The Manuscript

“Disgusting!” A stack of paper, which until recently had been the most precious thing to me, flew into my face.

“No, don’t! Don’t insult my manuscript!” I started to get angry, but I didn’t move; I just closed my eyes when the sheets crashed into me and scattered all over the office.

“How could you?! I’m a serious literary agent, and your filth is impossible to read! I don’t even know what you were thinking when you came here. No one will take this, do you understand me?! If you can’t write, then give it up! Without talent, you’ll be no one and won’t be able to achieve anything. Get out!” The man at the table didn’t calm down, continuing to shout.

I silently began to collect the sheets. My head was buzzing with anger! I hastily picked up my creation and, carefully pressing it to my chest, slipped out the door. And then I ran. My eyes were clouded with rage; my hands tightly clutched the only thing I had left. My life, my sleep, and my food were in these sheets. All my lack of sleep and dark bags under my eyes were because of my manuscript. I ran into the street and sat on the first bench, scaring away a few teenagers. I smiled wearily and looked at the ground.

When did this start? Probably when I finished school or earlier. I don’t remember; I only remember that this was the only thing that supported me and helped me live. I spent my entire student life doing this: I wrote and wrote, reread, and wrote again. I supplemented, edited, and improved.

So what was my mistake?

When she wrote, Andre Alice Norton also did not see her worlds; she did not see these planets and creatures, weapons, and all those adventures. John Ronald Reuel Tolkien never saw Middle Earth and did not know elves and dwarves. Stephen Edwin King, a master of horror, probably saw his creatures only in his most terrible dreams. Jules Gabriel Verne did not swim at a depth of several thousand leagues, and Mikhail Bulgakov never met Woland and his devilish retinue. To write - you do not need to see. You must feel, you must imagine, you must understand. It is you, your life, and history that no one has the right to insult.

“Right! I’ll find an agent who won’t insult my manuscript!” I stood up from the bench, remembering the distance to the nearest office of another agent. As soon as I turned and took a step, I crashed into someone. My sheets of paper flew to the sides like white birds, and I looked at the one I had collided with. A woman in a beige suit looked surprised but nothing more. I quickly muttered an apology and began to catch my fugitives. The woman did not move; she only looked, leaned down, and began to help me. I stopped, looking at her face in surprise, but she only smiled and continued her work.

“Thank you and… sorry.” After collecting all my papers, I finally decided to apologize correctly.

“For what?” The woman was surprised.

I looked at her in confusion, not knowing what to answer. She only smiled understandingly and extended her hand. Not understanding what she wanted, I only frowned in bewilderment.

“Give me your manuscript.” Her voice was quiet, but for me, it sounded like a bolt from the blue.

“No, I won’t give it to you!” I only pressed the sheets tighter and shook my head.

“Give me your manuscript.” The woman sighed tiredly and asked again insistently. 

I continued to look her in the eyes, pursing my lips and not giving her my manuscript.

“Don’t be afraid. I’m a literary agent and want to see if these sheets are worth publishing.”

“Come what may!” I handed her my manuscript.

She carefully took the manuscript and sat on the bench from which I had jumped up a few minutes ago. Carefully turning over one sheet after another, carefully reading the small print, and sometimes wrinkling her forehead, she muttered something under her breath. I just fidgeted nearby, not knowing what to do with my hands. Then she finished and took a deep breath. I froze like a frightened animal and pulled my head into my shoulders.

“Have a seat,” said my new acquaintance.

I stood there like a pillar, but she only repeated the request and looked at me sternly. Feeling like a naughty schoolboy, I sat down next to her and, for some reason, felt embarrassed, as if the teacher would scold me for a bad essay. Smiling at my thoughts, I looked at the woman. She was waiting for this.

“Your writing style is complicated; some thoughts are unclear; try constructing simpler sentences. Some places are overloaded with information, so add more actions, conversations, and thoughts. The characters are conveyed well, but try to add some features that would distinguish them from others. Also…” 

I listened, listened, and could not believe it. She was the first agent who did not yell at me, call me a talentless, worthless person, drive me away, or mention that I have no talent.

“Sorry, maybe I was too harsh, but that’s it...” The woman frowned.

“No, no, you said everything right, I just... Thank you.”

“Thank you? For what?”

“For the truth. You’re the first one who told me what you think, the first one who tried to understand my idea, the first one who didn’t say anything about talent.”

“Talent?” The woman looked at me strangely and then laughed loudly. People started looking at us.

“Talent decides a lot – that’s true. But remember, talent isn’t worth a penny of practice. You can have a natural talent for playing the clarinet without knowing any notes or movements, proper breathing or tempo, but you’ll still lose to someone who practices every day because he knows he has no talent. All he can do is practice. Over and over again, until he understands.” Having finished laughing, she wiped her eyes.

“What will he understand?”

The agent smiled mysteriously, stood up from the bench, turned around, and went somewhere together with my papers.

“Hey! Wait! What will he understand? And you have my manuscript!”

“Would you like to know the answer to your question, right?” She turned and said with a twinkle in her eyes.

Waiting for my nod, she went on. I caught up with her.

“I’ll tell you, but first, let’s go to that nice cafe; they serve wonderful choux pastries there. Do you like pastries? They have amazing coffee, too. Just what you need on a good day full of new adventures…” She started telling me something, and I listened attentively.

***

I remember this day in detail, and I will remember it for a long time, maybe forever. In that lovely cafe, I heard something significant from her.

“If you continue, then sooner or later, everything will work out. The main thing is not to despair. Never in your life.”