“What do you think?”

The publisher did not answer straight away. He was doing a kind of spinning motion in this office chair that the author would not have normally appreciated, but found himself tolerating anyway.

Suddenly the rotations stopped and the publisher set the file on his desk before resting two bony elbows on either side of the page.

“Are you on drugs, son?”

The bluntness of the publisher’s question took the author by surprise. “No,” he answered with his own sense of bluntness and the slightest hint of indignation.

“I’m just asking because you’ve now written a book within a book within a book. That’s three levels of book. Three levels of up-its-own-ass.”

“I’m aware, sir,” said the author, attempting to remain polite (which was quickly becoming its own sort of chore).

“Doesn’t that strike you as too many?”

The author considered the question for a bit before answering. “No,” he said, “I don’t think so. I don’t think ‘too many’ exists in this context.”

“But there becomes a point where it gets a bit ridiculous. It’s like holding two mirrors facing each other. You get an interesting effect but that’s all… I’m saying that it’s played out.”

“I understood that, sir. But is it really a problem if the story is still cohesive?”

The publisher straightened up now. His skeletal body and gaunt face gave the impression of the living dead - a grim reaper for ideas. His expression was stern and when he spoke, it was with a smokey rasp. “I’m not seeing much cohesion here, I’m going to be honest. Where do I even start with this?”

“Should I assume you have some notes for me, sir?”

“You should assume, indeed.” The publisher picked himself up and went around the desk, stopping to lean on one of the corners. From the author's angle, he seemed somewhat like a scarecrow. “First off,” he continued, “let’s start with this idea of cohesion that you brought up. In the beginning, you were throwing around the word ‘plastic’ like it’s supposed to mean something. Then it just peters out.”

“Well, that word is to-”

“To show how fake the Publisher character is, right? I can see that just fine. The problem is you did it badly. It’s not subtle and it’s not clever.”

“With all due respect sir, I never claimed it was either of those things. The plastic-”

“Well, what’s it leading towards then?”

“Can the words not just exist without being scrutinised?”

At this, the publisher scoffed. He leaned forward and placed one slender hand on the author’s shoulder. “Bud,” he said, “if you don’t want scrutiny then you’re in the wrong business.” He removed his hand and moved his torso back again. “Hell,” he added while waving his hand in front of his face, “you might even be in the wrong world.”

“That might be true.”

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“Look, I’m not a writer, but I do know what good writing looks like. If you want to insult me and my kind, do it all you like. We don’t care. All we are concerned with is whether people will read it. We need to make a living, and we’re trying to make a living for you too. Isn’t that what you want?”

“I’d like to refer you to chapter 2, sir, where the Author and the Publisher talk about-”

“Alright, alright,” he said, waving his hand in front of his face again like he was swatting a particularly incessant fly. “Let’s just move on for now. Regarding the Publisher’s weight, chapter 3 features a strong emphasis on this point and the Author seems to agree with the Publisher that equating greediness to weight is problematic in today’s world.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“I’m glad to hear that. That’s some kind of progress. I don’t think people’s bodies should be used to represent anything like that. Although, you contradict yourself many times. On the one hand, the Author agrees that body shaming is bad but in the next line, the narration is doing just the opposite. I’ll bet you thought that was clever but I disagree, and so will our readers. People have all sorts of issues. In the Middle Ages, people were put to death just for having warts on their chin.”

“Were they, really?”

“Probably! And besides, pigs are actually wonderful animals. I didn’t appreciate all the bad talk about them.”

“I love animals, too, sir.”

The publisher glanced back at the manuscript, still open on the desk just behind him. The author waited patiently while he scanned the page for his other gripes. A particularly pronounced vein seemed to pop out of his head which the author put down to concentration.

Finally, he asked, “What’s with the flower?”

“Didn’t you like it?”

“No, no, of course I did. It’s a lovely sentiment. It’s just that it kind of came out of nowhere.”

“The flower was the representation of the Author offering a sign of peace to the Publisher. It was a symbol saying ‘Hey, even though we have different ideas, maybe we can work together.’”

“I’m not a moron, I got that.”

This guy is a real charmer.

“I said it came out of nowhere. It’s random and will take the reader out of the story. Are we, as readers, supposed to believe the Author had a pretty little flower in his pocket during that whole conversation?”

“Why not?”

“Where did it come from?”

“Maybe…” The author took some time to think about that. He hadn’t really thought the flower needed a backstory, it in itself being symbolism and all. “Maybe he just likes flowers.”

“He just picked it up on the way to the meeting?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Right…” It was the publisher’s turn to trail off now. This was turning into a battle of attrition more than reasoning or wits.

“My point is, you can’t just pull things out of nowhere.”

“Sir, it is called ‘There’s a Twist at the End’. It wouldn’t be much of a twist if I had spent half the chapter talking about the author’s walk to the publishing office, where he happened to find a flower and put it in his pocket for later.”

“This is not a debate. If you don’t want to listen to what I’m saying then more power to you. I have the experience, I have the publishing company, and I think you should listen to me.”

The author went silent at this. In this particular contest of strength, he had been utterly beaten.

The publisher asked, “May I continue?”

The author’s head was high but his eyes had fallen. He could only simply nod in response.

“Good. Don’t try and fight me on this. I really thought we were getting somewhere. Right now this story has no substance. Remember those mirrors I talked about? It’s an illusion. It’s a fancy trick and nothing more. There’s nothing tangible there - nothing you can grab onto, do you see what I am saying?”

Suddenly a cheerful jingle played from the publisher’s smartwatch. He frowned and turned his gaze downwards to the clock face and tapped at it to silence the alarm.

“Is that all the time we have for today?” asked the author.

“That’s very astute of you,” replied the publisher as he returned to his seat and began looking through notes on the desk. “Think about what I said. Come back when you’re willing to play ball.”

“Thanks for your time, sir.”

“Same to you.”

The author swiftly picked up his draft, made his way to the door, and closed it with a solid CLICK.