When I met the Editing Angel, I was riding my bicycle along a neighborhood street. The morning air was fresh, the sky was clear, and I felt happy.
“The morning air is fresh, the sky is clear, and he is happy…” I heard the little voice – it was in my head, but it was not in my head. I felt something, a presence, somewhere above and just behind my left shoulder. Somehow, I knew I didn’t have to speak out loud, just think.
“Hello? What – are you?”
“Oh, yes, hello. Don’t be scared.”
“I’m – not,” I thought, somewhat surprised at the fact that I wasn’t. “Who…”
“I’m an Editing Angel.”
He sensed my puzzlement. “The Author – the Creator, you know – He’s always revising His Work. Little changes here, big changes there. We help.
“All the possibilities, all the possible threads of Time, all the versions of the Story, exist in His Mind – and it amuses Him, intrigues Him, to see what happens as He edits. A little change at one moment in the Story, of course, or I should say in one of the versions, creates a ripple effect of changes all up and down each connected thread of Time. Sometimes it’s just a matter of nudging atoms, sometimes galaxies explode. He’s working on all the scales at once.”
“Why doesn’t He just make some final choices, and leave things one way or another? Create the definitive version?”
“Oh, He’s never satisfied. He’s Perfect – so of course he wants the Perfect Story. That can never happen, so He keeps revising… After all, He doesn’t have a deadline.”
Good point. “So why are you telling me this?”
“Well, you’re a writer yourself, so I thought you’d find it interesting. Also, we’re about to make a big edit, one that affects you, and I wanted you to understand what was happening, and why. By the way – watch out for that rock.”
I looked down at the road, and swerved. I missed the rock, but then I overcompensated and my wheel caught the edge of a pothole. The bike pitched forward, and I executed a lovely 540-degree somersault before landing on my back in the middle of the intersection just as the garbage truck barreled through.
It was just like in the cartoons. Darkness. Exploding stars.
He took me under his wing, so to speak, and now I am an Editing Angel myself. Reality is infinitely malleable, but there are rules of causation that have to be followed. It really is fascinating to watch. Poke something here, things happen over there, which makes something else occur on down the line. My death, for example – I’ve seen some threads where my great-niece, inspired by my fate, becomes a subquark physicist and cracks the anti-gravity problem. The garbage truck driver, though, is so traumatized by the accident that he becomes an alcoholic – but don’t worry, he usually becomes a leading substance-abuse counselor and helps hundreds of people. He only becomes a serial killer in a much smaller number of threads.