There are days like that where it is nice where it's warm where you want for your children go to the park where the TV broadcast the finals of Roland Garros in Paris few days. It's that day that my publisher has chosen to transfer me by mail the final copy of my manuscript. "You've got a few hours to confirm the latest bug" me says he, adding that the manuscript at the printer by the next day in the first hour. I'm leaving for a new reading. Nearly 350 pages. Phrases that I know by heart since I am the author. But there is the trap. Car to take too much down to you gently rocked by the reading, the shells you escape.
Twenty, thirty times, I reread the last three months. The first time we modify whole sentences are added, we subtract whole paragraphs. Then comes the passage of the manuscript in the hands of professional proofreaders, those who can read through you, those who identify at first glance the thesaurus you are using, those who decline necessary to thin a few sentences considered too long or technical passages. Finally, it is tracking down faults ortho-typographical and removing comments that could force your editor to explain himself before a judge.
Finally, errors, I found two that famous Sunday: a dash syllable misplaced, and a typo in a previous fix, something I have not failed to forward to the publishing house at a time when Soderling had had ample time to mourn his loss against Federer.
As a reward, I received the cover and back cover. They are:
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