I hate having my work edited. I hate having my work edited. I hate having my work edited. I hate hate hate having my work edited.
Been ravaged for length beyond fucking recognition, the review, and I'm stark-mad. If the original draft had been full of crap, I wouldn't so much as squeak. But it ain't. Thing is, it is not pretentious nor boring-conventional.
I would never profess to know anything about Hitchcockian tension, what the bollocky fuck. Despite watching flicks since I was seven, I've only seen one Hitchcock darling, The Birds. Much as I 'd experienced the signature mute-film-and-still-grasp-story quality of Birds and greatly admired the man for it, I would never try to be smart-ass about it and make references. He doesn't live in my time, heck. I would sooner speak of Jean-Pierre Jeunet or Sofia Copolla than Hitchcock. Besides, it's lazy journalism to simply draw references to his style when writing about thrillers.
And, I never link my sentences with not only that, but; it's amateur-ish and utterly clumsy. Sure says a lot about the staff writer who'd edited my work and added it.
He should just have added his fucking name to the foil and removed mine. I'd be less embarrassed then. Now that the stint is coming to an end soon, I'm worried too. I've not much to show for it. The three months have flown by like nothing. Much as these months hand you what you would take four years to discover in communications school (assuming you major in journalism), it still feels like time wasted. Urgh.
Ask me for the draft. Tell it to my face if you thought he did a great job and I did not. Tell it to me like he didn't. Guys without balls, je les deteste extremement.
