I Think I Might Be. . .
… an editor. I’m so sorry. I tried, I really tried. My world has always come down to words. Nothing makes sense until I can frame it into precisely the right words. Conversation stops while I grope for exactly what I mean to say, then reach for the dictionary
or and the thesaurus. I must be understood. That would make me an author, yes. But there are no stories in my head screaming to be let out. I joined a writers’ support group ~or rather, I’m committing voyeurism on a very cool literary undertaking~ and read the articles; how to begin well, use voice, create strong dialogue, drive the narrative. It made me queasy, like whenever I have a job to do for which I’m not quite qualified. There aren’t enough of the ‘givens’ already in place to make a story happen.
But the words! I love the words. And their tiny symbionts, punctuation. It shoots me through the roof when people misuse and abuse them. I fly to the aid of the benighted apostrophe, beaten into meaninglessness by the careless and ignorant. I correct sandwich-boards on the sidewalk and menus at the table. I make snarky and regrettable comments on FaceBook. I have never been afraid of red pens.
This doesn’t mean I will stop writing. I cannot. It happens all the time. But I accept the unlikelihood that I shall ever be a novelist. I stalk Neil Gaiman because he is. It fascinates me to watch the author in his native habitat. There it is: author is other, an exotic creature. Hello, My name is Molly. I am an editor.
Maybe someday someone will need to pay me to work this mother tongue. Until then, I’ll keep at it for my own self. Language is love, not fade away.