Meeting my editor

I once read that writers enjoy their occupation because it gives them the chance to be known and unknown at the same time. Because of their words, people they have never met get to peer into their personalities and lives. The authors sit a safe distance away from this vulnerable review, sipping liquor in Havana or plopping down with coffee beside their kitchen drain boards before dawn. They can commit the impossible, blood-sweating act of writing wherever they choose. If they wish, they would never have to encounter the people who have, so to speak, read over their shoulders for years.

Personally, I always feel surprised when I meet someone who likes to read what I write. That’s because every week when I sit down at the keyboard, I feel very weak. Every first string of words, which must somehow wind into an ending that makes sense, feels like an impossible miracle. This time, I feel certain, this whole writing thing just isn’t going to work. I meet the mortal battle in isolation, sitting at home, looking out the window at a cow pasture, and wearing my pajamas. “Please, please, please, God,” I say, “give me something to write.”

And, of course, nothing spells productivity like a desperation that drives you to prayer. When God has answered me and the miracle has drawn itself shut with a period, I ship my pajama-words to Mickey McLean, the executive editor of WORLD Digital. This has been my custom for all three of my years in the world of remote working, which reduces your co-workers to phantoms. You know about them only what three years of two-line emails can reveal, and accidentally assume the rest.

But last week I did not write while wearing my pajamas and looking at cows. I wrote from a desk on the second floor of the WORLD News Group office building while wearing makeup and a dress. If you have ever visited WORLD headquarters, you know that its interior feels as peaceful as a two-layer cake. Most editorial staffers work from homes spread across the country but visit here occasionally.

In the middle of the afternoon, Mickey stepped into the office I was using. I stood up from behind the desk in total surprise. Mickey did not exist only in two-sentence cyberspace. There he was, standing before me in the flesh. My husband Jonathan, who visited WORLD with me, reached out to shake his hand first. We were thrilled to meet him, of course—but also a little embarrassed. Mickey has read every single WORLD column I’ve written. He knows everything about us. And we did not have the comforting distance of the kitchen drain board or Havana.

After a few office chats, it became clear to me that Mickey liked us more than we expected. He had the bonus virtues you would like in an editor and reader but wouldn’t presume to hope for—affability and interest in other people. With such readers, I would much rather be known than unknown.