David C. Hughes, Writer

“For the LORD your God will bless you in all your harvest and in all the work of your hands, and your JOY will be complete." –Deuteronomy 16:15

Archive for the tag “Humorous writing”

01 May 2014
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I’m Ruined: Confessions of an Editor (2014-05-01 Daily)

 

 I’M RUINED: CONFESSIONS OF AN EDITOR

by

David C. Hughes

 

“There are two typos of people in this world: those who can edit, and those who can’t.”         

                                                                          ― Jarod Kintz

 

I’m ruined as a reader.  Absolutely ruined.  I edit everything, and when I say everything, I mean everything!  Not only books, articles, and blog posts, but billboards, construction signs, and advertising splashed across panel trucks can’t escape my squinted eyes or furrowed brow.  Last Christmas Mary and I exchanged T-shirts as gifts.  The one I gave to her declares, “Those who can, TEACH.  Those who can’t, pass laws about teaching.”  It matches her attitude, her gift of sarcasm, and her calling to homeschool our daughter.  The T-shirt Mary boxed, wrapped, and placed under the tree for me says, “Grammar Police: To correct and to serve.”  Yep, that’s me to a T.  Shirt.

Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy reading.  A lot.  I’ve loved to read ever since my dad taught me how when I was four, and reading definitely played into my passion and desire to write.  I remember sitting next to Dad on the avocado green vinyl couch, his arm around my shoulder as I read story after story out of a children’s encyclopedia and activity book.  He guided me with patience, corrected me with gentleness, encouraged me with love, and I never quit. Even now, at any given time, I’ve got three or four books started, and when I finish one I’ll start another right away without having finished any of the others.

But over the years my perfectionism, developed as a child and honed as an adult, has resulted in my looking at life in hard binary rather than in fuzzy logic.  My formal education in electrical engineering and the resulting corporate career spanning almost three decades did nothing but sharpen the edge of the critical sword I wield with relish, and over the years I’ve found a certain pleasure in tearing apart (and putting back together, of course) other people’s documentation.  I can relate to the spirit of reconstruction after war: my hope is that the end result is better than the original.  In the meantime, let’s blow up things.  As my reputation as an effective technical editor grew, one of my coworkers started to use me as a weapon: “If you don’t get this document right this time,” he’d tell our suppliers, “I’ll sic Dave Hughes on you.”  Nine times out of ten the engineering writers complied.  I exist to serve.

Editing definitely plays to the “J” in my Myers-Briggs assessment.  One time a friend of Mary told her she admired my non-judgmental attitude; I think I spewed water out of my nose as I choked on the irony of that statement.  As a Spiritual gift, mercy languishes under the weight of the other gifts in my heart, barely able to raise its head off the floor let alone stand and deliver.  Just ask my daughter.  Don’t get me wrong, though: when it comes to people I try really hard to be Christ-like, accepting, loving, and forgiving.  But when it comes to people’s actions, or more specifically, their writing, I’m more like Saul of Tarsus before God smote him on the road to Damascus; I make a good editorial Pharisee.  You need to have thick skin to hire me as your editor, but I guarantee that if you stick with me as I drain my red pen all over your manuscript you’ll love the results.

As I said, though, I’m ruined as a reader.  I’ve gotten to the point where I’ll put a book down (or hurl it across the room) based not only on the story but on the sheer number of editorial mistakes it contains.  Like a field of burdocks it’s hard to get past these errors without them clawing at me, and if I do manage to continue, they cling to me until I finally give up, bury my head in a pillow, and scream.  Recently I ground to a halt reading a new release by a New York Times #1 bestselling team of authors; much to my grievous disappointment, I couldn’t go on.  Just couldn’t.  Good thing I picked the book up from the bargain bin.  Hmm, maybe that’s why I found it in the bargain bin.  And it seems with the advent of self-publishing the number of books smacking my bedroom wall has grown geometrically if not exponentially.

I’m a chronic sign-reader, and Mary wonders how I haven’t gotten into more accidents because I seem to pay more attention to the billboards than to the road.  On a drive to the Dallas-Fort Worth mid-cities one day I noticed a bright orange construction sign glaring at me from the side of the road: “Caution Low Clearence.”  Ugh!  Use a stinkin’ dictionary, for goodness sake!  Or Spellcheck!  Another day, on my way to DFW Airport, I read a large billboard advertising a hotel chain: “’This place is roomy and comfortable.’ no one said ever.”  No, no, no, no, NO!  You need a comma before the tag line, not a period!  Argh!  How do these things get through the editorial committee?!  But the one topping my collection of gross editorial mistakes is the panel truck adorned with an obviously expensive, professionally executed advertisement for a urethane foam insulation business. “Urithane” it said.  Urithane?!  I mean, c’mon, it’s your business!  Ugh!

So, as you can see, I’m ruined as a reader.  Absolutely ruined.  But putting all humility aside, I do make a pretty good editor.  And the more I read, especially lately, the better I become.  Now where’s that red pen?  Time to go back to the beginning and clean up all my typos . . . .

 

Copyright ©2014 by David C. Hughes

 

Posted in Daily and tagged , , , , , , ,
19 Feb 2014

10-Pin Lamentations (2014-02-19 Daily) [2 of 2]

So I started my first game, and the next thing I noticed was how the light illuminating the bowling pins on the pin deck kept shifting colors, from cool pink to lime green to sunshiny yellow.  Cripes almighty!  What the–?  When the color changed to something dark, like blue, the arrows on the lane blended in with the gloom over the entire lane, and suddenly my game was in the dark.  I’m a spot-bowler, for goodness sake, and the only way I can line up a shot is to place the tip of my right toe, still sportin’ those swell suede shoes, on the fourth board to the left of the center dot on the first line of dots, and drop the ball precisely on the lane so it rolls smoothly over the third arrow from the right-hand gutter.  When I do that, a strike is practically inevitable.  But when the dots blend in with the swamp light emanating from the pin deck, I might as well be using the fluorescent orange dinosaur and bumpers with the rest of the bowlers to my left.  Speaking of which . . . .

What’s up with parents nowadays?  Back in my day I’d get smacked on the back of the head if I began my approach after the player on the lane next to me had started his approach.  It’s not only distracting, it’s just plain rude!  Etiquette, people!  Etiquette!  I guess that particular nicety went out the door along with paper scoring, bowling shirts, beer frames, and squinting at the pins through a thin pall of blue cigarette smoke.  Ahh, the good old days.  Some things just shouldn’t be messed with.

And you know what else is distracting?  What’s up with the 55” flat-screen TVs mounted from one end of the bowling alley to the other . . . above the pin decks?!  Look, when I come to bowl, I don’t need Miley Cyrus swinging her stuff in my face while I’m searching for my arrow on the lane in the chartreuse mood lighting.  That stuff’s distracting enough in real life, let alone magnified ten times and hung right before my eyes above my rack of pins.  For Pete’s sake!  But the clincher came toward the end of my last game, as the clock counted down the remaining ten minutes and I had five more frames left in my sixth game.

For the previous fifteen minutes I’d enjoyed blessed aloneness on my lane, just me, ten pins, my ball, my sportin’ suede shoes, and Miley Cyrus swinging her stuff.  The other party’s hour had drawn to a close and the coordinators had hustled them from lanes 5 and 6 to their designated party room.  As things quieted down I managed to bowl a 177, a game consisting of a turkey on the opening three frames, and an additional turkey toward the end.  It had taken only five games, but I was finally getting into the groove!  Then it happened.  The party palace let in another group of rug rats and plopped them onto lanes 5 and 6.  Again I glanced at the 41 or so open lanes to my right as the sweet young coordinators raised the bumpers, dragged out the fluorescent orange dinosaur, dimmed the lights even further . . . and switched on the green laser lights!  Criminy sakes alive!

Suddenly random patterns of dots swirled over my arrows like the onset of a migraine, and all was lost, especially when not only the kids, but their parents too, stood in front of me as I lined up a futile shot.  Needless to say, I was done.  Done.  Yes, all done.  Done, done, done.  Done . . . . *sigh*

Next time I go bowling I’m going to search for an alley built in the 1950s, with lots of old trucks parked out front, bright fluorescent light shining from the windows, and maybe even a low-hanging pall of cigarette smoke drifting out the open front door.  Because that, my friends, is how we rolled back in my day.  Now where’s my bowling shirt?  I could have sworn I hung it up right behind my mustard orange corduroy bell bottoms . . . Oh look, here it is.  Just gotta blow off the dust. . . .

 

-THE END-

Copyright © 2014 David C Hughes

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