“Writing errors.”
The email subject line glared from my laptop screen. My hands shook slightly as I read it. The bottom fell out of my stomach. My chest burned — that familiar feeling that accompanies bad news about work.
Fear. Not only of losing income, but of confronting the same doubt I’ve carried for years: that I’m inadequate. Untalented.
As a freelance writer, criticism is part of the job. Still, this email landed differently. I knew it would hurt more later than it did in the moment — the kind of message that trails you into sleepless nights, long walks, and compulsive email checks, waiting for the next blow.
The editor wrote that my work was subpar. It contained too many “writing errors,” and I was on the verge of termination.
I would prefer to keep you, she added, but if the work does not improve, I will terminate your contract.
Somehow, that made it worse.
For two days, I mulled my response.
Apologize?
I wanted to apologize immediately. That has always been my instinct. The anger followed — not because I thought she was wrong, but because part of me worried she wasn’t.
Perhaps a polite acknowledgment. A professional response outlining a five-step plan to improve my editorial process — the kind I’d written more times than I care to admit.
I opened my laptop repeatedly that weekend, trying to draft the reply. Each time, the same familiar feeling returned — that quiet certainty that I wasn’t good enough.
I walked away more than once. Long pauses. Coffee refilled. Screens left dark.
The truth was, she wasn’t wholly wrong. My articles contained too many errors for her high standards. Her message stayed on the curt side of professional — correct, and cold.
And yet.
The lack of heart irked me. Maybe that was unfair. Maybe it was immature. But it was there, and I couldn’t ignore it.
That night, sleep came late, as I drifted in and out of uneasy dreams.
In the morning, I sat down at my desk and lifted the laptop screen. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I began to type.
Then I stopped.
I closed the computer and stood up. Walked downstairs. Turned on the kettle.
Three minutes later, my hands steady again, I poured tea with honey and watched the day begin.