Half full...

My glasses are dirty, my back hurts, my blog guilt is high, my Mommy guilt is off the charts. I am worried about my husband, my kids, myself, the dog, and the rest of the world in that order. I don't sleep well. I don't eat right. And no one understands me. Life as a technical editor is one large slog of being misunderstood and underappreciated.

Technical editors and writers make others look good. We are the ghost writers of life, and as such walk the halls of clear communication unacknowledged and invisible. As a ghost writer the prose is crisp, the thoughts divine, and the credit...zilch.

I wonder how tough life is for William Shatner's ghost writer. Shatner has produced more books than any Trek celebrity ever; all from his own creative genius of course.

Oh, I like Bill. I am a big fan and always will be. But, my point is about the writers. We all go to the same metaphysical pub and cry into our virtual beer about how our author just doesn't understand us.

We never leave them (well, only upon point of death) because we like being ghosts. We like standing in the aisle at a book store with that self-satisfied smirk on our faces. "I know something you don't know," we whisper to the patron next to us.

We are the Kings and Queens of the bestseller and memoir world, but uncrowned, dethroned, and expelled from the Kingdom upon publication.

Ah, well. It could be worse. We could be the high profile authors who go to bed each night empty inside envying us. They envy the ghost writer who can say things so well. The author has lived the life, but we can give it immortality.

We are Gods.