I got my edits back from the professional editor. Wow. It was more than just edits -- it was a hard-hitting 10-page critique plus line edits throughout the whole manuscript. Ouch, ouch, and ouch. My voice can come across as coarse and venting sometimes, and even though I knew this it hurts to read it.
So I'm revising. Revision, the process of seeing it in a new way. The journey continues.
In college there were panic attacks. Leaving home was fine – I wasn’t ready for it, but what 18-year-old is? I packed my confusion in a U-Haul and unloaded it on the grass of a sunny campus. Classes weren’t overwhelming – stressful, a pain in the ass around finals time, but nothing I couldn’t handle.
It was the dorm. Low ceiling, concrete walls, a roommate to share what little space existed. My roommate’s name was Tim. He was a pair of startled eyes and nervous hands whenever I freaked out. I tried to keep it a secret, but secrets are never secret. The more you push them down into your body and brain, the brighter they’re written across your face.
Most people are working, like me. Headphones, no headphones, laptop, paper. Some gather in groups to discuss the state of the world. They're determined to change it. Their determination drifts up to me, clouds that crinkle my nose with their stridence.
I'm a writer and storyteller in Berkeley, CA. If you're wondering where that is, follow the smell of patchouli and skunkweed. There you'll find me with my kickass husband, gorgeous little boy, and manic Lab-Australian Shepherd mix pups. I'm represented by Miriam Altshuler of DeFiore & Co., but of course, my views are my own.