As a writer, you work for yourself, even if you’re being paid. Every sentence, every word, every turn of the phrase comes from you. The way things sit on the page. The amount of white space. The tone. The taste. The raised eyebrows of the reader—in delight or shock, maybe—is proof that you have done your job well.
And now you’re done.
It’s up to them now, those with the city shoes that decamp, slamming car doors, all sunglasses and cell phones, looking around to assess the possibilities in what you have created. And because you’re the writer, you’re still looking after they have turned away, busy with their labors, the next steps.
A smart writer remains interested, takes notes, and tries to be helpful. You’re not the boss anymore—far from it—but you are still the parent. And parents must always be accorded their say. It’s in the contract, buried in the fine print.
Photo credit: Businessmen – Huntz, paolo