I become angry with my editors after they finish giving remarks on my work because my novels are my babies that I have born into the world and raised up to be special and loved by everyone.
When someone tells me that my child has a problem, is at fault, is lacking, obnoxious, arrogant, poorly dressed or boring I become resentful and want to fight their accusers…even though they are right(most of the time).
Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden (1913 – 1980)
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?