Over the years, I've come to dread a particular day of the week.
Thursday.
Before my time as a writer, I used to believe that the only things I could fear from an online writing career were reviews filled with laughable attempts at slander. While my terror of relentless trolls and harsh critics wasn't misplaced, it was trivial compared to the unexpected worries conferred upon receiving my first editor.
Perhaps this is needless to say, but I will for the sake of clarity: Judgement of Fantasia wasn't my first work of fiction. Instead, it came after the embarrassment I created at the start of my writing career, a little less than two years later. For the sake of my humility, I won't be expounding on this so-called "embarrassment". We're all human here, with skeletons in our bodies, as well as our closets. While it may be an arbitrary abuse of my power as the narrator, but please, indulge my need for privacy.
Ahem... I digress.
Months after Judgement of fantasia's first released volume, the first of many editors contacted me after discovering it on my website. This editor's name was Ms. Carol Carlsson.
Ms. Carlsson was, and is, surprisingly insightful and fastidious in her research of online works of fiction. Not only did she judge my novel to have potential before anyone else did, but she also managed to guide me through the steps necessary to win the competition it won not too long ago, and alongside that, a contract with the publisher she worked for.
There was a lot I had to thank her for. Without her guidance, my novel wouldn't have won that competition or received a contract with this publisher. I was lucky to have her as my first editor... at least within the purview of her immense experience.
Ms. Carlsson wasn't pleasant to deal with.
As hinted earlier, it was Thursday today, the day of the weekly deadline for my latest novel's chapter deadline. Since my current novel was in an online format, like all the others, the deadlines were relatively short and hectic, as compared to the longer deadlines for conventional novel writing. Consequently, one of the conditions set by the publisher was that authors who worked in an online environment had to meet with their editor at least once a week in order to remain contracted, preferably two days before the chapter(s) upload, and in person.
Which is one of the reasons why I dreaded Thursdays.
I can't speak for other authors who haven't had Ms. Carlsson as their editor, but I'm certain that my experience with her was the worst. When she wasn't bombarding my phone's inbox with daily reminders of an upcoming deadline late into the night, she berated my lack of writer's aesthetics over the phone.
But that isn't the worst of it, oh no, the worst is yet to come.
Waiting. That's what I've been doing for the last half an hour. I sat in the waiting room of the editorial department of my novel's publisher, waiting.
The clock on my phone ticked past 4:00 P.M, and my foot tapped with an ever-increasing tempo. While I understood that she was a busy person, considering she was a favorite among the editing staff, it didn't excuse the fact that she ran past our meeting schedule by half an hour!
At last, her office door swung open from across the waiting room and in an adjacent hallway. A short, petite girl stepped out, nodding her head profusely in response to the gratingly harsh voice unique to the one and only Ms. Carlsson.
My irritation faded, as the appearance of the girl piqued my interest. She looked to be around my age. Mousy brown locks fell from a curly nest of hair, which fell to her shoulders. Fair skin, with the odd blemishing of freckles here and there. As she turned her head, the light from the fluorescent lamps overhead tinted green from the hue of her eyes. A thick, red turtleneck sweater fell in folds over a pair of jeans. In her hands, she carried a yellow envelope.
It wasn't her appearance that caught my attention. Rather, it was the fact she came from Ms. Carlsson's office.
Among the editorial staff, there was only one who stood at the lofty heights of top-editor, and that person was Ms. Carlsson herself. Because of her limited time, she chose only the best manuscripts with the greatest amount of potential. Of the few that she chose, Judgment of Fantasia, as well as my current title, were included.
I watched the girl quietly shut the door, and turn towards the waiting room.
Our eyes met for a split second. The girl seemed surprised that I was staring so intently at her. Shyly, she turned her gaze away from mine and quickened her pace towards the elevators, which led downwards to the first floor of the building and above, to management.
If she was here to see Ms. Carlsson about a manuscript, which I suspected from the envelope in her hands, then it was guaranteed to be a promising one. More so, when the girl wasn't sent away with the old hag's venomous hissing. Though I was a little perplexed by the need for a hard copy, considering Ms. Carlsson worked almost exclusively with web novels and digital fiction in general.
Prompted by the girl's departure, I stood to take my turn. Time to deal with the "Old Viper", as the other staff members, and the few authors who had her as their editor, aptly nicknamed her.
Three short knocks on the door.
The familiar rattle of an office chair as it rolled against a plastic mat.
"Come in, Travis."
If I had to describe what her voice sounded like, it closely resembled that of gravel crushed underfoot. In between the crackling of rough stones was a slight lisp, almost reminiscent of a viper's hiss.
The handle to her office door turned under the weight of my hand. I took a deep breath. The hour-long meeting would take a lot out of me, as it always did, so it was best that I prepared myself. Despite an entire year with her, I still haven't fully adapted.
As confidently as I could, I pushed the door open.
"Have a seat."
An aging woman who appeared to be pushing her upper fifties bade me sit in the chair opposite her desk. Her graying hairs were pulled into a loose bun that hung from the back of her head, her bangs short-cropped against a forehead riddled with deep wrinkles. The darkly-hued, brown, severe eyes set inside her sallow face watched as I pulled the chair back to comply with her demand.
Ms. Carlsson's wrinkles deepened as her brow furrowed at me. Since this reaction was par for the course so far, I didn't have anything to worry about, yet.
"I looked over the chapters you submitted last night."
"Was there anything amiss?" I asked expectantly, "I checked it over before I turned them in."
"There weren't any inconsistencies, that much I can say... however."
She rolled her office chair over to her computer that was offset from the center of her desk, and to the right. As she spoke, the wheel of her mouse spun in sync with her enviable reading speed.
"I noticed you went with a different angle than I was expecting. Didn't you say you were set on making Luke's firstborn son rebel against his father?" She questioned, critical of my decision.
As you might have guessed, my latest title is a continuation of Judgement of Fantasia.
I couldn't tell her that I got sidetracked by the Winter Writer's Festival, -or Melissa, more accurately- which kept me from writing the more complex storyline. After all, I had a strong desire to keep my head squarely on my shoulders.
So, I opted for sophistry.
"You see, I thought it wouldn't make any sense. After all, Luke's strictness wasn't all that bad. I wanted to make Philip more... um... manly, rather than a whiner."
A word of advice to those given to lies: you need to have the utmost confidence in your fabrications. Don't do what I'm doing; that is, pull something blindly from your ass, with nothing to back it up, and without the poker face to pull it off.
Ms. Carlsson's expression narrowed even further than I thought possible. Her eyes were almost indistinguishable from the myriad of wrinkles across her face. Apparently, my impromptu explanation wasn't enough to sate her critical mind.
"I expect a second draft by this evening, no later than nine o'clock tonight." She hissed.
There wasn't any way I could win this.
"Yes ma'am." I surrendered, with a whimper.
Our meeting didn't take the entire hour, as the majority of what I wrote didn't pass muster. So I left the publisher, despairing over the remaining four hours left to her ultimatum.
This was why I dreaded Thursdays. It's the day when my hard work is ripped to shreds, right before my eyes. Though today I got off rather leniently. After all, she once forced me to write a draft on paper, under her supervision at her office, which was traumatizing by comparison.
With my despair tucked away within the knot of anxiety buried deep in my chest, I set off from the publisher's building.
Between the publisher's and the bus stop, whose route led back to my neighborhood, there is a bookstore. On days when my weekly chapters passed Ms. Carlsson's exacting inspections, I would go there to see if there was anything new in the newcomer's section. There weren't many, sadly, but on rare occasions, I would run across a well-written comic or novel, which I would add to my collection at home. Partly for research, but mostly for my entertainment. While I am a novelist, reading was my first love, and I am still faithful to this day.
Now, I find myself in a conflicted mess. There were four hours left until I had to submit the revised chapters. If I was a minute late, my head would be on Ms. Carlsson's chopping block.
And yet, the store looked so welcoming... maybe for just a couple of minutes? It wouldn't hurt anything, right?
No no, I couldn't. It was merely a diversion meant to sap my already dwindling time to nothing. The very manifestation of procrastination!
But still...
Whilst I internally waged war against my better judgment, I found myself staring into the front window of the bookstore.
"Ahhh... there's no use fighting it. Might as well go in." I mumbled to myself.
I walked around to the door of the little store. Just as my hand reached for the handle, it opened.
Directly into my face.
"Gahh!"
My agonized grunt pierced the Autumn air. I fell squarely on my ass onto the concrete of the sidewalk, where I gingerly rubbed my nose.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to do that! Are you all right?" A quiet voice asked, its tone alarmed.
"Could be worse, but it still hurts like a son of a..." I began.
My focus locked onto the forest green eyes of a girl.
This girl wore a red turtleneck sweater and jeans, and a nest of curly hair that fell to her shoulders. Up close, her freckles complemented her surprisingly attractive features. Her eyes scanned my face. They were wide and panicked.