my words are yours
Jocelyn MacDonough
When Elena first became an editor for a famous author, the person she would be working with hardly crossed her mind. Frankly, she was more excited to have a stable job for once. Although the author, L. Fischer, had chosen to remain anonymous for their entire career, Elena willed herself not to be curious. Their identity was of no importance to her paycheck.
Because she lucked out, Elena can spend her days at home or at her local cafe, spreading out loose papers and drinking chai. And most importantly: read Fischer’s manuscripts before anyone else. Although Fischer has sold at least ten million copies of their books, Elena is still the first one who gets to read Fischer’s newest books in their most unfiltered form. She gets them in their entirety, with all of their formatting and grammatical errors. But only because she is their developmental editor. It is her job, she reminds herself.
Fischer insists on sending her a physical copy of their manuscript, regardless of the risk of theft, and they mail it back and forth, notes appearing in the margins - or if there’s not enough room, a sticky note or a loose piece of paper will do. It irks her at first - who, with the availability of much easier methods, would insist upon doing everything through paper? When she mails the manuscript back, Elena sends it to the publishing company, who sends it to Fischer themselves. Fischer knows her address but she isn’t trusted with theirs, and that sums up their entire relationship.
By writing to Fischer, manuscript or not, she learns things about them others might never know. Their hatred of cheap ballpoint pens, specifically the ink that Elena will accidentally smudge with her hand when she forgets to be careful. After the first few books she worked on with a ballpoint pen, Elena caved and bought a nicer set of pens after one too many snide comments about the little smears of ink she made. Maybe that was the beginning of her end.
As much as Fischer hates smudged ink, their handwriting is rarely neat. In the beginning, their tall cursive is legible. But after the first few responses, their handwriting deteriorates into a scrawl at best. Always in a pristine inky black, while Elena uses whatever color she likes.
Elena doesn’t know Fischer’s name, and they never use hers. Fischer only ever refers to Elena by her last name: Fontana. To the general public, she’s E.V.F., or E.V. Fontana. Their relationship should be distant and professional at best, it’s her job. And yet, when she finds herself relaxing, writing little comments and trying not to seem too excited over her favorite characters and plot details she adores - she can’t help but think she knows Fischer best. It’s stupid, they probably have a family, people who know their real name and where they live.
The only thing she truly knows about Fischer is that their first book was published soon after graduating college - only four years before the first time they worked together, and six after she graduated. It was a little comment after Elena told them she always loved their first book most, and Fischer wrote that they were still surprised anyone wanted to publish it. It was something Fischer had entrusted her with, something they had wanted to tell her. Her, not their growing hordes of fans, her. And yet, she has to remind herself time and time again, Fischer has other people who know this - this and so much more - about them.
But Elena, and only Elena, truly knows Fischer through their writing. Fischer explains to her the little details that connect the entire story together even if she doesn’t need it, letting their passion bleed through the pages. They tell her what they decide to cut out, their favorite moments, and sometimes, the scenes that make them cry. Maybe it’s her bias as an editor, but she feels that she understands them, however partially. Or at least a part of them that nobody else can see. She could call it respect, she could call it admiration, but she finds it strangely and yet unsurprisingly intimate.
And she finds herself slipping, responding in kind: pointing out scenes that made her gasp, gushing over her favorite characters, starring lines that she giggles at every time she reads. It’s borderline unprofessional; she’s starting to lose sight that this is her job.
Sometimes she makes conversation in the margins. Little comments turn into opinionated discussions of the similarities between the characters’ motivation and their own personal values. And when Fischer initiates conversation too, almost as if Elena’s not just their editor, it gives her a thrill she shouldn’t feel. Time moves on, and the thrill becomes a constant - it’s no longer mere admiration.
As she sits at the cafe she haunts, sipping the same old drink she always gets, manuscript before her, she deludes herself. Convincing herself that she matters to Fischer is scarily easy, and she starts to think about them - them, not their writing - when she’s not working. And after the years slip by, she believes she’s in love.
Elena thinks she knows Fischer; she thinks they belong to her like tourists to a city. But if they were to pass by, a tourist among the crowd, she would never know. They would blend in with the sea of people drifting by, and her eyes would glaze over them, unable to recognize the little things that make them Fischer. Would they even notice her, recognize her face? Everything about their relationship relies on Fischer; Elena can only hope and long and wish.
They know her name. They know where she lives. Elena knows next to nothing about them.
She would never let it interfere with her job; she is content to remain privileged enough to work with them. Perhaps she sometimes lets a little too much emotion slip through, but stupidly, she thinks Fischer returns it.
She knows it’s wrong - she’s in love with the Fischer in their writing, from their books to the comments they write only for her. Compared to how they present themselves in writing, Elena is sure the real Fischer is a different person. And even if Fischer thinks of her as more than an editor they pay, she presents herself differently in what she writes to them. They do not know the real her. To them, she is simply Fontana. She is not even Elena.
Yet, that doesn’t matter to Elena anymore. She once believed it would not be enough just to love. She thought that in order to love, there had to be some sort of tangible connection, she had to know everything about who they actually were.
But she is content to love the Fischer she knows. Thinking she understands them more intimately than anyone else ever could, even though they’ve never met, never spoken, never touched. Elena knows nothing about who Fischer actually is.
And yet, it is enough. It is enough to feel like she is in love.
Jocelyn MacDonough
When Elena first became an editor for a famous author, the person she would be working with hardly crossed her mind. Frankly, she was more excited to have a stable job for once. Although the author, L. Fischer, had chosen to remain anonymous for their entire career, Elena willed herself not to be curious. Their identity was of no importance to her paycheck.
Because she lucked out, Elena can spend her days at home or at her local cafe, spreading out loose papers and drinking chai. And most importantly: read Fischer’s manuscripts before anyone else. Although Fischer has sold at least ten million copies of their books, Elena is still the first one who gets to read Fischer’s newest books in their most unfiltered form. She gets them in their entirety, with all of their formatting and grammatical errors. But only because she is their developmental editor. It is her job, she reminds herself.
Fischer insists on sending her a physical copy of their manuscript, regardless of the risk of theft, and they mail it back and forth, notes appearing in the margins - or if there’s not enough room, a sticky note or a loose piece of paper will do. It irks her at first - who, with the availability of much easier methods, would insist upon doing everything through paper? When she mails the manuscript back, Elena sends it to the publishing company, who sends it to Fischer themselves. Fischer knows her address but she isn’t trusted with theirs, and that sums up their entire relationship.
By writing to Fischer, manuscript or not, she learns things about them others might never know. Their hatred of cheap ballpoint pens, specifically the ink that Elena will accidentally smudge with her hand when she forgets to be careful. After the first few books she worked on with a ballpoint pen, Elena caved and bought a nicer set of pens after one too many snide comments about the little smears of ink she made. Maybe that was the beginning of her end.
As much as Fischer hates smudged ink, their handwriting is rarely neat. In the beginning, their tall cursive is legible. But after the first few responses, their handwriting deteriorates into a scrawl at best. Always in a pristine inky black, while Elena uses whatever color she likes.
Elena doesn’t know Fischer’s name, and they never use hers. Fischer only ever refers to Elena by her last name: Fontana. To the general public, she’s E.V.F., or E.V. Fontana. Their relationship should be distant and professional at best, it’s her job. And yet, when she finds herself relaxing, writing little comments and trying not to seem too excited over her favorite characters and plot details she adores - she can’t help but think she knows Fischer best. It’s stupid, they probably have a family, people who know their real name and where they live.
The only thing she truly knows about Fischer is that their first book was published soon after graduating college - only four years before the first time they worked together, and six after she graduated. It was a little comment after Elena told them she always loved their first book most, and Fischer wrote that they were still surprised anyone wanted to publish it. It was something Fischer had entrusted her with, something they had wanted to tell her. Her, not their growing hordes of fans, her. And yet, she has to remind herself time and time again, Fischer has other people who know this - this and so much more - about them.
But Elena, and only Elena, truly knows Fischer through their writing. Fischer explains to her the little details that connect the entire story together even if she doesn’t need it, letting their passion bleed through the pages. They tell her what they decide to cut out, their favorite moments, and sometimes, the scenes that make them cry. Maybe it’s her bias as an editor, but she feels that she understands them, however partially. Or at least a part of them that nobody else can see. She could call it respect, she could call it admiration, but she finds it strangely and yet unsurprisingly intimate.
And she finds herself slipping, responding in kind: pointing out scenes that made her gasp, gushing over her favorite characters, starring lines that she giggles at every time she reads. It’s borderline unprofessional; she’s starting to lose sight that this is her job.
Sometimes she makes conversation in the margins. Little comments turn into opinionated discussions of the similarities between the characters’ motivation and their own personal values. And when Fischer initiates conversation too, almost as if Elena’s not just their editor, it gives her a thrill she shouldn’t feel. Time moves on, and the thrill becomes a constant - it’s no longer mere admiration.
As she sits at the cafe she haunts, sipping the same old drink she always gets, manuscript before her, she deludes herself. Convincing herself that she matters to Fischer is scarily easy, and she starts to think about them - them, not their writing - when she’s not working. And after the years slip by, she believes she’s in love.
Elena thinks she knows Fischer; she thinks they belong to her like tourists to a city. But if they were to pass by, a tourist among the crowd, she would never know. They would blend in with the sea of people drifting by, and her eyes would glaze over them, unable to recognize the little things that make them Fischer. Would they even notice her, recognize her face? Everything about their relationship relies on Fischer; Elena can only hope and long and wish.
They know her name. They know where she lives. Elena knows next to nothing about them.
She would never let it interfere with her job; she is content to remain privileged enough to work with them. Perhaps she sometimes lets a little too much emotion slip through, but stupidly, she thinks Fischer returns it.
She knows it’s wrong - she’s in love with the Fischer in their writing, from their books to the comments they write only for her. Compared to how they present themselves in writing, Elena is sure the real Fischer is a different person. And even if Fischer thinks of her as more than an editor they pay, she presents herself differently in what she writes to them. They do not know the real her. To them, she is simply Fontana. She is not even Elena.
Yet, that doesn’t matter to Elena anymore. She once believed it would not be enough just to love. She thought that in order to love, there had to be some sort of tangible connection, she had to know everything about who they actually were.
But she is content to love the Fischer she knows. Thinking she understands them more intimately than anyone else ever could, even though they’ve never met, never spoken, never touched. Elena knows nothing about who Fischer actually is.
And yet, it is enough. It is enough to feel like she is in love.