The Editor and I sit across from the VP in her sunny office.
I smooth out my skirt, cross my legs, and place my notebook on my lap.
I definitely look the part of Editor-in-the-making.

A quick glance.

The Editor has crossed her legs too.
This is how a good editor sits I think to myself.

She shares her thoughts on the manuscript we’re here to discuss.
I listen.
This is how a good editor listens.

The Editor is eloquent.
Each word flawlessly swan dives out of her mouth,
and summersaults onto the VP’s desk like a secret agent.
They gather and begin building a structure –her opinion on the manuscript;
a point of view so clear and concise it’s tangible.

I’m in awe.
This is how a good editor speaks.

I’m asked to share next.

Reluctantly, I speak.
Tiny words fall out of my mouth
in a hurried frenzy like
my ideas are a fire in the back of my throat
that should be escaped, not expressed.
My words hurtle toward the floor,
with no point to make,
no structure to build,
no parachutes.
I can almost hear them helplessly colliding with the carpet.
splat splat splat splat splat.

Sensing the absence of point from my view,
the VP’s eyes drift off.
I shut my mouth, extinguishing my idea-fire and
look down at the small pile of mangled letters
next to my shoe.

I feel a stab of pain behind my crossed knee.
I uncross my legs.

A quick glance.

The Editor’s legs are still crossed.

I’m not a good editor…yet.