Here's something on a guy I've been writing about. THe name's going to be kept silent for now. He's a fun character to write for.
"She looks at me in my face and whispers sweet words of yellowed hate.
She looks at me in my face and whispers sweet words of yellowed hate?"
Exasperated the editor looked at me down through the broken-yet-taped-up pince-nez pair of glasses and condescends at me.
"Wait, wait, wait. What is this, amateur hour at the university coffee house? I pay you good money to what? Hawk out this piece of gothic syrupy trash? "
Hidden behind my own pair of thick frames, I try to get across that single important point, that as a freelancer I really don't have a salary. But does he listen? No! Of course He won't. He's got that whole 'high-paying -so important that the world stops for him- editor in chief of the almighty New Yorker' thing going for him. He threw the manuscript back at me. Grunting his last words he just gestures towards the door.
"Do it right and by deadline this time"
Sighing, I head back to the library under the weight of all my worldy words and their experiences.
Tell me what you think.