I reached a happy high today. It’s been 26 glorious days of freedom from Mr. Wonderful. [No, not the Wrangler-wrapped cow-poke that warms my bed on cold nights in case you were afraid I booted him out of the barn.] Mr. Wonderful is the “gentleman” (and those that have worked with him know exactly how truthful THAT statement is) I had the pleasure (?) of working with for the last 7 months.
Mr. Wonderful truly believed he was suave, debonair, intriguing, all the traits that make Sean Connery yummy…all of which, he was, of course, not. He also thought he was the most intelligent being to grace this green Earth, a fact which he would beat all those around him over the head with on a daily basis.
And then, there was his writing. Yes, literary fans, he thought he was the walking, talking reincarnation of my own favorite – Ernest Hemingway. I was blessed (forced at pen point?) to edit his copy on numerous occasions and honestly, his writing has brought me to tears. Not because it touched my soul, but because it was a glimpse of what I believe is Writer’s Hell. A deep, dark pit where the written word is maimed, twisted, run over by a bus, and forced to eat itself from the inside out.
I do have to give him some credit. He has given me a renewed appreciation for the written language, or at the very least, those that can actually use it…or scribble in crayon.
