I didn't know copy editors bothered with deep thinking. Generally I thought such exacting wordsmiths tried to avoid creativity when they are on the job; of course, you're probably just luring me into some sense of complacency so I'll give you final copy--I'll return to that issue later.
Generally, even being the unrepentant cynic that I am, which recent events has certainly not significantly altered, I find that if you're going to pick up a book than you've already set out to care, because if you don't, you're wasting your own time, and people in our society hate doing that above all else. Caring for someone else is, similarly, a choice. I've noticed people often bestow that favor on people that don't deserve it, a phenomenon that completely and continually baffles me.
I was waiting for the monster to find Frankenstein again and tear him limb from limb. But I was a precocious child.
I don't doubt you are a writer, C. Davis--god forbid you actually give me a Christian name so I don't sound like a nun reading off a studen'ts name tag--and you may go on being one as long as you don't expect me to do any copy editing. The definition of your job being what it is, and the legalities being what they are, I suppose my paranoia at your absorbing whatever trifling idealogies I have in prose is probably misplaced.
That said, I do not have final copy for you, and you may tell Quinn that as well, since he doesn't seem to believe me, and will not leave off harassing me about it.
D.B.W.
P.S. I am to assume, I suppose, that you are not an elderly frigid spinster, and I'm to apologize about that little exchange. - D.
P.P.S. I strictly forbid you to mother me. It's a horrific experience to try to emulate my mother, and I won't have you doing it, I don't care how old you are, or how frigid. -D.