Confessions of the Editor Brigand

By Cori Nicole Smith Wamsley

Zhanna—a grammarian, compulsive spellchecker, and young copy editor—simmers when her expert redlines are questioned. As her agitation grows, she makes editorial corrections outside the publishing house. On a lunch break, she confronts the cashier about quotation marks indicating “free” coffee and finally abolishes them from the chalkboard herself. She broods about careless writing and the death of language. Sometimes she feels like a dangling modifier. Clearly, she needs a break.
Confessions of the Editor Brigand chronicles Zhanna’s obsession. For six weeks, she travels from one town to the next, visiting her close-knit group of girlfriends but soon discovering that even a good vacation needs an editor.
Clad in black, Zhanna becomes the ultimate grammar guardian, the Editor Brigand, scouring the streets for misspellings and bad grammar. When a friend suggests the dating website, Assisted Kismet, as a distraction, Zhanna combs it for someone whose profile isn’t ridden with misspellings, or just ludicrous.
In the end, Zhanna’s enthusiastic love of language brings her friends closer together, and she finally realizes, though love and billboards may be imperfect, you have to find the balance between demanding excellence and risking your life to create it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cori Nicole Smith Wamsley
• Release date: Jan 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301307371

Cori Nicole Smith Wamsley

Cori Wamsley, CEO of Aurora Corialis Publishing, works with business owners who have a transformational story to share to create a legacy and be seen as an expert in their niche.She has 18 years’ experience as a professional writer and editor, including 10 years with the Departments of Energy and Justice and 4 years as the executive editor of Inspiring Lives Magazine. She also wrote seven fiction books, including the children’s book Monkey Mermaid Magic, which she coauthored with her daughter London and also illustrated. She contributed chapters to the anthologies Twenty Won and Living Kindly. Her newest book, Braving the Shore, is her first solo fiction effort since her two daughters were born.When she’s not reading, writing, or working with her clients, she can be found hanging out with her husband and daughters, painting, dancing, singing, baking, or otherwise being creative. She believes that living with one foot in our dreams and the other in the real world is the best way to make magic in our lives and have a lot of fun along the way!Connect with Cori at www.auroracorialispublishing.com, on Instagram at @CoriWamsley_author, or on Pinterest at Braving the Shore.

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Confessions of the Editor Brigand

By Cori Nicole Smith

Confessions of the Editor Brigand. Copyright 2012 by Cori Nicole Smith. Smashwords Edition.

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Rinesmith Carothers Publishing House

For Anyone Who’s Quest Has Ever Been Doubted

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – The Dark Beginning

Chapter 2 – The Great Fall

Chapter 3 – Zhanna’s Labyrinth

Chapter 4 – Conspirators

Chapter 5 – Meddling with Kismet

Chapter 6 – Of Unicorns and Black Magic (Markers)

Chapter 7 – Grammar’s Guardian

Chapter 8 – On Men and Gemstones

Chapter 9 – Devoid of Brain Candy

Chapter 10 – To Coat the World in Whiteout

Chapter 11 – The Skinny Bitch in Spandex

Chapter 12 – It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

Chapter 13 – The Cruel Joke of Kismet

Chapter 14 – Entanglements in the World-Wide Web

Chapter 15 – Fondues and Don’ts

Chapter 16 – The Path

Chapter 17 – Trends of Disorder

Chapter 18 – The Magical Carnivals of Fantastic Creatures

Chapter 19 – Lost Arts

Chapter 20 – A Farewell to Old Vehicles

Chapter 21 – Goldfish are Hell without Tartar Sauce

Chapter 22 – No Fly Zone

Chapter 23 – Gathering Minions

Chapter 24 – The Editor Brigand Rides Again

Chapter 1 – The Dark Beginning

In a small office in the center of the building, Zhanna Mars stared into her computer screen. No magical solution floated to the surface for the quandary she found herself in. Yet again, the textbook she was editing contained the same errors. It didn’t matter how many times she told them. This is a fragment. This is a run-on. Parallel structure, people! It was all to no avail. For people who were smart enough to discuss the intricacies of the Canal of Schlem, how could they not remember that a comma was used to separate two conjoined sentences before the word and? Without that comma to keep them separated, who knew what those two independent clauses would do to each other. The comma was a necessary fence in the garden.

She fumed. It was no use being angry about it. Morons like these were the main reason she had a job to begin with.

Zhanna had been working forty-hour weeks for Chimera Publishing House in the same office with only minor increases in salary for nearly four years now. Sighing, she looked at the calendar. In fact, in just a few days, she would be celebrating her four-year anniversary with the company. And was she ecstatic? Heck no. She had merely marked it on her calendar mechanically. What for? Was it a milestone? A deadline, perhaps? Why even bother with a calendar? Oh, yes. To know what day of the week it is. If she did not mark them off, she would not be able to tell one from the next. On they came in a stream so fast that the four years had flooded by as her eyesight weakened and her bottom grew soft from the plush chair in the cramped, windowless office.

All she could hope for was a crappy t-shirt with the company logo in acknowledgement of the punishment she had endured. At least, that’s what they gave her last year. She would have preferred a gift card in the amount they had paid for the shirt, redeemable for coffee.

Again, she left her musing and returned to the screen. Those people are making all the money because I catch all their mistakes, she thought. She wondered how they would have liked it if she had let Assification System for Animalia go to press without being fixed. Oh, the fits of laughter that would erupt in all the classrooms when the first clever fifth grader caught that one.

Concentrate.

What she wouldn’t give for a window. Nah. That would make it even more depressing. The warm sun was sure to be shining right now, beckoning her with its playful rays tilted against her desk casting a golden hue on the pens and papers scattered about. No. For now, it was probably better to disregard the outside world and concentrate on the definition of Diopters. What she couldn’t see would wait.

’Morning, Zhanna! a cheery coworker cooed through the crack in the door. She grinned half-heartedly back at the woman and swigged back some of her black coffee. Well, is it really black if it’s a flavored coffee? Irish cream. It had just enough of a hint to trick her mind into thinking it might be a shot of Bailey’s swirling through it: enough to calm her down and keep her quiet, the way she is supposed to behave at work.

No new messages, the popup announced as she checked her e-mail for the fiftieth time that morning.

Vengefully, she slammed the keys down, making corrections to the page she was working on. The phone buzzed. How was she supposed to get any work done with all these interruptions?

Chimera Publishing House—this is Zhanna.

Hello, Zhanna, her boss echoed into her ear. He always gave the first syllable that extra irritating stretch like he had never heard it before and was rolling the word around in his mouth before he spit it out like a lump of chewing tobacco. It grated on her nerves.

Hello Charles, she responded trying to sound enthusiastic. Glancing at the caller ID, she realized he must be out of the office again, on his cell, or his name would be flashing up at her. Why does he get to leave the office all the time? She stirred her coffee with her left hand, flicking the stirrer back and forth making two little whirlpools. She had wasted a stirrer this morning, opting after she had dunked it in the coffee to keep it unsullied by sweetener and cream.

Listen, Zhanna, we got in the changes you made on that fifth grade science book and . . . Charles began.

Too bad for Charles: something more interesting was going on inside Zhanna’s head. Consequently, she only heard that first bit. She knew what would come next. The reviewers would question all her comments, and she would whip out her trusty, worn-covered WEG—the Writer’s and Editor’s Guide to Grammar and Punctuation—printed just last year. The edges were battered and feathered from being perused, used, and abused. Every egocentric snob who worked on any book she had torn apart with her redlines had touched the cover with a surprised Let me see that. It’s a shame it didn’t burn them for their blasphemy when they came near it. Yes. It was all here in the rule book. All the answers. She always had support as long as WEG had her back.

Still, you can’t go wrong with ninjas. She should look into that.

She fumed while Charles chattered in her ear. Ok, Charles. That’s fine. I’ll meet with them. Click.

And back to her book. The simple squamous cells . . . blah, blah . . .

The phone rang again. This time, it was a number she didn’t recognize. She didn’t answer it. I think I need a break from the office. The clock read 9:43 AM. Today was proving to be a very long day already.

She locked the computer, grabbed her purse, and left.

* * * * * *

Twenty minutes later, Zhanna found herself sitting in the Camelatté Café and Bakery—named for the extensive collection of swords that the owner had decorated with—ordering another coffee and their specialty: cinnamon rolls ala mode. This was one of her favorite indulgences. On the plate would be three small cinnamon rolls, soft and gooey, oozing with cinnamon and brown sugar with cinnamon vanilla ice cream melting slowly over the top.

When the waitress came to take her order, Zhanna promptly told her exactly the same thing that she always ordered. A small coffee and cinnamon rolls ala mode, please. She smiled. Zhanna always made a point of being pleasant with the servers. It’s just a bad idea to anger someone who handles your food. No need to elaborate.

Zhanna had never seen the girl working there before. She was probably a college student trying to make extra money for textbooks and beer. It was much more admirable than working at the nearby strip club.

The server scribbled the order furiously on her notepad. Did you want ice cream on that? the girl asked, cocking her head to the side like she was interested. Her blue eyes were glazed over, much like the cinnamon rolls would be, but probably from drinking too late last night.

Um, yeah, Zhanna replied, dryly. She held her irritation well. As the girl walked away with the order, Zhanna thought, Does she not know what ‘ala mode’ means? I guess not. Not many days go by that Zhanna does not think about how weary she has grown of ignorance. Maybe she just didn’t hear me, she thought, even though she knew it wasn’t true. Maybe that was the hangover talking.

It didn’t stop her from enjoying the coffee and dessert, though. It was delicious.

* * * * * *

Back at the office, Zhanna sat down at her desk and, as a last ditch effort at wasting time, arranged the folds in her skirt so they lay evenly around her. She resumed editing. Whoever had written this particular chapter had a penchant for commas, and no clue how to use them—mildly aggravating. The pages virtually blossomed in commas for Zhanna to pluck mercilessly and vanquish from existence. Fun. Maybe if she thought about it like a video game, it would be more entertaining.

Find all the commas, quickly consider the rule, and shoot down those that do not belong. P-kew. P-kew. She blew off her revolver as it smoked at the end of the first page. Success: none of those nasty misplaced commas had gotten away. They were all dead. Now for the incorrectly used colons—that would be even easier. Just check to see that they are not preceded by a verb and that they were not used in place of a semicolon. The game would be good for elementary school kids. Zhanna recalled her own elementary days.

"Mommy, why do we have to learn the same things every year? We’ve talked about nouns and done noun homework for the past three years. I know what a noun is!" Zhanna had announced, perturbed, one day.

Well, sweetie, not everyone has a memory like you. Some of the other kids have to be reminded, her mother had responded.

And now those coddled children were the same adults who had no idea the difference between their, there, and they’re. It was enough to make her sick. But if she were not there to correct all their grammar mistakes, who would do it? She was essentially the Guardian of Grammar.

She considered adding that to the Special Skills portion of her résumé.

This stuff sure did give her a headache. It started at the back of her neck and worked its way across her skull until it circled her eyes like they were dangling modifiers. Or maybe it was too damn much good coffee. What cup was she on? One, two, three. Wow, and not even lunchtime. Self-consciously, she tossed the first two paper cups with remnants of cold, thick brown stuff into the garbage can beside her desk. The third cup, however, she lovingly sipped from – still warm, and not black, just a splash of cream swirled through.

* * * * * *

The next day began the same as the thousands before. Coffee, lots of coffee, and even more words flowed back and forth in the equilibrium created by the diffusion through Zhanna. This morning, she was greeted in the same manner by the same boisterous woman. After the woman passed her office, Zhanna decided to take a walk around the building to rest her brain. Her monotonous work made it ache.

She overheard the woman down the next aisle talking to one of her co-workers. "I swear, I will get Zhanna to talk. She is just so depressing that I have to say ‘good morning’ to her every morning. What if that’s the only positive attention she gets during the day, and I stop it? How do you think she would feel then?" The group hushed as Zhanna walked past the end of their isle.

She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out. Why did work always make her feel like an angsty teenager?

A short time later, Zhanna was actually in the mood for a break at a proper lunchtime and decided on the Dali Deli. As she entered, she was thrilled to see that their special for the day was exactly what she was craving: a sandwich with red peppers, eggplant, Portobello mushrooms, Swiss cheese, and cucumbers on asiago bread. Yum. And the thought of a properly placed colon fueled her hunger even more. The colored chalk on the sign indicated that a drink came free with the purchase of the sandwich. Excellent, more coffee. Zhanna stepped up to the counter and opened her new handbag, admiring the glint off the shiny lime snake print.

With her subconscious working overtime, much as those trained in editing are cursed to do, it was hard not to glance back at the words on the sign. Then she noticed something peculiar: the word free was in quotation marks. Why would someone have placed quotation marks around free on the sign? Was the drink not free? Did it mean not really like you had to pay the tax on the drink, and hence you were paying something for the drink? Why do they play with her mind like that?

She ordered the sandwich anyway.

Is the drink free or is there a reason it is in quotes on the sign? Zhanna finally asked breathlessly as she placed her order. It was not like her to be so bold with someone who had not previously pissed her off. It felt good to voice the question. She felt liberated.

Uh, the drink is free. It’s for emphasis, the manager, a mere child, responded indignantly. Clearly, he was thinking something along the lines of "you think your so smart."

Well, usually quotation marks are used to denote that you are quoting someone. They can also be used around the title of a short work. I was assuming that this was not the name of the drink, because I’ve never heard of Free Brand coffee, so I was wondering why it was in quotes at all, Zhanna spit out. And also, underlining, boldface, or all capital letters are the most acceptable means for written emphasis. Whew. That was probably not going to get a good reaction. She cringed for the safety of her sandwich.

Yeah, it’s in quotes because the manager said that the coffee was free. The chalkboard is quoting me, he brusquely replied. Did you want that sandwich?

Oh, yeah, I do, sorry, Zhanna blushed. She ceased feeling liberated. Apparently, no one cared that she was trying to help them. The world was virtually drowning in ignorance, and yet the minute she threw out a lifesaver to one of these punctuation Neanderthals, they scoffed at her and preferred to sink. Such was her life.

Cautiously, she took her sandwich and coffee to a table for two by the window. Table for me and my big mouth, she thought. She checked the sandwich for obvious signs of spit.

As she left the deli, after enjoying the repast, she covertly wiped a wet napkin across the chalkboard obliterating the erroneous quotation marks. She crumpled the napkin and placed it in a trash receptacle on the street, ridding herself of the evidence.

* * * * * *

Back at the office, Zhanna swiveled her chair back and forth impatiently as she blankly stared at her computer screen. She reread the same thing three times before she realized that she had no idea what it said. Something had unnerved her, and now it weighed on her mind like a comma splice.

What sort of existence was she leading? It was like being a part of a secret society: those who actually care about what their writing looked like, those who care about proper grammar and punctuation, both underground operations. That afternoon, what had she done? She had taken it upon herself to correct someone who did not want to be corrected. What sort of authority did she have to do that?

In the office, in a textbook, that was one thing. But to go outside of the office, to question the person, and then to correct the error without being invited was another situation altogether. Yes, she was a copy editor, and that did hold some sort of power, but she needed to pull herself together. Those who do not want help, she would have to refrain from helping. She had played the Protector of Proper Punctuation that afternoon, and that was something she would need to stop, for her own sanity.

After several fruitless attempts at working—yes, she was even too perturbed to correct sentence structure—she resorted to calling her grad school friends. She ran down the list: Simona, Corinne, Melanie, Eliza, and even Vanessa. All her closest friends were at their various places of employment trying to eke out a living the same way she was. Newspapers, magazines, classrooms, and publishing houses were all the girls knew: words and their surroundings, a veritable vortex of swirling language that had sucked them in long ago.

Most of them, though, had a better grip than Zhanna did. They did not feel as passionately about their work as she did hers. The rest of the girls could leave their work at their jobs.

She talked with several of the girls for a few minutes about this and that. The usual comments were made about projects they were working on, how they could not believe that such obvious errors had been made, how no one seemed to appreciate what they excelled at. It was nice to talk to others who actually understood. But all of them were busy. Zhanna sat at her desk and struggled on her own.

As she attempted to work, she stared out the windows of her office into the rest of the room. People walked by and chattered about plans for the weekend, intending to get together after work for a drink or on Saturday night for a card game. No one from work ever wanted to hang out with her. They never told her about the barbeques, the trips to the amusement parks, the movie nights. And some part of her wanted to belong to that, to belong to the world. Most of the time, her being felt other than human, like she was too big for the spot she was supposed to fill, like she had something more to offer than what she was given the opportunity to do. Zhanna continued to stare.

Then he walked by.

The only guy in the whole office who she had actually found attractive was talking to another guy who was nowhere near so. She had her eye on him for months, but she had never even spoken to him: just admired him through the glass wall. There was something so perfect about viewing him through the glass, being able to watch without being obvious.

Yet, she still held some sort of fear, perhaps that she would try to speak to him and be shunned or that the second he opened his mouth to respond, he would belie the imperfections within and babble something so ineloquently that she would no longer be able to daydream about him. She had learned that, with men, you seriously could not judge the book by its cover. At least literature was honest on the outside. If you spot a book at someone’s house that is worn with the cover barely hanging on and pages dog-eared and dripped on, then you know that it has been repeatedly read and loved . . . or that the book had been assigned by a lot of English teachers. Never mind, then.

Her last few relationships had ended in some awkward situations that she preferred not to repeat. After finding out that he had cheated on her with any number of boozed up college girls while on vacation, she had dropped Craig like a bad metaphor. His obsessive, crying phone messages pleading for her forgiveness earned him the nickname Craig the Plague from Zhanna’s friends. Finally, when she never responded to the messages and avoided his phone calls for long enough, he gave up. Two years of silence passed.

Then, Zhanna found herself in a quandary. The internship