Publish or Perish

Usually when Howard Green started a new story the words flowed faster than blood from a severed artery. Around noon, however, his typing fingers could almost keep pace with his thoughts. Howard always got a little distracted waiting for the post to arrive.

The mail slot opened. Howard seized the letters before they hit the floor. He shoved the bills, unopened, into a drawer that overflowed almost as badly as his ashtray; then he turned his attention to the letters from various mystery magazines. He tore into the first only to find a form letter: “We regret to inform you that your story did not meet the editorial standards of Killing Time Quarterly.”

Save for the names of the magazines, the next dozen letters were identical. The envelope from Felonious Pleasures contained only the first page of his manuscript with NO scrawled across it. Howard noted that there were only seven exclamation marks this time. Progress. Finally he came to the letter from Agatha Christie’s, the world’s top mystery magazine. He opened the envelope to find another familiar form letter: “Your story does not meet our current needs.”

However, at the bottom of the page there was a handwritten note: “Come and see me,” and then a signature, “Roland Fletcher, Editor in Chief.” Howard’s heart fluttered.

In less than an hour Howard sat fidgeting in an office that dwarfed his basement apartment. Fletcher’s massive oak desk was reserved for family photographs. Most featured pictures of Fletcher with a lanky, blond-haired boy who looked to be about the same age as Howard’s son. Well, at least the age Tommy was when his wife left and took him to live with her folks in Florida.

Howard found the walls more interesting. In addition to framed copies of award-winning issues of Agatha Christie’s, there were photographs of Fletcher with every luminary in the mystery field from Ruth Rendell to P.D. James. Howard dreamed that someday his picture would be up there. He’d even decided how he’d sign it: “Dear Rollie, Thanks for giving me my big break.” And of course, that dream would soon be a reality. Why else would Roland Fletcher have summoned him?

Roland Fletcher came in forty minutes later. He looked tall and fit for a man of seventy. He wore a Rolex, an Armani suit and gold cufflinks that would have gone a long way toward getting Howard’s gas reconnected. It didn’t bother Howard that he had cobbled together his own wardrobe at Goodwill; as a struggling artist he had esteemed company.

Fletcher carried a plate of cookies and a steaming mug inscribed with “World’s Greatest Granddad.” He offered Howard no refreshments and didn’t apologize for the wait. Instead he plopped down in his leather chair and said, “I assume you know why you’re here.”

“So you can tell me your needs,” Howard offered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your current needs,” Howard said. “You rejected my story because it didn’t meet them. I figure you want to tell me what you’re looking for so I can custom-write a piece for you.”

Roland Fletcher had read enough Howard Green to avoid subtlety. “I’m afraid that ‘Doesn’t meet our current needs’ is industry lingo for ‘We don’t buy crap.’” Fletcher grinned, revealing straight, bleached teeth. “While I truly admire your spirit, I’ve rejected you so often I can’t believe you thought I’d commission a story.”

Howard stared at Fletcher with the bewildered optimism of a dog wagging its tail at the master who had just kicked him. “A writer has to believe in his gift. Steinbeck, Hemingway and even Stephen King were rejected dozens of times before they made their first sales.”

Fletcher rubbed his trimmed silver goatee. “That’s true. However, those writers share a grasp of the fundamentals that appears to elude you.”

Howard scratched the stubble on his sunken cheek. “English is an evolving language.”

“Notwithstanding, I would wager that we are some centuries away from widespread acceptance of sentences without verbs.”

Howard waved his hand as if shooing a fly. “Readers don’t nitpick about grammar if the story’s good.”

“Perhaps, but your stories tend to be derivative.” Fletcher positioned half-moon glasses on the end of his nose and opened a file folder. “For instance, this week you’ve submitted ‘Strangers on a Tram,’ ‘Cyanide and Aged Linen,’ ‘Manslaughter on the Occident Express’ — and my personal favourite, ‘Ten Diminutive Indigenous Persons.’”

Howard shrugged. “Aren’t there really just a few classic plots that writers recycle? How many love stories aren’t Romeo and Juliet rip-offs? What makes the story fresh is what the writer does with the characters.”

“Let’s talk about your characters.” Fletcher counted off on his fingers as he spoke. “There’s the hooker with the heart of gold, the world-weary cop, the hard-drinking detective, the philosophizing bartender, and a bevy of seemingly kindly, but ultimately murderous, old ladies. They’re all stereotypes.”

“They’re archetypes,” Howard countered. “In short fiction they can help keep the plot moving if you sprinkle them here and there.”

“Sprinkle? That was the cast of characters from a single story you submitted this past May.” Fletcher sighed. “Even if your stories were original, tightly written and compelling, short mystery fiction is extraordinarily difficult to publish. That mountain of manuscripts stacked against my wall represents one week’s submissions. Most of them are from famous writers trying to keep their names before the mystery-reading public between novels. Last year we published twenty Edgar Award winners and thirty-seven nominees. You don’t want to know how many we rejected.”

“But you do have to publish new authors occasionally. The old ones die off, right?”

Roland Fletcher removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We publish two or three newcomers a year. Almost invariably they are outstanding graduates from the best fine arts and creative writing programs in North America.”

“I took a writing aptitude test and the instructor said I was destined to be the next Sue Grafton.” Howard folded his arms across his chest and gave a sharp nod.

“While that explains ‘A Is for Albino,’” Fletcher began as he closed Howard’s file, “I rather suspect that every desperate soul who manages to check the box between small engine repair and medical records transcriptions on the matchbook receives a similar evaluation from Ms. Struthers.”

“I said I took the aptitude test, not the course. Writers are born, not made.”

Fletcher massaged his temples. “You don’t see any difference between your stories and the ones we publish in our Debut Nook?”

“Of course I do — mine are way better. That’s what’s so depressing.”

“Depressing?” Fletcher echoed.

Howard slumped forward, kneading a greasy Leafs toque between his knees. Without looking at them he gestured toward Fletcher’s celebrity photographs with his head.

“Well, it means that it’s all just about who you know. Maybe if I pawned my refrigerator and went to one of those fancy conferences where you get to schmooze with agents I could get into the little private club that publishing seems to be.”

“I hardly think . . . ”

“It’s totally arbitrary. Some editors are so anal they’ll toss a fabulous story over a font. Why should my manuscript have to look like it came off a typewriter? Did Shakespeare have to submit his plays looking like he’d carved them into a stone tablet with a chisel? Maybe if I bought that formatting software that guarantees your manuscript won’t end up in the slush pile. Or maybe . . . ”

Roland Fletcher cleared his throat with enough vigour to dislodge a tonsil. “Mr. Green, please. I am not without sympathy for your plight. It’s entirely legitimate for aspiring writers to yearn to see their work in print. When that doesn’t happen it’s understandable that they become frustrated and cast about for an explanation. Predictably, hordes of charlatans have emerged to exploit that frustration.” Fletcher blew on his coffee. “Rather than waste your money on gimmicks and schemes, why not consider self-publishing?”

Howard sat up like his chair had caught fire. “Vanity press? No way.”

“You crave the validation of payment,” Fletcher said into the mug he had lifted to his lips.

“And a man has got to eat. I quit my job three years ago to devote myself totally to my craft.”

While Fletcher wiped up the French roast he’d sprayed across his desk, he slid the cookies toward Howard and said, “I can list the authors who earn any kind of living writing short mystery fiction on one hand. It’s a buyers’ market. We’re the top magazine and we only pay three cents a word. Do the arithmetic.”

“I figure I can compensate with volume,” Howard said through a mouthful of shortbread.

“One a day may be a good policy for apples, but it’s less advantageous for stories.” Fletcher examined his coffee-soaked handkerchief, grimaced and dropped it into his wastebasket. “Have you considered writing a little less and revising a little more?”

Howard gasped. “I never edit my work. The stories just pour from me. I am totally in the grip of the muse.”

Fletcher raised his hands in surrender. “Far be it for me to come between a man and his muse. In fact, I didn’t intend to get drawn into a critique of your work. Of course, you may continue to submit your manuscripts and they will get the attention they deserve. However — and I am acting here as spokesperson for my colleagues at all the other paying mystery magazines — the follow-up queries must stop.”

“But all the get-published books preach persistence.”

“You call this office, and the offices of our esteemed competitors, an average of forty-six times a day. Your emails routinely crash our server. My secretary’s left eye twitches when she hears your voice on the telephone. You have crossed the line between persistence and harassment. We don’t have to get a restraining order, do we?”

Although they were his only pair, Howard stared at his shoes like he had never seen them before.

“Mr. Green, contrary to what many aspiring writers feel, editors don’t enjoy destroying people’s dreams. There’s nothing more rewarding than discovering a new talent. However, in fairness, I feel honour-bound to tell you that it is my considered opinion, based upon fifty years in mystery publishing, that no one will ever pay you one red cent for your short pieces. If I can’t persuade you to find a more predictable source of income, perhaps I could suggest a change of genre or a more lucrative endeavour, like writing novels or screenplays.”

***

Back home in front of his computer, Howard smoked like he was trying out for the Olympic lung cancer team. Fletcher was clearly a philistine too wedded to maintaining his extravagant lifestyle by publishing big-name hacks to take a chance on a newcomer — even a newcomer as gifted as Howard. Still, as Howard watched the cursor blink, wondering how soon his electricity would be cut off, he knew Fletcher had one thing right: Howard couldn’t solve his financial problems on three cents a word. But why should he write for pennies? A lot of writers, a lot less talented than Howard, got paid six figures for their scribbling. They just had a hook, something about their stories that grabbed you and wouldn’t let you put them down.

Just when Howard feared his muse had abandoned him, inspiration struck. He typed. Howard wasn’t in the habit of rewriting. But this was new and different. It had to be perfect. He struggled through five drafts, discovered his computer could cut and paste, and even used the delete key before he had a manuscript he felt certain would net him five hundred thousand dollars. He pressed print and reached for the phone.

After promising the twitching-eye secretary that this was his last ever call, he got through to Roland Fletcher. “I just wanted you to know that I’ve written something that is going to make me rich.”

“Well, good for you. Did you take my advice and try a screenplay?”

“It might make a great movie, but I could never abandon short mysteries.”

“Well, that must be one heck of a short story.”

“I guarantee you’ll find it original, tightly written and compelling.” Howard hung up.

Howard loved his piece but, just to be absolutely sure, he read the hard copy aloud: “Mr. Fletcher: Place $500,000 in small, unmarked bills in a hockey bag and put it in the Dumpster behind the High Park branch of the public library at midnight. Come alone. If you want to see your grandson alive again, do not call the police.”