The Humbling and Nurturing Work of a Good Editor

Last summer my husband peeled a small branch from a tree on the trail we walk each night. He planted it in a pot to nurture it to the point of becoming a full-grown tree for our yard. We’d already tried taking slips from other trees, but each one refused to take root. My husband was hopeful. I was doubtful.

He stuck the slip in a blue pot on our front doorstep. Each day as I paced the floors with a baby on my hip, I glanced out the window to check the progress of our branch. I watched as the original leaves slowly darkened to a muddy brown, curling and twisting until they completely wilted and fell into the soil. Just as I expected, I thought.

Yet for some reason I continued to look out the window. Perhaps merely from habit. Whatever the reason, I peered at it each day, staring at the bare twig sticking out of the mud. One day I stopped and drew closer to the window. I squinted my eyes in disbelief. Tiny green buds were growing on the stem. Somehow, there was growth from the death.

As writers, we endure many deaths in order to grow. Our “darlings” fall before our eyes as editors cut them from our work—from beloved words to entire paragraphs we labored over. This is the process of the outer bark and old leaves wilting away. But as writers, we can trust these deaths will sprout growth too—not just in our writing, but in our lives too.

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