Your job is an important one. Your knowledge of how the greater machinations of the world turn is unparalleled. You see the impact of things before they occur. See the consequence of irresponsible flirtings and warmongering before they strike the people unawares, creating discourse and unrest. And, invariably, low sales. Your perception of my talent and outpourings is a wonder to me. You see an end before it has even occurred to me that I have begun.
However, Mr Editor, your job is, as its title suggests, an editor. An editor of work. Which by its nature means that you are not at the beginning of the process, but come much later on. I’m sorry Mr Editor, but you are, sadly, not a creator. Which given the depth and breadth of your insight into humanity itself and its foibles, is remarkable to me, but nonetheless, a truth. And in saying so, may I politely ask you Mr Editor that during my moments of creation, during my intimate and vulnerable states of imbalance as I assess my cosmos and open my heart and fabric to it, and as I lay myself at the foot of a mountain that I have no map for but will blind myself in the blizzard of assent, I ask you, Mr Editor, will you kindly, please, fuck off.
As I fill my (metaphorical) car with fuel, may you not be there to tell me that my destination is inappropriate, particularly when I have set out with no clear destination to begin (and I know that the very idea of this is, to you, intolerable). As I raise my brush to the canvas, latent with movement and verve, tell me not that I would be better to begin later or with another colour. As I open the case to my instrument, your warning that there is not enough time to tune up, let alone write a masterpiece is not welcomed or warranted. So please Mr Editor, will you kindly, please, fuck off.
At this time Mr Editor, our delusions of grandeur and want for my safety are not warranted, even though I value your careful spirit in the face of reputation. But the very nature of creation must be unbound, unhinged and not tied to your ideas of collection, rudiments or appropriateness.
You are the eraser and I am the pencil.
You may even be the fuel, but I am most certainly the match (in which case I empathise).
But your job comes after mine. Your job is to help express what I have begun to the ears and eyes of those who are not in my head. I do, however, appreciate your understanding above all others to know what it is like in here.
And so Mr Editor, please assume your correct place in my outpourings. Even whilst writing this, you have placed markers, road signs and a phrase book at my feet in order to help the piece, defend yourself and maintain your own reputation as well as mine. But until I rest my (metaphorical) pencil, still the brush, or close my case and silence the music, please, Mr Editor, kindly, fuck off.