It’s been over a month since my last post. Edging on two months, actually. The truth is, I’ve been so depressed lately that it’s taken just about all my energy to get my work done at the end of the day, let alone make dinner and keep the house clean. In the midst of all that, my blog writing has taken the backseat, and I’ve just kind of sat on a couple half-finished posts for a good while.
Even inasmuch as I try to sound “professional” on this site at times, I really don’t do well in professional writing. I’m goofy. I’m wacky. And I’ve been too stiff for so long that this part of my job has felt the least like “me” out of everything I do. It’s a constant stress to be the best when you write blog posts. This blog gets around 3,000 visitors per month. Not the most impressive numbers, but hey, they’re mine. I do my best. I can’t expect more than that. But lately, I’ve had to question exactly what I’m doing here, what I’m expecting, and why I choose to continue struggling rather than giving up and finding some corporate job in town. And it all comes down to what editing means to me.
Editing is beautiful. It’s an invisible art—the unseen side of writing that no one thinks about but which is completely necessary. When I get a new manuscript, the author gives me express consent to view something important to them and give my opinions on it. Opinions that matter more than anyone else’s beside the authors’ very own thoughts. That takes a lot of vulnerability. And it’s beautiful.
No one appreciates my ability to critique in my non-professional life. If I go to the movies and someone asks me my thoughts, I can give an entire essay on the spot—I’ve trained myself to notice every aspect of media, and I always end up with a lot of thoughts. But most people seem put-off when I answer that way, so I just have to say, “oh, yeah, it was pretty good.” When I edit, I have room. My overly analytical brain can spread its wings and enjoy the luxury of knowing that, not only are my talents appreciated, they’re needed. Someone has paid me to say what most people can’t stand to hear.
The freedom that affords me. Oh, I can’t even begin to say how much relief it gives me.
I work with artists who write good books, I work with artists who write bad books. But I respect every one of them. They’re brave. It takes so much courage to send your manuscript off and wait for a month or so with bated breath while some stranger catalogues and critiques and rewrites your soul’s greatest treasure. The trust that my authors give me is so humbling. I can’t express how beautiful I find it. It makes me so happy.
But, of course, it can be a struggle. I don’t charge much, so I don’t get paid much. I live more or less paycheck-to-paycheck. And that comes with a great deal of stresses. I believe that as my career continues, things will get easier. But not yet. I’ve still got a ways to go. And it’s going to suck for a while. Good Lord, is it going to suck. But I still think it’s worth it, and I hope you all agree.
I’ll do my best to write more consistently in the future. It really doesn’t take that long, but it does require that I confront my dumb, neurodivergent brain with healthier coping mechanisms. I’m trying. And I’m hopeful.
