This morning I sat down to the computer at 7 a.m. (having overslept an hour or two). Edited difficult, convoluted, doctrinaire copy for two and a half hours. Stood up around 8:30, staggered into the kitchen, fed the dogs, tossed a couple pieces of bread into the toaster, bolted them down with a pot of coffee, went back to work.
Many mind-numbing hours later, shipped the edits off to CED’s associate editor for back-up checking and to be passed along to our documentation formatter (AKA the Dray Horse). Received.
AE is, in passing (I sincerely hope), irked with Dray Horse, who is not performing up to par (read: is not producing glow-in-the-dark perfection). She’s talking about canning Dray.
I have nothing to say about this, because Dray Horse is her underling, not mine. But Dray does a great deal of dreary work that I do not want to have to do on top of mine own fvcking dreary work. Oh well.
Moving on: Returned to the Augean job of proofreading and formatting 445 pages of book copy — a new iteration, lhudly sing goddamn — running “compare documents” on it and the now-outdated version, and highlighting everything of interest to our e-book formatter. On and on and on and on and…you think reading scholarly research and cant is mind-numbing? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.
This exercise revealed a number of fairly technical issues blighting the copy formatted for print. Yes. Four. Hundred. and. Forty-five. Pages of supposedly formatted copy. Beat these back, in the process creating several PDF iterations, which themselves revealed a new technicality.
Finished, entered endless data, proofread, and formatted the index. Thrill a minute.
Every time I look at this sh!t, I find something ELSE wrong with it!
What is the answer?
Why…never to look at it again, of course…
Reached that conclusion about 5:15. By then I’d been glued to the computer a good 10 hours nonstop.
Fed the dogs again, whilst considering…
If Dray Horse goes, who is going to do the scutwork? I’ve already quietly tested two potential replacements. Not. A. Chance.
Who in her (or, if especially craven, his) right mind would do this kind of scutwork? Who indeed, for what we can afford to pay? Yea verily, who for any amount of money on this earth?
What would it be like to work for the sheer joy of whatever you do, never worrying about mere money?
If I’d been born 30 years later, I could’ve become a priest. An Episcopal priest. Think of that! Imagine doing good works with your time and by and large not having to worry very much about where your next meal is coming from? Imagine believing you’re doing God’s Work? How beautiful is that, anyway?
Reminder to self: do not do not do not look at the news, online or otherwise.
God help us all. If She’s listening.
And while we’re considering existential questions: why has the wine run out?
I am going to iron the pillowcases and go to bed.
Good night, m’dears.