Finally.  Time to go.  Steve couldn’t believe he’d managed to wangle this trip.  He’d get to Heathrow with at least an hour to spare.  He and Linda could have a couple of drinks before boarding, then when they got to Amsterdam, let the shagfest begin!  He practically skipped to the office car park, where his chariot awaited. His beautiful red Porsche, Ramona.  Second hand, but so what?  He’d leave her in Heathrow’s long stay.  Much cheaper.  He’d be spending a mint this weekend, so he’d best mind the pennies when he got the chance.

The Sofitel Grand was three hundred smackers a night, and that was on special offer.  Linda.  What a top bird she was. She said she’d paid a little visit to Rigby & Peller.  Oh yes.  He was a lucky bastard all right.

He hoped she wouldn’t bang on too much about Cindy.  He wanted to leave her, he really did, but it wasn’t the right time.  And it was a bit awkward money-wise.  Divorce would cost a bundle, and he didn’t quite know how to break it to Linda that he wasn’t as flush as she thought. It’s not that he’d lied, definitely not, but the motor, the restaurants, the bubbly, the bracelet for her birthday… all had created a certain impression.

It was hard for a single girl to understand just how much money three kids could suck out of you.  Cindy was all organic this, natural that, special shoes ’cos the cheap ones ruin their feet, Daisy’s ballet lessons, Connor’s extra maths thanks to his dyspraxia, poor little sod.  The bills were bloody neverending.  As for the baby.  Steve smiled just thinking about her.  She was such a lovely little thing, but she’d arrived out of left field, just as Cindy was all excited about getting back to work and after they’d given all their baby stuff away.  Splitting up would just mean all that expense plus the cost of running another house on top.  Then Linda would probably want a sprog or two.... bloody hell, talk about running ahead of himself.  One problem at a time, mate, please.

Ramona gave a lovely low growl as he put his foot down towards Heathrow.  Beautiful bit of clear road ahead to really let her rip.  He was tempted to roll the roof back, but the spring air was still a bit nippy.  He did a mental check of the contents of his case.  Jeans, boxers, socks…

In fact, Cindy had been pairing socks when he’d told her about the forthcoming work conference.  She’d totally swallowed it.  They’d even had a nice evening together.  The kids didn’t wake up, the baby was quiet.  A big plate of spag bol, a halfway decent bottle of plonk and a laugh at something on the telly.  If it were always like that... but then they’d had a row about the baby’s buggy.  Cindy wanted a new one as the wheels were wonky and she said it was tricky to fold up.  And he’d flipped and told her there was sod all wrong with the one they had and she’d said you try bloody pushing it around all day then, and the evening was ruined.  When he thought about how many prams he could buy for the cost of his wicked weekend away he’d felt a bit bad, so he’d told her to go ahead and buy a new damn pram, but he didn’t think she would now.  That was Cindy all over.

What else?  He’d packed a suit that morning to throw Cindy off the scent, but had left it hanging in his office.  Washbag, toothbrush, shaving gear, athlete’s foot cream decanted into a little plain tub.  Mycota plonked on the surface of their lovely marble bathroom would not be sexy or romantic.  Workout gear.  He was looking forward to impressing Linda with his bench presses.  Swimming trunks.  The hotel had an amazing pool and sauna.  His chest swelled with anticipation.  God it was a good feeling.   The city’s finest Indonesian tonight, and he’d get the concierge to book something special the evening after.  Why spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar?

He’d stock up on a shedload of ribbed extra-strengths at the airport.  Maybe a variety pack.  Much as he loved Linda, he wouldn’t put it past her to accidentally on purpose....  blimey there you go again, he thought.  In any ointment, he’d bloody see the fly.  He grinned as he remembered what they’d done with a tub of Haagen Dasz.   It had been a long time since he’d had so much fun with Cindy.

The traffic started to slow, then abruptly ground to a halt.  Bloody roadworks.  Thank you very much, Boris.  He still had plenty of time though.  He put the radio on and hummed away to Teenage Dirtbag.  The cars in front started to inch forward. He had an hour to spare, but he’d wanted to spend it having a flirty drink with Linda, not stuck in bastard traffic.  He reached third gear before he had to brake again, just as he leveled with Tesco’s.  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, this time to Fleetwood Mac.  Traffic stayed put.  He stretched his arms and moved his neck from side to side.  He tapped the steering wheel in time to the music, trying to quell his growing irritation.  He craned his neck to see what the problem was.  Idly, he turned to his left at Tesco’s, at something in his peripheral vision.

Fucking hell that was only Cindy in the Tesco’s car park.  She was pushing the baby with shopping bags draped over both handles of the pram and another dangled off one of her wrists, not to mention the Bag for Life which hung off her shoulder.  Daisy and Connor trailed behind her, Daisy with a face like a smacked arse and Connor looking like he was on another planet as per usual.  Twice while he was watching, Cindy had to back up the pram so the wheels would run true.  Steve was struck by how tired she looked.  God she looked so bloody tired and pissed off.  He watched as she reached her little blue runaround and opened the boot to pack it with the shopping, looked around for Connor who had scampered away from her, distracted, while Daisy climbed into the back without helping her mother.  The Visible Sulk, he called her when she was like that.

Cindy undid the straps of the pram, picked the baby up and ran with her so she could catch up with Connor, then grabbed him by the hand and had to drag him back to the car.   He could see her having a go, but with Connor, it was in one ear and out the other.  The driver behind Steve honked.  He jumped as if electrocuted.  Steve slammed his foot down to get out of Cindy’s sight.

He drove ever faster as the bottleneck cleared.  He had a knot in his stomach.  He thought furiously about Linda’s lingerie and the ice cream to get himself back in the mood, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Cindy.  She’d be with him in Amsterdam and wouldn’t even know it.  Like that ghost from Shakespeare.  Banko, that was it.         

He’d make it up to her as soon as he was back, he resolved.  They’d get back on track, him and Cindy.  For each other, not only the kids.   It would be hard on Linda, he knew that, but they’d have one last blow-out weekend.  It would be hard on him too, but Linda wouldn’t care about that and who could blame her?  He continued to cruise forward, focusing hard on those frilly knickers and that beautiful cleavage encased in something frothy.  If only he hadn’t seen Cindy.

The airport was really close now.  His speed had dropped to a level which would shame an OAP on a Sunday country outing.  He looked in his rear view mirror and saw that there was a long queue of traffic behind him.  Normally he hated people like him.  He put on some speed but pretty soon he got to the last roundabout before the airport.  He indicated to make the turn but changed his mind at the last nanosecond, earning himself a sharp beep from the bloke behind him.

He felt sick in his heart.  He went round the roundabout again.  This time, he turned tail and made for home.  They weren’t expecting him back at work. He pulled over as soon as he got the chance and silenced Ramona’s low purring hum.  He switched off the radio, shutting up Seal, who was warbling about roses.  He sat still for a good few minutes, conscious only of the pulse in his neck and the weight in his chest.  He reached for his mobile and tapped out a text to Cindy.  ‘Conf canceled.  Will be home early.  Get a sitter lets book angelo’s tonight.’  He was just about to press send before he added ‘Luv u sxx’ to the message.  Then he dialed Linda’s number, which he knew off by heart, as he’d never stored it on his phone.

In the spirit of all things Byte Confluence our short story this month is by the brilliant Toby Litt.
Toby will be speaking at Byte Confluence, our conference on the business of storytelling on 19th May.
His session is entitled:

"How to tell a story to save the world
Or at least, how not to tell a story to destroy it"

The Glass of Water on the Table By Toby Litt

Had the cat drunk from it? Since the day before, the water level had gone down by about half a
centimetre. Evaporation? Or Alexander the Great? If the cat had stuck its head in and lapped, after jumping onto his small table, could he drink the tongue-touched? Did it matter? It wouldn’t kill him, would it? In bed, in the mornings – over by the other wall – he always let the cat lick his unshaven chin. At the table, as he was now, he often let Alexander the Great stand between him and his forms, his
depositions. He sat back and looked at the glass with its faded image of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and thought about touching tongues with the cat, as he had twice done with his older sister, now dead. Not a kiss, and not without disgust and running away shrieking – but both first making a point of their tongue and then, with bare bedtime feet as far apart as possible, bringing point and point together. He leaned in to look closely at the glass and for a flash felt how much the rubble had weighed. There
weren’t any ginger hairs around the soft rim. In all his life since, he had never expected the miracle of ownership of a cat. Only a limping tomcat, admittedly, missing half an ear, which he had started to feed when it became clear no-one else on the street was. Instead, the neighbours above left curried meat out for foxes – which the foxes loved, but spices and especially tandoori made fox-piss smell even worse. At night, the foxes made sounds like English men who are voiding too-hot curries, eaten in the drunken bravery of the previous evening. So he imagined. He would listen to the fox-agony as he tried to doze. But without hating them – it was the foxes had caused Alexander the Great to come in through his window and start sleeping on his blankets. Another cat had been found on the road, with bite marks at the edge of its exposed rib-cage, though some in the flats still blamed a car. His sister’s tongue had left spittle on his own that felt briefly cool. He picked up the glass, drank, shrieked or did not shriek – I don’t know. I don’t have the authority to know.

This short story was first published in the Seagull Books Catalogue. The first editor was Naveen Kishore.

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A member of Writers Rebel, Toby Litt has been involved with actions on Trafalgar Square and Tufton Street - drawing attention to climate change denial. During the first couple of lockdowns, and unable to take direct action, he wrote a brief polemic on storytelling, screenwriting manuals, heroism and hope. This is being serialised on the Writers Rebel website. In this session, he will talk about the ways in which the monomyth of the Hero’s Journey has come to dominate storytelling in all forms, and explore how writers can find new ways to create gripping, inspiring adventures.

Tickets for Byte Confluence are £100* for members/£150* for non-members and  can be booked here.
*plus booking fee and VAT

How to Take a Good Author Portrait Photograph

Now that the lockdown is gradually easing up, it might be time to start thinking about refreshing your author headshot.  Looking relaxed and confident is key to getting great pictures.

It pays to put some thought into your shoot beforehand.  Your headshots are about showcasing your books as well as you.

What do you want your headshot to say?   

A good photographer will put you at ease to avoid tension showing in your face and eyes.  However, you might like to practise a few expressions in the mirror first so you can get an idea of what suits you.  If there are any features that make you feel self-conscious, let your photographer know.

Don’t let your clothes do the talking

Most headshots include your shoulders and upper chest area, so avoid large patterns or ostentatious logos that draw the eye away from your face.   If your shots are in black and white, you’ll want to think about providing some balance and contrast.

Be ready for your close up

Pause every so often to glance in the mirror and make sure that stray hairs, smudged eyeliner or a wonky tie aren’t spoiling your picture.  These minor imperfections are barely noticeable in real life, but once immortalised in digital form, you’ll look at your brand-new headshots and won’t be able to focus on anything else!

So, now that you’re ready, where can we go?

Here’s my pick of the best places in London for the perfect spring photo shoot:

Kew Gardens

You can’t beat Kew Gardens for spring blossom splendour.  Carpets of crocuses start to appear from late February and are in full bloom throughout March.  From April, the cherry trees throw their pink and white confetti skywards, while May brings our native blue bells out all at once.

St James’ Park

Make like Wordsworth and wander lonely as a cloud—or with friends and family—down to St James’ Park where you’ll find that crowd of golden daffodils ‘Beside the lake, beneath the trees/Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.’  And what a sight they make!  St James’ park receives the lion’s share of the 1 million daffodil bulbs planted in London’s Royal parks each year, so you won’t lack picturesque spots for your spring photoshoot.  Just mind you don’t get upstaged by the famous St James’ Park pelicans!

Regent’s Park

If you’re yearning for the orderly beauty of a formal garden, take the Bakerloo line to Regent’s Park and head for the Avenue Gardens.  Here, April brings the cherry trees into bloom and turns the Avenue Gardens into a froth of pink blossom.  Don’t forget the cherry tree avenue along Chester Road, either.  Originally planted in the 1930s, this avenue was restored in 2015 with the planting of 100 new trees.

Richmond Park

Richmond Park is one of my favourite places for a woodland walk, especially in late April to early May, when the Isabella Plantation is ablaze with thousands of azalea flowers.  Established in the 1830s, the Isabella Plantation boasts 40 acres of Japanese azaleas, rhododendrons and camellias, which intermingle with native plants and other exotic and rare varieties.

London’s City Farms

The animal lovers among you will definitely want to visit one of London’s city farms. Springtime is synonymous with comically fluffy chicks and ducklings, and adorably knock-kneed lambs.  Rather incongruously located in the middle of Tower Hamlets, Stepney City Farm is a tiny rural idyll in the midst of the grey urban sprawl.

Byte offer: Book an Author Portrait with Kim before 1^st April for £150 instead of £300. Photoshoot must be taken before May 31^st, 2021. To take up this offer please email her via info@kimrixphotography.co.uk.

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Kim Rix is a graduate gemologist, and internationally published author. She is also a professional, award-winning portrait photographer.

Photography: https://kimrixphotography.co.uk/

Gemstone Detective: https://gemstonedetective.com/

The Pool

The Lifeguard

The lifeguard sits in the chair ten feet above the pool deck, a whistle around her neck. Her shift is two hours long. There are nine people in the pool: one in the fast lane, three in the medium lane, two in the slow lane. At the far side of the pool, two lanes have been combined for swimming lessons, and a college student is dragging a small child on a kickboard. The child’s mother sits on the edge with her feet in the water. That makes nine. The lifeguard keeps her eyes on the lanes, and on the doors to the locker rooms, out of which more swimmers might appear at any time.

The Swimmer

The swimmer is thankful to have the lane to himself. He can’t stand it when some slow old fogey dives into the fast lane, showing off their years-old swim technique, probably honed on a high school team in the eighties. The swimmer has a regimen to complete, as he decided—it was his decision—not to go out for the college team. Therefore he must swim at least an hour a day, five days a week, to maintain his current muscle mass percentage. Having the lane to himself means he can swim with less rage.

The Child

The child hates swim lessons. He hates how the pool gives him goosebumps up his back when he jumps in. He hates how his mother stays so far away from him, all the way on the other side of the pool, when he would prefer her to come in and hold his hand. He hates his teacher, who pretends to be nice when he can’t lift his arm over his head and cup the water on the way down, just like she showed him; it is hard. He loves one thing about swimming, though. He loves being underwater. If he could, he would sink to the bottom of the pool and stay there for the whole lesson.

The Lifeguard

Two people emerge from the locker room. One is a janitor, who strolls across the pool deck with a garbage bag in her hand. The other is a student in a Y-back racing suit, a swim cap, and goggles. The student takes a glug of water from a bottle, puts it down and dives into the fast lane. She does not look human, the way she slices through the water. She is a creature, a water bird. She is grace. The lifeguard loses herself for a minute, remembering the book of Greek mythology she read as a child, with its faded drawings and bent corners. Then she sits up straight and counts. Ten.

The Janitor

The janitor is glad that it is Tuesday, and not Saturday. The pool is less busy on a Tuesday, and that means there are fewer hair balls in the drains, sanitary napkins overflowing from the metal bins, and shit floating in the toilets. Her feet hurt, and she’s wearing old, worn sneakers. She would like to buy new ones. The lifeguard on duty never takes her eyes off the water. Some of them are kind, they look at her and smile when she walks by. Not this one.

The Parent

The parent avoids eye contact with her child while he’s in the water. She believes the child has forgotten to object to the swim lesson, and that if he catches her eye, he will remember and make a scene. The child is manipulative that way.

The Lifeguard

There are one hour and forty six minutes left in the lifeguard’s shift. She shifts in her chair. Her left foot is asleep. No one has entered the pool deck in the last few minutes, though one aging swimmer has exited the slow lane. Nine. The woman in the fast lane keeps a mesmerizing pace, her elbows emerging in a rhythmic dance. Every two laps, she overtakes the man in her lane. The child bobs underwater. The men’s locker room door swings open, and a middle-aged man walks onto the deck. He is completely nude, brown curly hairs from his nipples to his toes. He turns his head right, he turns his head left. His face is abject confusion; he’s in a bad dream. The janitor, picking up discarded belongings in the bleachers, stops and looks. The man turns around, his white buttocks disappearing back into the locker room. Well, that’s a first, the lifeguard thinks. She looks at the pool and counts. Only two in the medium lane, now. She sits taller, scanning the bottom of the pool. Her heart races. But then she sees a man toweling himself off in the corner. Eight. One hour and forty three minutes to go.

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Rachel Mann is an NYC-based writer of fiction and plays. Her debut novel, ON BLACKBERRY HILL, won the National Jewish Book Award for Young Adult Literature in 2016. She graduated from the Novel Studio course at City University London, as well as from Columbia (BA) and New York University (MA).  She can be contacted via her website www.rachelmannwriter.com or on twitter @rachelmannnyc.

VISIT WEBSITE

FOLLOW @RACHELMANNNYC ON TWITTER

We're heard about some wonderful collaborations via the Byte The Book. Here's author and journalist James Ashton, talking about her work with Chris Cudmore and the team at Kogan Page. If you're found some great collaborators through Byte The Book and are keen to share your stories in this series please send us an email to info@bytethebook.com.

How did you find out about Kogan Page?
I knew of Kogan Page by reputation and through their books I'd bought or been sent to review as a financial journalist. It was an introduction by Justine Solomons that really kicked off our relationship.

What did you work on together?
They published my book, The Nine Types of Leader, in January this year. I'd had the idea of drawing some leadership themes out from my body of newspaper interviews for a while; their interest accelerated the writing.

What was Kogan Page like to work with?
Very slick. Their publishing director, Chris Cudmore, gave short but punchy critiques as I went. And when the pandemic hit, they were quick to re-order their publishing schedule and made sure I knew what dates I had to hit.

==========================================================================

More on James Ashton

More on Kogan Page

Kogan Page is the leading independent global publisher of business books and content with over 1000 titles in print. Founded in 1967, its award-winning work offers books and digital solutions for professional practice and academic achievement. Its expert authors come from the most prestigious academic institutions, international commercial organizations and professional associations, delivering high-level, accessible and professional content in key subject areas relating to business and management. Kogan Page has offices in London, New York and New Delhi.

VISIT WEBSITE

FOLLOW @KOGANPAGE ON TWITTER

Once a year, the last week of classes, the kids get to try out a special power for the day. We all look forward to it, us teachers too. It's the highlight of the semester. The kids can't choose just anything of course. The teachers' handbook offers suggestions: elastic arms; x-ray vision; super-sensitive hearing; the ability to hold your breath for up to an hour; or make yourself invisible; or turn different colors like a chameleon (good for discussing diversity). But I've always challenged my students to come up with their own ideas. I schedule a 'brainstorming' session the day before.

That Abby Schneider is a real bright spark. She wanted teeth like a shark's. I was naturally cautious—you have to consider liability—but since we'd just completed a unit on sharks I was pleased too. Mikey M had brought his Corgi to class after winter break. I taught a lesson on canine olfaction and now he wanted to try that: to have a dog's power of smell. I said it was a great idea. The next kid I called on was the new girl, Grace, that moved here after what happened in Florida. A shy kid, biggest set of braces you ever saw. She has such a quiet little voice that I misheard her at first. I thought she'd said bully proof.

Her actual suggestion caught me off balance, I must say. But it was practically the first time Grace had raised her hand. You don't like to discourage them. What an interesting idea, is what I think I told her, but she should keep on thinking too. They should all keep thinking; sleep on it. And I dismissed the class.

Friday was the day. It turned out the whole class, with the exception of Mikey and his friend Jamal, wanted to be bullet-proof, like Superman. I tried reasoning with them. A power like that wouldn't be much fun. How could we even test it? (We keep a couple of firearms in the office but I couldn't imagine myself . . . I haven't had my training). They were adamant though, that little Grace kid most of all. So I tried another tack: did they not feel safe at the school? Solemn, even accusatory gazes. A regular conspiracy of silence! In the end, I let them have their way. I guess I could have switched to another lesson but I'd nothing prepared. And they'd been looking forward to this.

It all went smoothly to begin with. Mike and Jamal had fun sniffing the radiators, the waste paper basket, even my socks, but the rest of them seemed contented enough. They did some math equations and then I read them a story. I did ask, a couple of times, if it wasn't a bit boring. Didn't they want to try something different, like Mike and Jamal? But they shook their little heads.

It wasn't until the last hour that they grew anxious. Grace was first to speak up—she seemed to have developed overnight into the class leader. Couldn't they stay that way? she asked. Stay bullet-proof forever? Before long they were all crowding round me, even the two sniffer boys, pleading. Gently at first, I explained that it didn't work that way. Well, said Abby, it ought to. I tried explaining some more—not easy with a dozen youngsters besieging you—and then I put on my stern voice. That was enough now, I told them, and not to be silly.

When I went to take back their powers: Pandemonium. Before I knew it, they'd scattered to all corners of the classroom. A couple—one, I think, was Jamal—ducked into the closet and closed the door on me. It sounds like high spirits, perhaps, but none of them was smiling. Grace, with those braces of hers, looked especially grim. Others were just plain terrified. More than one puddled the floor. In vain, I tried to calm them. I was afraid we'd have an asthma attack or epileptic fit.

I don't know how it might all have ended if I hadn't had one of my brainwaves. "Who wants a go at flying?" I asked. They weren't sure at first, but then a couple of the boys got excited and before long they began to come around. "Okay," I told them, "but we have to use the gym, it's got a higher ceiling, and we have to go super quietly." I didn't want any of the other teachers to see what I was doing—granting the kids the power of flight is frowned on.

My first move when we got to the gym was to lock all the doors. The kids had followed me quietly enough, but they were still on edge. One or two were sniveling as I shepherded them into line. "Right, who's first?" I asked in my cheeriest voice. "Who wants to fly?" After a pause, Mikey stepped forward. With one hand I took back his extraordinary sense of smell while the other gave him the power of flight. He took off at once. And when the others saw how he got the hang of it, climbing to the ceiling, banking and swooping, they all wanted to try. Soon enough the entire class was aloft, skimming and hovering. Even Grace was laughing as she flew past me, chased by Ned Buchinski.

That's the great thing about kids that age: their innocence. It's not that they don't get anxious, but it doesn't last. You invent some distraction and, five minutes later, they have no recollection of whatever was troubling them. By the time I got out the basketballs, they were having a whale of a time. I wish I could have recorded the slam-dunk contest. A day that had threatened to grow unpleasant and awkward, ended—in the words of the old song—with everyone 'Safe and Sound, and Smiles All Around.'

This story first appeared in http://cafeirreal.alicewhittenburg.com/blaney8.htm

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Paul Blaney wears a variety of hats. His main vocation is as a fiction writer but he also works as a freelance journalist, a teacher, editor, and publisher.  Born and raised in London, he has lived and worked in Lisbon, Hong Kong, and Eugene, Oregon, and now lives in Easton, PA. Recent publications include Handover, a novella set in Hong Kong, and The Anchoress, another novella whose main protagonist locks herself in her walk-in closet and won't come out. In 2015 Paul's first novel, Mister Spoonface, was published. The book explores what it means to be a father in an era of artificial reproduction. His two most recent novels are Crown of Thorns, the story of a 21st-century messiah, and Jardin des Animaux, which features wild animals, tunnels and love in a time of civil war

This month in our Byte Experts series, we hear from editor Bryony Sutherland on approaching, fostering, and maintaining the unique relationship between authors and editors.

Congratulations: you’ve finished your manuscript! Now it’s time for an editor to help take it to the next level, be that agency submission or self-publishing. At this point, there’s a definite emotional shift. Maybe no one’s ever read your writing before. Maybe you’re supremely confident, or exactly the opposite. Swallowing pride, ego, and your fears must now go hand in hand with trusting a stranger with your precious words. It’s a bit like jumping off a literary cliff.

If you find a good stylistic fit, your editor can become so much more than a distant professional to polish your words. Writing becomes less solitary and more of a team effort; your editor should care about your characters and plot as much as you do and want to see your skills develop. Heck, you might even become friends.

Here’s how to navigate the various stages of working with your editor, form a strong creative partnership, and avoid the pitfalls along the way.

Understand what an editor does

An editor is not a glorified beta reader: she should be able to connect with your work and make corrections and suggestions based on professional experience rather than casual interest. There are many types of editors, and the terminology can be confusing. Commissioning editors advise publishing houses on the purchase of new manuscripts. Developmental editors examine the bones of your book to make sure it’s structurally sound, engaging, and has pace, while checking for plot holes and continuity errors. Copy editors polish your words until they gleam, identify consistency issues, and eradicate repetition. Proofreaders also fix typos and errors in grammar and punctuation, but rarely improve the text on a creative or stylistic level.

Book in advance

If you were planning to renovate your house, you would expect to wait a while for the services of an expert building firm. Likewise, a booked-up editor is the sign of an established and successful editor, whose services are in demand. If you’re a first-time author, approach your editor when you’ve finished several drafts, and can no longer see how to improve the manuscript. Use any waiting time to seek beta feedback and make changes if appropriate.

Schedules can be flexible, and there are always exceptions to the rule, but I’m typically booked up four to six months in advance.

Consider your communication

Sometimes prospective clients expect to jump straight on a lengthy call to discuss the project. However, from the moment you first approach an editor, your written communication is being evaluated. And it’s not just for the reasons you think.

In my case, yes, it’s true I am looking at your writing style. But it’s less a judgement about missing apostrophes and more about whether you can express yourself clearly, in private, to me. I’m also noting your enthusiasm for the project. Most importantly, I’m evaluating your responses to my questions. I need reassurance that you understand me, follow instructions, and pay attention to the details. These are my basic criteria for a good working relationship. If you’re uncomfortable sending a sample of your writing, or you bristle at my commentary following a friendly evaluation, then we’re not a good fit.

Don’t haggle

Again, your editor provides a service just as a builder or an architect provides a service. Her rate is based on the number of hours she expects to work on your project. Authors requesting money off a quoted fee give the impression they don’t appreciate the editor’s time has value. It’s a strange mental equation considering she’s there to add value in the first place.

When it comes to invoices, pay promptly. Writing may be a hobby you adore while holding down a day job, but this is likely to be your editor’s livelihood. If she has set aside a month to concentrate on your 120,000-word epic, yours might be the only income she has during this period. If you don’t pay on time, chances are you’re affecting her ability to pay her bills, which may damage the trust established between you.

Learn the tech

Like it or loathe it, the universally accepted format for your manuscript from editors to agents and publishers is a Word document (.doc or .docx). Scrivener might look pretty and is amazing for organisation and creativity, but its editing tools are non-existent. Make sure you learn how to transfer your files into Word documents, and then check them over before submission. Meanwhile, Pages is fine for the basics and is generally compatible with Word, but hidden formatting bugs exist that can translate into spacing and punctuation issues, and time-consuming headaches for your editor.

Word’s track changes feature may look scary at first glance, but it’s key to how your editor will interact with your text. The Microsoft site offers a straightforward set of instructions, and tutorials are available on YouTube.

Prep your manuscript

The more errors you can clean up pre-edit, the more time that will free up for your editor to dive deeper. For example, three-quarters of the manuscripts I receive contain misnumbered chapters. Time spent renumbering and checking with the author if there is text missing is time away from an edit’s finer complexities. So Google articles on self-editing and formatting, spellcheck, and comb through your work for discrepancies and continuity errors. Send a single file, no matter how large. Use a sensible 12-point font, double-space your lines, remove all surplus spaces and hard returns, and banish tabs forever. Avoid colours, underlining, bold font, and WRITING IN CAPITALS.

Patience is a virtue

Once the edit has begun, sit on your hands and don’t touch your version of the manuscript. (It’s obsolete within seconds of a professional edit.) If you have a list of concerns or queries, do send them along at the beginning, but unless there is an emergency of unprecedented proportions, leave the editor to get on with the job. Radio silence is not a sign of rudeness; queries regarding how it’s going will only slow everything down.

Be prepared to take criticism

No one wants to hear what’s wrong with their masterpiece, but in an editing relationship, this is exactly what you’re paying for. It’s not personal; it’s professional. A good editor will praise the positive and help you address the negative, by offering suggestions and providing a sounding board if appropriate. After all, it’s in the editor’s best interest if your book does well. Your developmental editor will love you if you take her recommendations on board and action them. Trust me: there’s nothing more satisfying than seeing plot holes filled.

Long-term relationship

Most editors are looking to establish a long-term relationship just as much as you are. When you receive your edits and/or manuscript evaluation, don’t hesitate to give feedback and ask questions if anything’s unclear. The dialogue should remain open until you are happy and confident about your next steps. Keep in touch throughout your publishing journey; after spending several weeks immersed in a manuscript, your editor may feel invested in the project, and you might find she can help you far beyond the nuts and bolts of the edit. That said, if your general queries are lengthy and involved, and will take time away from other clients, offer to pay a consultancy fee. On a courtesy note, be mindful of working hours and the time difference between you if you live in different countries. Lastly, a thank you, an acknowledgement in the book, and a copy of the published masterpiece are always appreciated.

Final word

If your editor requests that you make revisions with track changes turned ON, ignore this at your utmost peril.

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Before becoming an editor, Bryony Sutherland authored ten books and got used to her words being fair game to the red pen. She specialises in developmental and copy editing, and can be found at http://bryonysutherland.com.

We're heard about some wonderful collaborations via the Byte The Book. Here's founding member Zoe Cunningham talking about her work with Designer Rosamund Saunders, If you're found some great collaborators through Byte The Book and are keen to share your stories in this series please send us an email to info@bytethebook.com.

Over to Zoe!

What did you ask Rosamund to do?
Rosamund designed new covers and typeset new layouts for my books. She also helped with getting them distributed to publishers and checking we had the right formats etc.! I had limited experience in self-publishing and she essentially helped me to take my completed manuscripts to the point where you can buy the books!

What did you work on together?
Galvanising the Geeks – how to manage technical teams.https://smile.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1838232400/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i2

Networking Know-How – how to get ahead by meeting people (like through Byte the Book!!).https://smile.amazon.co.uk/Networking-Know-How-Zoe-F-Cunningham/dp/1838232419/

• An Actor’s Life for Me – tips for starting out as an actor, based on my experiences retraining aged 35.https://smile.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1838232427/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i1

What Rosamund was like to work with
Absolutely fantastic! Great communication throughout the process and extremely knowledgeable. Plus she really went the extra mile to make sure that I got a result that I was happy with.

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More on Rosamund Saunders – Designer

Rosamund has worked in publishing for over thirty years, initially in the pre-digital world of manuscript cast off, mark-up and wet proofing. Working directly with Doris Lessing, Gerald Durrell, Chris Bonington and French and Saunders, she was responsible for page design and managed the Grafton (William Collins) book design team.

She went on to play a key role in the HarperCollins/Penguin collaboration that brought desktop publishing to the book world.

As art director at Brown Packaging she designed highly illustrated part-works and books. She was awarded freelance contracts to art direct photography for cookery artwork presentations and part-work series. Subsequently she art directed photography and designed page layouts for DK’s Mary Berry’s New Cook, Miriam Stoppard titles and also lifestyle, diet and fitness books.

On contract as acting art director for Quarto Children’s she managed design teams, paper engineers and illustrators. As maternity leave cover at Anova she managed the National Trust, Salamander and Children’s lists.

Rosamund specialises in design concepts, book fair presentations and designing from ms through to repro for illustrated non-fiction books cookery, diet, heritage, crafts, fashion and popular culture.

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