I am buried right now in galleys. No, not boats or nautical kitchens. Literary galleys.
You see, once you’ve written the book, edited the book, re-edited the book fourteen times, had an agent edit the book, had an editor edit the book, and finally, after a proofreader does a final edit of the book, the publisher sends you the galleys.
They are the absolutely final, last chance in hell you will ever have to find mistakes in said book.
But how could there be mistakes after all those eyes have approved it?
O ho, dear reader—you would be surprised.
So, I put old eagle eye, aka husband, Matt, on it. And myself, of course. The two of us have been going through it with fine-toothed combs for three days straight.
Bet you think we didn’t find errors, right? WRONG! There were about 15 of them.
As an example, Matt discovered that somehow the sail on the coffin ship was now spelled “sale.” Yep, I could’ve died.