“As you work on tightening your narratives,” she said, “remember that your longer, more meandering style also has genuine charm—it’s part of your voice. The goal isn’t to eliminate that quality but to be more intentional about when to let the story breathe and when to pick up the pace.”
You’ve probably guessed by now that I wasn’t actually on the phone with a real editor. I was in my head, talking to Princess Amy, who's not only my editor but also my most critical critic.
“Your readers follow The Circular Journey because they enjoy spending time in your company,” Amy continued, “not because they’re in a hurry to get to the end.”
I could tell her comments were building up to a punchline.
“Of course, you could focus on a different creative pastime altogether,” she said.
“Like what?”
“You’re smart. You’re intuitive. You’re resilient.” She paused. “And you’re stubborn.”
“Stubborn is a good thing?”
“Not necessarily, but I ran out of good stuff to say.”
I was still smiling when I walked into the salon and found Island Irv settling his bill at the counter.
“How is she?” I asked, nodding toward the stylist’s chair that he'd vacated as I walked through the door.
“I think she’s coming around,” he said. “Her eyes are back in their sockets, and she’s breathing normally now.” He lowered his voice. “She’s got Spider-Woman’s mojo. You try to make small talk, and then suddenly she has life advice. When you respond, she gets irritated with you.”
“Her control room listens to the police scanners,” I said, having thought of absolutely nothing else to say. It seemed to work.
“That was my second guess,” Irv said. "It's just as well, the less you know, the better.”
“Deniable plausability?” I said.
“Exactly.”
The Islander then paid and gave me a thumbs up as he left, and I settled into the chair, bracing myself.
“Do you have fun plans for the weekend?” the stylist asked.
“I’ll be blogging all weekend,” I said.
“Oh, what do you blog about?”
“I document the movie and television projects in Wilmington and Southport.”
“Oh, like Ken Burns," she said, showing what looked like interest. "He does all those documentaries on YouTube.”
“Yeah,” I said, knowing it isn’t like Ken Burns at all, but it’s easier to go with it than to explain. Besides, people are always disappointed when I tell them what I really do every day.
“Do you sneak around the film sets and get candid photos of the stars to sell to magazines?”
“Nope.”
“It would be cool if you did. It would make a much better story. You should try it.”
I didn’t respond, hoping she’d move on.
“If you're afraid of getting punched, you could pretend to do it,” she said, scissors pausing mid-snip. “In your blog, I mean. Who would know?”
Suddenly, I saw her in a completely different light. Instead of feeling vulnerable in conversation with her—as though I were an inexperienced con artist and she were an experienced professional—I instantly felt like an innocent bystander being targeted by a scammer.
Princess Amy had spent the morning telling me to be more intentional about my storytelling, to think carefully about when to let things breathe and when to move along. And here was a hair stylist offering editorial advice: Just make stuff up; it’ll be more interesting.
I thought about Amy’s comment that my readers follow The Circular Journey because they enjoy spending time in my company, not because they’re racing to the end. They’re not here for paparazzi photos that I don't take, or the celebrity gossip that I don’t manufacture. They’re here for the actual journey—meandering pace and all.
“I think I’ll stick with what I’m doing,” I said.
She shrugged and went back to cutting my hair. “Suit yourself.”
Walking out of the salon twenty minutes later, I pulled out my phone—not to call Princess Amy this time, but to make a note for the blog: Sometimes the best editorial advice is knowing which advice to ignore.
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