INTRODUCTIONS, PLEASE

This post originally appeared on Julie N. Ford's blog for Cordelia's Corner.

            Julie was gracious enough to allow me, Cordelia Blackfaire, a chance to share some of my limited experience with the writing world with you.  Please know I am not in any way upset or jealous that her first choice, Mel, was unavailable.  I am above that sort of thing.

            What qualifies me?  I’m an assistant to a currently unpublished writer, the above-mentioned Mel.   I’m her first reader, the one who tries to make sense of the mess she makes of her manuscripts.  Although grammar and punctuation aren’t my strengths, I’m still better than Mel.

            I would like it noted on record that I am severely overworked, when the muse hits her, and dreadfully underpaid (nothing).  Mel says she appreciates me (ha!) and that I should help her out of friendship and love.  I’ve been promised something chocolate, preferably expensive, if I complete this essay, as she is busy with several different projects.  I told her I expected a nice dinner out whenever she gets one of her little stories published.

            I really should look for other work.  My hours are erratic, at best.  Either Mel is furiously writing, or she’s moaning that she can’t manipulate the words to make sense.  I mean, really.  When she cries, I just feel like shaking her.  “Suck it up,” I tell her.  “You wanted to pursue this passion of yours.  Your husband supports you and tells you you’re at the beginning of your career.  Your children enjoy listening to your stories about fire demons, unwilling sirens, and sweet romantic heroes.  Your friends generously give you feedback when you ask.”

            After a few tissues, Mel gets back on track.  I mean, seriously, I should buy the stuff in bulk.  She complains that I am not sympathetic to her plight, but the woman needs to put on her big girl panties and either stay the course or else quit.  Mel is of course horrified when I mention quitting.  “I can’t quit!  I’ve tried.  You know that,” she tells me.

            I do know that.  Unlike Mel, I have an excellent memory, of which I like to remind her at every opportunity.  I know that she got so frustrated that she wanted to lug a tub full of manuscripts down her driveway, and then dump the whole thing in the street.  She hoped it would get hit by a semi.  When I pointed out the facts that semis never traveled her quiet street and more importantly, she had a bad back, she screamed in frustration.

            She’s such a drama queen.

            I admit I was a bit worried when she told a close friend that she would burn every piece of paper she ever wrote in a large bonfire if she could “get relief from the madness.”  I reminded her that she almost burned the kitchen down on several different occasions when she got distracted as she cooked, and asked her if she had indeed changed out the batteries for the smoke detector. 

            Some people are fortunate to write because they enjoy it.  Mel isn’t like that.  She writes because she is driven to it.  Words and thoughts and characters consume her until she writes just to let them burst out of her.  Enjoying the process?  Sometimes, if she’s lucky.  However, there is nothing she likes better than when the words come together exactly the way they’re supposed to.  The way they were meant to be, or some other such nonsense.

            Do you see what I put up with on a continual basis?  If I didn’t love Mel like I do, I wouldn’t even bother.  I admit I do enjoy her characters and their exploits.  But if you say a word to her about it, I will vehemently deny it.  She would be insufferable.

            I hope to give you some more insight into Mel’s pursuit of publishing her work.  Sometimes it’s mundane and heartbreaking, but it’s usually hilarious.  She is known for her dark side; after all, she didn’t give herself the nickname The Black Humor Fairy for nothing.

            Until next time,

            Cordelia