In my mind lives a mean editor. He wears a dingy, short sleeve, no longer white, button-up shirt, a dark skinny tie, and brown pants from the 40s. He has criticism in his blood. He edits my work on a vintage black typewriter in a small, small office that reeks of stale cigarette smoke. He remarks and marks as if my words, personally, sealed his unhappy fate and his only recourse is to judge them from his tiny office. With a gravelly, exasperated mumble he rejects my analogies and examples, takes account of my repetitive word use and denies any worth in what I put to the page.
Each day, right as I am about to post the link to the new blog on my Facebook page, he shakes his head and says, “They’ll just think you are stupid.”
He is not the only one in my gaggle of imaginary, disapproving groupies.
There is a woman in an ugly dark dress, short heels and hose. She holds a dreaded clipboard and, with a condescending stare, never misses a mishap. She clicks through the mistakes I make in the words I say before people. Her pen swiftly marks down thoughts I missed expressing, ways I could have answered questions better, my tone and organization. Her high pitched voice reviews my speech, “Missed this, missed that, would’ve really helped someone if you could have said…” And people wonder why I hate speaking in public. Occassionally she appears in smaller or one-on-one settings, whispering in my ear, “They stopped listening to you a long time ago.”
These two, and whoever the shy one is that says I shouldn’t stand out in a crowd, have tried to be louder as I take on this written pilgrimage. I would like to leave them all behind forever.
[Stinky editor-guy just informed me it sounds as though I am scizophrenic. I am not. While I am at it, any resemblance these bare to any actual human is purely coincidental.]