I spent the entirety of lunch yesterday editing a college essay for a friend. With pencil in hand, I devoured the words much more steadily than I did my lunch, and what became most enthralling was how immersed I was. All the noise of the mammoth cafeteria shrank to this minuscule decibel until finally the laughter, screaming, voices didn't register any longer: cacophony entered one ear, and there it stayed, unable to pass out the other. When this thought occured to me once the bell rang, and all of the volume rushed back to torment my eardrums, I realized how few are the things that absorb me, entirely and without my immediate knowledge. Theatre, poetry...editing. Editing?
Sometimes I wonder if my love for editing, if my obsession with reading other people's writing and offering my opinions, seems strange and rude. For sure, some probably think so. But what if, just imagine, what if with each little tick mark, every crossed out word and suggestion for revision and circled phrase followed with-- I love this! [smiley face] --I did not detract or destruct, but inserted a part of myself into it?
I believe all writing blends together. The most beautiful collections of words owe themselves to unnumbered minds.