Does anyone remember that scene from
The Rescuers Down Under where the jesus lizzard (I don't remember the scientific name, you'll remember this lizard because it runs on water, supposedly) unlocks his cage with his tail, and then realizing that he's released himself, runs around shouting "I'm Free, I'm FREE!!!" in that funny voice?
Well, that's how I feel, funny voice and all. I have quit my job, and been fired, all at once. My resignation letter was so full of young-adult's-damaged-idealism-snippy-attitude that PublishAmerica (whose name I will joyfully bandy about now, in the cruelest of tones) was so affronted that they demanded---oh yes, demanded---an apology. I'm contemplating sending these letters to the Post as a sort of
digestif for the ravenous sharks of the literary sea, who are currently making a meal of my erstwhile employers. Oh, how I lick my chops at the thought.
I most likely will not, but this has been a remarkably liberating experience, and not only in the most obvious sense. The typical Catholic guilt that I am consistently riddled with is conspicuously absent; a trembling feeling of relief is slowly making its rounds through my innards after I found that the email marked "M___ M_____: termination" was curiously blank (and also addressed to my company email address, which I found odd because doubtless, at the moment they deleted my company address, they incapacitated my accessing that email, which means any CC: to me at that address is useless. That, my friends, is our office manager for you. Bottle blond, and I'm talking peroxide here, folks).
But how creepy is it to receive a letter subjected: "Termination"? I mean, really, I expect robotic types in full battle gear with strange lazer guns to be crawling out my root cellar at any moment, repeating hollowly and electronically, "Terminate, terminate, terminate..." at any moment. I hope they find the dead whatever it is down there, too, because god KNOWS that thing reeks.
Anyway, point being, out of the kindness of my heart I'm finishing the last of my work for good ol' PublishAmerica. One of my final authors has bitched to no end because she thinks I haven't read her book, or else I would have noticed that major portions of the plot were missing. Hmmm, news flash:
1) The majority of books I have "edited" at PublishAmerica have not been troubled by any sort of constriction such as plot structure or continuity. It is in the contract (as the rebuttal to my resignation so conscientiously pointed out) that the editors of PublishAmerica are to stick to editing for punctuation and grammar only. So in the midst of this
Cujo knock-off, if aliens had landed and begun an assault on three previously unintroduced characters, and then allowed room for the author to expound her theories on the reincarnation of Lee Iacocca and the inherent evil of abortion, it would have neither surprised nor fazed me. Not in the least. So to pretend like I'm supposed to pay attention to continuity, well, re-read your contract, my suffering dove with fibromyalgia. And check with your doctor on that, too. I'm pretty sure it doesn't affect your son, who's supposed to be your co-author and could certainly take some time to look over this "book" as well...unless his feelings have been too hurt by the fact that I misspelled his name. How many times have people misspelled mine? Get over it.
2) I did read every page, every WORD of her wretched, senseless, "blind dog eating the intestines of people, including catalogue of what these people ate before being eaten and how much the dog enjoyes eating these things as well as the intestine itself..." novel. I am glad I will never have to do it again. Some other poor bastard (perhaps one of the 3 males in my office of 26 will---maybe they'll be able to stomach it better) will have to slog through it AND your contentions that chapters 34 through 37 (which have appeared to my obviously blessed eyes, since they were the only chapters that didn't involve dogs eating anyone or crazy old ladies picking at their psoriasis sores) have disappeared.
In summary, however, this may well signify the end of the blog. Not that I'd really kept up with it, and I'm sure to insult some of my former authors who will doubtless dig up this blog through the wide "PublishAmerica" net so many of you have cast off the
USS Google, but at this point, let the record show that I no longer give a flying rat's rear end. You should have known what to expect when you sign up to have your book published at a house which performs the literary equivalent of editing with a band-aid where amputation and stitches are required.
