I don’t know how authors did this before they invented word processors. I well and truly do not. It’s just so much easier to edit now.
I looked around a bit, but there’s a limit to how much you can hide when there’s nothing really to hide it in. But the same key that opened the door to the apartment unlocked the door to the warehouse, and as I came down the stairwell I got a whiff I got a whiff of something that made try to decide whether I was lucky again, or now unlucky.
Icemold. Damned icemold. Worst drug Cin City’s ever seen, and she’s seen them all.
The Shamus who was my mentor told me once that icemold was the price we paid for the Mountain, and I couldn’t argue with that. The cool, moist air that comes off of Her brings with it what my mentor called ‘schmaltz;’ kind of a living razzle-dazzle. Part of the Cin City charm, just like the good weather and food.
Only sometimes the schmaltz curdles, out in the bad places where it ain’t all a bed of roses. Places like Redtown, which lays in its own stink because it enjoys the smell. There they collect the schmaltz, let it rot, do a little fermenting, and hey presto! Icemold. There are words that can say how nasty it is, but none that I’d say in public.
Whiteout. And lots of paper.
In college English Comp. class we were told of certain authors who would take stacks of single pages and cut-out sections of their book, and physically re-arrange them all until it all came together.
.
Many days I loath tech, but there are enough reasons to abide it that the math works out in its favor.