A Novel Discovery, a Grueling Triumph
I was hired as an associate editor at Spurl Editions toward the beginning of the year, the board of directors insisting that it was time for the “bedraggled press” (their words) to make a fresh start. Having cut my teeth as an editor at various children’s magazines, I had never read a Spurl publication, and looking over the book descriptions that they posted around the village, on random street corners, always either too high or too low for my 4’6” frame, they frankly did not appeal to me. The seemingly adventurous Arthur’s Whims came close to the type of book I might acquire an excerpt of for my children’s journals, but then I saw that the book bore chapter titles like “Pornography” (that’s it, just “Pornography”) and “Children’s Podiatry,” and that was the end of my interest in that. I wasn’t shy with the board about my misgivings about joining this press, but they were so persistent; and of course, who amongst us hasn’t heard of the legendary editorial giant St. Drogo? When he came to wine and dine me, taking me out for avocado carpaccio and tomato seeds dusted with cumin, I couldn’t resist the opportunity. Over espresso dregs I agreed to a six-month editorship, writing my six-page list of wage-and-hour conditions on various napkins, as St. Drogo’s eyes widened. I am proud to say that I am both the youngest and by far the highest paid worker Spurl Editions has ever had, and between my new salary and all the decreases in my monthly expenses that have come with moving to this tiny awful village (close neither to the ocean nor to my friends, with nothing to do here but climb mountains despite the endless heat), I am on my way to a well-earned early retirement after three grueling years of work.
But the point is not to inspire you readers with my financial acumen. It is to make an announcement. I have succeeded in steering the focus of this small press to what are sure to be fertile grounds. During my first weeks as associate editor, the apprentices would bring me manuscripts every day that were nearly unreadable. These manuscripts were all written by authors long dead, or were works long out of print, and they were uniformly hideous. “The discarded tales of Giovanni Boccaccio!” one apprentice cooed, pressing a 1,200-page manuscript toward me. “Who?” I picked up the pages and tossed them at the apprentice (a signature St. Drogo move). Another came in boasting that he had uncovered the true identity of the anonymous author of Lazarillo de Tormes, had tracked down his last remaining descendant, and through torture had obtained from that person a never-before-seen picaresque left behind by the dead Spanish author about a blind, mad prisoner. After my Boccaccio outburst, a single withering look at this second apprentice was all I needed for the apprentice to gather his things, mumble a thousand apologies, and scurry away.
With the apprentices banished to their corners, I was on my own, just as I liked it. I went down to the mail hut where the apprentices received the submitted manuscripts. I shooed the workers out of there and got down to business. I tore open the packages and looked for one thing in the wrinkled, worn pages: a sign of life. Actually, not figuratively. I wanted living authors.
At last I found them. In a stack of hundreds of packages, there were two manuscripts whose authors were unmistakeably alive. I let out a tiny shriek-laugh of excitement. Both were written in sparkly colored gel pen on lined paper—already a sign of youth and freshness. The authors had also clearly sprayed the pages with some kind of lavender-opium smell, which I found deeply satisfying, and had pressed wildflowers here and there in the books (one of the flowers was poisonous, alas, and caused me to faint and hit my head against the wall; but I refuse to believe the author intended this result). Anyway, they were doing all they could to stand out, the poor souls, surely not realizing the change that had happened at Spurl Editions.
After skimming the two manuscripts and finding them to be fresh and youthful, I tucked them under my arms and took them straight to the board of directors. I presented them to the board: the first, a novel, The Formation of Calcium, by M. S. Coe, which followed a lunatic woman as she abandoned her family and established an inspiring new life for herself in the Americas, all told from her unusual perspective. The second, a short story collection by Michael Jeffrey Lee, describing various drifting characters whose thoughtless optimism in the face of so many metaphors for death (there were rivers, burned-out houses, inhospitable new towns) was bracing in an era of so much negativity. I concluded my presentation to the board by stressing that these authors were living, and this was a once-in-a-century opportunity.
The members of the board of directors were concerned, of course. They could not understand how we could publish two authors with the first initial M. But I was ready for this backlash. I explained that Michael Jeffrey Lee would absolutely not go by M. Jeffrey Lee, or even M. J. Lee, but would maintain his full name. Similarly, I explained that M. S. Coe would not disaggregate her name. So, our readers would not be confused, or at least not overly so.
That seemed to placate the board. But they wanted to know, why these two authors?
They are brilliant, I explained. The works are exceptional. There’s nothing like them in the canon of the dead.
The board members mumbled unhappily amongst each other.
At last one member wanted to know who were the other living contenders.
I shook my head to indicate that these were the only two. This is a true opportunity for us, I said. This is what you hired me to do!
At that point, all eyes turned to St. Drogo, who had sat hunched over himself in the corner, silent this whole time, patting his grotesque pet (that ferret-, rat-, lamb-, dog-like thing). He motioned for me to give him the manuscripts, which I did; I was calm, happy, indifferent to those feelings of anxiety that plague so many of the older generation. And I remained calm, happy, and indifferent for the next thirty-six hours as St. Drogo painstakingly read every page.
Until at last he looked up, put the pages neatly back together, and nodded yes.
Check out M. S. Coe’s forthcoming novel The Formation of Calcium now, with more information about Michael Jeffrey Lee’s upcoming short story collection coming soon!