Diary of a Tired Editor
A quintessential satire for those who are not just here to network but actually connect, apologies and gratitude in advance.
Dear Reader,
Another day, I fire up my laptop, open my email and some hundred emails stare. If my laptop were to be a mortal, I wonder who would be more tired of staring at the other, perhaps the laptop would win. Don’t get me wrong, I still feel a tickle of excitement over the prospect of finding something refreshing, something truly marvelous, amongst the scores of emails, but alas, I am a word baker in a 24/7 bakery, and the cream of the articles is just a bit stale. My nerves can sense coarse language trickling in, and I realize now’s the perfect time for a coffee break!
The memories of when I just started still knock on the door of my consciousness, like long-lost friends approaching by happenstance. I remember the hesitance, the nervousness, and the words not coming in. I also remember the fiery determination, the want to succeed and be seen, and the desire to etch my name on pages that had something precious on them. I must admit my journey has been quite good, just a few bumps along the way add to the sweetness, alongside my dwindling patience for nonsense the older I grow. Some may call me catty, but I just see it as experience.
I have never been unaware of ambition, having experienced the abundance of it, it’s simply the lack of courtesy that grates on my mind. To every ‘I would like to pick your mind on coffee’, there’s such a pure instinct of business that crosses my mind. It has crossed the point where every event, intentional or not, seems transactional. All I am here for is to publish an article, slip a name, and introduce a connection. It is my job, and I understand the description to the last margin and longer. What rankles me is when it seeps into the crevices of my personal life, and I question the wisdom of keeping personal & professional separate. For those who look at you and see not a person, but a name under a publication, do you really exist for them?
It is the love for writing that makes me continue, for if I focused on half my inbox, I would probably be seen shouting over rooftops or tripping in diners. I look through my emails and get to witness some wonderful work, some that’s deliciously funny, some that’s unheard of, some that’s inspiring, tear-jerking at times. There’s a bitter angle to the pastry box as well. There are subpar pieces (I have appeased publicly enough & this is my diary!), complaints over rejection, spam, conditional agreements, bigger spam, prissy writers, even bigger spam, and the list go on. Perhaps the quote rings true, all is fair in love & war. For what I love I engage in an eternal war.
Of course, there are little rays of sunshine peeking through the clutter. They are even rarer nowadays, but their aroma hasn’t dimmed. There are budding writers contributing beautifully, veterans crafting versatility, touched readers sharing anecdotes, and a few pieces that are on the right side of a sugar rush. The first time I got a re-reply over a written piece I cited ‘unsuitable’ and rejected, politely but firmly inquiring what exact element I found unsuitable, I had an amused smile on my face. The 437th possible time I saw the message in my inbox, suddenly my brain wanted to nap and my fingers seemed extra heavy. Then I summoned my smile back and wrote an answer. In the world of writing, we do not give up ladies & gentlemen, not until our hearts are still tied to the beats of the words.
I would love to say writing has evolved, but truly, it hasn’t. Yes, the formats have changed, the readers’ appetites have shifted (as they always do), and there are new trends knocking in, and perhaps the class has dropped, but everything else is more or less the same. A writer still searches for inspiration, weaves a story, and ropes the endless fragments in a piece. Others are no less, they heist, run and prove the tricks correct. And my next email starts, ‘Do you even know how to write?’, and life goes on.
