I had submitted the story, as requested, so it came as shock when the editor texted me that they absolutely COULD NOT USE IT along with an autocorrect that (presumably) converted my given name to “miscreant” and a link to a video call in 20 minutes unless I was immediately available in which case I should just FaceTime with them RIGHT NOW (again with the caps) all while I was struggling to pour coconut milk into my Starbucks.
Depositing my coffee on the nearest counter, I found the editor’s number on my FaceTime app and called. Too bad I’d left my ear buds at home because the people standing to either side of me discovered that I was an amoral pervert and purveyor of porn who was trying to wrap smut in literary pretensions and pass it off as the musings of the reasonable man on the Clapham bus with all that the Clapham bus entails.
Well fuck me! I shouted into my not terribly smart phone. I have no fucking clue what you’re on about.
Your piece, asshole. The one with the penis. And the things the penis does. Degradation. Defilement. Penetration.
Well, what can I tell you? Penises have a tendency to do that sort of thing when they’re attached to men who are, you know, complete shits.
No subtlety. No metaphor. No discretion. Just bald-faced description.
Well, like my mother always told me: call a thing by its proper name. Besides, how can you possibly find my writing shocking? We live in a world where the POTUS says worse every fucking day of the week.
That comes to us through reportage. You submitted fiction. There’s a difference.
Really!
I mentioned my Abraham Lincoln spoof: “Four score and seven years ago our fathers grabbed their women by the pussy.” But it fell flat. I blame my delivery.
The exchange devolved into something more civil and, at times, more esoteric, but the other patrons had left the coffee shop by then so there were no witnesses. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it turned into an intellectual debate about reader sensibilities and whether we should have a different regard for them depending on whether the subject matter is fact or fiction. However, in practical terms, the debate came to nothing.
I knew I wasn’t getting paid because my editor held firm to her view that, unlike reportage, a story carries the additional burden of having to edify its audience. If you read in the news that the POTUS brags his own daughter is supremely fuckable, that’s one thing. But incorporate that into a work of fiction, and the rules change. Rules? Really? Back and forth we went but neither of us would give any ground.
Knowing I wouldn’t get paid, I grew frustrated. Oh, the things I would have done. They would’ve been beyond the pale. Almost unthinkable in their depravity. Unfortunately, because these things never passed beyond fantasy, they were fictions and (at least according to my editor) unprintable. One day I’ll act on those things. And when I do… Oh, when I do … You’ll be the first to read about them. I promise.
