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Curse of the Blue Pencil

If you give someone a blue pencil and the title of an editor — I promise you that blue pencil will be used to edit and change your work merely because of the title in mind and the pencil in hand. 

Editing someone else’s work is a tender task that must put you, as the editor, in the mind of the author.  It is not the editor’s job to change the work just because the work can be changed. 

As the publisher of Go Inside Magazine and Urban Semiotic and Boles Books — each day I deal with the delicate task of preserving the author’s voice and perspective while making the whole work work better.

The editor’s primary directive is to make the work better and sometimes that means dropping the blue pencil — and its uncanny, innate, instinct to propel you forward with editorial power — and let the work breathe its own life into the world without your direct interference.

The best editors are those that edit with an invisible hand and a steady eye and they are always deferential to the work and a tie forever goes to the author.

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Jamaican Blue Mountain Estate Roast

I have only two vices. Drinking coffee is one. This blog is the other. I never did illicit drugs. I don’t drink much alcohol. I never smoked. I drink at least a pot of coffee a day. I post at least one entry in this blog a day. A pot of coffee on my brewing machine says it equals 10 cups, but those aren’t normal cups. We all know the coffee standard for a “cup” is really a mug and a proper mug holds two “cups” of coffee so I’m really only having five “cups” of coffee a day in Man Math.

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My Ideal Place

by Malaika Booker-Wright

I have been here many, many times. This is the place I come to when I am lonely, fearful, hurt, or angry. I also come here to relax and get away from the everyday stresses of life. Where is my ideal place?

I walk through the arched doorway and down the long, narrow, and steep set of steps to my basement bedroom. I take off my shoes and socks at the bottom of the steps and marvel at the smooth blue plush carpet beneath my feet. The pale blue walls of this room compliment the black lacquer framed seascape hanging on it. This painting of the ocean crashing against some rocks is painted in an array of blues. On the opposite wall of this seascape, there are numerous portraits of family members and friends. All the portraits are different sizes, but in frames of only blue, black, or gold.

Due to my exhaustion, I speak a melodious “hello” and walk towards the two large, square windows. My feet sink into the carpet, like quicksand, as I push back the blue linen curtains, stiff from starch, and look out into darkness. I sigh slightly, then fall into the large black recliner. I remove, from underneath me, it’s blue satin pillow and blue blanket, crocheted by my grandmother, even though the softness cushioned my fall.

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