Editors Have Feelings Too!

The idea for this blog popped into my head today when I was at work. Imagine that, me getting writing ideas from a job where I read books all day long. Original, huh?

Well, the book I was reading mentioned something that put a funny thought into my head that I then turned into the following e-mail for my fellow editing colleagues (of whom there are approximately 25):

Editor Confessions: Peccadillos

Though I properly revere Mr. Huxley and certainly always afford him the appropriate amount of respect he is due . . .

I sometimes can’t help but think, if I had been his editor, I probably would have suggested we put a comma in his title so that it would read: Brave, New World.

Though I’d like to pretend I come up with brilliant and clever witticisms off the top of my head, I spent a fair amount of time piecing together the perfect, humorously intelligent words for this e-mail. After all, it’s always a little nerve-wracking to send a mass e-mail to my editing colleagues, knowing it will automatically be scrutinized for errors upon a first read-through, then scanned for humor and its true message upon the second. We’re editors. We’re bookworms. That’s just how we operate. So I did my best to stay concise and was pretty proud of myself for coming up with something that would garner (at the very least) a “haha, yeah,” or an, “I’ve thought that before too!” or even something as heartfelt as, “I thought I was the only one!”

After I clicked Send, I mused to myself about how there was possible blogging material in that e-mail. I thought, How many ridiculous notions have I had that are solely a product of this job, or how many ridiculous sentences have I read that I’d love to share with the world, or for that matter, how many great sentences have I read that I’ve wished I could heap upon society and say, “See here! This is a great piece of writing!”

Yes, it was all one continuous thought. My thoughts, in true teenage-rebellion form, do not follow the rules of grammar that my job, mouth, and fingers mandate us all to follow day in and day out. I truly have a classic-lit-worthy alter ego lurking somewhere in the recesses of my brain.

Anyway, because of my brilliant, clever, witty, humorous e-mail, I decided this morning at work, at 11:38 and forty-three seconds (approximately), that I would start a blog dedicated to the woes and joys of my job; a job which is, indeed, my dream job and which I would not and will not trade willingly any time soon.

Then, after coming to the conclusion that I am indeed the funniest person I know (wait . . . what? just-go-with-it!), I got back to work, keeping a surreptitiously professional eye on the taskbar in the right-hand corner of my screen, watching (butnotwatching) for that glorious bringer of laud, that symbol of acceptance, that beacon of affirmation – that tiny little envelope that says by telepathic message youhavemail – to appear. At which time I envisioned myself opening scores of e-mails from my colleagues (who are really my friends) praising my wit and charm and telling me they had laughed so hard they peed a little (just a little).

But alas, as the afternoon wore on and the little bugger did not show up – acting like a perfect bastard of a grade-school boy who promises to meet you at the fence separating your babysitters’ backyards at four o’clock so you can discuss your ‘relationship status’ but then mysteriously goes AWOL without so much as a note impaled on the links of chain – where was I? Oh yeah. As the afternoon wore on and the Envelope of Doom did not make its appearance and my co-workers did not shower me with praise and laughter, so my self-esteem and high regard for myself began to retreat. Even more so as, even further into the afternoon, I mentally began to read imaginary e-mails to the effect of, You’re stupid! and, Why’d you send that time-wasting e-mail? and, Nobody wants to see you naked! (Oh wait, that last is just a lingering memory of a funny Super Bowl commercial about “flowers in a box.”)

And thus, here I am. Aware that my co-workers do not find me funny. Aware that no one knows about this blog. Aware that I break many of the rules of writing I rigidly enforce with my bevy of authors on a daily basis. Aware that I am alone, friendless, loveless, and . . . wait. That’s someone else’s story.

Welcome to my blog, whose main purpose is not to entertain you but rather to exercise my writing muscles (which, ironically, do begin to elasticize themselves after edit upon edit), to be an outlet for my work-related frustrations, and to be a venue for my boasts about how lucky I am to be so young and have found a job I love so much. And if you, the proverbial reader, don’t actually exist? Well, more for me I guess (though I’m not really sure what that means).

According to Cyril Connolly (whoever the hell that is – we all know I got the quote off some such pedantic, I-need-to-look-smart-without-having-to-do-much-work Web site like writingquotes.com or something), “Better to write for yourself and have no public than to write for the public and have no self.”

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