Editing and freelancing resources

October 15th, 2014

I have been on a hunt for great editing and freelancing resources these past few weeks–the changing of the seasons always inspires me to take a fresh look at my writing and editing business, and make sure everything is on track. Once in a while, Amazon’s list of book recommendations is spot-on, and I thought I’d share a few titles that may be helpful if you are or want to be a freelance editor.

The Business of Editing (2013)
by Richard H. Adin (Author), Ruth E. Thaler-Carter (Foreword), Jack M. Lyon (Foreword)

How to Start a Home-based Editorial Services Business (2013)
by Barbara Fuller

The Wealthy Freelancer (2010)
by Steve Slaunwhite, Pete Savage, and Ed Gandia

Manuscript Makeover: Revision Techniques No Fiction Writer Can Afford to Ignore (2008)
by Elizabeth Lyon

The Chicago Manual of Style, 16th Edition (2010)

The Editor’s Lexicon: Essential Writing Terms for Novelists (2010)
by Sarah Cypher (yes, I’m plugging my book, but you really will find it helpful in discussing fiction with clients)


Also, don’t neglect to join the Editorial Freelancers Association. It gives you access to the brisk traffic on its JobList, and also the invaluable forums where editors discuss everything from prospecting to business operations. They are generous with answering questions, too.

What Happens in Rancho: Race Report from Challenge Rancho Cordova 70.3

October 6th, 2014

In some fog bank of memory, years ago, I told Erin I might someday race a half Ironman–a.k.a. a “70.3” for its number of miles. The 70.3 distance is her favorite because, compared to the whimpering, twitching, starved-but-can’t-eat state that beset her after Ironman Louisville 2010, she claims that a half Ironman is hard but only “leaves you sore enough to know you’ve done something.” And indeed, as I write this, the particulars of how I came to feel both hung over and like I’ve been run over by a Prius are wreathed with the kind of debauched haze that usually follows a trip to Las Vegas.

Yes, I “did something” yesterday: in 90-degree heat, for almost six hours, while consuming a copious amount of sickly sweet mixed drinks, which led to peeing in my shorts twice. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was my first 70.3 at Challenge Rancho Cordova.

Challenge Rancho Cordova 70.3

Rancho Cordova, CA

Swim (1.29 miles, 35-ish minutes, 1:43/100m-ish pace)

Speaking of pee, triathletes are wary of borrowing or renting wetsuits for a reason. We like to buy our own, because if there is one constant in every race, it’s that after a few days of obsessive careful hydration combined with pre-race nerves, it’s that you’re going to pee in that wetsuit. So when you see over hundred athletes paddling around in the deep water, gazing with mock interest at the line of course buoys… Yeah, we’ve all done it. Endurance athletes check their shame at the neon inflatable balloon arch.

Oakland Triathlon Club

Before the race, in wetsuits. (Photo Kasey Caletti)

I queued up in my favorite starting location, just behind the far-inside starting buoy, and shared a few excited words with super-fast Oakland Triathlon Club teammate Christina Liebner. Then the countdown seemed to jump from ten to two, and the horn sounded. I sprinted the first 100 yards to the first buoy, according to plan, and for the first time all season, I saw that I’d kept up with the lead swimmers.

That all changed as I slowed down to settle into my normal pace, and I switched to stage two of the plan: Enjoy the day. Folsom Lake is placid, cool, and clear (but not too clear–I don’t want to know what’s on the bottom). As I rounded the first big turn in the course, the sun came up over the trees, lighting up the return buoys a glowing, neon orange. I found myself too far to the outside of the course, adjusted, and sped up a little. My wetsuit forced me to arch my back, causing some lumbar pain which would return with a vengeance later.

Bike (56 miles, 2:58-ish hours, 19mph-ish)

Like all my OTC teammates, one of my main goals of the day was staying cool. As the sun got higher, heat began to rise from the road; I noticed it every time I passed out of a shadow–and there weren’t many of those on this drought-stricken, exposed course. I was thankful for the loan of Coach Raeleigh Harris’s white aero helmet, borrowed to replace my unvented, black cast iron kettle Giro Selector. I also used Pearl Izumi white cool-sleeves for the first time, worn under my wetsuit to get soaked, and which I kept damp with water throughout the bike and run. I actually was chilly for most of the race.

I tackled the first 25 miles of hills (total elevation gain, just under 2,000 feet) in an easy-to-moderate gear, and made sure to maintain the same effort on the later downhills. For the first forty miles, I jockeyed back and forth with a few other women with enormous quads; every time they coasted down the hills to recover from grinding up the hills in a huge gear, I passed them and gained a few minutes. Then they’d catch me again on the next flat. This probably would have continued to T2, until the stabbing pains in my lower back and hips caught up with me, too.

By mile 42 I had to give up on the aero position. I really couldn’t ride the drops, either. Sitting up in a headwind was a bummer, and so was the resulting loss of speed. I still had a half marathon to run, though, and I didn’t want to do it with back cramps. I took my friend Paula’s advice, and looked around for some native blue oaks to appreciate. I didn’t see any, so I enjoyed the singing birds.

Meanwhile, I’d kept up with my nutrition and blew past the final water station only to feel the urge to pee afterward. Peeing on the bike is actually a good thing in long triathlons, because otherwise, it means you are too dehydrated. But the caveat is that you have to do it before a water station so that you can rinse off. Not doing so is gross, and it also leads to chafing. But I’d lost my chance… for now.

Run (13.1 miles, 2:07-ish, 9:42 min/mile pace)

What can I say? I felt GREAT for the first 6.2-mile loop. And then I DIDN’T for the second one.

I haven’t run more than 10 miles (at once) all year, and had cut way back on my weekly mileage while recovering from some annoying hamstring issues. The first loop of this two-loop course felt almost miraculously comfortable: I felt no pain anywhere. My heart rate was good. My pace gradually increased. I drank my nutrition on schedule, poured ice-cold water over my head every mile, and yes, proved to myself–twice–that my hydration was right on target.

A cheering passel that included teammates, Coach Raeleigh, and Erin started off the second loop of the run very well. But by mile 8, my legs tightened up and I felt like I was running on wooden puppet legs. A very fit guy with a carbon fiber prosthetic passed me with an enviably smooth stride. I told myself to toughen up, and stop focusing on what hurt. I sped up for about a half-mile, but my legs weren’t interested in speed. Only by mile 12 did my impatience intervene. My impatience is a force to be reckoned with, and it bullied my legs to hurry the hell up and get this race over with.

Total time: 5:47:something.

Along with six small children, I stood in the Village Green water feature for at least another six hours. I relished the feeling of rinsing off the accumulated sweat, Cytomax, sunscreen, and other byproducts of a day in the heat, imagining that my nausea and fatigue were swirling away, too. And by the time I got a real shower in the hotel, packed up the car, and sat with teammates in the shade, I was ready for that Neapolitan shake from In and Out.

So went my last triathlon of the season. Thank you to everyone who raced this summer, put their fitness to the test week after week, and cheered for Oakland. I know you all have your lives outside of this sport, but speaking as someone who hasn’t lived anywhere for more than 18 months at a time for many years, I am so grateful for your friendship and the chance to share this fun, difficult, dirty, slightly crazy, completely self-affirming sport with you. Have a great off-season!

After the race

After the race.


Threepennyeditor.com will be back up on Friday, Oct. 2

October 2nd, 2014

I’m transferring my website and e-mail to a new hosting company, due to extremely slow service with 1and1.com. As the Interwebs learns my new address, you can’t access my site or e-mail me.

Believe me, this is more stressful for me than for you!

The good news is that all will be well by tomorrow. You can reach me until then at my personal address: s a r a h c y p h e r [at] g m a i l . c o m.

Earth on Us: A review of Kate Gray’s “Carry the Sky”

September 18th, 2014

Carry the SkyCarry the Sky by Kate Gray

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

In her debut novel, award-winning poet Kate Gray breaks the surface of a calm New England boarding school to tell a breathtaking tale about honor, violence, and responsibility.

Set in 1983, in the days after Taylor Alta loses her best friend and beloved to a rowing accident, she arrives at St. Timothy’s as its girls crew coach, grieving and unprepared for the curiosity of eighteen-year-old Carla. Carla’s interest is uncomfortable and hyper-sexualizated, a behavior rooted in her dark history. It’s a past whose consequences also blur the teacher-student boundary with Jack Song, a Korean science teacher who tries not to fall for her.

These narratives connect to the bullying of brilliant oddball Kyle Harney. Taylor, Jack, and Carla have secrets that shame them, and each finds a brief moral balance in their concern for bullied Kyle. What they can’t know is the weight Kyle himself carries, burdened by the threat of nuclear annihilation: a threat he understands all too well from his mother, a Japanese woman scarred in the bombing of Nagasaki. The leitmotif of origami pays off well as the diverse planes of each characters’ suffering begin folding together around the shape of Kyle’s ultimate plan for getting back at his tormenters.

For all Jack Song’s concern with honor, it is Kyle who feels like a moral axis. Secrets and injustices drive the story (as does the insider’s look into the world of competitive rowing; Gray is a former crew coach). Yet Kyle is the only character who keeps no secrets, and is unable or unwilling to be anyone except himself, even when it earns him brutal retribution from the school bully. He harms no one, and he felt sometimes to me like an existential ideal: a fully aware, moral being who chooses what customs to follow, and who sees his own life as a choice. It’s a painful irony that in choosing nonviolent retaliation, the people who end up suffering most are himself and the people who loved him.

While the story itself is robust, Gray’s attention to language makes the writing one of the novel’s most important elements. It sometimes competes with the story itself, but at its best, the characters’ distinct voices resonate with their different notes of pain; and in Jack’s chapters, the writing riffs between the world of science and the mysterious realm of the heart—with surprising, ingenious effect.

Kate Gray is amazing.

View all my reviews

The Fat Lady Sang

September 15th, 2014

I was sitting up and angry, which was a good sign. The old lady who’d hit me with her Prius was standing next to my bike in the middle of the street, and a few inches away from my bleeding leg were her feet. She was dressed all in taupe, and from her taupe summer heels, all twenty of her painted toenails were lined up beside me on the pavement. She was standing with her feet very close to each other, and offering me her hands.

“Just would you stand up? So I know you’re okay?”

Her gnarled joints were right in my face and I was still tangled up in my bike and disoriented. Standing up was the last thing I wanted to do. I lifted my bike a few inches, and more blood gushed out of a cut on my knee. It was deep enough that beads of the fatty subcutaneous layer protruded along the edges. Great. Let’s assume I was in shock, because I only felt annoyed and sort of dismayed.

I’d turned around early on this particular training ride because I was still recovering from food poisoning. The heat wasn’t doing my stomach any favors, so that is why I was riding alone. I stopped at the stop sign, checked the map. I started rolling again, beginning a left turn onto Tice Valley Road, and saw the Prius gliding up to the stop sign–and not quite stopping. An old woman in big black sunglasses looked left and right–and kept rolling. I yelled and tried to speed out of her way. She sped up, too, looking straight at me, and hit my leg and back wheel.

And now she was eager for me to get up so she’d know I would be okay, “Because I’m on my way to the opera.”

My knees felt wrong, but not too wrong. I didn’t want to get up yet, though, because not only did I not care about her urgent need to arrive at the opera house on time, but running through my head was this weird memory of an interaction I’d had with another old woman when I was sixteen and working retail in a chain of department stores called Lazarus. She was shopping in the junior’s section, browsing but clearly just drifting through the store, looking for someone to talk to. Her hair was dyed very black and she walked with a cane, and talked with a labored curl of her lips.

“I used to be beautiful,” she said. “Don’t ever get hit by a car, honey. It’ll ruin your life.”

Almost twenty years later, I still dread car accidents. Maybe it’s from that old woman. Maybe it’s from hearing too many horror stories about bike crashes–from the guy who looked fine until he turned his head, and his vertebrae snapped, paralyzing him; to Melody Gardot‘s beautiful, horrible song about her near-fatal crash; to my wife’s own broken jaw incident. California’s three-foot law just came into effect, but there’s not a law in the world that will save you from someone’s rush and inattention. When a driver hits a cyclist, they always say they didn’t see you; yet in may case, it was broad daylight, we were at a stop sign, and I was wearing neon green and yellow. (The Oakland Triathlon Club kit could only be more visible if we added strobe lights.)

I say all this by way of repeating, yet again, a wish for caution. Slowing down for a cyclist only delays you by a few seconds. Please pay attention. Most of us are responsible–as most drivers are. We just weigh a whole lot less, and are a lot more vulnerable. We go to great lengths to stay out of your way, choosing routes that you don’t normally use. Sometimes it’s unavoidable, though, and even if you find us annoying, neither one of us wants to be involved in a crash. All of that self-righteous posturing goes away real fast when there’s a bleeding person on the pavement.

Anyhow, I’m grateful to be okay. A few stitches might be in order. My knees still feel weird, but I can ride and run. And whether the old Prius driver made it to her opera or not, my wife and I now have a new household joke: “Gotta go, babe. Gonna be late for the opera.”

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