Editorial License

Editorial License 

I didn’t think much of it. As usual, a notification came through the ReadME platform that some guy had accepted my offer to do developmental editing of his book. My price was a little high, but he jumped at it right away. What was a little odd is that his reply wasn’t peppered with the usual insecurities that real authors have. Right? But as I continued to read, his message became much stranger. 

He, of course, thanked me for accepting the project and then remarked how the two previous editors, which he had selected through ReadME, had each died in the middle of the project. He went on to say that the first one seemed to have died of natural causes apparently from some undiagnosed arrhythmia or something. The second editor overdosed on sleeping pills and left a note to the effect that the book had made her profoundly despondent and she saw no point in living any longer. 

It was then that he said something even more unusual: Each of the deceased editors had just completed chapter 3. An odd coincidence, right?

So, with my curiosity obviously piqued, I began to read this novel. When I finished chapter 3, the painful truth became clear to me. That his novel was profoundly brilliant. I mean it was like nothing that I had ever read before and it would, of course, be an epic bestseller. 

It was then I began to wonder about who this man was and how did he get to write this phenomenon? Certainly, he must have been the product of the literary industrial complex. Prestigious graduate programs, awards, you know, the kind of things that usually make an author. Then I thought, well maybe he was just a nepo-baby suckling off his mother’s talent and his father’s money? But then I found it. 

To my horror of horrors, I discovered that he is a nobody. A nothing. 

This guy is just some podiatrist who happens to live in my city. Unbelievable. I was so shocked that I could barely breathe. Furiously I began to stalk him online to see if, somehow, he was ever remotely trained in those skills that would be required of such an opus. But I found nothing. No degrees of any kind in literature. No writing workshops that I could ascertain. According to his practice website, Feet Forward, all that he ever wanted to be was a podiatrist.  

Also, this potato of a human being has no social media. No TikTok. No Insta. Not even a lousy Facebook page with pictures of his potato face on it. So, I thought: How could this tragedy of a wretch even begin to market such a holy magnificence as this book. Then it occurred to me that he wouldn’t know how at all. He would decide to self-publish after doing only a ‘how to’ search on the first page of Google. This corn cob would obviously get sucked in by some promo ad for online publishing. He would send them his book but then this treasure, this enduring bounty of literature, would be lost for all time in the dense jungle of the Amazon. There would be no literary egos. No diatribes about artistic integrity. “Easy come, easy go,” he would say as this bunion of a man would blissfully go back to his job having traded fame for fungus. 

Or worse! He might be discovered. Some desperate associate literary agent might, somehow, find out about him. But then this poor lonely agent would start to read the book ironically at first, so she could shit-talk it later to her faux-literati friends. But as she sits nestled on her grey IKEA sofa, it would happen: She would begin to cry and become inconsolable. This would be followed by the hysterical laughter which would then portend the oncoming dread. She would slam the book closed only to quickly open it again. But by now she would be ignoring the growing stack of texts from her mom and incessant Insta notifications. 

By the end of chapter 3, this associate agent, who was thinking of changing careers, now would realize that book would become a runaway bestseller. I can see her sitting back with the cat on her lap texting her boss that she had found ‘The One.’ Then Dr Fungus would find everything happening all at once. The podcasts, the book tours, Reece Witherspoon’s list, Netflix, and everything else would be a tsunami of success for him.

Except that this schmuck would still be himself. You see, this decaying homunculus of a man could never inspire anyone but at those literary events. There would be no glib remarks and no pithy comments at those elegant soirees that always follow. You know, the secret parties where only important people are invited. No, this man-vegetable would be left speechless when receiving those awards that surely would come. I dare say that even during a simple interview, this soulless tendon would cluelessly stare like some fat Labrador retriever.

But worst of all, he could never write such a thing ever again. You see, this Mr. Potato Head of an accidental author could never pull out another winner from that plastic ass flap. Never! But by then, his posh agent and lip-smacking publisher would want another. They would make promises of money and fame, but it wouldn’t matter to this dirt filled clod. His deed was done. Sure, he might keep a few copies of his book around the office waiting room to impress the patients, but any further inspiration would always be quelled by the banality of satisfaction. True artists are miserable because they are never satisfied, but this ruminant will just happily keep grazing on this one and only triumph. 

And yes, I did try to avoid all of this. You may not believe me, but I did. Despite ReadME’s guidelines, I called him a couple of times. The first time he picked up the phone, he was watching Wheel and presumably eating something recently defrosted. I explained to him that the characters in his book were so depressing that I now believe the first two editors killed themselves because of it. I told him that I was planning the same for myself. With improvised patience, I explained to him that the only realistic course would be for him to delete the file and thereby prevent thousands of potential deaths. Surely, even a Doctor of Feet would not want to cause mass annihilation. He said that he was watching Wheel, but he would think about it. 

With increasing concern, I called him the next night and could hear the creature’s microwave ding in the background. He then agreed to not to publish it but apparently could not bring his deformed little mind to delete the colossus. I thanked him for saving lives but that night I began to formulate my plan. This book and all its rewards deserved to be mine. It would be my authorship. My marketing. My fame. My money. All of it. Mine. 

In my head, I designed the marketing plan which was complete with vertical distribution through my own author website along with merchandise and companion guides. Maybe Reece herself would do the reading of the audio version. This book will sell itself, especially when the rabid public finds out about the deaths that are attributed to it. Who wouldn’t love that?

So, it became evident to me that I must kill him. I mean, it seems like he is mostly dead anyway and I’d be doing him a favor. If he ever became aware of his fame and fortune, this yam might realize that his whole meaningless existence had been for nothing. Nothing but shallow happiness. So here I am in the car on the way to complete the final edit. 

Like any good editor, I have done my homework. This bottle next to me should work quickly and may even improve the taste of those frozen dinner delights that are dropped meaninglessly on his front porch every week. 

After a lifetime of mundane writing, some may ask how I pulled the sword from the literary stone on this one. But they won’t ask for too long. People worship at the altar of success, and no one really worries about how you got there. Speaking of which, I’m in his neighborhood now.

Read ME Message: “Your developmental editing collaboration is complete, and it was a pleasure helping you edit your novel. My comments about the project are listed in the Activity section. Please feel free to message me if you have any questions.”