So, recently, I was dealt a dose of humility, forced to choke on a slice of humble pie. I’ve been doing well in terms of clients during lockdown; maybe people have been moved to write. A couple of them have given me multi-book contracts for editing, and I have been loving every minute of it.
Many of my clients have been enthusiastic, very happy with my work, even offering me bonuses and upping our agreed prices.
Does that feel good?
Why, yes, yes it does.
But it’s also terrifyingly seductive, leading you to a place where you begin to think you are infallible. Many clients had suffered such terrible edits in the past that they were full of praise, and I began to eat it up. I began to think I was Head Editor In Charge.
And that’s how I fell down and scraped my knees.
I was in the midst of a very long novel, when I noticed that the timeline didn’t add up. Several events were out of line, and simply didn’t sync. True, most readers would have read merrily along, but for me, it nagged like a toothache.
I notified my client. I began to fix it. I spent two days with a calendar, changing dates, shifting whole scenes around to make the timeline fit. When I was done, I was mighty pleased with myself. Not many editors would have been that sharp-eyed, after all. I was pretty damn good at my job and he was damn lucky to have me!
Except . . . the client was upset. And that is putting it mildly. “It’s my book,” he said. “I know what you did is technically correct, but I liked it the way it was before! It is MY BOOK!”
And I felt so hurt, ashamed, and embarrassed. I apologised, begged for forgiveness, and returned everything the way it was.
I remembered all the shitty edits I’ve received from my publishers in the past, the slash and burn of my carefully crafted words, leaving me bristling with anger or broken in tears. I heard the echoes of my own voice, my own pain: “It is MY BOOK! How dare they?”
I have become the very thing I had vowed to destroy.
So down a peg or two I’ve slid. I’ve done everything I can to make amends to my client, and hope he will forgive me. I’m glad for the timely lesson, and won’t be forgetting it soon. I’m a good writer, yes. A damn good editor, yes.
But I will never be great until I remember, every time I put hands to keyboard, that this isn’t about me. It’s not about how much I know or how adept I am with a semi-colon. It is and always will be about the client, the writer, and THEIR BOOK.
They must always come first. You know, before my ego.
What do you think? Leave me a comment.
