No Reply Needed

I thought I put this baby to bed already. A writer, he had wanted a manuscript assessment of his 70k word novel. We sent him an offer. A week later he wrote again, noncommittal, asking for our qualifications, our 'fields of literary interest' and a wordcount of the manuscript assessment we would provide. A time-waster, we thought, who'd take forever making up his mind and ask a ton of questions in the meantime. We aren't stuck for clients at the moment; everyone and her granny has written a novel in Corona times, and all in need of improvement, so we sent him a kindly-worded PFO.

His email reply came unexpectedly:

To whom it concerns,

Thank you for the prompt response, though I am a little disappointed that the Manuscript Assessment service offered has been withdrawn. While I understand that I may have taken too long deciding if the service was right for me and missed my window of opportunity, I cannot help but suspect that the offer was withdrawn as a result of my request for more transparency in the process.

When transferring money online it is always a good idea to check beforehand that the recipient, the service provider, is legitimate. To merely say, 'we are all qualified editors and tutors,' carries little more weight online than, 'I am the lawyer representing the estate of your recently deceased uncle in Lagos...'.

It may be worth mentioning, your website seems quite out of date, not only in its 1990s style but also the dead and outdated links. Only mentions one person is mentioned, the founder Tam Kimble, not the two others (yourself included) who contacted me after my enquiry, so it should be understandable that as a prospective client I would have concerns.

Even if this approach has served your company well until now, and hopeful new writers trust you all the same, you should at least be concerned about their vulnerability.

I hope this criticism helps to improve the overall service offered by your company. No reply needed.

Kind regards

Mr ...

Reading it I feel all bristly, like a hedgehog being prodded by a nasty child, through the cage of formality. Ok, he's disappointed, I get it, but does he have go on? Our old-school website didn't turn him off the first time he saw it. I forward it to my colleagues in our little editorial service with the message, The critiquers become the critiqued! then I close it to get on with my day.

It's not easy being a creative writing editor. 'The better the writer, the worse the person', my colleague Kari likes to say. I wouldn't necessarily go that far, not always, but I would say the thing most needed - simple, direct honesty - is the thing most of the sensitive types / fevered egos who pick up a pen are least able to handle. So, we editors learn, early on, to screen prospective clients, not just accept anybody with a Word file and a wad of cash, but get a feel for the person whose genius we will nurture, whose dreams we may well shatter, in the course of the coming weeks.

Although I try to put the email out of mind and focus on the work at hand, something about it has darkened my day. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but it's that feeling of hurt that comes with any criticism. Maybe hurt is too strong, maybe indignation, or psycholgical indigestion or something (which brings the depressing thought that if I could only find the right word, I myself might be a better writer). Our company has been criticised, which means we, the individuals running it, have been criticised - and it's not nice. An email is still an interpersonal communication, so it's hard not to take it personally in some little way (How much worse must it be for our writer clients to have their literary hearts ripped out and shown to them?). I must practice what I preach and try to take criticism as a step toward improvement. I must harden up!

Biking to my English lesson (I teach: our little company is still not enough to live by) I can't quite shake it. You expect no reply? You wouldn't like to hear my reply, buddy! You were right, you wasted time in deciding and now we have no openings for you. Just like I told you already! You snooze, you lose! I was too nice, damn it. And that part about the uncle in Lagos, as if we're no more than internet scammers? He's probably a racist – I really should sock it to him. He deserves full force. Inflict a wound.

Throughout the day in my pockets of down time, I find my mind pulls me back to this email. Before and after my lesson, riding home, cooking my dinner, practicing my scales on the keyboard, my mind bubbles with trenchant rebuttals. Of course I'm not going to justify his whinge with a response. More transparency? Just google us! (Mental note: Maybe all our clients and prospects google us; must prune my Instagram - delete the night-out shots, look more professional; check my Facebook privacy settings.)

Back at my computer that evening I open a blank document to jot down the perfect reply my mind has been working on all day. I'll see it as a writing exercise, write it out and not send it. I'm not writing enough anyway.

Dear Mr ...,

Many thanks for your insightful reply...

No, that's not full force. Maybe a calmly-worded reproof is what he needs:

Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down...

Shakespeare? No, wouldn't want to encourage the pretentious scoundrel.

In response to your...

No! he expects no response. I don't want to provoke an argument. I'll leave it. Let it cool and fall away.

Messages from the others:

Jane: #GetOverIt. He might have a point about the website tho

Kari: Looks like we dodged a bullet.

So, I read the email once more just for that rare pungency, to feel my skin crawl (If the purpose of writing is to create an emotional response, maybe he's a good writer after all), and delete it.

Now, what's all this about our website?