The New Editor

This was it. This was the moment he'd been waiting for. He'd slaved over this work for weeks, edited it and re-wrote it over and over and over again. He had people he knew inside and outside the writing business critique his work and tell him what to fix and he took their suggestions to heart. He'd made 3 drafts of the same work before it was even submitted. Once he was done, he was told the final product was amazing. He was certain this short story would be approved by this new editor.

He stood outside the editor's office, waiting to go in. The new editor insisted that writers submit their work in-person, dropping it off on his desk so that he could have a look at it. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door. "Come in!" said the editor. John walked in and watched as the new editor, looking like a figure out of an old movie--suspenders, stogie, rolled-up shirt sleeves, the whole nine yards--looked up from his desk. "Reynolds!" he said. "What have you got for me?"

"It's my new short story," said John. He sat down and handed the draft to the editor. He waited patiently while the new editor looked it over with a neutral expression. He hated these moments. They were too tense. The last editor actually said what was on his mind, though. Well, part of the time, anyways. "Well? What do you thi--"

"This story sucks!"

"Wait, what?"

"You call this piece of crap a short story?" the editor asked in a voice that sounded like something out of a 1940s Screwball comedy, "I've seen better crap in a port-a-John right next to a trash dump."

"But... what's wrong with it?" asked John.

"Everything!" said the editor. "For starters, these characters? I hate 'em."

"But everyone says they're my best characters--"

"Shut up." John froze in his place while the editor continued. "And this prose, it's terrible. Too descriptive, too confusing."

"But everyone else said they knew what was going on," said John.

"Malarkey," said the editor, "Seriously, trained monkeys can write better than this. Your writing is sloppy, and your prose style is atrocious. Who the hell do you want to be, Stephanie Miller?"

"But everyone says I remind them of Steinbeck!" said John. And did the editor just repeat himself?

"You'll never be Steinbeck," said the editor. "Why don't you write something involving werewolves or something like that, everybody likes those?"

"But I don't want to write about those," said John. "I like the subjects I write about."


"Don't question me or I'll have you out of here in a second," said the editor. John stiffened in his seat, unnerved by the editor's threat. "Now get outta here and write it again!"

His pride burnt to a crisp, John took his draft and sulked out of the editor's office, tossing it in the recycling bin outside the editor's office. Another writer with the same confidence he once had walked right in to the editor's office. He decided to stay and find out what would happen next.

About five minutes later, the writer came out, her makeup smeared and running from all the crying she was doing. "I-I-I thought it was incredible!" she said through her tears.

"You too, huh?" asked John. The woman looked at him and she understood immediately what he meant. "Come on, let's get outta here and have a drink."

"Okay," the woman said, taking John's hand and following him out the door of the publisher's office to get a drink.