Panic, the editor

A while back, I wrote about the muse and how "she" was after me. She was relentless in her pursuit, calling my attention away from responsibilities and obligations. After another deadline recently, I consider not the muse, but that nit-picky perfectionist, the inner editor.

I've read before that writers are the only people for whom writing is difficult. Any writer will tell you that writing is not only difficult, but also torturous. Everyone else just writes whatever is necessary. We writers think the balance of the universe and our very lives depend on each and every word choice. Am I writing with an active voice? Is there a better verb I might use to describe an action, a thought? Do all my sentences begin with prepositional phrases? While I don't want to end a sentence with a preposition, does it sound pretentious to write using "which" in that way in a sentence?

After we get over every word of every sentence, we're then left to consider the piece as a whole. Is it good or crap? Will anyone want to read it? If they do, will they like it? Will it say something to them? While I write a blog such as this for my personal sense of satisfaction at having accomplished some regular writing, my ultimate goal is connection, even if I am never aware of that connection.

Why else do people write? Novels are the ways in which an author reaches out. Whether even one fan letter or favorable review ever makes its way to the writer, he or she is still writing to say something, hoping that what he or she says means something to whomever is doing the reading. I suppose this is why we obsess over every sentence and word. This is why we worry about the overall theme and whether our paragraphs are coherent. Is our conclusion strong and does it tie everything together?

Most writers read a lot. We "hear" from other writers this way. We decide whom we like, the kinds of cadence and language that appeal to us, that reach us. We hope to make this difference. We hope that others nod in familiar agreement, or that our words otherwise awaken in someone an appreciation of an alternate viewpoint. We share our struggles with the human condition with the hope that we will find solace and provide solace at the same time.

When under deadline, panic settles in as a frazzled editor. Panic as the inner editor is never a good thing. Panic shows up, puffing cigarettes and pacing the room on amphetamines. He races through our mind until we aren't sure whether we're in the subject or predicate, whether a word is in use as a noun or verb. We look up at him from our seated position before the keyboard as he hovers over our shoulder, pointing and making smudges on the screen. Finally, we must stop and remove him from the room. We tell him to put out the cigarette and open the window before he leaves so we can breathe clean, fresh air. With the window open, we hear him race away, mumbling to himself about our deadline, about our inadequacy. Finally, with panic out the door, we settle back before the keyboard. We read what we've written aloud. Maybe we change a few things, good things. Then, we determine that we're done. The piece is as good as it will get after days of drafting and editing. Panic tries to rush back in just as we click the "send" button, we hear his feet on the stairs. He races into the room, breathless and eyes wide. We turn to look at him and proclaim that he's too late. It's done and gone. He collapses into himself, and disappears. We sit, finally satisfied with our work, happy that we've beat panic to the send button.