My father refused to edit the novel manuscripts he wrote in the middle of his life. His vision of the author was the solitary figure scratching out words on paper, each pen stroke deliberate, final. Others could puzzle over his handwriting and type the manuscript into the computer. Others could worry over the ways his book didn’t work as well as it might. Dad made some desultory efforts to sell a couple of his ‘books’ but he genuinely seemed unconcerned when he didn’t succeed.

Years later, he would read and re-read the novels he’d written, and (according to Mom) he could not have been more pleased with what he’d accomplished. Reading his own stuff, he beamed.

As I prepare to edit the Witch of the Colonies manuscript for the bajillionith time, I think of my Dad, and though I miss him I can’t help but smile.

We should all derive such satisfaction from our hard work.