Part of getting the first of the Keeping Secrets series of  Regency romantic comedies out before Christmas was that it had to go through the editorial process. For the uninitiated, that means that a professional editor goes through the manuscript with the goal of ripping your work to shreds as lovingly as possible in the guise of making your book the best it can be.

This is something that you ask for, beg for.  In this particular instance, I’m paying a lot of money for a stranger to dissect Lady Belling’s Secret to the bone and show me every single flaw she can find.

It’s demoralizing, ego bruising, soul-crushingly awful. And absolutely necessary.

I think it’s best to have a stranger do it, someone who can be brutal, someone who doesn’t love you. Someone that you won’t feel compelled to never speak to again.

Nevertheless, after I received the five-page, single spaced letter from the editor with her fourteen points that need immediate attention, I thought seriously about leaving Bank of No Forks and heading straight to a bar. A bar that also sells pastry. Jack Daniels and a Bundt cake. Remy Martin and a chocolate cream pie. Johnny Walker and a pineapple upside down cake.

I know that every author feels this way when they get the first round of content edits, but I don’t really care. Knowing that others are out there doesn’t make me feel any less inadequate, embarrassed or depressed. Just like everyone else of my generation, I looked for someone else to blame for this feeling.

This is all Ava and Julia Quinn’s fault. Mostly Ms. Quinn.

If Ava hadn’t give me my first romance and if it had been the brilliant Julia Quinn’s The Duke and I, I might have sailed along through the rest of my life without ever finishing a manuscript. I would have sat at home, content in my snobbery, completely ignorant of my substandard writing ability instead of hopeful and misguided.

I totaly realize that I’m being excessively dramatic. So what. That’s what artists are like – dramatic, insecure, crazy. I get another twelve hours of this before I put my big writer pants on and get back to work. But while I work off my free pass, I’m going to use up every bit of it.

Dear Ms Quinn.

This is not a love letter.

I want to tell you, from the very bottom of my heart, that ,while in the course of sharing your gift of storytelling with the world, you have single-handedly ruined my life. I blame your wit, your gift of crafting a story with sufficient conflict, and your unmatched knack of putting it all together in a page turning, giggle out loud book makes me completely miserable.

If it hadn’t been for you, I never would have said, “Hey, I can write one of those,” and I’d still be fooling around with partially finished horror stories and uninspired literary fiction. I’d be much happier I’m sure. It’s probably also your fault that I’m drunk and sick to my stomach from all the misery cake I’ve been eating.

The next time I see you I’m going to seriously consider kicking you in the shin. I probably won’t though because I’ll be too concerned about getting you to sign my latest copy of whatever brilliance your publisher is peddling now. I can’t even properly hate you.

Here’s the thing, though Ms. Quinn. I just think you should know that it’s all your fault that I’m feeling like a talentless hack. I’m selling my lap top for scrap. I’m throwing out my thesaurus. At least until tomorrow.

Fondly, but with a prickle of intense jealousy.

Amylynn Bright – worthless hack

P.S. When’s your next book due out?