(x) 12. writer and editor au
Will is underdressed, soaking wet, and has a cup of black coffee in his hands that cost seven dollars; all of which are excuses he’ll give Alana when this client drops them for Simon and Schuster or someshit after seven years with Bloom Publishing and exactly one late afternoon meeting with him.
“… ‘a pile of pretentious garbage,’” the client, one Dr. Lecter, repeats. “I see.”
The wine bar cum coffee shop, Lecter’s preference for the meeting, is unnecessarily dim and a bit too warm. It almost makes the rain outside seem atmospheric, rather than a huge pain in the ass for anyone commuting downtown via public transportation instead of private car, or however Lecter got here. The man has a dusting of mist on the shoulders of his velvety-looking plaid suitjacket, but is otherwise dry down to his wingtips. Opposite him, Will’s buttery leather armchair is doing a great job preserving the puddle growing at the seat of his pants.
“Perhaps you’d care to elaborate,” Lecter says mildly, and Will sets his jaw.
“I’m sorry if that was too frank,” he says, because he owes Alana at least that much. “However, from the standpoint of your previous work, this particular manuscript seems… less developed.”
According to Will’s research, Dr. Lecter is a practicing psychiatrist who occasionally deigns to write what could charitably be called cerebral mystery novels. This book, if it ever makes it to publishing, is in the same vein, and in its current state absolutely unreadable.
“I see,” Lecter says again, fingers steepled in front of him. “Please, continue.”
Will takes a sip from the tall, narrow mug he’d been handed. It tastes weirdly fruity, but at least it’s hot. “At a thirty-thousand foot view? The themes you address are complex, and you don’t have enough progression in the plot to sustain interest or give emotional impact to the conclusion. This is basically five hundred pages of navel-gazing. This character, the murderer, wins by default– your protagonist thinks himself to death.”
Lecter has a faint smile, but before he can speak Will holds up a hand.
“Trust me, I know what you’re about to say. Your book is not going to be on airport bookstore shelves. It’s not for beach reading. Understood. That doesn’t absolve you from the basics of structuring.”
“An interesting choice of words,” Lecter muses. “One that implies I’m committing some kind of crime against literature, yes?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Will says, taking another sip of coffee. He’s starting to shiver, even in the heavy warmth of the small bar. “I’m just laying out the reasoning behind my comments in the draft.”
“I received them,” Lecter says. “I must confess, they are quite a bit more detailed that I am used to receiving from Mr. Chilton.”
And when they finally find the guy, I’ll be happy to swap back, Will promises silently. “All the editors at Bloom have their own styles. The goal is not to make this draft unrecognizable from the original, it’s to give it a little more life than your last monograph on psychotic symptoms and Graves’ disease.”
Lecter gives him a slow blink. “You’ve read that,” he says.
“I’ve read everything you’ve ever publically published,” Will says bluntly. Every bloody psychological thriller and niche entry in staid psychiatry tracts, and, “A lot of it was brilliant. Which is why I feel qualified to say that this needs work.”
“A lot of it,” Lecter echos, eyebrows raising.
“Most of it,” Will says, a bit grudgingly, and Lecter’s faint smile makes another appearance.
“Then, Mr. Graham, I look forward to working with you.”
Then Hannibal invites Will up the street to dry his clothes and “see his manuscripts,” heh heh
kototyph 