The Edit

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Armattcia666
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Joined: 10 Nov 2017, 04:05
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The Edit

Post by Armattcia666 »

‘Well another day, another day, what’s in store?’ I whisper as I settle into my study under the stairs. My improvised shelter from the outside world. Here I conjure what, thus far, has only amused myself. It’s comfortable and safe, (ish) the wife is around after all, and I have no inclination of dread regarding anything that may come next.
Here beside my ‘Harry Potter’ bedroom cupboard (™) I boot up the Chromebook, a device so simple that even I cannot befoul it with my lack of technical prowess. It does not even hum as the email loads. The need to hum was designed out apparently.
An anticipatory intake of breath as, silently, the inbox fills. Looks like my first assignment for University has been marked, my first piece of work like this for over twenty years. Let's see I ignore the rest of the correspondence, it seems to be spam in any case, and click on my lecturers name.
Well there is a lot of comments, is that the way it's done? As I read through I have that familiar feeling, at least it is familiar once you get to middle age as I have, that all is not as it should be. Or at least how I believe it perhaps should be.
‘How dare they, how very dare they.’ I just blurt out almost like a reflex action it had to be said aloud to prevent an explosion or perhaps a serious medical misadventure. I continue to read the comments this time actually seeing past the grade at the top of the page.
‘Sticking! when would I use the word sticking! Answer: Never! This clown should get himself a bloody thesaurus. I have never used the word sticking, not one occasion before I started this sentence and now I have used the infernal word three times! What are they doing to me! I am being de-educated this is not what I paid the fees for!’
Indignation has the powerful effect of making me go fetch another coffee. As I fiddle with the cups and the water boiling thing that we replaced the kettle with I realise I am mumbling discontentedly to myself. I return, hot beverage in hand, to let battle be re-joined. This requires a response, an email ought to be written.
After typing intently for a good twelve minutes and thirty four seconds, not that anyone is counting, and satisfied with the result I hit the send button and off my response goes and I belatedly realise what I have just done.
The Zeppelin like ego that fills the skies above me has developed a minor leak and starts to deflate slowly, losing altitude gently, floating back to reality.

In the good old, bad old, days you hand wrote your letters and passed them to a secretary for typing and then read them when they came back. The effect of this was that you could edit your response from the one you wanted to send to the one you should send. Unfortunately email being what it is I have now lost that opportunity. It's gone as it is, as it was written, off the top of my indignant head. I consider a minor retraction.
‘No I won’t do it. I will not change a word. In my mind it’s perfect. I have nothing more to say. To hang with being published! Done.’ I say to the computer screen definitively. It does not argue with me, I am reaffirmed.
Why then, is that airship above my head still losing altitude at, one may consider if one could accurately calibrate, an ever increasing rate.
After much procrastination I, reluctantly, revisit the comments made. I type out the edits and some work and some don’t but the revision goes back to the Editor. It seems to be a bit better now.
A day later the email comes back ‘Hi’ it opens jauntily ‘I am the Sub Editor responsible for poetry reviews and I have some minor comments, I really like what you did there but…………’
‘Holy cow, what’s all this? I thought I had answered these! Now they want another go! Don’t they know who I am?’ I sag in my chair beaten. Instead of leaping into some email correspondence that will be as regrettable as it is hard to withdraw, I sit there and ponder instead.
The airship is definitely coming in faster now. Even the most casual of onlookers have noticed that an accelerated rate of descent has occurred.
Perhaps I will take on board what they say. Further edits are made, compromises proposed, and back it goes. Life, I note, goes on untroubled by my perception of predicament.
‘Hi its me again, the Editor, got the comments back from the Sub Editor for Poetry and would like to also add the following……………..’
Good christ almighty, they have released the hounds on this, is this personal? This is beginning to feel like a right good shoeing!
‘No sorry I will not be beaten, let’s see.’ I announce to the world in general as I start to look over the comments made and fail to notice that the list has grown a lot shorter since this process started.
‘Haven’t they read this piece?’ No of course they haven’t. I am the one doing the review. Why am I being so unreasonable? These are educated people, good at their job’s. Why am I being so resistant?
And then it hit. It was like the pictures I have seen of the Hindenburg coming down in flames, right there on the park outside my front door, devastated, ill-conceived and now useless.
The problem is me. Of course the first draft isn’t any good it’s the first review I have ever written and on poetry no less, why did I start with that? So difficult to get a feel for. I agree to all the changes proposed except one, ‘sticking’ will not be used. Suddenly this is easy, liberating even.
I hear nothing back and am unashamedly relieved.
A month goes by and a thought occurs to me. I look up the website and there it is, my review, published on-line. In re-reading the final version I am able to pick out my best ideas that existed from the first draft and it looks good, it is a rewarding feeling, and the effort all paid off. Another couple of weeks and a note from the Editor comes in saying the author of the poetry collection has written to the University website saying how much he liked my ‘thoughtful’ review. I never cease to be amazed at how things can turn out.
The Zeppelin is scrapped it was dangerous and filled with obsolete flammable gasses. A hot air balloon will now suffice with a basket made for only one.
Change is pain, and it is true that you are nothing but your will, but in the acceptance of a view other than your own insight may be gained that initially you found elusive.
Your ego needs tempered with truth.
Latest Review: "Puffy and the Formidable Foe" by Marie Lepkowski and Ann Marie Hannon
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