I am realizing more and more how deficient my verbal communication is. I am not well-spoken. There is no eloquence in my speech. I often take several moments to gather my thoughts before opening my mouth, trying to find the right words. I much prefer to let my fingers do the talking, pounding out 90+ wpm on a keyboard. We all have our gifts, but talking isn't one of mine. I feel somewhat empowered to have discovered this now, at a time in my life when I'm not relying on my tongue to define me. Some of us were meant to live in the shadows, on the outskirts of socialization, where our looks, our IQ, our prowess don't matter. I think I'll stay here for a while, sipping coffee and keeping my words to myself.
Last night I worked on revising a few chapters of my novel. Having a book professionally edited is a more-than-humbling experience - a rather frustrating experience at that. But my aggravations lie only with myself. As I swam through pages, making changes in my digital copy, I kept thinking: I should be a better writer than this. Which only proves how unrealistic my expectations of myself truly are. What I'm learning is that I'll never achieve perfection - my ideals of it, or anyone else's. And that I'm incredibly thankful to have an editor who not only loves my book, but cares enough to point out what could make it better. I'm hoping that with her help, I can get through this publishing process without making a total asshat of myself.