Reflections of a writer: gifts from the Editor

Like a mother bird lovingly preening her chicks, preparing them for flight and a life beyond her, the Editor takes our Anthologia chapters and carefully tends to them in her editorial nest. Her beak-shaped pen gently cleaning our feathery words of parasitic commas, and  clearing away the waxy sheaths of typographical or grammatical errors. She honours the heartbeat of our prose and poetry. She will lightly nibble, as needed, to help our words best unfurl onto the pages of this book; our pieces conditioned and ready for our readers. 

I imagine her, the Editor, sitting at her desk. Pen in hand. Glasses balanced at the edge of her nose. Paper neatly stacked. Her computer open on her wooden desk. Everything in its place. A cup of tea on a ceramic coaster to one side. On the other, a chorus of pink tulips in a vase. Morning sunlight from a nearby window perhaps tickling the edges of her hair and the soft fabric of her clothes.

We have never met and yet, she has tended to the dearest part of me; my writing.

I am grateful for both her craft and how deeply she cares. The Editor captures and gifts me a lost letter, restoring meaning. Commas missed are bestowed to correctly frame dialogue. I sit with the stronger pause of a semicolon she has placed in a sentence for me to find. These gifts from the Editor show how closely she has listened to the rhythm of my words. Perhaps she has read my pieces out loud to the tulips and sunshine. Perhaps she has invited my words to dance inside her head.

Nurturing and loving, is how I imagine the Editor. She makes her edits to best prepare our pieces for what they are to become. Her maternal preening bonds us. My story's plumage is oiled and ready. My poetry is poised to launch from the knitted twigs beneath its tiny-clawed feet into the vastness of whatever sky blinks open on publishing day.