1 | The Publisher
Write What You Know, Skeleton
“I am going to be completely honest and say that this piece, your manuscript I mean, it really isn’t what we’re looking for. Not for us. Have you considered suicide? Self-immolation perhaps?”
“E-ex-excuse me?” I stumbled over my words, hardly eked them out to tell the truth. Not a great look in any situation, but in front of a publisher? Well, in my defense, I couldn’t be positive that he asked me that. Under great stress - or in this case a marginal amount - the brain, mine, tends to play tricks, forces you to reckon with your immediate reality and determine if it is, in fact, real and not some solipsistic fuckery. You know. Actually happening. Not self-created. Did he really ask me that? I call it 60/40 against. Not bad odds given the industry.
“I asked if you’d considered an agent? They are quite helpful when it comes to directing you to more, well, realistic publishing houses.”
“My agent,” never had one, mind you, “my agent wasn’t quite into traditional publishing and would often recommend I self-publish. Start a blog, garner a blog following, print per order on Amazon, something like that, but listen, Mr.-”
“Blegh, self-publishing,” the publisher, a portly and somewhat damp man, summoned to the surface what looked to be a tonsil stone upon his outward antipathy toward self-publishers, latently labeling it a repugnant and classless side of his noble trade. The ejection arced out of his cankerous mouth and rolled down his recently pressed - now faintly soiled - white oxford, picked up speed as it neared the end of his firm gut, and landed on the flooring below with the empty clack of a thin stone hitting linoleum. “What a waste. Unless you have a hundred thousand or so followers or readers, then in that case I would love to chat about your work.”
“That I don’t have. I was hoping we could talk about what it is about the work that doesn’t appeal to you. The content? The style? Genre?”
“I don’t have enough time today to be going into critiques.”
“Sir,” here it comes, my final chance to glean any sort of worthwhile information, an appeal to his particular sensibilities, “are you hungry by chance? I brought breakfast, croissants from the French bakery down the block. Your assistant intercepted them, however.”
“La Parisienne?“
“Yes, the very same.”
“God, she acts just like my wife - wouldn’t mind if she were.” His face contorted into a concerning grin no doubt in an attempt to telegraph coy, likely sexual, intent - unfortunately, his bulbous visage settled with perverted, the kind of perverted look that accompanies remote door locks, ones activated by a button affixed under the desk. That poor assistant. “I’m on a diet, see, and the office should be a safe place to misbehave, wouldn’t you agree? Fine, I’ll tell you, just leave the sweets.”
“Deal.”
“I’m looking for star power, the next Grisham, King, Rowling!”
He stopped and smiled, fully convinced that his glorious insight would fill me with all of the satisfaction and inspiration the world had to offer, enough to come back at a later date, to bask in his presence once again and present to him a golden tome rife with the potential to make him a fortune and me a generous advance, enough for rent maybe!
“That’s it? Any thoughts on genre or prose? Your Marketplace bio indicated you wanted speculative works. Still accurate?”
“What more do you want? Here, you know what, come back to me with your next manuscript, I promise I’ll take your meeting.”
“I have three manuscripts with me, here I’ll show them to y-”
“My friend I am very busy as you can see, call on me again when you have more work to share.”
Dejected, but not surprised by any means, I shook his greasy hand and made my way out the office doors - which, by the way... entirely too nice for a man like him, and not just the office, but I mean the doors too. They’re, I don’t know, ostentatious? Who does he need to impress? His assistant? She’s policing his caloric intake, not pulling him off - maybe the displays of vulgarity work on her though, the presumably consistent dribbling from his mouth may rile her up some, like an African elephant hoping for a quick emotionless tussle in the brush. Anyway, the doors. Finely carved, lovely recessed designs, a choice staining throughout, and, my god, the brass knobs. The surface patina patterns showcased years of consistent use illustrative of the hundreds of failed authors exiting this very office, twisting these very knobs, put off by the very same quite gluttonous publisher whose eyes I can feel peering through the back of my skull just waiting to catch a glimpse of the once promised croissants as I exit.
I stopped by the assistant’s desk to say my thanks to her, for her time.
“He knows I brought these for him,” I said, tapping on the unopened box of pastries to draw her, and his, attention to the gifts. With a shitty grin and a pathetic wave I signaled to the publisher that I was in fact holding up my end of the bargain - sweets for a publisher’s insight, a veritable shit sandwich. Still smiling, I turned to the assistant. “Throw them out, spit on them, pipe them full of laxative, whatever suits you.”
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Write What You Know, Skeleton is a planned serialized work of hybrid fiction taking personal notes & experiences, blending them into a larger fictional narrative.
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