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It's a tough (sometimes, thankless) task being an editor.  You're meant to make the writer look good, while not drawing too much attention to yourself.  Rescue the fire from the smoke sort of thing. Good editors know what a writer is trying to say, how they wish to achieve it, and do their magic backstage, allowing the writer to bask in the limelight. Good, humble writers, in turn, know to give credit to their editors and fully realize that the task of selection and omission is in itself an art.  

But, sometimes, an editor (misreading the intentions of a writer, or asserting their own) might overstep  their boundaries and trample on a writer's fragile ego.  *How dare they presume to take such liberties with my work?* the scandalized writer recoils, with a sharp intake of breath, incandescent with righteous indignation.   A milder version of this occurred to me as a result of a rather unusual, recent experience. 

Upon the request of an editor to submit work, I sent in a batch of new aphorisms. This was the response I received:

>I really like what you are up to and where your spirit goes. What you sent won’t really work for me on its own. To that end, I’ve taken the liberty of selecting particular lines to make a more condensed piece.

Over the years, I've grown accustomed to rejections, due to differing tastes, etc... but, this was a first. This intrepid editor had actually, selected some stand-alone aphorisms of mine and turned into a 'poem'! I did not wish to rush to judgement, but admit to feeling conflicted about results of the uninvited collaboration.  

The words, below, are mine--minus connective tissue, such as: *for, that or and*. But the sequence, the line breaks, the "poem"... I don't know that I can call my own. One one level, I'm flattered (strangely moved, even) that an editor would take the time and care to engage in this manner.  But, writing is such an *intimate* matter... The aphorisms I submitted were conceived as stand-alone and, even though some naturally cluster together and share common concerns, this editor's presentation somehow felt alien to my spirit. In the end, I had to trust my instincts and decline publication.

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<center>***We are the guardians of our dreams***
***
We’re here to pass around the ball of light, while trying
to keep our fingerprints off it. We are here
to remind
each other that we do not choose our work,
we merely consent to it.

Heaven save us from tragic seriousness; teach us
to play, divinely, for no matter how
we dream or scheme,
being born is always a surprise.

Poor rational mind, it would sooner accept a believable lie
than an incredible truth. Certain silences
are more damning than words; they are actions.

As with any wild animal, it's unwise
to turn our back to life. Those who speak ill of life
only smear their own names.

And said a poem to a poet: can I trust you? Is your heart pure
to carry me; are your hands clean to pass me on?
For a poem arrives like a hand in the dark
and carries the native tongue of hysterics - adolescents and mystics, alike.

We steal from ourselves when we share an idea,
or a feeling – before it has ripened.
When in doubt, meditate upon your wound.

Art is the love we make by ourselves,
says the ego. Art is the love we make with an invisible other,
replies the spirit.

Strange, how our weaknesses can be strengths
in disguise, and vice versa.
Treat life as seriously as you would a dress rehearsal.

For each time we betray our conscience, we strangle an angel.
And, yet,
it’s not certain we are allotted an infinite supply
of winged pardons.</center>

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Images: [1](http://livingwriting.pk/role-of-a-writer-in-our-society-position-holding-articles/), [2](http://highexistence.com/the-dreamer-of-the-dream-why-i-am-a-writer/)