Letter To The Editor
I’m not sure the timing could have been better if I’d planned it myself. Today is summer solstice, the high point, the winding down. I’m sitting on the floor in my office. I’m typing a letter to my editor. I couldn’t resist going old school on this, and I hope that there is enough humor in it for me.
I finished today. Twenty days after the original deadline, I wrote the last words in my manuscript. I took it out and had it printed, all of those months and thousands of words lasered onto sheets of paper. They’re all together, bundled up nice—nineteen different little tales and the nineteen different illustrations that inspired them.
Now it flies off in the mail, away from me, to a fresh pair of eyes, to a nocturnal pen. In a few weeks time it will come back, likely covered in tattoos of redaction and thoughtful arrows. It will come back covered in spit so that I may take out my rag and polish once more. Once more with feeling.
But that’s then. This is now. Now is a bit of fancy old school carnival as I type a letter to my editor.
