Evil Editor scoffed as he pushed the stone tablets off his desk.
“Your manuscript is fundamentally flawed on too many levels. I could never publish this. For starters, the word count it way too low. This isn’t even a short story.”
“But it's-” the author stood up to interject.
“Don’t interrupt me.” Evil Editor cocked his fist back. In the early days, he was much more evil. The author whimpered and sat back down. “Second, you’re pitching this as some kind of memoir, when it’s just a list of stuff. Who told you this again?”
“The burning bush.”
“Right. Next time try not to inhale the smoke, OK? Third, it’s been done before. Hammurabi published his code of laws about three-hundred years ago,” Evil Editor said.
“But he self-published. I want to go with a major publisher.”
“You can want in one hand and crap in the other. Tell me which one fills up first. Listen, Hammurabi published his code on a giant stone tablet in the middle of the city and you know what? Nobody read it. You know why? Nobody can read yet. Except, of course, me.”
“Well, can you give me some advice so I can do a re-write?” the author pleaded.
“Fine. If you want it to sell, you need a story. When you tell it, start in the beginning. Then you need a conflict, people need to break the rules and there should be all sorts of exciting acts of retribution. Then end it with hopeful redemption. And come up with a new title. ‘The Ten Commandments’ is too facile.”