I enrolled in college at age 16 to begin what I hoped would be an illustrious career in journalism. As fresh and hopeful as any other kid, for three years I had badgered the manager of local paper in tiny Prescott, Arizona, to give me a job doing anything. At long last, he created an internship for what he laughingly called his "most persistent" applicant.

To my incredible delight, he assigned me to "cub", (which is to say "study under") a reporter who came from big, fancy New York City, a place I'd never been and always dreamed of. To a country kid like me, this man walked on water. Not only was Joel, age 24, the toughest, most brilliant and accomplished of all the journalists on the paper, he was also the youngest and handsomest. I was instantly in love with all my 16 year old heart.

I followed him around like a puppy. I sat in absolute silence watching him while he cranked out pithy copy on critical local government issues like whether or not they would plant the southern border of the courthouse with petunias this year or if the farming community down the road should adjust their water rights. I followed him around in awe. I got him coffee, I found his lost car keys, heck, I would have brought him his slippers in my mouth so much did I worship this potential Pulitzer paragon.

Finally, after months of "learning" the beat, I was assigned my first story. I interviewed three people. I worked the story. I wrote and rewrote my few hundred words. I edited. I printed and edited it again. All told, I'd put in close to 12 hours by the time I finished my masterpiece.

I forwarded the file to Joel's computer. It was 1981 and chic newspapers like ours were just barely incorporating desktop computer stations. When he signaled that he was ready to review my literary coup de grace, I wheeled my chair next to his. I sat bolt upright on the very edge of the chair, not even breathing, as he read.

"Mmmmhmmm," he said. He scrolled down.

"Mmmmm," he murmured and scrolled some more.

"Hmmmm."

The suspense was excruciating.

Joel glanced at me. He highlighted the whole story. Then he hit the delete button!

He turned to my horror-stricken face and said, "Nobody gives a [expletive deleted] about this story but you. Write it again so someone cares enough to read it."

It was single-handedly the most painful and helpful piece of editorial criticism I've ever received. Now I'm the author of 29 published books under 8 names and many hundreds of published articles, some award-winning. As a literary agent for more than 18 years now, I often get sniveling notes from writers complaining that I or their publisher or some other professional had edited their copy too harshly, insensitive to their delicate artistic tendencies. I tell them the story above and remind them that writing for publication isn't like writing your diary. It's writing so someone else "cares enough to read it." Remember that next time you're editing.

© 2007, Keller Media, Inc.  Want to use this article in your publication?  Reprints welcome so long as the article and by-line are reprinted intact and all links made live.

Wendy Keller has been a literary agent since 1989.  She’s closed more than 520 rights deals worldwide.  Find out how she can help YOU achieve your dreams at Wendy Keller is a published author, professional speaker and literary agent.  She helps authors and speakers make a difference in this world and she is behind the scenes supporting their efforts every step of the way.  Wendy has developed some of the best writing tools and seminars for authors available at http://www.kellermedia.com