If there’s one thing I love it is writing short stories – or Doodles, as I like to call them – so I’ll feature the occasional one here. Hope you like the following.
I think I’m getting too old for this game. I’ve been an editor for fifteen years now. Why I ever bothered I don’t know. It certainly isn’t going to make me rich. I suppose, deep down, it must be the job satisfaction. Yes, that’s it – it satisfies me. And, boy, do you meet some characters.
Amateur writers are the most fascinating – you know, the REAL amateurs; the ones who’d have to turn to stamp collecting as a hobby to get it licked. For some reason, the more terrible the writer, the greater he thinks he is, and the abuse that can fly upon rejection … well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. And the cons they use to try to get published. The mind boggles:
Dear Editor,
Please find enclosed story for consideration. It took a long time to write this piece on account of arthritis. Infact, I’ve only just turned to writing again after getting over the death of my mother in a car crash. My heart condition is improving, but acceptance would go a long way in enriching my life.
That was my favourite. Ten out of ten for effort, but nothing for literary competance. We tend to get anaesthetised to this sort of thing do us editors. But as I said, I think I’m getting too old for this game now, especially since I began getting stories from Paul Hobson.
What sort of a writer is he?
Well, a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters and infinite time may not be able to write Hamlet, but I feel they may stand a good chance of re-creating the works of Paul Hobson. Yes folks, he’s bad.
His first story arrived about two months ago. It was a dreadful tale, badly written and almost devoid of plot, and concerning nothing more than a man narrating his feelings upon coming down with flu. It was immediately rejected, but, knowing the sort, I knew I’d soon be bombarded with stories from him, so I began to hint at philately.
It took three weeks for his next masterpeice to turn up.
I was in a bad mood to begin with that day, the sore throat, etc, still getting me down. But us editors soldier on. It was almost as bad as the first – a story of an accident-prone man breaking his arm for the fourth time and about to give up on life.
Corn, sheer corn. The rejection was more severe and I enclosed a small packet of stamps I’d been saving for charity. A much more worthy cause, I thought.
I received his third story yesterday. A most depressing piece, this one. It concerned a man stuck in the same job for fifteen years and stress beginning to get the better of him. In the end he has a heart attack and dies. The writing was no better; the plot lousy. But for some reason I found myself typing the following:
Dear Paul,
Many thanks for sending your story and I have pleasure in accepting it for publication. A most forceful tale which gets straight to the point.
As I said, I think I’m getting too old for this game. And my plaster cast is making it damned hard to type.
© Anthony North
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