That's how a potential editor began our second conversation, after she had read the first 25 pages of my novel. She then proceeded to eviscerate each and every one of them.
It was painful to hear. But, other than when I finished the final draft, it was also the most thrilling moment of writing the book. As if she were showering me with compliments, rather than calling out potentially fatal flaws, I couldn't get enough.
I had craved objective feedback for so long. I felt like I was on the right track, but how could I know for sure? How could I know there was any chance my work might be good enough to eventually resonate with readers? My friends and family had nothing but great things to say about what I shared with them. But even if they secretly thought I'd be better off sticking to my day job, I knew they'd never tell me.
Now I had someone who would. And not just anyone. An expert. Someone who knew way more about writing than I did. Someone good enough to tell Stephen King and Mary Higgins Clarke what they needed to change. Someone who would have no interest in working with me if she didn't think I could write.
Her criticisms came like epiphanies. In her brilliant articulation of every problem, my own revelations about how I might address them.
"You're really brave," she commented, when I asked her not to soften a particularly difficult message.
Maybe I was. But bravery is facing fears, not the absence of them.
And I had many.
Fortunately, that didn't cause me to lose perspective. It wasn't about me. It was about the book. If I wanted it to be the absolute best it could be, I had to get my ego out of the way. I didn't have to agree with every single thing the editor said; but, I had to hear them.
After that conversation, I formally engaged the editor. That was two and a half months ago. Within the next two weeks, she'll provide detailed feedback on the rest of the novel.
I'm scared out of my mind. And I can hardly wait.