Perfection in Imperfection.

Incessant tapping sounded in Gareth’s study – for that is what it had become over the last few weeks – the sound bounced of off the walls of the room and greeted Bessie coldly at her place on the other side of the door frame. Every curse and aggressive backspace made her flinch. Her heart crumbled with every, “no, no, no,” that escaped Gareth’s mouth. Sadly, she turned and crept down the hallway to not disturb his train of thought.

Gareth couldn’t believe it; this travesty of a novel that this so-called up-and-coming novelist had dared email to him for his professional opinion, made him feel ill. Each sentence possessed unnecessary details; the paragraphs droned on, often with points that seemed, at best terribly explained, and at worst practically redundant. The author’s – if he could even strive to bestow such a title on this person – dreadful choices of adjectives made Gareth’s skin crawl, had this person ever attended an English class in their life? He fretted, hammering the keys in front of him, correcting every misspelled word he could find.

His eyes burned deep, angry holes into every grammatical error that reared its disgustingly unsophisticated head. His fingers began to protest his unrelenting typing as he tried to correct every terrible sentence that he read. His forehead slowly became damper and stickier with sweat the further down his eyes trailed on the document in front of him. Gareth sharply shook his hands to alleviate his poor fingers’ aching. He brought his left hand up to the scruff of his neck, swift beats pulsed under his fingers. Deeply, Gareth sighed; heavily, his head sank low.

What has happened? He wondered, defeatedly. What has happened to intricate metaphors, beautifully creative imagery; good form?

Carefully, Gareth raised his weary gaze to meet the glaring screen of his computer. He could see exactly what this person was aiming to say, but their execution was horrific. What happened to showing, not telling? He thought, restarting his aggressive typing and brutal editing, determined to rework every terrible sentence, rebuild the imagery that had been half-heartedly written, and perfect what the writer could not; because that was the problem: it was not perfect.

The scent of sweetness wafted down the hallway as Bessie carefully poured some milk into her mixing bowl and began to stir the gloopy mixture held within. Quietly she began to hum; it had been her way of self-soothing for a while at this point; the endless clicks that reverberated in Gareth’s study had long since become an uncomfortable sound to her ears. The sound held so many unspoken thoughts, particularly the angry ones.

Bessie turned her head, the sound of tapping somehow managing to overpower her peaceful melody and met her once again; this time it seemed more inviting than cold, she believed it called to her – no – begged her to follow it. She daintily placed the spatula into the mixing bowl and abandoned her sloppy mess of egg, flour, sugar and milk and followed the tapping back down the hallway.

She did not concern herself with walking quietly, though she did cautiously glance around the doorframe into Gareth’s study - she began to refer to it as such, for over the last few weeks he had managed to invade the entire space; fortunately Bessie had baking to keep her entertained, but she did longingly gaze at her occupied easel with a dreamy image of a still lake on a warm summers day; she would have added the lovers staring out over it if she hadn’t lost her habitation of the study. The room was noticeably cold in comparison to the kitchen; the curtains were drawn closed, an unwelcoming yellow light emanating from Gareth’s desk lamp.

“Damn you!” Gareth cried out. His hands violently slammed against his desk; the water in his glass threatening to leap out, much like Bessie’s heart. She inhaled a sharp breath and straightened her back.

“You need to learn to detach yourself, my love,” Bessie said plainly. Boldly, she stepped into the room. Gareth didn’t appear to have heard her, she thought, for his head remained hanging in defeat. Cautiously, Bessie took another step closer to his chair, “you need to allow people to express their thoughts in ways that they feel works best; not every novel can emulate Charles Dickens’ or Jane Austen’s work,” she softly spoke.

Gareth’s head whipped around, his frantic eyes struggling to meet hers. “But… it’s dreadful Bes, it really is,” Gareth begun, breathlessly, “there’s no life, no passion, no effort.” He glanced back up at the words displayed on his screen; if I had written this, most of these issues wouldn’t exist, he determined.

Gareth felt warm, soft hands enfold his tense shoulders. Bessie’s delicate, flowery perfume gently caressed his nostrils. Steadily, Gareth’s shoulders dropped from their tensed pose – he hadn’t even realised his back had begun to cramp. Gingerly, he repositioned himself, turning into Bessie’s welcoming frame.

“My love,” she whispered, crouching down so that she could look up into Gareth’s downcast eyes, “you can’t see every novel that you are sent as ‘dreadful,’ these writers have sent their works to you for your opinion, not complete rewrites.” She said, trying to smile softly, stiffly raising one of her hands to cup his face.

Gareth huffed, “it’s just so hard Bes; I see problems in their writing, and I know exactly how I’d fix them, and yet you tell me I shouldn’t.”

Bessie shook her head. “I’m not telling you that you can’t give opinions on how they could improve their writing, but I am definitely telling you that these are not your stories,” steadily, she rose from her crouched position and sighed lightly, “you can’t take everything away from everyone, you need to allow others to express themselves in ways that they understand and feel true to them.” For a moment she glanced at her easel, before retreating quietly out of Gareth’s study, she could feel his gaze on her as she rounded the corner and shuffled back towards the kitchen.

Hours passed, the silence becoming ever more deafening, in the room. Gareth’s eyes, though directed at the document in front of him, seemingly looked straight through it; his mind far away, in a world that certainly did not exist, for he had not been brave enough to write it into existence. Dejectedly, he stood up from his chair, his chest felt hollow, his fingers had long since gone numb at the tips.

His shoulders sagged as he looked over at the easel in the corner of the room; Bessie words continuously revolving around his mind, refusing to leave him in peace. He dragged his gaze away and laid it on the locked drawer of his desk… the drawer that held his unpublished manuscript – a manuscript that no publisher had ever wanted. Gareth shook his head, how odd it felt to be an acclaimed editor and yet – apparently, as many publishers had informed him – not be able to inject soul into his own writing.

He had studied the English language for years, his gaze rose to his many literary awards and degrees, which once infused him with great amounts of pride, yet now presented themselves as just pieces of paper hung up on a cold, plain wall.