More than a month ago, I set out to write a story. Changed, I called it, for it was about a man's journey to correct his fallen nature and find true happiness. I was excited to write the story; it had potential, it had meaning; it had truth. I sat down one morning and wrote out the first page, the opening scene to what I hoped would quickly pan out into a wonderful story.
And, of course, that's when you showed up. As I read back through what I had written, you whispered, "That's a terrible way to begin this story. You fail to develop any of the attributes of the main character, your world development is nonexistent, you begin with a story completely non-essential to the story, your readers are going to lose interest, your first line is written to be a memorable attention-grabber, not an introduction to the book, and your too caught up in the action to write about the picture. This page of writing is junk."
And you were right. Completely right. To be fair, you could have been even harsher and still have been in bounds. So I have no reason to complain on that count. It's just that when you criticize me, I have a tendency to lose my excitement, my steam. So I haven't written in that story since then.
Am I blaming you? Partially. Yes, you killed my starting motivation. But I also had a lot going on last month, which didn't help matters, and I hadn't taken the time to develop enough scaffolding under the story to erect it very high. Most importantly, perhaps, you stopped me short in a course of action that would have led, quickly and unfortunately, into yet another poorly-written story.
So why did I tell this story? Well, today I started work on Changed for a second time, and I am fixed in my mind with a determined resolution to work on it every day until it is done.
So normally at this point, I would say, "That means you have to go, Editor Max!" The 1812 overture would strike up in earnest as I leap from my chair and charge for the fat red Inner Editor Containment Button located at the other side of the room. You would charge to intercept me, crying out in pain at the betrayal, and in a climactic leap I would slam my fist into the button and you would disappear, sucked into the Inner Editor Extra-Dimensional Containment Chamber moments before your graphite-stained hands would close around my throat.
. . . Normally, anyway.
I see you're getting edgy. Don't worry. I have a different plan this time. Instead of containing you, suppressing you, and letting you out only when the last word of a terrible first draft is completed, I am inviting you to pull up a chair and labor beside me over ever line, every sentence, every word as they flow forth onto the page, so that my first draft is as pristine as your brilliant efforts can make it.
So sharpen your pencils and prime your red pens, I'll need them more than ever, Editor Max.
Sincerely,
Quillen Inkwell
This letter was dictated under my hand on the 16th of January, 2015. -Inspire Chief of Pencils under the Office of Quillen Inkwell's Writing
I love the psychological projection of human characteristics onto inanimate organic frames through the nomenclature used to imbue your writing implements with personal qualities usually reserved to the author's personage.
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