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Learn why doing an annual editorial business review is a good, professional habit.
Summary of episode 149
Find out more about the following:
Listen to episode 149Get the podcast book series
These five guides (available in print or ebook) capture the essence of our conversations on the podcast covering five core themes: editorial foundations, growth, sustainability, legacy and marketing. Buy now from from Amazon or find out more about the series.
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Music credit
'Vivacity’ by Kevin MacLeod
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
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Free checklist
There's a free fillable checklist to help you think about your position and obligations in relation to the use of AI tools. It's available in my resource library via the button below.
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He flicked through the report to get a better sense of what the prosecutor’s approach might be.
Xe flicked through the report. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all. The detective might even come out on xer side once she understood the background.
Lex was pretty sure that, despite the officer’s reassurance, she was almost certainly not going to get away with a warning. A little pessimistic, her dad would have said. But that was Lex all over.
Lex was pretty sure that, despite the officer’s reassurance, she was almost certainly not going to get away with a warning. A little pessimistic, her dad might have said. But, really, that was her all over. Very Lex. Always had been somewhat glass half full. She flicked through the report a second time to get a better sense of what the prosecutor’s approach might be, but the text was all blurred – headings and words and numbers mashed up together.
Lex was pretty sure that, despite the officer’s reassurance, she was almost certainly not going to get away with a warning. A little pessimistic, her dad might have said. But, really, that was her all over. Very Lex. Always had been somewhat glass half full. She flicked through the report a second time to get a better sense of what the prosecutor’s approach might be, but the text was all blurred – headings and words and numbers mashed up together.
Lex was pretty sure that, despite the officer’s reassurance, she was almost certainly not going to get away with a warning. A little pessimistic, her dad might have said. But, really, that was her all over. Very Lex. Always had been somewhat glass half full. She flicked through the report a second time to get a better sense of what the prosecutor’s approach might be, but the text was all blurred – headings and words and numbers mashed up together.
Active dialogue plus narrative:
“You never really see me,” he’d said. But once again, he’d made it all about him, hadn’t he?
Dialogue embedded in the narrative:
He’d told her she never really saw him. But once again, he’d made it all about him, hadn’t he?
She'd said he was born angry. Maybe she was right.
Johnny had specifically told me not to open the bag. So why had I just done the complete opposite?
“You were born angry.” That’s what she’d said. Maybe she was right.
“Don’t open the bag,” Johnny had said. So why had I just done the complete opposite?
The judge had warned him: one more slip, and that was it. This, it seemed, was the slip.
He’d told himself not to look back. That the future was what counted. A fresh start.
The judge had warned him: “One more slip, and that’s it.” This, it seemed, was the slip.
“Don’t look back,” he’d said to himself. “It’s the future that counts. A fresh start.”
He remembered what the old man used to say about control – it’s only real when you don’t have it … just fear in disguise that he shouldn't obsess over.
That gumshoe detective had asked him about Denise’s whereabouts that night, what they’d talked about , what they’d eaten for dinner. Jack hadn’t paid much attention at the time – he’d no reason to doubt her. Still, thinking about it now, it was a little weird.
The old man used to say, “Control is only real when you don’t have it. It’s just fear in disguise. Try not to get obsessed with it.”
That gumshoe detective had fired questions at him: “Where was Denise that night? Can you recall what you talked about or what you ate for dinner?” Jack hadn’t paid much attention at the time – he’d no reason to doubt her. Still, thinking about it now, it was a little weird.
The last thing I wanted was to aggravate those two goons who'd trashed my apartment the previous week. Next time, they'd informed me, it wouldn't just be the dining table that got broken. It would be my legs. And my arms. "In fact, if it's attached to you and we can snap it, we will,” the beefier of the two had advised me.
Example 1. Free indirect speech:
She walked to the window. Why was he so late? He always made her wait.
Example 2. Embedded dialogue:
She walked to the window, wondering why he was so late. He always said he'd be on time.
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However, it was 2022 when Denise and I got together for a strategic-planning weekend in Tynemouth so we could review where we were with The Editing Podcast and discuss our longer-term goals.
During the discussion – with breaks for fish and chips, and ice cream … not always in that order – the idea for a book series was born. |
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Plus, some of our listeners have specifically asked for books, saying that they love listening to The Editing Podcast, but sometimes they want to revisit a particular nugget but can’t remember which episode it was in.
By reorganizing our conversations into themed narratives, we’ve given people choice. |
An example from the bookshelf |
Prompt for writers and editors
Check your villain and sleuth. Where are the cracks that could move them away from binary stereotypes and towards human beings that your readers feel compelled to get under the skin of?
Does the sleuth wonder if they're doing the right thing? Does the criminal regret, justify or second-guess themself? Making space for this adds tension.
Examples from the bookshelf |
Prompt for writers and editors
Check your assumptions. What lived experiences do your villain and sleuth bring to the table, and how do those affect their perception of the crime, evading detection and the approach to the investigation?
Avoid telling readers who’s ‘right’ and who’s ‘wrong'. Instead, show them conflicting perspectives and allow them to decide for themselves.
Ask questions about your perpetrators and your investigators: What does this person want and fear? What trauma or injustice shaped their choices? Who might see them as a hero, and who might see them as a villain?
Prompt for writers and editors
Check your underlying themes. Which big-picture questions might you draw the reader's attention to and that don’t have clearcut answers? What happens when the system itself is unjust? What if both the criminal and sleuth are victims of the same failing structure?
Baz legged it towards the market square but took the long way, avoiding the alley. Too dark. Too small. He’d never make that mistake again, not after last time.
Ten minutes later he was by the fountain, its mist on his face, the warm glow of festoon lights overhead. He ditched his cap, shook off his jacket and turned it inside out, then melted into the crowd. Just another tourist.
*** AVOID ***
‘You’re late,’ Marcus said, tapping his watch. ‘I was expecting you five minutes ago.’
‘I came the long way,’ Baz said. ‘After that incident in November 2024 where I was left for dead in a dark alleyway, I’ve not felt able to take the risk.’
Marcus nodded. ‘Yes, I remember the doctor saying you might not make it, that the seventy-three stiches in your head were only a surface indication of the trauma beneath. And your recovery took ... remind me how long it was.’
‘Seven months,’ Baz said.
‘You’re late,’ Marcus said, tapping his watch. ‘I was expecting you five minutes ago.’
‘I came the long way,’ Baz said. ‘Avoided the alley. After, you know, last time, I couldn’t bear—’
‘You need to find a way past that, mate. Let bygones be bygones. I get it, but all you’re doing is turning one risk into another.’
‘You’re late,’ Marcus said, tapping his watch. ‘I was expecting you five minutes ago.’
‘I came the long way,’ Baz said. ‘Avoided the alley. After, you know, last time, I couldn’t bear—’
‘Yeah yeah. Look, you need to find a way past that, mate. I get it, but all that’s doing is turning one risk into another.’
Easy for Marcus to say. He hadn’t been left for dead, beaten to a pulp, the seventy-three stiches transforming his scalp into something Picasso would have been proud of. Seven months he’d been laid up for. Seven—
‘Hey, earth to Bazza. C’mon. Let’s get a pint. I’ve got a plan.’
Marcus took him by the elbow and steered him through the crowd. It began to rain. An umbrella snapped open above his head.
Fi touched the screen. ‘So this is our route out. I don’t like it. See here? This alley is tight. No lights. Baz might be on his own, and we both know Baz doesn’t do confined spaces … at least he hasn’t done for the past eighteen months.’
‘That’s our route out,’ Marcus said. ‘You and me. Baz is leaving through the front door, in plain sight. I’ve got it all worked out.’
The obvious route out was the alley. Through the kitchen, into the yard, over the wall, and they’d be gone. Two minutes tops. In theory it was good. In practice it was risky. Not for him and Fi. They were sound. But Baz would need to keep his head in the game. And for the past eighteen months, it hadn’t been. His friend had been ambushed, beaten to a pulp, the seventy-three stiches transforming his scalp into something Picasso would have been proud of. Since then, even the suggestion of a tight, unlit space had him going off on one.
Back to the drawing board.
There was a door to his left. Baz opened it. A narrow flight of wooden steps led downwards. He flicked the switch by the latch. A light flashed on, then fizzled and died. He stepped back and shut the door. Shuddered. Too dark, too tight. Not happening.
Anyway, Marcus was due in ten minutes. He could investigate.
Fi ran her hand over the cracked porcelain sink. Same kind they’d had in the safehouse in Rotterdam. Good times. Her, Marcus and Baz. All in it together. All of them with their heads in the game. All of them thinking they were invincible.
‘Fi, join me.’ It was Marcus, his muffled voice coming from somewhere beneath her.
‘He’s down there,’ Baz said, pointing over his shoulder at a roughly hewn slatted door, slightly ajar. ‘Some sort of cellar, I think.’
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