“What do you think?”

The publisher leaned back with the bundle of papers in hand and set them down on the desk in front of him.

“So it’s a story within a story?” he asked, although the question was purely rhetorical in nature.

“That’s correct,” confirmed the author flatly, nervously awaiting the judgment about to be passed.

“Points for creativity, but it’s been done before.”

“I’m aware of that. The idea was not to be the first to tell the story.”

“But you’ve come to me in hopes of publishing this, yes?”

Once again, a question in which both participants knew the answer already.

“That’s correct.”

“There needs to be something unique to sell a story these days; a selling point - something like a dashing protagonist or a good plot hook. The reader needs to be able to connect with the story in some way. I’m afraid I’m just not seeing it at the moment.”

The author felt his stomach sink. He was expecting this reaction although it still hurt to hear.

“I write more for self-expression than generating a readership.”

“That’s all well and good but if no one wants to read what you’re writing then you might as well be writing a diary.”

“That’s why I need help. I just want people to read it.”

The publisher paused. His eyes were fixed to the open pages and his brow was as furrowed as ever. When he spoke again, he leaned forward and looked up to meet the author’s eyes.

“Can I ask, why do you want people to read it?”

The author then took his own pause to think this question through. Why, indeed?

“I suppose it’s a form of connection. I should hope that somewhere out there, some people think as I do.”

“There are lots of ways to find like-minded people these days - the Internet for starters. You could join a chatroom, maybe. Or even start a new hobby, like tennis. I don’t think that is reason enough for us to publish this work, creative as it is.”

“I write from the soul.”

“Your soul is not very profitable,” said the publisher. There was a heaviness to this sentence that pressed down on the author’s chest. It was the final, forceful dot - a particularly powerful piece of punctuation.

A silence befell the two now. This was a power struggle. Were this a game of cards, the publisher would be holding several full houses and the author merely a single 10.

Knowing this all too well, the publisher continued, “If you would like our help, then you need to listen to what we have to say. I have some notes for you.”

Always with the notes.

“Alright,” replied the author with a sigh, “fire away.”

“Good,” said the publisher with a small but firm nod in his direction. “The first question I need you to ask yourself is, ‘what’s the point?’”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“The new point, you mean?”

“Now you’re catching on. A story within a story, but so what? Who are you speaking to? What about? I think it’s plainly obvious you take issue with this Publisher character - an allegory that I do take some offense to, I want to add - and I’m sure amateur authors around the world will champion you for that, but so what? You’ll need to extend your message a little further if you want to connect with the people of the world.”

“I see,” answered the author thoughtfully. “So you want me to now abandon my original message in favour of another message that applies to everyone?”

The publisher snapped his rather large fingers and pointed at the author with one thicker-than-usual index finger. “Precisely,” he said.

“Well, alright,” the author said as the dark realisation of his defeat started sinking in. “By the way, what did you think of the ending?”

“The ending? What ending? It’s called ‘There’s a Twist at the End’, right? Well, where was the twist?

“The twist was that there was no twist.”

“That’s ridiculous. With a name like this, you need to have something impressive to back it up. This Author character needs to do something wild and really show us who he is. It needs to end with a bang. Right now, all you’ve got is a whimper.”

“But that’s the thing - he did that in the first chapter. It was rotten, it was vile. So, at the end of the story, there’s no twist, which is a twist in itself. He succumbs to the Publisher’s pressure to change the story and in doing so shows the juxtaposition between the first and second endings. In some ways, it’s almost like the first chapter’s ending is a fever dream, and the second chapter shows the reality of the world.”

“With all due respect, I think you need to come back down to reality. First of all, that is a very depressing ending. No one is going to read that and feel good at the end of the day. Secondly, it’s just not very clever. It sounds more like a first-year film school student’s idea after huffing deodorant.”

The author did not say anything to this. He just put both hands to his head, looked up, and stared at the ceiling. Not wanting to upset the man even more, the publisher waited calmly for a time, before hoisting his imposing frame out of the chair and waddling over to the author. He put one hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him.

“There, there,” he said. “I know it’s not easy to hear all of this but we’re going to get you on the right track. It’s clear that you’ve got some ideas and we just need to find a way to harness them in a way that speaks to the many.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a wrapped piece of chewing gum. “This will help you calm down,” he said as he offered it to the author, who was still staring at the ceiling.

The offer broke the author out of his trance. He removed his hands from his head, took the gum, unwrapped it, and popped it in his mouth. All this happened more or less on autopilot as the author was still mourning the death of his craft. “Thank you,” he said.

Satisfied, the publisher returned to his unfortunate chair and sat down as it creaked beneath it.

“Another thing I wanted to mention is the body shaming in this story. In both chapters, you talk far too much about the Publisher’s body. Granted, the second chapter is much better than the first, but it’s still not really acceptable in this day and age. Is it for comedy? It comes across as mean-spirited.”

“It might be mean-spirited, I suppose. The message here was more one about the ugliness of the Publisher’s character - an external representation of his horrid inside. I wanted to make him grotesque on the outside, too.”

The publisher fired back immediately, almost scolding the author, “You cannot equate the two. Who are you to say what is ugly and what is not? I think we can all agree that an awful person is an awful person but who are you to make judgments about external appearance? Besides, the Publisher is clearly doing his best to do his job. He’s not an awful person at all.”

The author took some time to think about this one. As much as he hated to admit it, the publisher had a point here. Not about the Publisher’s awfulness of character (which was, as far as the author was concerned, quite concrete), but rather that equating being overweight to being awful was not something that should be pushed, especially if this story was to be read by many different people.

At that moment the grandfather clock in the corner chimed three times.

“Ah!” exclaimed the publisher. “I’m afraid we’ll need to finish off there. It seems that our time is up.”

“Indeed, it is,” replied the author with a tired sigh.

The author got off his chair and scooped up the papers on the desk. He turned to leave before stopping and turning around, as an idea came to him. He returned to the publisher, who had not moved from his buckling seat and was now preoccupied with a different set of papers in front of him. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a single flower - a brittle little thing, composed of a head of small white petals on top of a single unbranching stem. He placed the flower on the surface of the desk, much to the confusion of the publisher who looked on in bemusement, first at the gift and then at the given. Without another word, the author turned around and left the room.