Letters to my Editor

Per my editor’s request, I’ve compiled several of the messages I’ve sent to her over the past month. She says I’m funny and my readers would enjoy getting inside the head of a writer. My needy tail is still preening from the fact that she describes me as being funny.

01-27-2021

Michelle, I’ve been reading through this manuscript and I’m nervous to send it over to you. Since the last time we spoke I have convinced myself that: (A) I’m not cut out to be a writer, (B) I have no talent, and (C) no one is going to want to read this.

I also had a dream where I had over 1000 one-star reviews on Amazon. That was a fun morning.

Anywho, have fun muddling through this mess and let me know if you need anything further.

01-28-2021

Here it is. I’ve read a billion books and yet, I feel like my structure is off, my major sub-plot is ridiculous and takes over for a chapter or two, and the ending is too fast.

Please, for all that is holy, critique it like you mean it. I don’t need to be coddled, I swear. I just want to produce something of value that will be a good starting point for my writing career.

02-04-2021

Are you there, God? It’s me, Charlene.

02-09-2021

Here’s a quick wave to see how things are going. It’s probably rude to interrupt an editor in the middle of a DE but I’m new so let’s chalk it up to the learning curve.

Trying to sleep these past couple of weeks has been a chore. I’m still picturing myself on the literary version of the Titanic, listening to the violin players and wearing a ratty life vest. 

I hope you have even the slightest vision that this manuscript can go somewhere after we get it all sorted through.

The messages to my friends have been running along these same lines but with more cursing and theatrics. I can imagine that it’s hard being a lifeline to an author who needs to constantly hear that they have what it takes.

My husband bears the brunt of my artistic woes, however. At least once a day he jumps into White Knight mode and talks this princess off of her balustrade. I’ve never felt as unsure of myself as I do now, with the goal of my childhood this close at hand.

Published writers that I follow online say this doubt has always been the trial and tribulation of creation, a normal side-effect from sharing your work with a person holding a red pen. Many of those same authors relay that it doesn’t get much better as time passes, even after being published and accruing merit within the fiction-reading world. The human brain is simply wired to doubt its innate talents and tends to focus on the problems rather than successes.

I’m just over here holding onto the edge of a lifeboat, trying to keep myself afloat as the quartet plays on.