What Would Happen If I Married My Editor? 💍

It all started with a comma, as most catastrophes in my life as a writer do.

“Spencer, I think the comma should stay.”

Spencer Blackwood, my editor and best friend, was silent for a moment on the other end of the phone, displaying the remarkable patience of a man who had already heard this argument in several different forms.

“The comma needs to go.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely sure?”

“Yes.”

“But can you read the paragraph again, just to be safe?”

“I already have.”

“I still think it should stay. Let’s leave it there for now and think about it tomorrow. Oh, and one more thing. What about Chapter 37 in Despicable Fields? Are you completely certain I should use rocky slope instead of cliff? I always pictured Brigitte standing there with Antonio and his friends on a cliff.”

I glanced at the clock on my desk and yawned.

“Spencer, I’m so sorry I’m keeping you up so late. I know it’s one o’clock in the morning.”

“It’s fine. But about the cliff, I really do think rocky slope is more accurate.”

“But you’re absolutely sure? Can’t I just call it a cliff?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I remember San Felice Circeo very well from a vacation there five years ago. Where they’re standing is more of a rocky slope with a ledge above the sea than a sheer cliff.”

I sighed.

“Maybe think about it once more. I want Brigitte standing on that cliff so badly. Just imagine how it would look in a film. For heaven’s sake, couldn’t there be one decent cliff in all of San Felice Circeo?”

There was a pause.

“Sivan, are you asking me to edit the geography of the mountain?”

“I’m asking you to be flexible.”

I laughed, and perhaps it was exhaustion after too many hours spent arguing over words that no normal person would ever notice, but as I stared at the manuscript glowing on my screen, my mind suddenly wandered in a completely ridiculous direction.

What if I married my editor?

Actually, the more I thought about it, the more wonderful the idea seemed. I would have my best friend, my editor, and a husband all in one, and I would never again have to apologize for keeping my editor on the phone until one o’clock in the morning.

Perhaps it wasn’t such a ridiculous idea after all.

I closed my eyes.

And suddenly, there we were.

At our wedding.

* * *

There I was in a white wedding dress, with Spencer beside me in a perfectly tailored dark suit. The wedding was beautiful, with flowers everywhere, a string quartet playing softly, and two hundred elegantly dressed guests watching as the celebrant announced that I had written a few promises of my own.

Spencer smiled.

Then I took twelve pages from my handbag.

His smile disappeared.

“Twelve pages?”

“It was eighteen.”

“That was your shortened version?”

“I cut six.”

“I’m very proud of you.”

I cleared my throat and began.

“Spencer, I promise to love you in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, and never again to send you a revised chapter at two o’clock in the morning and ask you to read it immediately.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow.

I stopped.

“What?”

“We’re lying at our own wedding.”

“It’s one tiny white lie.”

“At our wedding?”

“Fine. I withdraw it.”

The guests laughed, and I continued.

“I also promise never to say one last time when asking you to read a chapter, knowing perfectly well that there will be another seven versions.”

“That one too,” Spencer said.

“It’s aspirational.”

“It’s perjury.”

“This isn’t a courtroom.”

“It may become one if you continue like this.”

By the time I finished my promises, several guests were crying, although I could not be entirely certain whether this was from emotion or because dinner was now two hours late and hunger had begun to take its toll.

Then it was Spencer’s turn. He took my hands, looked into my eyes, and said, “Sivan, I promise to love you, stand beside you through everything life brings us, and read every book you write for the rest of our lives.”

I smiled, deeply satisfied.

“Perfect. And can you add that you’ll read any new material I send you within twenty-four hours?”

He hesitated.

I narrowed my eyes.

“Spencer.”

“I said I’d marry you. Let’s not get unreasonable.”

Finally, after the rings had been exchanged, the celebrant looked at the guests and asked whether anyone knew of any reason why we should not be married.

Spencer raised his hand.

I stared at him in disbelief.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I have one more small note.”

“Spencer!”

“You asked me to be honest.”

“Not now.”

“You said always.”

“That was one of my promises!”

“I took it seriously.”

He turned to the celebrant.

“Can we revise my lifetime reading commitment?”

I looked at the man I was apparently about to marry and realized there was only one sensible way to prevent my editor from giving me any further notes.

I kissed him.

* * *

“Sivan? Are you there?”

I opened my eyes and found myself staring at the manuscript on my screen, with Spencer still waiting for my response on the other end of the phone.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“You disappeared for a moment.”

“I was thinking.”

“That usually worries me.”

I looked at the comma.

“Spencer?”

“Yes?”

“The comma can go.”

There was a long silence.

“Are you sure?”

I smiled.

“Absolutely sure.”

Another pause.

“Now I’m worried.”