Redlining (for TK, he asked in comments on the last post...he's a sweet boy1 but is often confused about life, women, and winter weight motor oil) is simply the act of making one's manuscript look as if it were bleeding profusely.
Writers do this in hopes that it will result in a better story. Editors do this in hopes of making a writer cry. Writer-editors...well, they're just so deep into sado-masochist behaviors that they both love it and hate it.
This one is a page from my current work in progress. The one that has been my work in progress for over two years. It has quite a bit more bleeding left to endure, and I have quite a bit more crying left, before it becomes worthy of moving onto draft #642.
I took my trusty red pen back to Border's today, and was thrilled that the cafe was empty, save the two employees who were trying to figure out how they could have run out of water. ("Who runs out of water? It's WATER!"..."I guess we do...") I bought an iced tea (apparently made before the run on water) and plopped my stuff on top of my preferred table, sat down, and got right to work.
Then Old Guy wandered in. He bought a froo-froo coffee (WTF is a chocolate caramel mochafrappajavachino?) and sat in one of the comfy chairs...right in front of me. And for the next hour, he sat there and stared at me. He could have sat at a table and looked out into the bookstore, watching people shop, but no...he sat there and stared at me.
I was --this-- close to sticking my finger up my nose, digging around a bit, and then licking it clean, when I was saved by an influx of people with their children2; the volume went up in a wave of I WANT CHOCOLATE MILK requests, and Old Guy sighed heavily, got up, tossed his cup into the trash3, and left.
No idea why he was staring; I am not exceptionally ugly cause my mother says so! nor did I have bed-head. I was not dressed in tie-dye mixed with plaid. I was not sitting there with my nice bright white helmet on. At first I thought he was just seeing nothing, in that daydream kind of way, but every time I looked up, it was obvious.
Maybe he loves me.
1He's, like, 50...but going on 17...
2Not to imply that children are not people. Most of them are.
3He could have left it there on a side table, so +1 for throwing the cup away...