by Carolee Ross
My friend of almost 50 years
Asked me to edit his memoirs
I trust your judgement, he said
I've read your stories
And your letters and know I'm making a good choice.
His letters had always been beautiful
Full of intelligence and sensitivity and kindness
But what I read in his memoirs
Was trite and maudlin and uninteresting
Incredibly uninspired.
So I went to work,
Smoothing transitions,
Clarifying, adding suggestions,
Working on the pitiful document for more time than I ever had before
And sent the revision on.
I encouraged him and told him not to mind all the red
And urged him to keep going,
That writing wasn't easy
And that I'd been redlined for decades
And learned, and grew, and finally became a bit of a writer.
He wrote that he felt he'd been raped
That he felt as if I was telling him to stand in a corner
And excused his attempt at writing
As "not for publication"
Not for public consumption.
His story was an attempt to tell a tale from the past
It was part of a larger story whose chapters came before this one
He wrote it as a stream of consciousness exercise
And didn't think I'd rip it apart
With such hatred.
Now, for the first time in years,
There is silence
And I suspect anger on the other end of Internet space
Was it retribution for wrongs done long ago
Or a good editor trying to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear?
Don't edit for a friend,
Don't try to teach a pig to sing
It will only
Annoy the pig
And waste your time.
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