The Editor

Hello, there, good evening. I’m clearing my throat before I start to write this. It is going to be difficult. Not the throat clearing, I’ve done that. But because I have to admit something strange.

Here goes. Are you ready?

I have an editor. No, not one you can see. One in my head. He has a name. Arthur.

Phew!

That was difficult—

—Why?

Ah, here he is.

—Evening Arthur.

—Alright.

—I was telling the readers about you.

—I saw that. Why?

—Because I want them to understand that you’re how I get my writing edited.

—It’s not a job many would do.

—How do you mean?

—Your bloody writing. Have yer seen the state of it?

Ah, see that’s the thing about having an internal editor. I don’t know about you (I’m assuming if you write that you’re got one, too) but I find Arthur a hard taskmaster. But that’s the point, right? We need an editor that, well, edits.

I remember once, when I wrote a novel, Arthur kept butting in so much, I wrote him into the novel—

—I had to keep butting in, it was shite.

—Er, I didn’t think it was that bad.

—Shite. I’m telling yer.

See what I mean? He sits there, wearing a suit from the 1950s and wielding a red pen like a sword.

—I have to have ‘em on special order. I use them a lot.

—Ha! Well, I suppose you edit a lot—

—You. I need them for your writing. That’s it.

Damn. That’s harsh. But anyway. The reason I’ve told you about Arthur is: he turns up now and then in my essays. Offering his... unique viewpoints (shhh, is he watching? No? Good. Unique viewpoints? Blimey, he doesn’t half go on...).

But don’t worry about him. He is in fact, harmless enough.

So, that’s it, folks. I think I’m done—

—Good. This was starting to sound rubbish.

—Be nice, Arthur. This is the first time people have met you.

—Aye, true. But they need to know what bloody nonsense you tend to write.

And on that expositive boat, I’ll see you next time.