Last February, I was a participant at the San Francisco Writers Conference, where I met lots and lots of people, but three people in particular: Katharine “Kit” Kerr, Alex Tillson, and Clint Talbert. Though it would probably surprise at least two of them to hear it, all three of them led me to great epiphanies about my writing this year.

For a magical hour or two, Katharine, the wonderful Philippa Ballantine, and I got an opportunity to sit down together in the quiet presenters’ lounge and talk long and passionately about writing. Technically, we were planning out what we would cover in our panel on fantasy. After the panel ended, and because she had time before the next appearance on her schedule, I invited Kit, on a lark, to come and sit with me on the editor/author 10-minute consultations I was doing. The two of us sat and evaluated first-pages of a bunch of manuscripts, encouraged a bunch of nervous authors (perhaps more nervous, for finding her there — surprise!), and we found a great synergy and bond between us as we did so. She picked out things I agreed with completely but wouldn’t have caught at a glance. Between that chat and those sessions, I think I learned even more than our authors did.

Clint Talbert is a promising writer who has become a good friend. Months later, we were talking and I mentioned that I feel selfish when I write; I have a hard time taking time away from my other work, on other people’s manuscripts which have contracts and deadlines and things, to write something of my own. He reminded me that every writer, no matter what their other work is, faces the same problem. I knew that, as an editor and advice-giver, but I hadn’t internalized it until he said it to me. You just have to make time for yourself, and write, just like everybody else. And since then, I have.

It was August, and I was musing about how to turn a particular one of my short stories into a novel, when Alex Tillson gave me possibly the simplest and most profound piece of writing advice I’ve ever received. She said, “Look at the decisions your characters have had to make [in the short story]. What can happen now that would turn those choices into the worst decisions they could have possibly made?” And that was the answer. So simple, and so brilliant. That’s where the plot was hiding. And it’s helped me craft every story since.

“Low-hanging fruit” is a common metaphor you’ll hear in writing circles, in reference to coming up with ideas. The lowest-hanging fruit on any tree are the easiest ones to reach and therefore the ones that get picked first. For writers, the metaphor usually suggests that the ideas you come up with first, or most easily, are going to be ideas that other people have had.

I’ve often seen it recommended, when writing short stories targeted for anthologies with specific themes, that writers reject the first five ideas they come up with. As the thought process goes, these are going to be the most obvious, easiest choices — the “low-hanging fruit”; the story ideas that everyone else will think of, too.

But it’s also said that “low-hanging fruit is the low-hanging fruit of metaphor.” (In addition to sounding potentially, well… Follow the link.) It’s an easy metaphor to use; a simplified way to think about something that may not actually be so simple or straightforward.

People are different, and people’s minds work differently. We don’t all have the same likes and dislikes, and we don’t all follow the same trains of thought. It would be pretty boring if we did. So, I don’t entirely buy the low-hanging fruit analogy when it’s applied to story ideas. I don’t believe that all people are going to strike upon the same idea as easiest or most obvious. There are too many variables between individuals. Between general life experience, what you’ve read or seen recently, a personal association with the topic, one person’s low-hanging fruit is not necessarily the same as another’s.

I’ve read a lot of queries for novel-length manuscripts over the past three or four years. I’ve also looked at anthology submissions, and I’ve talked to other anthologists. Trends emerge in submissions. This fascinates me, because it’s not usually popular media or current events that seem to have influenced writers’ ideas. And the ideas I would think of as “most obvious” are not always the ones that are most represented.

When I target a story for a particular anthology, I do think about the approaches that I think other writers are most likely to take. But, there’s a flaw in this: Unless I seek out other writers who are preparing stories, and poll them, I have no idea what kinds of things a given topic will make other people think of. I have no way of knowing whether I’m avoiding the trend, or second-guessing myself right into the middle of it. Maybe everyone is avoiding that ripest, most obvious apple and going for the second-ripest one. Maybe the obvious one is what the editor wants; if no one else is going to go for it, maybe picking it would give you a better chance.

You see, I hope, how this line of thinking can work you into writers’ paralysis if you’re not careful.

If you’re submitting to a second (or later) volume of an anthology on a particular theme, you can read the stories in prior volumes to make sure that you don’t reinvent them. That will help somewhat; you’ll be able to see trends in the earlier stories and do something different. Sometimes editors will tell you what they don’t want to see. But that still doesn’t help you out against all the other people who’ll be submitting for the new volume right along with you.

My advice: pick the fruit that looks most appealing to you.

When Ed Greenwood and I approached writers about When the Hero Comes Home, I could almost always see it in their eyes — there would be a spark of an idea that came to mind instantly, when writers heard the theme; something within them instantly surfaced, inspired. When that happens for you, take that and nurture it; tease it out until it’s the best story, and best expression of the theme, that it can be. Think about what other writers might be reaching for, yes, but don’t let it be your consuming worry. Go with the idea that inspires you, that you can put your own personal spin on. It’s that spark of you, that twist of something different, that will make your story rise to the top, even if a dozen others attempt the same theme. If you don’t write what you feel, if you focus instead on trying to predict what will be original and what will trend, you risk boxing yourself into a corner where you can’t write anything at all, for fear it won’t be the right thing. Since you can’t know what other people are going to be writing, the most effective thing you can do is write your story in your way. Put your voice and heart into it.

When all the fruit is harvested and taken to market, no one will know the order in which it was picked.

Today’s guest post comes from J. Daniel Sawyer, podcaster and author. His short fiction will be appearing in the upcoming anthology “The Pod Complex: A Dragon Moon Press Podthology,” featuring some of the best short stories in speculative podcast fiction, forthcoming in April 2010. If you can’t wait that long, and you shouldn’t, go to www.jdsawyer.net and start getting hooked on “The Antithesis Progression” and “Down From Ten” today.

Measuring Up
by J. Daniel Sawyer

There is a theory that states that one day soon the metric system will dominate the world. There is another theory that states that this has already happened, and Americans simply haven’t noticed. There is yet a third theory that states that certain authors, such as the one who wrote this blog post, are insensibly prone to expressing themselves in idioms lifted from the works of Douglas Adams. This third theory is, of course, the most convincing.

However, even granting the validity of the third theory, we are left to puzzle over the first two, as well as the distance corollary to Murphy’s law, which states that in instruction manuals and fantasy novels, all measurements and velocity will be stated in units which are least immediately intelligible to the audience (e.g. measuring a city bus’s average speed in “furlongs per fortnight”).

Setting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard, one of the basic tasks a writer faces is choosing the measurement system in which he will communicate his story. Will he tacitly endorse White European Occidental conceit by using the Imperial system (inches/pints/pounds) or will he opt for the more enlightened, international, and human-rights friendly Metric System (meters/liters/grams)?*

A certain amount of this probably comes down to the same factors as language, politics, and religion (i.e. people reflexively think and write in terms of the systems they were born into), but writers of speculative, fantastic, or period fiction have to actually do the calculus and choose a system they want to use, and decide why they want to use it.

So why would any American not trained in the sciences subject her audience to the taxing mental arithmetic of converting kilometers into miles, for example? Why would a European or Commonwealth author decide to go with the Imperial system when writing a story not set in England or America?

The answers vary. Anything from “I want to look cool” to “they have cooler drugs in Amsterdam” will do in a pinch, but writers who are interested in having their stories hold together internally may want to look a little bit deeper. In my own science fiction universe, that of The Antithesis Progression, I slavishly bow to the metric system – but (shockingly, to those who know my sycophantic ways) do it not because it looks cool, but because the bulk of the story takes place off-world. I reasoned, in setting up my universe, that astrogation calculations, as well as all the day-to-day math needed to run one’s life, will be simpler, faster, and easier to do in Metric than in Imperial units. As such, even space travelers predisposed to thinking in Imperial units will find life easier in Metric. Add to that the population bias of a second and third-generation off-world civilization, seeded largely by engineers and scientists, and it seemed ridiculous to me to suppose that people in such a world would think in Imperial units. Which is a shame, as it means I have to use my conversion calculator about four times a page, adding an extra “pain in the ass” factor to the writing process.

Other stories I’ve written, by contrast, use the Imperial system wherever I can get away with it, because that’s how my brain habitually measures things, and I’m a big believer in getting out of my own way as much as possible. Setting stories in Victorian England makes the Imperial System a no-brainer, as does telling the tale of an American tourist waiting for his sweetheart at a train station in northern Italy. There are some other situations, though, where the call is not so easy to make.

Take, for example, a fantasy novel set in an alternate reality. Would such a culture have miles or kilometers? Would they have something entirely novel, for example a standard unit of weight based on the size of a dead king’s skull filled with gold dust? What if you set a story in Imperial China, which had its own novel and internally consistent (and highly codified) system of weights and measures? In either case, as the author you are faced with the responsibility of rendering the unintelligible, intelligible:

1) You could cop out, as did the original Battlestar Galactica, and just re-name standard units of time or distance with over-hip cutesy crap and hope your audience catches on.

2) You could take the approach Neil Gaiman did in Murder Mysteries, where he tells the audience in the text, “A lot of this stuff I’m translating already…putting it into images you can understand…it wasn’t really like this.”

3) You could just translate transparently and trust that the audience won’t notice (they probably won’t).

4) You could choose to write around the issue by measuring journeys in time, heights in relative terms (John the Barbarian was about twice as tall as Edith the Amazing Dwarf Woman), ditto for other weights and measures.

However, you must not blend measurement systems without a compelling reason. If you have two POV characters, one French and one American, and each thinks in their own system, that’s fine. If you have an American without formal scientific training thinking in terms of miles one minute and kilograms the next, she’d better be schizoid or your audience will dock you points for competence.

You must also be accurate and consistent in your measurements. Don’t have a person who weighs eight stones register 200lbs on the bathroom scale. Don’t assume that a kilometer is 2.2 miles just because a kilogram is 2.2 pounds. If you’re writing outside of your native measurement system, keep a conversion chart handy, and check everything. After all, a journey of a thousand miles doesn’t begin well when you start it with a half-meter stagger.

Finally, remember: For some things, it’s more impressive when you measure in centimeters. But only for some things.

*footnote: The Metric system, being largely French, is ipso facto immune from all charges of European Imperialist bias, on the grounds that the French words for such things are largely unpronounceable for people who don’t currently have a mouthful of hot porridge.

—
J. Daniel Sawyer is a hat-wearing, obsessive-compulsive nutcase attempting to write his way out of the looney bin. He’s the author of numerous fiction podcasts including Sculpting God, Down From Ten, and The Antithesis Progression (which earned him a spot as a 2009 Parsec Finalist). Lacking in personal qualities things that make for respectable character (such as the ability to sit still and shut up), he’s forced to channel his lack of decorum into the fields of photography, a/v production, and writing for outfits like LinuxJournal and the occasional speculative fiction anthology.

When not working on his new secret steampunk fantasy adventure or getting into other mischief, he can be heard hosting the skeptical salon The Polyschizmatic Reprobates Hour, and as the narrator of Free Will, book two of The Antithesis Progression, both available through www.jdsawyer.net.

Monday, I lamented the sort of plot that’s all about life happening to a hapless protagonist.

The fact is, sometimes life happens to all of us, and circumstances arise beyond our control in ways that leave us to pick up the pieces. It’s wearying to a reader if you try to make it an entire plot, but it’s realistic for a little unexpected and unplanned misfortune to crop up now and again.

In life, as in fiction, the best we can do is be prepared for the worst.

Yesterday, the existence of backup files saved a side project I help to support.

When my computer failed catastrophically a month or two ago, I wasn’t prepared for it. It didn’t give me any warning, it just stopped working. It wouldn’t even boot. I back up my work folders regularly, so I knew that the manuscripts were safe. That still left me lamenting the loss of photographs, my own original writings, and all the other irreplaceable files of sentimental value that we all entrust to fragile little machines.

Luckily, the failure wasn’t with the hard drive. It was still intact and the data was there for the saving. I promised myself to be more vigilant with my backups after that, but life gets in the way and sitting down to transfer a zillion photographs for safekeeping hasn’t been my priority.

Until yesterday’s crash reminded me, that is.

Save your work frequently when you’re in an open file. And backup your work frequently to an outside location, for safe keeping. Your works in progress represent hours and years of work and careful thought, and it’s worth a few extra minutes out of your weekly routine to keep them safe.

In one of my posts a while back, I said that when you build your world and your setting, you need to keep your technology consistent or keep it plausible. It doesn’t have to be both, but it must be one or the other.

In science fiction, it’s most common for writers to adopt metric as the standard of measurement. Second most common, I’d say, is inventing your own original system.

Why?

Because a lot of science fiction takes place in the future, and there seems to have been an assumption made somewhere down the line that the metric system is more “futuristic.” (Ooh, it’s the future! We’ll all have converted to metric by then!)

When you create your setting, you get to choose whether you follow the standard conventions of the genre. Don’t feel pressured to do something a certain way just because everyone else does. Don’t feel obligated to break the mold just to be different in ways that are going to be distracting to your reader, either, but do take the time to think about the choices you’re making and why you’re making them.

If you want your universe to operate in feet and miles instead of meters and kilometers, go for it. Just keep it consistent; and if it isn’t consistent, keep it plausible. Have a reason for the inconsistency. Use it to your advantage, even! Different governments or worlds having different standards is certainly a valid and plausible reason — maybe it can even cause friction when those two bodies try to work together.

Don’t worry that your work isn’t going to be “sci-fi” enough if you don’t use metric; that’s like worrying that your work isn’t going to be “fantasy” enough if it doesn’t have elves. But at the same time, don’t worry that you’re “caving in” by deciding to use the standard, either.

Standards have a purpose: they give readers a familiar framework that keeps them from being distracted by the minutae, so that they can focus on the story. At the same time, if you make your break from the standard a part of the story, it can set your universe apart, or shift readers out of that comfort zone in ways that you can use.

Remember my post last monday about the haunted house? There are certain conventions, like a solid floor, that we take for granted. I encourage you to question the conventions and make your own choices instead of just adhering to them blindly.

I even encourage you to challenge them.

When you first get the idea for a story, there are certain plot elements and scenes that spring to mind. Sometimes they’re pivotal moments. Sometimes they’re just fun moments. Regardless, they’re the moments you most want to write.

Some writers will do these scenes first, then drop them into place with a little refining when their time arrives in the manuscript. Others will keep them in mind, or simply outline them for later.

For today’s purposes, we’ll call these scenes the “good parts”. The parts you’re most looking forward to writing.

A first draft will often have two types of content: the “good parts” and the “other parts”. The other parts are the parts that need to happen to get to the good parts. They’re the bridges that link pivotal scenes together, or impart important information, or provide backstory and exposition and otherwise set things up.

You know exactly what I’m talking about, right? You can’t wait to write the confrontation between the monster and the heroine. But you know that first she has to go check out the abandoned building where it’s hiding so that it can see her, and her colleagues have to scoff at her for monster hunting so that she’ll be all alone for the confrontation you have in mind, and she has to go to the library and find clippings of vague and creepy stories about the monster that give her an idea what its weaknesses might be. You don’t especially want to write those parts, but you need to get through them to get to the part you do want to write.

If you’re the type of writer who hurries through the other parts to get writing on the good parts, that’s fine. For a first draft, it’s fine.

When you put that manuscript away for six months like Scott Sigler’s told you to do and you take it out of the drawer again, you’ll be able to tell the good parts from the other parts pretty easily. The good parts will be descriptive, lush and involved. They’ll draw you to keep turning the page. The other parts will be, well… utilitarian. Light on detail, heavy on marathon dialog or marathon movement sequences, without much combining of the two. You won’t know what anything looks like, sounds like or smells like, you’ll just know What Happens Next.

Here’s the thing, though: When you want to sell readers on your book and keep them engaged, all the parts have to be good parts. If you lose your readers in the in-between passages, they won’t stick around for that great scene you’ve got fifty pages from now. They won’t care what happens when the heroine meets the monster.

The rewrite is the time to identify the other parts and turn them into good parts. Make sure every scene is there for a reason, and make every scene a good scene. Don’t just go back in and sprinkle adjectives around, or toss gratuitous movement around the dialog and call it done. It’ll show. Choose words that add something to your story. Add description and ambiance where they belong. Give each scene something pivotal, something endearing, something humorous, something surprising… something special. Draw the reader in. Do something memorable. While in practice, every scene might not make it to become someone’s favorite scene, every scene should at least have the potential.

If a scene is a boring necessity to you, it’ll be boring to your reader. And it won’t be a necessity to them. There are plenty of other books for them to read out there that are interesting all the way through. Here’s a great goal for your rewrite: Don’t give your reader any hint at which scenes were easy or hard or interesting or dull for you. Cut out anything the story doesn’t need, and add life to anything your eye skips over as boring. Flesh out anything that’s necessary but that was undeveloped in your haste to get it on the page so that you could move on. And this should be the larger goal of your rewrite: make every part a good part.

This morning, I went for a haircut.

It wasn’t a very good haircut. It was mediocre, maybe, at best. The problem I had with it was that my stylist didn’t want to express any opinions. I would say, “I’d kind of like a change. I’m thinking about doing this, but I’m not sure how it would look on me. What do you think?” And she would answer, “I don’t know. It’s up to you. Do you want that or not?”

There are some professionals whom we pay to do us a service the way we want it done. There are some professionals, though, whom we pay for their experience and their professional opinions. I want a hair stylist who’s going to give me the most flattering cut for my hair, or at least one who’ll be willing to offer me solicited advice on what that cut might be.

As I was sitting in the chair settling for a nothing’s-changed sort of trim, I was thinking about how this applies to editing. Just this morning, I had written a client with a suggestion for rewording of a problem paragraph. In this case, professional expertise, experience, and understanding of what he wanted, combined with a willingness to point out problem areas and offer constructive solutions. He didn’t end up going with my suggestion, but the things I pointed out guided him to reword a much smoother and stronger finished result…Exactly the sort of feedback I wished I’d gotten, to help guide my own decision.

Sometimes a client just needs a simple proofread for obvious errors and there isn’t much in the way of professional opinion involved. More often, on a more substantive edit, the editor’s opinion and expertise are just as valuable as technical skill. If you have the leeway to do so, don’t be afraid to point out weak spots and make suggestions that will make a book better. It’s still the client’s decision, but your feedback helps to make that decision an informed one.

If you work at a computer for eight hours a day for a large company, in a large office, there’s probably an ergonomics consultant or coach, or at least a set of standards that the company conforms to, in order to make sure that workstations are set up in such a way that they foster the most productivity and cause the least harm to the workers who use them. When you work from home, no one comes around to make sure that your computer is at the right height, that your mouse doesn’t cause you undue strain, and that you’re not curled sideways all day with your laptop balanced precariously on the arm of your couch.

Ergonomics are just as important in the home office as they are in the corporate office. Moreso, arguably, since the freelancer’s work is done when it’s done, not at some arbitrary point on the clock. In fact, the later the hour and the longer the workday, the more likely we are to sacrifice the rigid, correct posture at our workstation and go curl up on the couch or in bed to finish up those last few tricky chapters while we try to slip in a couple hours’ quality time with the family.

Repetitive stress injuries may sound like wimpy, modern-age disease, but talk to anyone who suffers from one and they’ll tell you just how agonizing they can be. And they’re a vicious cycle. You put stress on your body because you need to do the work, so by the time things have degenerated enough to put you in pain, you feel as though you can’t afford to stop and take care of yourself because the work needs to be done.

Think about your workstation, take a good look at how you spend your online time and your working time, and make sure that you spend that time in configurations that don’t do you harm. There are many good websites with tips on how to set up an ergonomically sound work area (Seating Ergonomics is a good one), and you’ve probably heard the tips a million times before. Arm height, posture, foot position, wrist position, monitor position… You know these things, but do you do them?

Contact stress, force, and repetition are the three types of ergonomic stress. Contact stress can be internal (tendons, blood vessels or nerves rubbing against ligaments or bone) or external (your wrist rubbing against a rough edge on your wrist-guard, or the edge of the chair cutting off circulation in your leg). Force is the stress of exertion. Even small exertions, like reaching for a mouse that’s too far out of your way, or straining your neck upward to look at a badly-angled monitor, can have cumulative negative effects. Repetition of isolated movements over an extended period of time doesn’t allow your muscles and tendons to recover. Combined with contact stress or force, extended repetition can cause serious harm. (source: http://www.safecomputingtips.com/)

You owe it to yourself, and to your clients, to keep all your tools in good working order. Keep your mind sharp and your body healthy. Invest in an ergonomically correct work area, and your investment will pay for itself repeatedly over the length of your long and healthy career.

Time is money, and that’s something you feel keenly when you go into business for yourself. Whether you’re a writer, an editor, a designer, or a freelancer in any other field.

Your first priority, when you’re starting up, is to get work. You’re probably still doing something else full-time, whether it’s some kind of schooling or some other kind of employment. This is when your focus should be on taking whatever work you can. Get a portfolio or a resume together. Get experience. Get clients, paying or not, who can vouch that you’ve done work—and done it well!—for them.

Once you’ve got some footing, your next priority is to get paid for your work. I know, this sounds like a given. It is. It’s great to be able to do what you love full-time, but if you can’t pay the rent with it, you won’t be able to do what you love for very long.

Here’s where it gets tricky, though. If you’ve started out by taking free jobs, or low paying jobs, it’s hard to get out of that mindset that tells you that you have to accept every request for free work that comes along. It’s hard to say no to a project. It’s hard to learn to be picky. What if this is the one that gets you the exposure that you want? What if this is the one that makes it big?

This counts for other sorts of self-promotion, as well. Whether it’s attending a conference, agreeing to speak publicly, getting involved in an organization that promotes your business or your field, or even taking time out from work to write regular posts to a forum or blog. *cough*

Chances are, no one paid you to print up your business cards, but business cards are a good promotional tool, and that makes them a worthwhile business expense. When you consider taking unpaid or low-paying work, treat it as same sort of thing.

The key is balance. Ask yourself the following questions:

• * If this project isn’t paying me financially, am I going to be equally compensated for it some other way?

Worthwhile non-monetary compensation can take such forms as exposure, which could lead to referrals and more paying work; or improved credentials (through professional certifications, for example) which could justify charging an increased rate for your paying work.

• * Is this project going to take time away from my paying work?

Your paid work is the goal of your self-promotion. If you pass up paid work—or if your paid work suffers because you’re spreading yourself too thin—for an unpaid project, you may be shooting yourself in the foot. Ideally, an unpaid project shouldn’t take time away from your other priorities.

• * Is this project a step forward, or a step backward, for my career?

As a professional, you need to always be thinking about and moving toward your professional goals. Constantly set your sights higher. If a project is going to take you up a rung in some way, whether in credibility, exposure, networking, etc., then jump on the opportunity. If it’s going to take you down a side path that you feel is a dead end—one that would only provide exposure or opportunities in a direction that you wouldn’t want to pursue—let it pass.

As a freelancer, you have the opportunity to choose your projects. There is freedom in that, but there is responsibility in it, too. Each job you choose should be moving your career forward in some small way: either by paying you at the rate you’ve deemed reasonable and acceptable, or by advancing your exposure, networking with the kinds of professionals whose connections can help you advance, or improving your professional credentials. It’s a balancing act, but a necessary and worthwhile one.

Several years ago, I had the good fortune to attend a talk given by one of the top editors in the children’s lit field. In it, he discussed the decision that had been made to Americanize a very popular series of books written by a prominent British author. The reason, he had said, was so that the novelty of the unfamiliar-but-real foreign words wouldn’t get in the way of the novelty of the author’s world and the unfamiliar-and-made-up magical words that were an integral part of the story.

When there’s a balance to be reached between preserving the original work of the author and making that work more accessible to its readers, there is a lot of room for compromise. There are many levels of cultural adaptation that a novel can undergo, and the decision is often out of a writer’s hands. It rests with the publisher, ultimately, because they want the book to be as marketable within their market as it can be.

I’ve worked on manuscripts which followed UK rules for spelling and punctuation rules. I had to be well enough versed in the differences so that I didn’t change anything that looked ‘wrong’ to my American eyes. I’ve also worked on manuscripts for which I’ve had to change an American manuscript for the UK, or a UK manuscript to American.

There are more international differences in spelling than the casual reader might realize. If you’re going to be undertaking such a project, it’s important that you do your research and not just go with what you think you know. You’re responsible for all the rules, not just the obvious ones. Do know whether to use toward or towards, and whether you have the right shades of gray and grey. Know whether—and when—to leave an e before an ing, even if it looks horribly wrong to you.

Often, an author will alternate between the correct and incorrect words, out of a simple lack of certainty about which choice is right. (Even when there isn’t an international issue involved, I always make sure to check a manuscript’s greys and grays.)

It’s not just the spelling, either. It’s the vocabulary. This gets trickier, because it can become a more substantive change, but it’s no less important. A reader may get momentarily tripped up by kerbs and tyres instead of curbs and tires, but you might throw him from the car completely if you expect him to know its boot from its bonnet. Words like pavement are especially slippery: does the author mean the sidewalk, or the road?

In a case like this, it’s simplest, of course, to translate the unfamiliar into the familiar. The unfamiliar, as that editor I mentioned said in his talk, will stand out and catch the eye. The thing to watch out for, obviously, is becoming so familiar with the foreign rules that they aren’t novel to you anymore, and your mind accepts them as normal and skips right over them. It’s a natural thing, but honed practice at attention to detail will help you overcome it. In time, a fluency develops and it becomes like flipping a switch between UK/US rules. A color or realize will stand out to you in the wrong context just as boldly as honour or aluminium. In this field, knowing British and American really does make you bilingual.