It's been months, I know. But I finally got back to my laptop and started re-writing the entire story.
This time the main protagonist is a 30 years-old single man, who works as a journalist for the Star. I modeled him slightly after my editor and oh my god I hope he doesn't read this.
I'm finally back to where I left off, at the 10k mark where I previously dropped everything in the face of a sudden and crippling case of The Block. So here we are.
Three nights ago, the big B hit me again, only this time it was more like a debilitating illness that slowly immobilized me over the short span of three days. It's not like I didn't see it coming, I recognized the symptoms as soon as they showed up - the decreasing interest in my story and characters, the drop in my daily word count - but it was like the worse I felt, the less inclined I was to actually do something about it.
D'you know what I mean? Normally when I type, I get into this rhythm, like I find a flow in my head and I space out for a while until something falls - and I don't know where - but now and again this beautiful line shows up in my head and I have to type it down. That's my crack. Only lately, I've been feeling like whatever comes out of my fingers sounds rehearsed. Nothing shows up, everything's cliche, and I'm a farce. Whatever drove me to think I was remotely good at doing this?
Then in a brief flash of insanity, I sent my six chapters over to an acquaintance for editing.
A word about this friend: he's brilliant. He's a genius with the rules and ways of the English word, so maybe it wasn't insanity that I was feeling, but a misguided sort of trust. That's the way the world works right? If we meet, I'm going to assume that we have an unspoken understanding: you'll be kind to me, and I'll be kind to you, and that we both would be, if required, as honest as tact allowed. Anyway I'll get on to that in a moment.
We met at our college's internet lab, back when we were still studying (him, A-levels, and me, mass comm). I was working on a speech; he was sitting beside me. Before that, we'd only spoken briefly and rarely, having had shared a near-forgotten encounter at YMCA camp when I was 12. Other than that, I knew close to nothing about him.
But our previous encounters had always been amicable. I thought he was witty, if a little awkward, so I sent him a Facebook message. Wanna help beta-read a couple chapters of my WIP?
He consented. I uploaded the file. Then I waited.
The next day I received this message from him:
Him: I just reached the halfway point. And I must say, I am very disappointed.
Me: That's why I passed it to you. Do you have the edits?
Him: I'm only three-quarters through. Did you proofread it first?
Me: No
Him: That explains a lot.
I should have just shut it down then. But I thought, hey, at least he's being honest. The more critique, the more constructive, right? I figured if I wanted to be a better writer, I couldn't afford to be precious. It got a bit worse before I decided that I didn't want to end my day crying into a pillow.
I decided that we had to be professional, so I ignored the barbs.
Me: What I need most is for you to take apart redundant lines with a scalpel. The line editing I can do on my own. Logic errors, inconsistencies, poor style. OH and characterization. I'm a real chump at writing characters.
Him: That's very evident.
For a girl that shouts "Fight me" at every chance I get, I sure do a lot of crying.
So yeah, Justin, this one's for you.
You're a brilliant proofreader, and everything I wrote got so much better after all the changes. But if I could go back in time, I'd rather not have come to you at all. A good editor attacks the writing, not the writer. He corrects flaws instead of mocking them. You were mean, cynical, sarcastic and intentionally (not to mention unnecessarily) hurtful, and I still have no idea why.
Do you think this makes you better? Or stronger? I get that you're going through a hard time right now, with your depression and all, but surprise! So am I. This isn't a pissing contest. It's me saying that every interaction is a choice we make and boy did you make them.
If there's anyone who can relate to how cutting words are just as good as cutting arms, it's me. Just ask Alvin, we got into a huge fight because I couldn't tell him what was digging into my flesh. Bless that man, seriously. He spent the next five minutes holding me as I sobbed, then the following ten holding up a pillow to I could throw some punches (because boy did I need to hit something)
The worst kind of pain is the kind that is so completely unwarranted. If I could be honest with you, I'd march up to your door, rip it off of its hinges, and shout in your face
WHAT THE FUCK DID I EVER DO TO YOU, MAN?
But I'm a coward. So I bit my tongue and took it all in and spent the next two days thinking that I was total crap.
I don't know if I can keep going with this story now that you've insulted everything inside. I don't eve know if its worth going on.
Funny how some throwaway comments for you could be so soul crushing to someone else.
This time the main protagonist is a 30 years-old single man, who works as a journalist for the Star. I modeled him slightly after my editor and oh my god I hope he doesn't read this.
I'm finally back to where I left off, at the 10k mark where I previously dropped everything in the face of a sudden and crippling case of The Block. So here we are.
Three nights ago, the big B hit me again, only this time it was more like a debilitating illness that slowly immobilized me over the short span of three days. It's not like I didn't see it coming, I recognized the symptoms as soon as they showed up - the decreasing interest in my story and characters, the drop in my daily word count - but it was like the worse I felt, the less inclined I was to actually do something about it.
D'you know what I mean? Normally when I type, I get into this rhythm, like I find a flow in my head and I space out for a while until something falls - and I don't know where - but now and again this beautiful line shows up in my head and I have to type it down. That's my crack. Only lately, I've been feeling like whatever comes out of my fingers sounds rehearsed. Nothing shows up, everything's cliche, and I'm a farce. Whatever drove me to think I was remotely good at doing this?
Then in a brief flash of insanity, I sent my six chapters over to an acquaintance for editing.
A word about this friend: he's brilliant. He's a genius with the rules and ways of the English word, so maybe it wasn't insanity that I was feeling, but a misguided sort of trust. That's the way the world works right? If we meet, I'm going to assume that we have an unspoken understanding: you'll be kind to me, and I'll be kind to you, and that we both would be, if required, as honest as tact allowed. Anyway I'll get on to that in a moment.
We met at our college's internet lab, back when we were still studying (him, A-levels, and me, mass comm). I was working on a speech; he was sitting beside me. Before that, we'd only spoken briefly and rarely, having had shared a near-forgotten encounter at YMCA camp when I was 12. Other than that, I knew close to nothing about him.
But our previous encounters had always been amicable. I thought he was witty, if a little awkward, so I sent him a Facebook message. Wanna help beta-read a couple chapters of my WIP?
He consented. I uploaded the file. Then I waited.
The next day I received this message from him:
Him: I just reached the halfway point. And I must say, I am very disappointed.
Me: That's why I passed it to you. Do you have the edits?
Him: I'm only three-quarters through. Did you proofread it first?
Me: No
Him: That explains a lot.
I should have just shut it down then. But I thought, hey, at least he's being honest. The more critique, the more constructive, right? I figured if I wanted to be a better writer, I couldn't afford to be precious. It got a bit worse before I decided that I didn't want to end my day crying into a pillow.
I decided that we had to be professional, so I ignored the barbs.
Me: What I need most is for you to take apart redundant lines with a scalpel. The line editing I can do on my own. Logic errors, inconsistencies, poor style. OH and characterization. I'm a real chump at writing characters.
Him: That's very evident.
For a girl that shouts "Fight me" at every chance I get, I sure do a lot of crying.
So yeah, Justin, this one's for you.
You're a brilliant proofreader, and everything I wrote got so much better after all the changes. But if I could go back in time, I'd rather not have come to you at all. A good editor attacks the writing, not the writer. He corrects flaws instead of mocking them. You were mean, cynical, sarcastic and intentionally (not to mention unnecessarily) hurtful, and I still have no idea why.
Do you think this makes you better? Or stronger? I get that you're going through a hard time right now, with your depression and all, but surprise! So am I. This isn't a pissing contest. It's me saying that every interaction is a choice we make and boy did you make them.
If there's anyone who can relate to how cutting words are just as good as cutting arms, it's me. Just ask Alvin, we got into a huge fight because I couldn't tell him what was digging into my flesh. Bless that man, seriously. He spent the next five minutes holding me as I sobbed, then the following ten holding up a pillow to I could throw some punches (because boy did I need to hit something)
The worst kind of pain is the kind that is so completely unwarranted. If I could be honest with you, I'd march up to your door, rip it off of its hinges, and shout in your face
WHAT THE FUCK DID I EVER DO TO YOU, MAN?
But I'm a coward. So I bit my tongue and took it all in and spent the next two days thinking that I was total crap.
I don't know if I can keep going with this story now that you've insulted everything inside. I don't eve know if its worth going on.
Funny how some throwaway comments for you could be so soul crushing to someone else.
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