Life of an editor 1
To be written without self-editing (😅)
Whenever I’m reading someone else’s Busstack and they briefly mention their line of work… I get excited. In a way, lots of people write about writing, but I wish they wrote about their work. And i don’t mean ‘the work’, i mean, the way they get their money.
I’m an editor. A skater told me that was sexy recently,
“You got a title innit”
(he was Swedish but he used the English lilts with me)
I was like, oh shit, that is sexy.
Another skater lit up when i told him what I did—that was more recently,
“But that’s what you’re doing ALL THE TIME! That makes… so much sense.”
I dunno if i ever hung out with someone whose constantly editing the moment—that could be a great thing but hopefully with me it’s more like i’m butting my head up against your speech to help us both reach the kernel of shard understanding. Maybe…
This is my first post in “My life as an editor” section of my Busstack. If you don’t wanna receive it alter your Tilly settings here. This is just a blog for me now so I will stop trying to present writing which has been “prepared”.
It’s a monday. I’m gonna tell you about my work. I woke up accidentally at 9am and rolled out the house just barely reaching my yoga class on time that i booked on classpass last night. As i landed on the mat with two minutes spare i noticed someone had borrowed my leggings and hadn’t washed them but folded them neatly back in my drawer (Was it me?) and now i could see a stain there. Ran out quickly and changed to put them back on inside out. Which means the person who wore them before actually did wear them inside out… with no knickers… (i know who you are.) In the changing room i bumped into a girl with a diamonté waterbottle and that made me feel like i had a friend in the building. A little fried friend to keep in my peripheral as i bent. Class begins. I validate myself by hearing how deep my own breaths are and wonder whether that means i’m not ‘ok’ (?) or whether in fact i am a yogai booda by nature—I, know i can go deeper in certain stretches but don’t push myself (especially when the whole class is facing my way) because i’m not here to show off but then the teacher comes over and pushes me down
“i know you’re flexible” she says
(ok, ok)
an hour passes and i leave the place with that fire kindling in my body
i feel so much better
thank you, miss
pick up a coffee on my way home at this turkish looking coffee joint with my last fiver and think i’m taking a small stand against the trendy place on the corner, looking forward to the £3.40 price tag when lo and behold they hit me with the £4.30…
ok…
(jokes on me)
get back home, mom’s back from holiday, russell asks how yoga was whilst i’m still getting through the door, other people tell me other important things whilst i’m still 5 minutes fresh of entering…
breathe.
i offer a strong opinion on hot yoga (it’s a No); inform Ellie that Una will in fact be the one to take my room—
I’m talking about my family life now. I’ve got distracted. I’m supposed to be telling you about my professional life. My editing work. I suppose that’s what happens when you work at home. It’s a bank holiday monday so today i have no other choice.
I sit down at my desk with my deliciously mundanely expensive coffee and start to gear up. There are 7 orange post-it notes hovering above my desk. Each one is for a current client. I have two days to edit two novels so there’s no time left to talk about anything else now. Let’s begin.
👀