Book editing to publish
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Om K.
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Dear Om
Do you have an idea of how many words you want to end up with?Om K.13 Jun 2018I am sorry I don' know. it depends upon the Editor how much fat he would like to cream off.
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Can you please mention the budget and the type of editing you are looking for.
Om K.13 Jun 2018hello Pro
I have not come across in defining the quality and excellence. obviously the book should have no grammatical errors, repeats, dead wood, and have a good presentation. I am only providing the contents, the ideas, and experiences. I have to depend on your skill how you would present this text.Prabodh P.13 Jun 2018Kindly share a sample.
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Hi Om,
A look at a sample would be helpful, as would further clarification regarding the level of editing you require.
Thanks,
Kevin.Om K.12 Jun 2018hello
thanks for the reply. I am not planning to get it edited for the top notch Oxfordian graduates. it is written in a commoner language for the commoner reader on the street. please see the attached sample text if I can attach it.Kevin K.12 Jun 2018Thanks Om. As someone who is not an Oxford graduate, I'm happy with that!
It doesn't seem to have attached though. -
Do you need the content to be edited or just the grammar/punctuation etc?
Om K.12 Jun 2018hello
thanks. I can check the grammar I hope. -
Hi Om,
Do you require publishing as well (CreateSpace, Lulu, etc) or is this project just for editing the manuscript?Om K.12 Jun 2018yes I like to publish provided there is some good publisher. I just lost £602 with a publisher with bad report.
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What kind of editing do you require? Can I see a sample of the work?
Om K.12 Jun 2018yes please se 4 pages from the manuscript. they are when I had to run with my father and two brothers to India to escape death
Chapter 4
ENTER INDIA
The memories of the past are always a mixture of joys, blissful, painful, hurtful, or full of with tears and agonies. They are like a string instrument. They are buried deep into our memory lanes. When we dig them out, they may play an exhilarating music with melodies of happy memories. Or they may play the songs of sorrows to make our eyes full of agonies and tears. One can also say the same thing in another way. If one walks amongst the rose flowers, the air surrounding it will fill up with the fragrance and makes one drunk with its sweet aroma but if one stirs the filth it would give one a smell that would make him run away from it all. But the memories of happiness and delight are always short lived and never have the deeper roots as one would have with sorrows. And when you go into your memory lanes it is always the one with sorrows that predominantly would surface up and would make you sing the songs of sorrows in preference to the happy melodies. The whole episode of the partition and its suffering was nothing but pains, sorrows, heart rending tears, blood letting, and full of stinks. They are so deep rooted that it is very difficult to forget them and let them go so easily because they have inflicted so much suffering and pain for so long that even if I wish to lay them off, they would continue to stay afresh in the dark corners of the unconscious mind.
Reached Abhor (a small town in Indian Punjab)
It was 23rd August 1947 and was dusk when we had put our foot at the soil of Abhor station of Punjab, India. This was the day we had been waiting for, for the last so many days. As we dismounted from the train, alas we were deeply disappointed and shocked to notice several bone fires, burning at the platform. The armed police were patrolling the station with rifles, loaded with ammunition and bayonets ready to pierce through your soft tissue of your body. They appeared to be tense and trigger happy. Not a sign of smile or a twinkle in their eyes to welcome the strangers. Their feet were frozen as if they were glued on to the ground. Only their faces would move around to scan the area with their fierce looking eyes. Their inner soul was dead, and you could feel that there was no compassion in their hearts. They were attentive and panicky. A little noise in the vicinity and they would pick their rifles aiming to shoot to kill. They had become mentally tense and abnormal. They had turned their psycho with fears to protect their own being. They had become beasts in their human flesh. They had a licence to shoot to kill. They were acting as the law unto themselves. The human life had no value to them. The power of the gun and ‘shoot to kill’ orders had turned them into lunatics. The whole station was deserted because of that fear, except a stray dog looking for some freshly killed meaty human flesh. If they could not find one, they would give a dirty look at the policeman as if saying ‘you bloody cowards have no guts to kill for my food’. It was a horrific scene. Had we jumped from frying pan to a fire? I thought so.
This was the town where our other family members were sheltering in a building belonging to some Charity. The question was how to find them. We soon learnt that we cannot go to the town as the whole town was under shoot-to-kill curfew. That news did not help. We had to get down at the station and then find some means of locating our folks, meet them, and let them know that we were still alive and had safely arrived in India. There were no other communication channels available to inform them. There were very few and far between telephones if any and they too were only available to the government agencies. The quickest method of informing them was to send them a telegram and for that all postal services were suspended all over the country.
So, we got down there to decide later how to find our family. We walked on the platform and my brother said that now we are safe as ‘we are in our country’. I asked,
‘Brother you said that we are now ‘safe’. Then what are these bonfires on the platform on an Indian railway station.’