“Evil Editor is the only editor who accepts epic fantasy now.” I tried to keep my whining to an acceptable level, but it was hard to see nineteen years of work going down the drain just because he had to compare my agent’s boobs to luscious, firm, ripe…maraschino cherries. Why couldn’t the drunken fool have said melons, or grapefruits or anything besides cherries? Why did he even have to mention her boobs?
“Yes, I know he asked you where a forty-year-old woman buys training bras.” I laid my head on my desk. “I know he asked you what bras train your boobs to do besides play dead.”
I went to do laundry and came back to the phone to listen to the remainder of the Evil Editor speech. It always lasted exactly twenty-nine minutes. I still had time to do my nails.
“I don’t want to cut it down to 60,000 words and call it a young adult. I’ve been working for six months to get it down to 135,000. If I get him to apologize to you, will you submit to him?”
I sighed. “No, you don’t have to submit to him that way. Heaven knows I would put on a collar, a rhinestone leash and a corset if he would just apologize to you, but I just want you to submit my work.”
I showed up at Evil Editor’s house the next day. It meant spending my life savings and not going to Surrey next year, but it was worth it to find out where he lived. I knew he was in the house. I got out my guitar, my learn to yodel in thirty days tape and I waited.
He would apologize or I would learn to yodel and I didn’t care which.
Insane people never care.