It's One of the Dumbest Things I Do as a Writer

Ask my editor wife for feedback

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

My wife’s a professional editor, but I rarely share my drafts with her because we’ve got a good thing going after twenty years and why would I jeopardize that to get a little free editing advice. Writers are not an easy breed to work with when it comes to providing feedback on their words, and I’m no exception. So we compartmentalize our word craft and preserve our marriage.

But sometimes I forget.

Today I walked into her south-facing, brightly lit corner office and took a deep reflexive breath in the beautified atmosphere she creates for her work. The green plants and vines doubled the oxygen content in the room compared to the rest of the house and the sun filtered through dieffenbachia leaves to cast dappled highlights onto the canary yellow walls.

I crossed the room, my shoulders dropping down, a deep breath coming in, and found a seat.

But it only took one look to know that it wasn’t going well with her current edit. I learned later that her client had switched directions several times, changed things she had already edited, and reformatted text to make tracking changes more difficult. She had a look that could only be duplicated by sucking a pile of lemons and inhaling the stench of unwashed athletic gear at the same time.

I knew it was not a good time to ask for feedback.

The problem was, I was really excited about an idea I had captured in one brilliant sentence, and couldn’t wait to get confirmation of its glory. It was a single statement, designed to help my readers rise above imposter’s syndrome. So I naively waded in, sharing my insight, even though she was already annoyed and exasperated.

It didn’t go well.

She poked holes in my statement from more angles than I knew the idea had. In addition, I was suddenly squarely in the crosshairs of the syndrome I was claiming to have a handle on beating.

What always makes these interactions worse is that her feedback is as accurate as her beside manner is absent in these moments. And just because she’s right, doesn’t mean that I don’t argue back—which I did, but still lost the battle.

“It’s entirely my fault,” I admitted. “I have to be more patient and pick my moments with more intention. When you’re in this mood you’d send a hot poker through the side of an air balloon at 20,000 feet if you disagreed with the pilot.”

She broke into laughter as I landed this counter-observation with an accuracy that matched her own clarity and brutality.

But still stinging from her teardown I had to speak in my own defense and basically pep-talk myself into not giving up.

Part of our predictable pattern is that as soon as she sees me put my tail between my legs and attempt to self-soothe, providing clear evidence of her piercing impact, she feels instantly remorseful for having been so dogmatic and is then compelled to make amends by saying something kind.

As I slowly stood up and moped toward the office door I said . . .

“I still like my idea and I know I’ll be able to find a way to say it that will hold water and do the job of engaging my readers. There’s a good hook in there somewhere and I know I can find it.”

“Yes, I know you will,” she encouraged. “You’re such a good hooker!”

And with that sincere, well-meaning, unexpected assertion—which evoked an entirely unintended image—we were instantly gone. We laughed until tears were running down our faces, falling over furniture in hysterics, choking and coughing, chortling and giggling, and then finally composing ourselves to carry on. There’s no doubt in my mind the story will become a treasured moment in the lifetime of our relationship.

I left the room with my head held high, secure in the notion that my wife thinks I’m a good hooker.

I moved to the kitchen to fix a snack and then, like aftershocks of an earthquake, one of us would recall the words of her sweet and emphatic support and start laughing all over again, setting the other one off at a distance and filling the house with the sunlight of humor and the ridiculousness of how serious we take ourselves sometimes.

When I got back to my own desk I looked again at the original word craft I wanted feedback on, tore up the piece of scrap paper I’d written it on, tossed it, and sat down to write about our moments together instead.

Twenty years of marriage has a way of softening your edges, gradually encouraging you to spend less time editing the relationship, and more time embracing its original text.

I recalled all the love notes I’ve received from my wife in the last few years in response to essays I’ve published. Essays she reads on her own time in moments of solid footing.

With the reminder of her love and encouragement, and despite not spending much time on this draft, I think I’ll go ahead and publish it.

If I wait much longer I’ll be tempted to head downstairs, walk into my editor-wife’s office and ask her what she thinks—a risky move with someone who responds unpredictably to hookers.