Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.
And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing.
And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profiteth me nothing.
Love suffereth long, and is kind; love envieth not; love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up,
Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;
Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;
—1 Corinthians 13:1-6, New King James Version
When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
—1 Corinthians 13:11-12, King James Version
I honestly don’t know how I survived this long. Or why my business doesn’t implode.
No editor is allowed to escape definition. Definitions become a second skeleton—an implacable logic, the arbiters of truth—words and what they mean.
And because I am apparently not that smart, I expect that other people understand the words they’re using. That they live within the lines they draw, that they mean what they say.
I can feel your gentle judgment. I have indeed been too long naïve.
He told me he retired from the military, but his rank took second billing in his email signature. Place of pride went to his honorary Ph.D.
He told me that after the military came “success” in corporate life. He used the word “integrity” often. And he asked me to help him publish a book of quotations. Quotes he was certain would “inspire” the next “generation.”
Almost every quote lacked attribution. Many were incorrect. Being daily immersed in words, and their elegant arrangement, I have committed many profound arrangements to memory and recognize them anywhere. Where once I would have run these down gratis, I have been adult long enough to know that if you are working for a client they should compensate you for time and effort expended on their behalf.
I sent him a second invoice and waited until he paid. Research commenced, investigation ensued. The people he imagined made these utterances never said them, never wrote them. He was dismayed when I showed him the original quotes in the books they had been lifted from. How they’d been altered, bent into bite-sized slogans, kneaded to make them more amenable to sharing in this superficial social media era.
Over a decade later I am still, it seems, too optimistic. Naïve.
He insisted that I publish the book as he had presented the “manuscript” to me. I confess to having expected better. Long, distinguished corporate career; long, distinguished period of military service. And he used the word “integrity” often.
Months after the book was published, he reached out to me.
Someone who knew him well had found errors, and because they knew he “identified” as a “perfectionist” they knew it would hurt him to know that a book he published contained errors.
These words and these definitions. Hurt? Identified? Perfectionist?
He asked me to make “corrections.” Ego bruised, now he wanted me to repair what he previously said wasn’t broken, and he wanted me to fix it for free.
His “request” was a thinly veiled “demand.” I have been an editor long. I decipher tone, and intent, for a living. I edit my clients’ books so they avoid being misunderstood. My clients pay me what I’m worth to help them, and their readers, find clarity.
His request was a thinly veiled demand, couched in a soft “threat.” He used the word “warranty.”
My response, word for word:
“Warranties don’t cover situations where the client was given multiple warnings, including a clear final warning, reviewed the book both in print and virtually, and signed off on the final file prior to publication. Talk soon.”
I have been too long naïve. Two decades ago, the fledgling editor I used to be would have taken joy and pride in running down the attributions for free. And then had my heart broken. And choked on the ashes occasioned by the conflagration of my innocent expectations set aflame.
You have to understand, I am an editor. Words matter. I arrange words until those words satisfy desires: Comfort. Success. Challenge. Career. Abundance. Gratitude. Health. Time. Money.
Comprehension.
I use words to create value, for myself and for my clients.
Words matter. Words matter as much as experience, and my grey hairs should tell you I have experienced the definitions of so, so, so many words. I am an editor. I don’t just know words, clichés, and their definitions. I know what they mean.
I never called him “Doctor” once, although he repeatedly insisted that I should. I know lots of doctors. Many of whom entrust their words to me.
I call him by his first name.
There are no sales, no discounts, for what I paid to make myself free. I had to earn my skill.
I am never impressed by honorary degrees.
