a drawer. A row of smaller ones was to my right, most of them empty. I made a mental note to invest in supplies once I get my pay; after I use a portion of it paying bills and rent. I laid my bag on the floor beside me. Then, after stretching not only my arm muscles, fingers, wrists, and hands, but also my mind, I started working.

There was a pile of manuscripts beside me. There was more negative space on the metal shelves than occupied, though I knew for sure that I'd earn more stacks over time. Taking one, I laid the paper-clipped bunch on my table and grabbing a red pen from a pen holder, one of the many few things that I brought, I dove in.

Any excitement I get in my first month from doing new things in my new job is understandable, though the elation of seeing a new story which may or may not be what the world is looking for is something that I think I'll never get used to—something that won't fade over time. In front of me laid what a man or woman spent his or her golden time on as well as sweat, tears, brain cells, energy, and money. Though paper comes from the trunk, manuscripts are fruits of hard work. Who knows which draft this is? If first draft, then impressive though cocksure, in my opinion. If fifth, then I admire the author's persistence and determination.

Copy editors look at scripts up close, unlike developmental editors, creative teams, publicists, and all others who need to focus on overviews and bigger pictures. Being a copy editor means that we need to read the book line by line, detail by detail—digest bit by bit. This includes checking for grammar mistakes, determining its tone of voice, its consistency, and if it's suited for its intended audience. We make sure that the lines flow well, the paragraphs flow well, and that the overall story ties together. Along with this is analysis as we put ourselves in the mass readers' shoes, yet also criticize with a set of standards. Combing through for plot holes, unnecessary elements, and thinking of what might be lacking are also parts of the process. There's a personal sense to it, being friends with the authors over their work and our drive to perfect it.