Part of the publication process is the "editorial feedback"--the document your editor prepares requesting final changes and tweaks on your book. For many writers, it's a dreaded document, because it outlines what the editor thinks should change. I understand this natural fear. After all, the editor has looked at your precious baby and said the expected things about how cute and adorable she is (the editor has, after all, bought the manuscript), so why would s/he now be talking about the warts? My baby has warts?, you say indignantly. How can this editor say such a thing after he was just raving about her rosy cheeks and angelic smile last month?

Hey, none of us like our darlings criticized.

My editor, Dave, is obviously aware of this. Over the last few weeks, he's sent occasional emails to let me know his editorial feedback is coming--and to let me know it's a document that concentrates on changes, not on the strengths. At one point, he even suggested I should read the feedback, spew out a few appropriate curses, wait a few days, then read the feedback again. (Well, he didn't say exactly that, but it's a close paraphrase.)

Can I tell you I was starting to get a little worried the editorial feedback was going to be longer than my book itself? So when it came, I held my breath, clicked it open, and began reading.

And liked what it had to say.

Does this make me a masochist? A good candidate for Freud's couch? Perhaps. But as I read Dave's editorial feedback (considerably shorter than my novel, I might add), I started to get excited about jumping back into the book again. It has, after all, been some months since I cracked it open. Dave had some great suggestions--maybe even a few bordering on brilliant--so how could I not be excited?

After all, my baby is going to be even cuter now.