"What do you think?"
The publisher had been reading the manuscript with a furrowed brow and not the least amount of rocking back and forth. He looked up at the author quizzically.
"It's..."
It's?
"... I just have some small issues here."
Oh, here we go.
“Is there a problem?” asked the writer.
“Well,” answered the publisher, “it’s not that I have problems, more like gripes. Shall we say gripes? It’s different from a problem. ‘Problem’ is a problematic word in itself, we need to just throw that out the window. Today, we’re thinking in ‘gripes’. Does that make sense?”
The author didn’t answer but merely waited for the publisher to continue. In truth, he was searching for substance in what had just been said and failing to find any.
“Great!” the publisher continued. He rose out of his seat and sat on the corner of the desk, the legs of the desk buckling slightly under his mighty frame. His new position gave the impression of an overly enthusiastic coach about to give his greatest motivational speech yet - someone who had spent years encouraging others to run but wouldn’t be caught dead doing any running themselves. “The first thing is, why is he so angry? Does he really need to be so angry?”
The author’s own brow began to furrow now, genuinely confused at this reaction. He took a second to collect himself and answered, “He’s angry because his life’s work got dismissed so quickly.” The publisher’s eyes were still fixed on him, expecting him to continue. With a silent sigh, he decided to elaborate. “The writer was clearly already very troubled. I tried to make that clear from the beginning.”
“Oh, yes, definitely very troubled,” replied the publisher, before sucking air sharply through his teeth.
“Yes, definitely.”
“I’m not sure if it’s the right direction. People these days want more positive stories and experiences. They aren’t so much interested in all the doom and gloom.”
“Right… It’s not really a happy story, though.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
The two men stared at each other. Though their words seemed to agree, it was clear there was still a mismatch in ideas.
“So… What would you have me do?” asked the author.
“I’m not the writer here!” said the publisher with a laugh and a slap on the knee. “You seem capable so I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“You mean,” the author added cautiously, “like rewrite the whole story?”
At this suggestion, the publisher’s face lit up. He beamed with joy as he clapped his overly pudgy hands together. “Do you think you could do that? It’s not very long anyway. It shouldn’t take you much time.”
“I see,” he said, trying his best to contain himself. The author did not share the publisher’s sense of happiness. It would mean his whole body of work would be buried, dung up again, and rearranged into an overtly positive zombie. It would be a husk of its former self. “Is there anything else you’d like me to look at again?”
“Oh yes, of course,” continued the publisher, folding his arms. “There’s far too much body shaming in this. The Author character calls the publisher such grotesque things like ‘a pig’, ‘sausage fingers’, and even ‘fat’.”
“He does, yes. He’s not a nice man, and deeply troubled, as I’ve said.”
“Well, since we already agreed to scrap all that-”
“I didn’t agree-”
The publisher cut him off with a wave. “Is this a speaking time or a listening time?”
I suppose it must be the latter, then.
The author fell silent and painfully gestured for the publisher to continue.
“Since we already agreed, I think it’s best to leave out all this horrific language entirely. It’s all ‘F- this’ and ‘pig- that’. We want the audience to connect with the Author's character, do we not?”
“Well…” started the author.
“Of course, we do,” finished the publisher.
“Although, he doesn’t need to be a nice person for them to do that.”
The publisher gawped at this. “Are you implying that our dear readers are awful people? Are you trying to call them fat too? Terrible and overweight people?”
The author was surprised by the accusation, so much so that he battled to find the words to explain himself. Instead, he could only manage a simple “No”.
“Yes, so we are in agreement then. No negative attitudes, swearing, or shaming of the body or any other kind.”
“But what is left after that? A man smiles while his book gets shot down, feeling fine with the situation, and then suddenly pulls out a gun and shoots the Publisher. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“That’s why it’s up to you to make it make sense. And yes, now that you mention it, we need to talk about the ending.”
Oh, do we?
“It’s far too violent,” continued the publisher.
“Ah, yes. I thought you might have a problem with that.”
“Not a problem, a gripe, remember? Wouldn’t it be better if the author showed his appreciation somehow? Perhaps the author could give him a pat on the back or even some words of thanks.”
“His appreciation for what exactly? That would undermine the entire point of the story.”
“The point that we have already decided needs to change, no?”
The author hung his head slightly and dropped his eyes to the ground. “Of course,” he said, relinquishing the fate of his work to the clutches of the publisher.
Suddenly, a ding came from the intercom on the desk.
“Sir, your next client is waiting.”
The publisher looked up at him and smiled with all the warmth of a plastic doll. “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for today,” he said. “Please see yourself out. I look forward to our next meeting! I think we have something good cooking here.”
The author nodded his head robotically. If he was the toy, then the publisher was the child carelessly throwing him around the room. He then stood up, collected his manuscript, and left the room without another word.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
