#writing editors

[alexander-23]

I’m looking for someone to proofread my fanfics, worried my dyslexia and others will make my writing unreadable lol.

[ratlingrun]

I don’t care whether you like rooster teeth or not the idea of deleting 21 years of media should be incredibly concerning

[mrghostrat]

When he delivered the mug into his still outstretched hand (with the teaspoon of sugar Aziraphale was too preoccupied to ask for), his editor had found his reading glasses and was hunched over his laptop, already deep in Work Mode. Crowley had a million questions about what he thought of it all, but knew better than to try and interrupt him while he read. EDITOR'S NOTE (M) (48k)

i told u this would happen

[the960writers]

Alternatives to google docs

For various reasons, this is now a hot topic. I'm putting my favorites here, please add more in your reblogs. I'm not pointing to Microsoft Word because I hate it.

Local on your computer:

1.

LibreOffice (https://www.libreoffice.org/), Win, Linux, Mac.

Looks like early 2000 Word, works great, imports and exports all formats. Saves in OpenDocumentFormat. Combine with something like Dropbox for Cloud Backup.

2.

FocusWriter (https://gottcode.org/focuswriter/) Win, Linux.

Super customizable to make it look pretty, all toolbars hide to be as non-distracting as possible. Can make typewriter sounds as you type, and you can set daily wordcount goals. Saves in OpenDocumentFormat. Combine with something like Dropbox for Cloud Backup.

3.

Scrivener (https://www.literatureandlatte.com/scrivener/overview) Win, Mac, iOS

The lovechild of so many writers. Too many things to fiddle with for me, but I'm sure someone else can sing its praises. You can put the database folder into a Dropbox folder for cloud saving (but make sure to always close the program before shutting down).

Web-based:

4.

Reedsy bookeditor (https://reedsy.com/write-a-book) Browser based, works on Firefox on Android. Be aware that they also have a TOS that forbids pornography on publicly shared documents.

My current writing program. Just enough features to be helpful, not so many that I start fiddling. Writing is chapter based, exports to docx, epub, pdf. You can share chapters (for beta reading) with other people registered at Reedsy.

5.

Novelpad (https://novelpad.co/) Browser based.

Looks very promising, there's a youtuber with really informative videos about it (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mHN8TnwjG1g). I wanted to love it, but the editor didn't work on Firefox on my phone. It might now, but I'm reluctant to switch again.

------

So, this is my list. Please add more suggestions in reblogs.

[livesincerely]

Buck bows his head beneath the falling water, his ribs shuddering around a shaky exhale. 

He’ll pull himself together eventually. Slap a smile back on his face and remember how to be grateful for what he already has.

But first he needs to mourn. He needs to mourn and mope and shed a tear or twenty: then he can bury these stupid feelings and finally put them to rest.

Maybe it’s time to re-download Bumble and Hinge, make a proper effort at getting back out there and moving on⁠—

The bathroom door slams open with a bang! Buck whips around so fast that he nearly loses his footing, then nearly keels over anyway when he realizes it’s Eddie standing there amongst the clouds of steam.

Eddie, whose chest heaves like he’s just run a marathon, his hair a mess and his shirt only half buttoned⁠—like he’d hauled ass out of the locker room in the middle of changing. Eddie, whose expression is granite but whose eyes are wild, his irises totally eclipsed by burning crimson, that spiced-dark-chocolate-char scent rolling off of him like thunderclouds sweeping in over the horizon.

They stare at each other for one long, charged moment. Buck can barely meet his eyes; there’s something almost feral prowling in the shadows of his gaze⁠—sharp and accusing, honed like a knife’s edge⁠—and it cuts him all the way to the core. 

Buck’s throat clicks around a nervous swallow, his pulse pounding in his ears.

“Eddie,” he says, almost helplessly, more of a breath than a word.

Eddie’s nostrils flare, his upper lip curling back to flash a single, pointed canine. Then he’s wrenching open the shower door and stepping determinedly into the spray⁠—still fully dressed, boots, belt, watch and all, what the fuck⁠ is he?⁠—and he braces a hand on either side of Buck’s waist, caging him up against the shower wall.

“Eddie!” Buck yelps, suddenly and extremely aware of the fact that he’s bare-ass naked, soap dripping down his arms and conditioner clinging to his curls. He clutches his hands to his chest like that will somehow mask the aforementioned nakedness. “What the hell are you⁠—? Hey!”

“Did you actually think,” Eddie starts, and his voice has settled in this gravely, dangerous place that’s making Buck’s stomach do somersaults. “That I wouldn’t come after you?”

“You— C’mon man, you’re getting soaked. Did you even take your phone out of your pocket⁠—”

“You did⁠,” Eddie decides, continuing as if Buck hadn’t spoken, anger and disbelief dueling across his features. “You thought I was gonna just let you go⁠?”

“Jesus, Eddie,” Buck sighs, letting his head thunk back against the tiles, already exhausted with this whole conversation. “Can’t this at least wait until I’m out of the fucking shower⁠—“

“Clearly it fucking can’t,” he growls, and he cups both of those huge hands around Buck’s jaw and yanks his head back down, forcing him to hold his gaze.

“Because last time I checked, we were in this together,” Eddie says—demands, really. Water streams through his hair and down his face in dozens of rivulets, his wet clothes clinging to every sodden, gorgeous inch of him. “That’s the deal, right? You have my back and I have yours. You go in and I’m right there on you six. I’m the one on the other end of your radio, I’m the one that double checks your harness, I’m the one that anchors your line.”

They’re plastered together: a tangle of water and limbs, fabric and skin. Buck’s mouth moves soundlessly, his voice trapped somewhere beneath the weight of his longing, but even if he could say something he wouldn’t have the words. Static blurs the edges of his vision, his mind emptied of anything that isn’t Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

“There isn’t a universe where I don’t come after you, Buck,” Eddie tells him, with all the force and certainty of gravity itself. “I’d have to be dead in the fucking ground before I’d let you go, and maybe not even then. Because you’re mine. You’re mine,” he insists when Buck can’t help the involuntary little noise that escapes him at the declaration. “And you’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’m going to let you spend another second thinking I don’t want you.”

Buck’s heart stops dead in his chest, then kicks in again twice as fast. 

“Eddie,” he manages, barely able to hear himself over the sound of the shower pouring overhead. Thank god he’s already got a wall at his back⁠—he’s not sure his legs would support him otherwise, hope turning his joints to jelly. “You… Don’t do this if you don’t mean it. I can’t… I can’t.”

Eddie shifts impossibly closer, angling up until their faces are a hair apart. Their noses brush⁠—a gentle, almost exploratory touch⁠—followed by a solid press of forehead against forehead. 

“If you still don’t think I mean it,” he murmurs, his eyes burning like twin flames. “Then you clearly haven’t been listening to me.”

A shared breath. 

“Maybe this will finally convince you,” Eddie says, and he leans in and seals his mouth over Buck’s own.

[flowersforthemachines]

Useless Veilguard fact of the day: Day 99

An addition to spider lilies, flowers you can see in the Memorial Gardens include:

Shroud's Kiss

2. Blue Roses

3. Violets

4. Thistle

5. Foxtail Lily

Check out the tag for more useless facts: #useless davg fact of the day!

[rcmclachlan]

Am I using the 8x16 spoilers as a way to deal with the loss of my own dad almost three years after the fact? I'll never tell!

+

"They want me to say something."

The warm brick wall pressed up against his back shifts a little, and the bed dips beneath their combined weight with a worrying creak. "'They' who?"

From what feels like miles away, Buck wonders how old the mattress is. Standard advice says to change your mattress every ten years, but he's read you should do it as soon as six. He hopes the bed is relatively new. It's insanely comfortable and he always sleeps so well, not to mention all the memories he's made in it. The very thought of hauling it out to the curb so the city can throw it in a dump makes his eyes prickle for the two-hundredth time in the last half hour.

"You can't get rid of the bed," Buck murmurs, staring at the white dresser across the room. It's the only thing in his direct line of sight. He hates the pulls on it. They're too old to be retro and they make the bureau look like it doesn't belong. "You ate me out for the first time on this bed."

Tommy presses a kiss to his head like he's hiding a sigh in Buck's hair. Which he might be. Buck should probably be annoyed by that but he can't muster up the energy.

"So, those are two very separate ideas," Tommy says. "Let's table the bed thing for now."

Hah. Furniture pun.

"Who wants you to say something?" Tommy's always good at following threads of conversation, no matter how they split and weave into something new. He never loses track of that original stitch.

Buck closes his eyes. "A-Athena. She asked if I would say something. At the uh, the..."

He can't make his mouth shape the word. His teeth dig into his bottom lip and he tries to force air around them, to make the 'F' sound, but something in the back of his throat blocks the way.

"Gotcha," Tommy says simply. The arm slung across Buck's chest tightens like a seatbelt during a hard brake. "Is that... something you're comfortable doing?"

"I don't know," Buck says. "I don't know what I'd even say."

The ugly drawer pulls are starting to look like faces. Screws for eyes, the handles for mouths. The way they curve makes it look like they're laughing. If he asked Tommy to get rid of them, he knows Tommy would immediately head down to the garage to get his electric drill. He'd destroy this antique for Buck without asking him a single question.

Hen thinks he's in shock, but he thinks shock's supposed to wear off after a few hours. It's been almost four days since they got the text from Athena—it's him—and he's still existing outside his own body. Every feeling he's ever felt has been vacuumed out of him. Even when Tommy showed up on his doorstep at the end of the first day, eyes rimmed red and glassy, all Buck could say was, "I've never mourned a dad before. Come to show me how it's done?"

Tommy had wrapped Buck up in his arms and said gently, "I've never mourned a dad, either. I'm just here for you."

Loneliness is a bad reason to get back together with someone. Grief is even worse. He wants to say love is behind his desperate refusals to let Tommy leave the house, even for groceries, but he's not sure if it is. But he also knows that without Tommy's seat belt arm around him, Buck would've flown through the proverbial windshield on day two. Maybe it is love. He vaguely remembers what it felt like.

Maybe he needs to bake something. He'd get out of bed to make lemon tarts, but his bones have dissolved. He's just a sack of skin and blood.

"What would you say?" He stares at the open mouths of the drawer pulls and realizes they're not laughing, but screaming. "If it was your father?"

Tommy leans back a little. Buck tenses, then relaxes when Tommy's mouth smears a kiss over his shoulder.

"Mine? Probably 'ashes to ashes, dust to dust, let's now shove this asshole in the earth's crust.'"

Buck huffs with humor that feels like it's coming from two rooms over. "Seriously."

"Seriously." Buck can feel Tommy shrug. "I have nothing to say to him now and I doubt I'd have anything to say if he was dead. But my situation would be completely different."

"How's that?" Buck thinks about rolling over to see his face so he doesn't have to look at the dresser anymore, but then he remembers he doesn't have any bones. Looks like he's stuck here.

"I'd be burying my father. I'm never going to have to bury a dad."

Buck says nothing for a moment. "They're the same thing."

"They aren't, and you know it."

Thank goodness he's belted in by Tommy's arm, because his mind drives wildly across the country to 25 Elm Street, Hershey, PA, where Phillip Buckley is probably puttering around his office, on the phone with someone at his company who needs advice about how to close some multi-million dollar deal. Buck imagines him freezing mid-step, maybe dropping the phone for a little bit of extra drama, then clutching his chest before collapsing to the floor. He thinks about how he would feel getting the call from Maddie.

Maybe that's the difference. If his father died, he'd feel something. Mild shock, maybe, and probably wistful sorrow, thinking about all the time they'd wasted. He'd fly to Hershey and hug his mom when she cried and stand in the receiving line at Hoover Funeral Home and shake people's hands and thank them when they said they were sorry for his loss.

But the world wouldn't lose its color. It wouldn't feel like Buck's heart was fighting for every beat. He wouldn't need Tommy's arm at all.

"I don't know what to... how do I begin to distill what Bobby... what he meant to me?" Buck's eyes prickle hotly. Maybe he'll finally cry. He hasn't yet, which is weird. Usually his taps go on at the drop of a hat. "How do I keep it to, what, three minutes? Is that how long I'm supposed to talk for? T-That's impossible."

"That's a good place to start, actually."

"What, saying there's no way I can keep it to three minutes or less?"

"That you can't condense what Bobby meant—means—to you." Tommy kisses his shoulder again. "Admitting something's too big for you to put into words... well, a lot of people will know exactly what you mean."

"Saying it makes it real," Buck whispers.

"Oh, sweetheart, it's real if you say it or not."

Maybe it's because Tommy sounds so apologetic about telling the truth, or maybe it's because Buck's soul is currently divorced from the rest of him so he's able to hear the other thing Tommy's saying. Whatever it is, it makes his vision swim. Through the blur, he can see a little bit of color eke back into the room. The dresser isn't white; it's light blue.

Sucking in a shuddering breath, Buck rasps, "He's dead."

"I know, Evan," Tommy says, strained, like he's in pain. Like Buck's realization hurts him too.

"Tommy, my dad's dead."

The thing that's been blocking his airway rolls away, and the sob that's been waiting there patiently for days finally tastes freedom. At the same time his soul slams back into his body, his bones rebuild themselves, which gives him the ability to roll over and bury his face into Tommy's neck to muffle the sound of his cries.

He doesn't know how to keep Bobby Nash to three minutes, and even if he manages to come up with something, they'll give him the hook before long. He doesn't know what to do with all the feelings that have broken out of the vacuum and settled right back where they'd been. He doesn't know how to do any of this.

But right now, no one's asking him to. Right now, all he has to do is sit with it.

The seatbelt around Buck's chest tightens, but it doesn't feel like it's because of a hard brake. Tommy is just holding him closer.

[fireflysugarpie]

need to get this idea out about Shang Qinghua being an actual god/deity lmao

okay, so we all know that Shen Qingqiu's system has Luo Binghe as its power source and shut down when he was in another dimension right?

and that Shang Qinghua transmigrated before Luo Binghe's parents even met each other, but his system was still active, albeit less so because it was before the plot and he was a side character.

what if Shang Qinghua's system used him as a power source to run not just itself, but the entire world of SVSSS/PIDW?

I mean, the guy was transmigrated as a baby, and he's had a lot of time to butterfly effect things in ways he probably didn't even try. and since the System's main goal seems to be fixing/improving the core story for the audience's entertainment, it potbelly had to nudge a lot of stuff back into place to ensure the core plot was still recognizable.

it would make sense as to why Shang Qinghua's system was a lot more emotionless, infrequent, and stingy with points than Shen Qingqiu's system and why it was more restrictive in certain ways with Shang Qinghua.

it could be a cool concept that as the happy ending was reached and the System stepped back, Shang Qinghua slowly got more control over his world and storyline. he proudly wouldn't even notice at first, with all of the work and information he has to deal with in both realms. it would start off small with him just knowing certain things about the quality of goods a merchant was trying to sell his King, thinking he read it somewhere in his mountain of paperwork. then it could escalate into 'remembering' specific details about the lives and dynamics of side characters' families and relationships that he doesn't actually remember writing down, but obviously he must have of he knows that the 3rd sister of the Hé family hates tanghulu because she chocked on one as a child. And then that would snowball into him actually having prophetic abilities and the power to alter fate.

it would also be pretty interesting if the world itself obviously favored him, like flowers moving to face him if he meditated in the same spot for a few hours, birds and other wildlife generally being friendly or non hostile, the wind carrying his humming to the ears of those who are down in their luck, ancient and extremely rare treasures and artifacts really wanting him as their wielder, other divine or mythical beings that are able to tell something is off about Shang Qinghua but can't tell what because of the System, and other people not noticing him because he really really doesn't want them to.

just, Deity Shang Qinghua that doesn't know that he's a deity lol

[a-queer-writer]

Writing Tip

Don't overly edit before you finish a first draft.

Get that draft down, then edit.

You'll never finish if you keep editing and don't just continue.

You got this.

[haridraws]

I understand and respect copyeditors, but in my heart of hearts I think commas and hyphens should be vibes-based

[akajustmerry]

READ THE FULL ARTICLE HERE

‘Killers Of The Flower Moon’ Can’t Escape Its Own White Gaze by Merryana Salem / Killers Of The Flower Moon (2023). Dir. Martin Scorsese

[theliteraryarchitect]

So... What Does an Editor Actually Do?

First off, “editor” is one of those words that causes a lot of confusion for writers. It seems simple—someone who works with words, right? But the truth is, “editor” can mean wildly different things depending on the context.

So, let’s clear things up.

When we’re talking about writing and publishing, “editor” usually refers to one of two roles:

1. The Gatekeeper: This is the person who commissions or selects work for a publication, like a magazine, newspaper, or publishing house. Think of phrases like “Her book was chosen by the editor at [Big Fancy Publisher].”

2. The Helper: This is the person who works directly with writers to improve their work. They might suggest revisions, clarify ideas, and polish the manuscript for grammar and style.

Both are called “editors,” but their jobs are completely different. To make things more confusing, in smaller operations (like indie presses), these roles often overlap. The same editor might choose your story for publication and offer stylistic or copyedits before it goes to print.

The 4 Types of Editing

Beyond the word “editor,” the types of editing writers encounter also vary widely, further boggling the mind. Here’s a quick breakdown of the four main types of editing your manuscript might go through:

1. Developmental Editing

This is the kind of editing I do, and the kinds of issues that are covered by the majority of my blog posts. Developmental editing:

• Focuses on the “big picture” of your story—plot, character, pacing, worldbuilding, and structure.

• Asks questions like: Does the ending make sense? Are the characters believable? Is the story too slow?

• This is the most intensive (and expensive) type of editing because it shapes the foundation of your book.

2. Stylistic Editing (Line Editing)

I don't do this kind of editing for my clients, but I occasionally publish line editing tips on this blog because I'm kind of a nerd about it :) Line editing:

• Works on clarity and flow at the sentence and paragraph level.

• Addresses repetition, awkward phrasing, and other issues that muck up your writing flow.

• Happens after developmental editing—no point polishing a scene if it might get cut!

3. Copy Editing

Once in a while I give copy editing tips on this blog, but they're usually wrong and I'm promptly corrected. Let it be known: The Literary Architect is a terrible copy editor. Copy editing:

• Focuses on technical details like spelling, grammar, punctuation, and consistency (e.g., making sure a character’s blue eyes don’t randomly turn brown).

• Think of this as quality control for your manuscript.

4. Proofreading

• The very last step before publication. The proofreader checks for any typos or layout issues that might have slipped through the cracks.

Whether you’re submitting to a publisher or self-publishing, editing matters. Great stories get rejected because they weren’t polished enough. And self-published books that skip editing often lose readers due to glaring errors or clunky prose.

If hiring a professional editor isn’t in the cards, learning to self-edit can help you get your manuscript into the best possible shape before publication. That way, if you do decide to bring in an editor later, they can focus on the deeper work instead of fixing things you could have tackled yourself.

Hope this helps!

/ / / / / / / / / / /

@theliteraryarchitect is a writing advice blog run by me, Bucket Siler, a writer and developmental editor. For more writing help, download my Free Resource Library for Fiction Writers, join my email list, or check out my book The Complete Guide to Self-Editing for Fiction Writers.

[clfixationstation]

ngl I cannot bring myself to agree with the "Catra's redemption was rushed" crowd, whether they like the show overall or not. Perhaps I have a different view of redemption than most. To me, a redemption arc begins when a character experiences guilt and remorse for their actions, which Catra expresses in early season 4 when she has a nightmare about how she threw Entrapta under the bus and activated the portal. Catra's nightmare shows her images of Entrapta and Adora questioning her, placing the onus for her actions on her: "What did you do to me?" "Why did you do it?"

Derailing: Why did she do it? Not because Adora made her. Catra can't use that excuse anymore. "Why did you do it?" Adora also asked Catra this as a child (s5ep3 Corridors) after she hit Lonnie. Back then, it was because Catra was terrified of losing Adora's friendship and thereby being "discarded" by Shadow Weaver. She was scared for her life. But now? Catra didn't activate the portal for safety; she did it to win. She did it to prove to the world she could be victorious, to Shadow Weaver, Hordak, Adora, to everyone who refused to believe in her. Yet after pulling that lever, Catra's true desires were revealed; she wanted to be relatively safe, surrounded by friends, allowed to love Adora, and recognized for her worth. She didn't need to dominate. When that false reality shattered, Catra's hope was shattered with it. She fell back on her sense of injustice, reduced to her own agony, inflicting it upon the world and herself. After the portal, Catra had to face that her goal of ascending through the Horde was hollow.

One could even argue Catra feels regret at the end of season 3 with this look she gives Adora of "ohhh I fucked up, I fucked up big time." Catra looks sickened, with herself and with how Adora now sees her.

From this point in the story, it was blatant to me that Catra was headed for redemption. Catra clearly knows that she went too far and may have completely burned every bridge and ruined all hope of redemption. But she can't yet confront that her ambitions will not fulfill her. So, she doubles down. In classic sunk-cost fallacy fashion, Catra seemingly strengthens her allegiance to the Horde, taking control and commanding operations. Despite herself, Catra's guilt creeps up on her, not only through the nightmare but also in her approach to Adora. Unlike in s1-3, throughout season 4 Catra avoids Adora almost entirely, only engaging from afar. Catra evades confronting the amount of pain she's caused Adora, the seemingly irreparable chasm she's clawed between them, focusing solely on strengthening the Horde. She still cares, but she denies herself that regular interaction.

This suppression poisons Catra's fragile friendship with Scorpia as well. Catra continually lashes out at Scorpia, projecting her own insecurities and frustrations onto her. Her behavior pushes Scorpia away and causes her to leave the Horde, to leave Catra. This is the first time someone left because of her. It almost feels like self-sabotage, Catra pushing Scorpia more and more, becoming crueler, creating reason for her to defect. Catra doesn't feel worthy of Scorpia's friendship, of anyone's. And so Scorpia's kindness enrages her, reminds her of how far she's fallen, and how much lower she will go. Catra also lashes out at her former comrades, Lonnie, Rogelio, and Kyle, further isolating herself from anyone who cares about her, pinning her entire existence on proving herself through Horde victory. She failed in the friendship department; the Horde is all she has left.

But Catra can't fool herself forever, and she certainly couldn't fool Double Trouble. After defeating Hordak, who does Catra have left to prove herself to? Horde Prime? Herself? Neither of those people care. For the first time, Catra is completely alone, and Double Trouble doesn't let Catra hide from how she got there. They read Catra to filth, summarizing what I wrote above: Catra pushed all her friends away in pursuit of a villainous role she didn't desire; her heart laid elsewhere. Now both goals are in ruins. Depleted, with nothing left to prove, Catra asks Glimmer to kill her. Catra's guilt permeated season 4, seeping into all her relationships and degrading her mental state. But guilt is meaningless without action. Which brings us to season 5.

I got soooo off track, so I'll try to wrap it up. So yes, Catra's redemption arc started in s3/4 when she first felt remorse for her actions - not in season 5. Even then, her change took time to develop. Initially, Catra still tried to align herself with Prime, but convinced him to spare Glimmer, indicating her shifting allegiance. The girls begin to empathize with each other and Catra sees how much Glimmer cares for Adora and the life Adora has built for herself. Fully expecting to die, Catra chooses to throw away the small amount of favor she earned with Prime and save Glimmer, therefore protecting Adora. Catra apologizes to Adora for everything. Her body is stolen from her and she dies as a consequence of her actions. She's revived and chooses to join the Rebellion. She slips up but genuinely tries to make amends, not for her own conscience but because it's right. She wants to do better. She accepts ire from the Princesses without retaliation. She defends Adora from Shadow Weaver. She gives Adora the strength to choose to live and allow herself to desire, and together they save the world.

This redemption is not immediate. It was given time, the foundation established across seasons. Catra does not have a sudden change of heart. It builds gradually, even within the final season. Nothing about Catra's arc was rushed and nothing about it was easy. Each day, she fought the harmful instincts cemented in her from years of abuse to become a better person, experiencing realistic regression and growth. Catra was tormented by others and herself for her entire life and all it did was make her worse. She deserves a soft universe, the new world she and Adora created together

[mrghostrat]

editor's note (47k) - 5/5!

last chapter!! thank you everyone who read along with this wip!!! 🥹

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Aziraphale eventually added, either a minute or twenty later. “You just write… It was a very lovely kiss scene,” he finished softly. Crowley shrugged as he topped up both their glasses,, laughing dryly when his gaze found itself wandering right back to the damp line of Aziraphale’s lips. “I’ve got a good imagination.”