My Editor is wise and all-powerful. He made a single mother’s amateurish incubus books into bestsellers. I trust his instincts.
He has taken to editing my life for increased efficiency. In November, I awoke with a flat chest and skinny body; he said my curvaceousness encouraged the distraction of dating. I’ve written an entire new novel since.
Last month my needy toddler son was edited out, leaving only my preteen daughter, who is self-sufficient. Two weeks ago my memories and dreams were deemed extraneous. On Monday, hunger and sleep were deleted. Yesterday my legs were edited away. And today my—
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