A short piece of mine that was recently published by a Tertiary Institute in Melbourne, Australia was without any consultation dreadfully butchered and hashed by the editors.
Two weeks have now passed since
an exchange with one of the editors, with the matter left hanging.
I want it known, I completely and
utterly repudiate the piece, titled "Cunnamulla", as it appears in A
Time To Write 2013, published by North Melbourne Institute of Technology,
Writing and Publishing Department.
For anyone interested in the form these disasters can take when inept, unprofessional editors are involved, have a look at the version published by this outfit (on-line at Smashwords), and compare the original posted on this Blog 15 May 2011. (See below for easier convenience.) Perhaps the juxtaposition can have some educative value. Typos, omissions, mangled phrasing and punctuation, blunt and creaking syntax, blundering transitions—it's a complete mess that's been produced by these teachers of the writing craft. A hash almost beyond belief.
Be warned all writers: steer clear of this crowd.
For anyone interested in the form these disasters can take when inept, unprofessional editors are involved, have a look at the version published by this outfit (on-line at Smashwords), and compare the original posted on this Blog 15 May 2011. (See below for easier convenience.) Perhaps the juxtaposition can have some educative value. Typos, omissions, mangled phrasing and punctuation, blunt and creaking syntax, blundering transitions—it's a complete mess that's been produced by these teachers of the writing craft. A hash almost beyond belief.
Be warned all writers: steer clear of this crowd.
Cunnamulla
Original
Daryl
didn't mind you getting his name wrong. It must have happened commonly. Daryl,
Terry, Greg—he was of that vintage and strata.
— Call me Nipper, he allowed immediately at the error, too rapidly for comprehension.
Nipper. It had been a long while since Daryl had nipped about.
The day before he had discharged himself from hospital. Trouble with the ticker. A stent had been put in. Drugs for opening up the little veins around the heart. Drugs to thin the blood. More drugs to control blood pressure. Then pancreatitis, Hep C and liver damage. On top of that Nipper left hospital with a chest infection. Tests for nasties on the pancreas and liver couldn't be conducted because the infection meant Nipper couldn't be put down.
Greg could meet Nipper half-way—or some part of the way—in blackfella talk. They bounced off each other a bit playfully. The pair evidently knew each other well, though Greg had never mentioned Nipper, or Daryl. The blackfella talk was full of smiles and bright eyes, a completely unexpected vaudeville in Greg’s dark, dingy room.
Cunnnamulla Nipper hailed from. He left on December 17 19----.... The year was a problem for a while. For a while Nipper was stuck in the 90's, which he knew was wrong. Eventually 1976 definitively returned. A few weeks short of his seventeenth birthday. The apprenticeship papers for a diesel mechanic had just come through. On December 17 1976 Nipper came home early, pulled out his drawers and emptied his belongings into his kit, while his mother looked on.
— Where do you think you're going?
— Brisbane.
— Brisbane! You'll get killed in Brisbane.... You never seen a traffic light, you're going to Brisbane.
Cunnamulla was seventy miles north and a thousand kilometres west—Nipper thumbed for inland in a single jerk. Cunnamulla wasn't on the coast, No. Nowhere near the Gold Coast or Surfers.
More than likely Nipper thumbed rides in those days. Since 1976 he had been back to see the old lady three times. The last time he had been in thirteen fights in twelve weeks. These numbers came immediately and unimpeded.
Greg's black jokes went down without a problem. Nipper's large hands, raised knuckles, the tattoos visible even rugged up against the sudden winter blast, stayed put. No cause for alarm.
Greg's other black jokes on the state of Nipper's health and his mental balance likewise went down smoothly.
— He may as well put a gun to his head.
Nipper gave back to Greg's cracks, but without the nimbleness. To this last there was no protest.
Working in the mines, drink and substances were tricky even on days off. Each morning you had to blow. Not only .05 but .01 got you a window seat. On the aircraft to the mainland.
Talk of work on the islands brought out Greg's familiar story about Hamilton. The head honcho who will remain nameless here, who was called God by his minions, wore a pith helmet and monocle. In his office a large plaque on the wall declared: You Can Tell the Size of the Boys by the Size of their Toys. That didn't stop Greg dropping his strides and brown-eyeing the monocle when he got fired. You could forgive Greg for returning to the story over the years; finally it was the repetition of detail that confirmed its veracity.
The Achilles was the name of God's runabout, a former mine-sweeper. When some Arab sheiks were being entertained by God and given a tour of the islands, $98,000 of diesel went into the jaunt. Later God bull-dozed a mountain to extend the runway for direct flights to his resort. A waterbed in the cabin of the runabout, mirrors on the ceiling, Greg poking one of the lasses where God alone had the prerogative—Nipper might have heard the story before too. It was hard to tell. Had it been a first listening Greg’s fragmentary delivery would have made it almost impossible to follow. Nipper may have worked on the island himself. Either way, in Nipper's hearing no added bullshit would have gone down in such a story. Through the hour or so Nipper remained on his feet, arms crossed on his chest like the quiet guy in the bar who needed to be monitored for the good order of proceedings.
More than strange to catch Nipper—Daryl—up close like this. On Fitzroy Street you could often see him lurking with a couple of pals nursing a stubby. Around in Gertie Street the same, on the Koorie gym corner. Nipper roomed in Fitzroy nearby. In Nipper’s time there were no gyms in Cunnamulla, you could be sure. Not many Marquis de Queensberry lads could have gone a round with Nipper in his day. On the street Nipper was always a little dauntingly squint-eyed like now in Greg’s bed-sit. Squint-eyed, hollow-cheeked, gap-toothed, heavily creased. In his winter clobber, cap pulled over his eyes, none of the signs of illness were visible. You couldn’t see Nipper submitting to a medical regime, tests and pills, palliative care. They’d pass round the hat for Nipper’s fare. The ride to Culla took as long again as Brisbane almost, one of them reckoned with some kind of wry truth that produced nods.
— Call me Nipper, he allowed immediately at the error, too rapidly for comprehension.
Nipper. It had been a long while since Daryl had nipped about.
The day before he had discharged himself from hospital. Trouble with the ticker. A stent had been put in. Drugs for opening up the little veins around the heart. Drugs to thin the blood. More drugs to control blood pressure. Then pancreatitis, Hep C and liver damage. On top of that Nipper left hospital with a chest infection. Tests for nasties on the pancreas and liver couldn't be conducted because the infection meant Nipper couldn't be put down.
Greg could meet Nipper half-way—or some part of the way—in blackfella talk. They bounced off each other a bit playfully. The pair evidently knew each other well, though Greg had never mentioned Nipper, or Daryl. The blackfella talk was full of smiles and bright eyes, a completely unexpected vaudeville in Greg’s dark, dingy room.
Cunnnamulla Nipper hailed from. He left on December 17 19----.... The year was a problem for a while. For a while Nipper was stuck in the 90's, which he knew was wrong. Eventually 1976 definitively returned. A few weeks short of his seventeenth birthday. The apprenticeship papers for a diesel mechanic had just come through. On December 17 1976 Nipper came home early, pulled out his drawers and emptied his belongings into his kit, while his mother looked on.
— Where do you think you're going?
— Brisbane.
— Brisbane! You'll get killed in Brisbane.... You never seen a traffic light, you're going to Brisbane.
Cunnamulla was seventy miles north and a thousand kilometres west—Nipper thumbed for inland in a single jerk. Cunnamulla wasn't on the coast, No. Nowhere near the Gold Coast or Surfers.
More than likely Nipper thumbed rides in those days. Since 1976 he had been back to see the old lady three times. The last time he had been in thirteen fights in twelve weeks. These numbers came immediately and unimpeded.
Greg's black jokes went down without a problem. Nipper's large hands, raised knuckles, the tattoos visible even rugged up against the sudden winter blast, stayed put. No cause for alarm.
Greg's other black jokes on the state of Nipper's health and his mental balance likewise went down smoothly.
— He may as well put a gun to his head.
Nipper gave back to Greg's cracks, but without the nimbleness. To this last there was no protest.
Working in the mines, drink and substances were tricky even on days off. Each morning you had to blow. Not only .05 but .01 got you a window seat. On the aircraft to the mainland.
Talk of work on the islands brought out Greg's familiar story about Hamilton. The head honcho who will remain nameless here, who was called God by his minions, wore a pith helmet and monocle. In his office a large plaque on the wall declared: You Can Tell the Size of the Boys by the Size of their Toys. That didn't stop Greg dropping his strides and brown-eyeing the monocle when he got fired. You could forgive Greg for returning to the story over the years; finally it was the repetition of detail that confirmed its veracity.
The Achilles was the name of God's runabout, a former mine-sweeper. When some Arab sheiks were being entertained by God and given a tour of the islands, $98,000 of diesel went into the jaunt. Later God bull-dozed a mountain to extend the runway for direct flights to his resort. A waterbed in the cabin of the runabout, mirrors on the ceiling, Greg poking one of the lasses where God alone had the prerogative—Nipper might have heard the story before too. It was hard to tell. Had it been a first listening Greg’s fragmentary delivery would have made it almost impossible to follow. Nipper may have worked on the island himself. Either way, in Nipper's hearing no added bullshit would have gone down in such a story. Through the hour or so Nipper remained on his feet, arms crossed on his chest like the quiet guy in the bar who needed to be monitored for the good order of proceedings.
More than strange to catch Nipper—Daryl—up close like this. On Fitzroy Street you could often see him lurking with a couple of pals nursing a stubby. Around in Gertie Street the same, on the Koorie gym corner. Nipper roomed in Fitzroy nearby. In Nipper’s time there were no gyms in Cunnamulla, you could be sure. Not many Marquis de Queensberry lads could have gone a round with Nipper in his day. On the street Nipper was always a little dauntingly squint-eyed like now in Greg’s bed-sit. Squint-eyed, hollow-cheeked, gap-toothed, heavily creased. In his winter clobber, cap pulled over his eyes, none of the signs of illness were visible. You couldn’t see Nipper submitting to a medical regime, tests and pills, palliative care. They’d pass round the hat for Nipper’s fare. The ride to Culla took as long again as Brisbane almost, one of them reckoned with some kind of wry truth that produced nods.
Edited
Daryl
didn't mind you getting his name wrong. It must have happened to him regular.
Daryl, Terry, Greg – he was of that vintage and strata. “Call me Nipper,” he
allowed immediately and a tad too rapid for comprehension.
Nipper? It
looked a good while since Daryl had ever nipped.
The day
before he’d discharged himself. Some trouble with his ticker. A stent had been
put in. Drugs for opening up the little veins around the heart. Drugs to thin the
blood. More drugs to control blood pressure. Then they’d run some tests for
pancreatitis, Hep C and liver damage. But in the end, Nipper left hospital with
a chest infection and the tests for nasties on the pancreas and liver, couldn't
be conducted because Nipper couldn't very well be put under if didn’t reckon
he’d come through.
Greg could
meet Nipper halfway – or some part of the way – in blackfella talk. They
bounced off each other and evidently knew and liked each other well enough,
though Greg had never mentioned Nipper, or Daryl. The blackfella talk was full
of smiles and bright eyes – a completely unexpected vaudeville performed in
Greg’s dingy digs.
Nipper
hailed from Cunnnamulla. He left on December 17, 19--. The year was a problem
for a while. Nipper was stuck in the 90s, which he knew was wrong. Eventually
1976 definitively returned.
A few
weeks short of his seventeenth birthday. The apprenticeship papers for a diesel
mechanic had just come through. And so on December 17, 1976, Nipper came home
and while his mother looked on, he pulled out his drawers and emptied his
belongings into his kit.
“Brisbane!”
She screeched. “You'll get y’rself killed in Brisbane.... You never seen a
traffic light, an’ you're off to Brisbane.”
Cunnamulla
was seventy miles north and a thousand kilometres west –Nipper thumbed for
inland in a single jerk. Cunnamulla wasn't on the coast, No and nowhere near
the Gold Coast or Surfers. Nipper thumbed rides in those days.
Since 1976
he had been back to see the old lady three times. The last time he’d been, he’d
been in thirteen fights in twelve weeks. These numbers came to him immediately
and unimpeded.
Greg's
black jokes went down without a problem. Nipper's large hands, raised knuckles,
tattoos visible – even rugged up against the sudden winter blast – stayed put.
No cause for alarm. Greg's other black jokes on the state of Nipper's health
and his mental balance went down likewise. Nipper gave back to Greg's cracks,
but without nimbleness. “May as well put a gun to his head.”
To this
last there was no protest.
Working in
the mines, drink and substances were tricky even on days off. Each morning you
had to blow. Not just .05, even .01 got you a window seat. On the aircraft to
the mainland.
Talk of
work on the islands brought out Greg's familiar story about Hamilton. How the
head honcho, who’ll remain shameless here, was called ‘God’ by his minions and
wore a pith helmet and monocle. In his office, a large plaque on the wall
declared, You Can Tell the Size of the Boys by the Size of their Toys. That
didn't stop Greg dropping his strides and brown-eyeing the monocle when he got
fired. You could forgive Greg for returning to the story over the years.
Finally it was the repetition of detail that confirmed its veracity.
The
Achilles was the name of God's runabout, a former mine-sweeper. When some Arab
sheiks were being entertained by God and given a tour of the islands, $98,000
of diesel went into the jaunt. Later, God bull-dozed a mountain to extend the
runway for direct flights to his resort. The runabout had a waterbed in the
sleeping cabin, mirrors on the ceiling – Greg poking one of the lasses where
God alone had the prerogative. Nipper might have heard the story before too. It
was hard to tell. Had it been a first-listening, Greg’s fragmentary delivery
would have made it almost impossible to follow.
.
.
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