It's quite incredible how a manuscript can be checked umpteen times by four different people - all with proofreading experience to varying degrees, and yet I was still spotting slight errors yesterday afternoon when I was on the point of popping the sheets back in the envelope.
I'm sure there's a good chance that there might be a couple of little things noticed when the corrected sheets come back, but at least I know that as much care as possible has been taken to eliminate them.
The photo proofs arrived last Friday and a good job has been done fitting them in to the two black & white and one colour sections. The most glaring mistake was in one of the photos, taken from The Master of Ballantrae. In the picture, Finola Hughes, Richard Thomas and the young actor who played their son, Alexander, in the drama are all smiling at the camera, but poor Ian has been totally decapitated (he's not even nearly-headless) - you can only see him from the lace ruff down.
I'm sure that the photo will look like this once the proof has been corrected
I look forward to receiving the corrected proofs - and having very little to do except check through them, sign them off, and be one step nearer to having the finished product in my hand.
It may seem like a never-ending process now, but it's going to be such a thrill when you hold the actual book in your hands! (And don't worry if a few small errors creep in to the final product -- every masterpiece must have a single flaw. Besides, errors love to tease, and seem to be able to make themselves visible or invisible at will. If they don't want to be seen, they can't be seen. But as my dear grandmother, the Scottish one, used to say "be all right, be fine".)
ReplyDeleteI don't think thrilled is the emotion I'll feel for this particular book. You're right though, perfection is extremely difficult to achieve.
ReplyDeleteWhereabouts in Scotland did your grandmother come from?
My grandmother was from Falkirk. She came over to Canada in about 1904 (if I recall correctly), and kept her Scottish accent until her death in 1978 at the age of 91. She was a treasure in my life.
ReplyDeleteThe inevitable 'misprunt' is the literary equivalent of the Roman slave whose job it was to follow the Emperor around and whisper every now and again: "Remember, Caesar, you are only human."
ReplyDeleteAs in 'Fiends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your shears. I come to hurry Caesar, not to raise him.'
ReplyDeleteCan't wait till, hopefully next week and the corrected proofs arrive - all bountifully remanded.