I have a favourite editor. Probably all writers do. But this guy is sunshine. Every time I do a piece for him and read over his comments in the margins, I smile. Here are some snippets from his latest edit: He starts with a cheery “Hi Karen!” and then moves on to: “This was a lot of fun! I feel like turning on some music right now.”
The piece was about how to bring music into your home in a more intentional way, and all the benefits it brings. So, now I’m totally warmed up and beginning to lean back in my chair to soak it in, and he writes: “I have a couple of suggestions and a question.”
No problem, think I.
His very next comment is lovely again: “I like how you’ve built the scene.” He just said that to be nice.
What’s up next? This: “Love how you’ve set these two sentences up… Plus it acts as a great transition.”
Now, I’m totally relaxed. I’ve refilled my tea so I can really enjoy this experience. He moves on to make three or four valuable and needed tweaks, and one suggested addition, along with this gem: “Really, really good tip.” And: “a fun combination of words.” (That was for the words “deliciously tricky” and I have to agree).
Next, he says something amusing about something one of the experts advised, and that’s about it. And if it wasn’t about it, if I’d had to start from scratch and rewrite the whole piece, I would have thrown on the kettle and got to work, eager to please someone who says when he’s pleased.
And the thing is, he’s young enough that I feel like finding his mother and complimenting her on the fine job she did raising my editor.