I use Grammarly’s free plagiarism checker online because stealing other people’s work is a douchebag move. Listen, I am asked to read and edit a lot of work. And when your writing usually sounds like a monkey wrote it while delousing their cooch, and then suddenly you say, “No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true.”, I know you’re full of sh*t. So, between my inability to spell and my mistrust of people, I generally run their work through the checker.
What kills me though, is that now I’m known as “The Red Pen Murderer”. Over the years, some of you asked me to read your works, and I made them bleed with my uncanny ability to always be right. Then you all cried in your cocoa puffs so much that I gave up my editing gift. My penance for being such a harsh editor was having to open the door for the cleaning ladies on the days I should have gotten to sleep in. Those privileged few who were able to receive my help can attest to the fact that I’m a royal pain in the tukkis. I go line by line, word by word, picking at it like the ingrown hair on your bum. I use this process because, while I hate it being done to me, having my work shredded by others has made me a better writer.
You may ask why I’m writing about this when I’ve been the epitome of a slackadaisical blogger over the past few months.
It’s Rod’s fault.
He is one of my best friends and editors. A while back, he requested that I edit his next novel. While I’ve said “no” to everyone, I felt I had to help him or he would throw a big hissy fit and refuse to fix things in my house the next time he visited. Therefore, I’ve been working with him for months (mostly because I’m a slacker), tirelessly pouring over his work.
He’s only on his first draft, but I’m extremely impressed. He has a great talent, but every day, I feel worse and worse as I beat him to a bloody pulp. I’m watching him slowly die. I think it might be quicker if I used cyanide, but he lives too far away, so that isn’t an option. Plus, then he couldn’t pull hair out of my drains when he visits. So Rod just has to suck it up and suffer.
So here I am, mean ole’ Becca, murdering more of his book tonight until it bleeds red. I’m feeling awful about it as he gets thinner, his eyes get more sunken in, and he cries a little bit, while saying, “You’re so right Becca, I don’t know why I didn’t see that before.”
Then I nod my head in agreeance*, clasp my hands together, and softly say, “Many have uttered those words, then followed their own path and regretted it.” I allow an awkward silence as he humbly contemplates my words of wisdom. Then I wink and giggle, and say, “You’re bet your a$$! I’m the best!”
Now, If I can figure out how to make enough money at editing, I can live off the proceeds. Then I’ll have the luxury of crushing people’s hopes and dreams the old-fashioned way: just for fun. In the meantime, I’ll try to remember that syntax and punctuation are only one part of writing; drinking on the other hand…
Lady or Not… Here I Come!
*My husband told me “agreeance” wasn’t a word. Let me tell you, he had me feeling almost as bad as the time he hit me with the hose. I looked it up, and dictionary.com says it is indeed a word, defined as: the act or state of agreeing; agreement. Who is whose beyotch now? So you can suck it! (Apologies to my mother-in-law, whom I adore)