Developmental Editing & Proofreading Services

Developmental Editing Services

Developmental editing is generally the first step of editing to seek out once you have a completed draft of your manuscript. After submitting your manuscript, you will receive a summary highlighting all the story issues I’ve come across. Since this could result in a series of rewrites, it is best this phase comes before any proofreading or fine-tuning. However, every author has their own process.

This manuscript critique addresses various story element issues like plot holes, poor character development, character arcs, pacing, action sequences, point of view, narration, tenses, story flow, dialogue, language use, and any other elements that arise in your manuscript that relate to creative writing.

At a minimum, you will receive back three points that I liked about your story, things that worked well; and three points of constructive advice, and these are the points to work on or didn’t make sense. I will use examples and explain any issues that arise, so you can understand the suggestions.

I charge a flat rate of $17 per 1000 words, for English written manuscripts.

No editing service shall be commenced before payment in full has been made.

Proofreading Services

spelling and word choice confusionsConfusions between homophones (e.g. there/they’re/their). Misuse of definite and indefinite articles (the/a/an)Misuse of prepositions
Misplaced punctuationMissing or misused commas. Confusion between hyphens, em dashes and en dashes. Incorrect use of apostrophes
Stylistic inconsistencySwitching between UK and US conventions. Inconsistent capitalization of terms or titles. Inconsistent treatment of numbers
Formatting issuesIncorrect formatting of quotations and citations. Inconsistent paragraph indentation and spacing. Missing or misplaced page numbers, headers and footers

I charge a flat rate of $0.012 per word, for English written manuscripts. (Delivery 5-7 days).
Alternatively, I charge an express flat rate of $0.02 per word. (Delivery 24-48 hours).

No editing service shall be commenced before payment in full has been made.

To inquire about Developmental Editing or Proofreading Services, please contact me directly through the contact tab.

Short Story Review: The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe

The Tell-Tale Heart was first published in 1843 and is a short story by the American writer Edgar Allen Poe. It was then subsequently published as part of Poe’s Book – Tales of Mystery and Imagination.

The story is told by an unnamed narrator that tries to convince the reader that he is not mad but provoked and haunted by the ‘evil’ eye of the old man, taunted almost, and to rid himself of the eye, he must murder the old man that he loved very much. It follows him as he walks us through his calculated and cunning plan to commit the murder, all while declaring his sanity.

What I really like about Poe’s works, is that you can expect his narrators to be unreliable, making the reader unable to really know whether to trust him or not. In this case, the narrator is trying to mask his true intentions and feelings by his attempt to prove his sanity by exercising dissimulation. What’s to say he isn’t using dissimulation on us too?

What I think is both a strength and weakness of The Tell-Tale Heart is Poe’s style of writing, it can be quite maddening, with his short sentences leave me with questions as to the meaning, and his longer sentences are precisely worded and descriptive. It is so carefully worded, which highlights Poe’s exquisite talent as a writer, that it highlights the angle of the narrator’s chaotic mind.

I really like Poe’s work, and I have a copy of Tales of Mystery and Imagination. What I will take forth with me from this piece was his narrators’ deception and use of dissimulation, I like that the reader doesn’t know whether to trust what he says as truth or not.

Poe, E.A. (1843). The tell-tale heart. Retrieved from

https://www.poemuseum.org/the-tell-tale-heart

Deadly Bedfellow (A Short Fiction written from the POV of a snake)

As the earth starts to cool, and darkness falls across the veld, I make my way out from my
hidey-hole. The heat to hot and the cold too cold. It is in the shadows of summer night’s that is my place of delight. Along the dry, blades of grass, I go at fair pace. A great mountain ahead, with holes plenty. Vibrations felt across the earth, I follow with eager.

From memory before my slumber, a number of prey were at my pickings. Caged, unable to escape, just room for me to enter and eat.

Into the mountain I go. Beneath the bristles, a gap just my size. Undetected in the
pitch black. On my stomach I slide along the smooth, cool surface. From side to side I cast
my eyes. Not a single rodent does scurry; no fluffy big one, nor a predator in sight. Without a sound, silent, and deadly in the night, I slide on.

Weaving around and beneath strange rocks, a sudden vibration stops me in my tracks. My eyes dart from side to side, and under on large mound I hide. A large predatory creature walks past. Not a hiss I did sound, but as my tongue flickered out and retracted just as fast my mind registers the molecules of a scent. Picked up by my tines, it is sweet, familiar, delicious. I flick my tongue back out to confirm and in less than a second, I am sure. It is not in the direction of the animal that just past. I wait curled in defence hoping to remain undetected. It has been months of torpor, and now that I’ve rested, it was time to rise.

Sidewinding, flicking my tongue, eyes honed, I follow the aroma. Rounding the
corner, I twist and bend and with a twinge of glee, my hunger may come to an end. In sight,
some small animal, but bigger than me. Confused for a moment, I paused, for this smells like those prey that were once cooped around here. Such delicacy, my tummy grumbles. My mind does not wish to reason as to why this one looks different. Smells like food, must be food. Focused with eyes opened wide, raising my head, stealthily I wriggle closer.

Round and round I turn; up and up I go. My salivary glands tap into the alveoli, where my stored reserves are kept. So potent is that first strike, after such rested inactivity, it will only take one bite. Head weaving from side to side, trying to decide where I shall strike. Inch by inch, sneaking closer, now a mere metre. It twitches as it sleeps so unaware.

Near it heads the scent is stronger. Perhaps this end is tastier. My stomach growls at me to hurry up already, such predatory impatience. There is no rush, this animal will not run or fight.

Rising. Head upright, back arched straight, no need for my beautiful hood. Such a shame I won’t get to flan it. With clear concise, my eyes narrowed. I lunge forward, striking hard, my fangs sink in with a ripping sound. I retract and pull back as the animal jumps, but not to their feet. I strike again and again, my weapon released. The animal’s makes a loud noise, the vibrations are strong, and jumps over top of me. Before I can strike again, they run out of sight.

My stomach rumbles in defeat, no meal for me, but a small satisfaction as my work
cannot be undone. I scorn myself with grim dismay, one shot, blown. The animal’s blood
lingers in my mouth, my tines detecting its mistake. This was not like the prey I once fed on here, no, it was different, not so sweet. How could I have been so wrong? But there was no
time to wallow in defeat. Vibrations thudded across the land.

Down I slid, not bothering to wind or zigzag. Along the cool, smooth floor I go, and through the gap of bristles that scratch. A large predator vibrating near my back. I hurry into the shadows, not slowing, not one bit. No trepidation felt, just a will to live and eat.

Any lingering warmth from the day’s warmth long gone, I slide between the blades. I raise my head to check my eyes are not wrong. Another mountain, full of holes. I do not dare
enter this one. I am not designed to strike every probable food that crosses my path. One meal is all I need for now. Large prey is not ideal. If attacked that is different, my predatory instincts take over and rather than end up dead, it is a fight to the death and with my toxin, it wouldn’t be mine. That was the one resolve I found comfort in. It had seen me right in all my years, even as a young, smaller, version of myself, my fight had be wicked and my bite fatal. Sure I had scars, but then who didn’t. Even the best fighter at the top of the predatory chain had to have some.

It’s on to the next house where the same fate awaits, but this time, let’s hope the animal does not wake.

Flash Fiction Exercise: Wildest Dream Phone Call

Outside, grey blankets overhead act as a net, but one without holes, preventing the rain from falling any longer. A tree that stands crooked outside the window, groans. A glistening cobweb, decorated with caught raindrops, and the busy red-striped, black spider, with legs spindlier than knitting needles, plucks at the reforming of broken strings. Trees shadowing the window mirror upside down in the puddles. The residual drip drops of lingering catchment hit the puddles, causing them to ripple in circular waves. My old ticker clocks into rapid action at the erupting noise from my phone on the coffee table beside my old, tangerine armchair. Walking as urgent as I can with a bad hip, I answer the incoming call. “Hello.”
“Hello, is this Mr. Forrester?” a male voice asks.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is Doctor Nobi up at Taupo Hospital.”
“Ah, right. Is everything alright with Daisy?” I ask.
“Yes, yes, your wife’s episode was only minor. In fact, you can pick her up this afternoon, around three.”
I drop to my knees. My heart explodes as a wave of relief and happiness fills me. Tears roll down my cheek.
My wife, my Daisy is coming home.

Flash Fiction Exercise: Stuck on an Island – Day 52 Diary Entry

Day 52
The flames from the fire have begun to dwindle for yet another night. It’s a romantic notion. Penning my deepest thoughts by candlelight of sorts. The gentle caress of the ocean lapping at the shore, like a lullaby gentling me to slumber.
The stars dazzle like twinkling diamonds. I can’t help but stare. Only a quarter moon tonight.
The sand beneath me is cool. It’s the only place to sit where the large green ants won’t attack and bite me. Little buggers.
There is no breeze. No rustling in the tree canopy. No haunting whistles of wind whipping through the forest. Every footfall of wild animals draws my attention. I never know if one will become curious enough to approach me.
I heard them again today. The voices. Carried along the with wind as whispers. The island
isn’t inhabited but I still won’t step foot in the caves at the base of the waterfall.
I must head inland tomorrow to retrieve fresh water again. It’s a tedious trek, back and
forth, carrying small amounts in my makeshift bucket.
Oh, and my lips cracked again today and bled. The residual salt from the ocean spray made
them sting

The Man in the Painting

Available in English, Korean, and Chinese.

Life as Gabrielle knew it is no more. Thrust into a world she never knew existed, she is captivated by the face of a man in an animated painting. Then she finds herself being hunted, and the more she learns, the more her life is in danger. She is protected by a powerful immortal, but is it more than just protection? Could the man in the painting be her destiny? Only time will tell who will be able to save her. Enjoy the first episode of The Man in the Painting Series.

English version available on Amazon Kindle and Apple Books (iTunes).

Korean version available on Google Play Bookstore and Apple Books (iTunes).

Chinese version available on Google Play Bookstore.

Flash Fiction Review: Chapter V – by Ernest Hemingway

Hemingway sets the scene immediately with the first sentence being direct and descriptive – it sets the initial tone and feeling of the story. He then continues with four short sentences to really convey a sense of setting and the mood: “It was a glum day, dead leaves, puddles and rain, windows nailed shut, it’s all reiterating the feeling of gloom and despair.” – there is a coldness, lack of empathy or emotion.

For the flash fiction it has not been over described but rather exactly described without using too many words. I found that reading this it is clear that Hemingway wanted to convey a sense of gloom for the reader and focuses it around that. I feel a slight lift in the mood part way through, but that reaffirms the setting as described.  

Referencing:

Hemingway, E. (1925). Chapter V, in our time. Retrieved from https://biblioklept.org/2012/08/12/chapter-v-in-our-time-ernest-hemingway/

The Man in the Painting

Available in English, Korean, and Chinese.

Life as Gabrielle knew it is no more. Thrust into a world she never knew existed, she is captivated by the face of a man in an animated painting. Then she finds herself being hunted, and the more she learns, the more her life is in danger. She is protected by a powerful immortal, but is it more than just protection? Could the man in the painting be her destiny? Only time will tell who will be able to save her. Enjoy the first episode of The Man in the Painting Series.

English version available on Amazon Kindle and Apple Books (iTunes).

Korean version available on Google Play Bookstore and Apple Books (iTunes).

Chinese version available on Google Play Bookstore.

Short Story Analysis: The Perfect Mark by Melodie Campbell

The Perfect mark by Melodie Campbell is one that fits into the category of popular fiction, as it doesn’t follow a specific character.  It storyline fits into the genre of crime fiction, as theft took place. This storyline made me laugh however, because it’s a story of two criminals, thinking they have the upper hand over the other character, and believing they are naïve to believe them. It suits this genre because of the deception and planning by the characters to take advantage of the other, by lulling them into a false sense of state, only to steal from them. I liked this story over the first, because of the humour in which it was told, thinking old ladies are so naïve, she relaxes patiently waiting for her chance to steal all the little old lady’s possessions, but unaware she is the one being lined up to be robbed. It took me by surprise, and it was heading in the direction of a darker story, but the author kept it light-hearted with a dash of ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ in there. This would also be a flash fiction as the story is too short to sustain any further.

I could visually see the setting because of the descriptions the author used, the typical little old lady in a condominium, drinking tea. How younger generations tend to think older generations are so naïve and gullible, and how easy it is to take advantage of them from the outside looking in. In reality older generations sometimes can be quite smart and quick on the mark with the younger generations, and can be quite clever in their ways. I found this relatable because of my life experiences of things I have seen between the young and old generations.

The way the author described Elvira’s behaviour and mannerism, she comes across as quite a spritely and active person, not the helpless little old lady Sasha thinks she is.

I found it enjoyable to read because I didn’t expect the little old lady to be the thief, and trick the younger thief out of her possession unknowingly. Even though it fits into the genre of crime fiction, it was humorous, edgy and entertained me as the reader.

Short Story Review: The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe

The Tell-Tale Heart was first published in 1843 and is a short story by the American writer Edgar Allen Poe. It was then subsequently published as part of Poe’s Book – Tales of Mystery and Imagination.

The story is told by an unnamed narrator that tries to convince the reader that he is not mad but provoked and haunted by the ‘evil’ eye of the old man, taunted almost, and to rid himself of the eye, he must murder the old man that he loved very much. It follows him as he walks us through his calculated and cunning plan to commit the murder, all while declaring his sanity.

What I really like about Poe’s works, is that you can expect his narrators to be unreliable, making the reader unable to really know whether to trust him or not. In this case, the narrator is trying to mask his true intentions and feelings by his attempt to prove his sanity by exercising dissimulation. What’s to say he isn’t using dissimulation on us too?

What I think is both a strength and weakness of The Tell-Tale Heart is Poe’s style of writing, it can be quite maddening, with his short sentences leave me with questions as to the meaning, and his longer sentences are precisely worded and descriptive. It is so carefully worded, which highlights Poe’s exquisite talent as a writer, that it highlights the angle of the narrator’s chaotic mind.

I really like Poe’s work, and I have a copy of Tales of Mystery and Imagination. What I will take forth with me from this piece was his narrators’ deception and use of dissimulation, I like that the reader doesn’t know whether to trust what he says as truth or not.

Poe, E.A. (1843). The tell-tale heart. Retrieved from

https://www.poemuseum.org/the-tell-tale-heart