May 29, 2007 22:34
In the absence of fiction, my editor has begun revising my character: You are supposed to be the depressed writer, she informs me. You ought to sulk and pine for ideals. Empower a pretty, passive catalyst for inspiration. You don't need drugs. (I took drugs in a dream and my blood felt like silk scarves threading through my veins. The night unraveled in the folds of a pillowcase spinning through tea stains and quips that flatter less than the distance they suggest.) She stirs her coffee to a conclusion: also, practice the piano.
My editor has pinned excerpts from my writing to her wall alongside lines from authors we both idolize. I didn't know this until I visited her and encountered a vaguely familiar sentence, thought it mesmerizing, and found my name scripted below. (There was a girl in college who discovered my first LJ and rewrote passages that she taped beside her bed. She thought I was alluding to her.)
My editor only drinks coffee with me. She appreciates deictic insinuations and words like "insinuations," "deictic," "appreciates." In the last sentence she would find amusement in parataxis, chiasmus, the departure from parallel structure, and the sudden appearance of quotation marks. In the next list she would, despite the imbalanced conjunctions, prefer the middle two movies: Easy, Awakenings, and Pirates and Shrek 3. She would understand the subject without googling to verify its originality and meaning. She would not disagree with any of this, being unwilling to read that which I write online.