EXCEPTional

Ch. 6 (Bridget)

*Bridget* 

This was my third time through this article, which meant red ink. The page was already colored in blue (obvious spelling and grammar errors) and green (less-explicit mechanical mistakes). Now I was using red, which meant rewording and suggestions.

      I had a headache. It was the start of one, at least. It was a dull throbbing in my skull, and my hand was cramping from holding the pen so tightly. I knew I should have heeded my college professor’s words—“Hold a pen lightly and you will be able to write far longer than if you strangle the pen”—but this article was starting to kind of piss me off.

      It was so boring. Seriously, this person had no idea what ‘dramatic elements’ were. She just wrote the straight-up facts: This happened, and then this happened. It wasn’t that the story itself was dull: a man had gone into a burning home to rescue strangers he’d never met. But it wasn’t a story. “He went into the house He was inside for ten minutes. The crowd was anxious.”

      God, did she even know the word “pizazz” existed? And what was with the simple sentences? It was choppy and pointless and—really? The best word she could come up with was “went in”?

      Sighing, I took my pen to her work, ready to destroy. I practically rewrote the entire article: “He crashed into the house, despite the leaping flames and suffocating heat. It was ten minutes before he emerged again. As he wandered the house, the crowds grew anxious, biting their nails in worried anticipation.”

      I sat back in my chair, observing my work. I reread what I’d written, and clicked my tongue. It wasn’t half bad. I was sure I’d edit my work again before handing it back, but my nouns didn’t steal the spotlight and my adjectives didn’t seem like they were trying too hard. I was mildly satisfied.

      When my computer dinged, I sighed in relief. If I had to stare at this article for much longer, I’d go insane. (It was a wonder how I wasn’t mentally unstable yet.) I pushed away from desk #1 and scooted to desk #2.

      Clicking the mouse, I opened the email. I grumbled when I saw it was from Raquel. The email basically said she expected the edited article on her desk by tomorrow morning. Which meant I had to give it back to the writer today.

      With a groan, my headache finally fully emerged, and I massaged my temples. I glared at the article, huffed, and rolled my shoulders before I pulled the second copy of it towards me. I uncapped my blue pen and got to work.

      Honestly, how did this woman survive college? Her writing was so . . . bland. It wasn’t too terrible, if you were looking for a simple spouting of facts, but if you were looking for a storyteller, this lady was a last resort. I almost gagged at her first sentence: “There was a fire.”

      No shit, woman! Bedazzle it up. For God’s sake.

      Because I was so busy grumbling insults about this person that I’d never met, I hadn’t noticed the commotion in the halls. I also failed to notice the coworker standing, breathless, at my door.

      “Bridget!” she yelled to get my attention.

      I screamed, jumping in my chair, I glared at her, hand to my racing heart. “Jesus, Shay. What the hell’s your problem?”

      She rushed into my office, face glowing. “You’ll never guess who’s downstairs in the lobby.”

      Uncapping my green pen, I replied, uninterested, “That guy who brings the free donuts?”