In between getting my literary rocks off drafting my "Full Moon Addiction/Rehab" work-in-progress, I received important business news.
My publisher checked in yesterday.
Had I started looking at his novelette, which he sent the other week?
I hadn't.
But, being a self-respecting writer, I didn't tell him that, of course.
First, I perused the first two chapters over my lunch break. He sent nine, which I had already stored in a file. Then I could honestly reply soon after that, yes, I was looking at it. What format did he prefer? He had emailed a mix of Word and Rich Text Format files. And how deep or into-the-weeds should I get with my comments and edits?
This news seemed to ... please him?
Yes—it must have. He immediately offered me a bona fide, paying, editing gig on a historical fiction novel.
I had hoped, from how well things went editing the anthology of queer fairy tales starring hirsute and hefty gay men, that he might send me some work down the line. But this soon? Fantastic.
This marks my first official editing gig on a novel, so there is that.
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