I'm not an editor; I'm a janitor.
It’s Sunday afternoon, 12:57 PM, and I’ve got this knot in my stomach, like I swallowed a rock. I want to throw up. I feel like screaming until my vocal cords tear apart. This sensation, this overwhelming urge to vomit, is not unfamiliar. It comes every time I make a decision that betrays my principles. I’ve landed this gig. I'm an idiot. And now? Now, I just want to bail. I want to leave this entire situation and crawl back into my mother’s womb. Yeah, that same mother.
It’s not about the work. Work is just work, and yes, I’m grateful for it—especially in this fractured economy and technological cataclysm, where some child with a phone in the Sub-Saharan desert with a Fiverr account could probably do my job in a minute. Hell, he’s probably doing it right now.
No, it’s the people. The ones I must contend with. I am forced to endure fools who can’t even glance at the word “accountability” without breaking into a cold sweat. These people—they blame. They shift. And authenticity? Yeah, that’s not happening. Their every word reeks of avoidance, of evasion. It is fucking exhausting. I am left to drag them, like toddlers weighed down with bricks, to the final deliverables.
The client—bless their hearts, but they are colossally incompetent. They trip. They fall. They create an unholy disaster—one I must clean up. I am not an editor in this scenario. I'm Michael Clayton. I solve problems. I'm not a miracle worker; I'm a janitor. It’s not about “let’s fix it in post” anymore. No, no, no, we’ve crossed that line, folks. We’ve entered something darker. Something way worse. This is the realm of “let’s actually figure it out in post.”
But unlike Michael Clayton, whose decisions are made with sharp, decisive force, every decision I make to remedy their incompetence requires a goddamn novella—a whole essay of endless explanations. Because these people can’t handle a simple “yes” or “no.” No, that’s too straightforward. What should be clear, direct communication is instead buried beneath endless layers of bullshit—justifications, pleas, and words so soft and coddling it’s like I’m holding their hand through the whole thing, like they are infants terrified of getting a shot, and if they make it through their hollow struggle, they get a fucking wowwipop. Fuck off.
It’s too late. It’s too late to back out now. This isn’t even about the client anymore, nor is it about the work. It’s about my principles. I gave my word to my producer, and now, for better or worse, I must deliver. Work starts tomorrow. For two weeks.
So here I am, wondering how I’m gonna get through this shit show. The only thing worse than actually doing this gig is knowing I have to do it. Ok... time to queue up Oh My God by A Tribe Called Quest and get to work.
Thanks for reading,
V.