Paperback Writer

PAPERBACK WRITER.

John Starkey checked the time on his watch. How long had he been waiting now? It had been hours. But he had to persevere. If he hung around the lobby of the publishing house long enough, they would have to see him eventually, wouldn’t they? It was all about not giving in, seeing who would give up first.
He sighed and stretched, and told himself to be patient. His writing imagination kicked in. In his mind, he wasn’t waiting for an appointment he didn’t have in the publishers, he was a private detective in 1940s Los Angeles, on a stake out. He was a detective waiting for the suspect to return to the murder scene.
His gaze wandered over the sign above the glass reception desk. Harrison & Harrison. He smiled to himself at the duplication. You’d have just called it Harrison’s, wouldn’t you?
Still pondering the pointless repetition of the company name, he returned to the desk once more. The receptionist, a bored looking man in his late twenties, looked up from the computer screen. His expression asked, what now?
‘I was wondering if there was a chance I could see somebody. I left my manuscript with you first thing this morning.’
‘I have passed your message on, sir. Mrs Harrison will try to see you during the day at some point.’
Just before the end of the working day, as John was scribing away in his notebook, working on ideas for new stories, the receptionist called out.
‘Excuse me, sir. Mrs Harrison will see you now.’
‘Really? That’s great.’
‘Third floor, end of the corridor.’
The receptionist pointed to the lift. John thanked him and dashed across the lobby.

The sign on the door read, Georgia Harrison, Editor In Chief. John told himself he could do this, and knocked on the door. A voice called, Enter. John did as he was told.
Georgia Harrison was sitting behind a desk. She was in her fifties, her hair cut in a stylish bob. She studied him for a moment, over her reading glasses, before inviting him to take a seat. Feeling like a schoolboy in front of the headmistress, he quickly sat down.
‘Thank you for seeing me. I left my manuscript with your reception desk this morning.’ John said.
‘Ah yes, I have it here.’ Georgia picked up the covering letter. ‘JP Starkey. What do the initials stand for?’
‘John Paul. That’s me.’
Georgia read the first line of the letter out loud.
‘’Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?’’ An interesting opening.’ She said.
‘That’s what I thought. Always good to make an impression.’ John said.
‘I would beg to differ. Tell me, what brings you here today?’
‘I’ve been writing for years. Being a writer is all I’ve ever wanted to do. I’ve been writing stories since I was a kid. Then I left school and had to find work. I needed a job and wanted to be a paperback writer.’
‘And how did that work out?’ She asked.
‘Not that well, to be honest. You’d be surprised how little you see the words Writer Wanted on the jobs page.’
Georgia smiled.
‘Basically, I’ve been working an office job I hate for a couple of years, while sending off my writing.’
‘Can you give me the elevator pitch for your book?’ She said.
‘The what?’
‘Try and sell me your book in a few sentences.’ Georgia said.
‘It’s a novel about a family. The husband is an ordinary middle-aged man. His marriage is on the rocks. They way he sees it, his wife doesn’t understand him. Their son works for a national newspaper. The lad is a reporter, but he wants to be a published author. He wants to write fiction. It’s about family struggle, about hopes and dreams, reality and ambition.’
‘I’m not sure where we’d put that in the book shop. What genre would you say? It doesn’t sound like a crime novel.’
‘I can have the wife kill the husband if you’d like, or maybe the son robs a bank. I will do whatever it takes. It’s a thousand pages, more or less, and I’ll be writing more in the next few weeks. I can lengthen the book, adding a few chapters, if you like. I am willing to make any changes you see fit. This is really important to me.’ John said, the desperation creeping into his voice.
‘Yes, I can see that.’ Georgia said.
‘I’m offering you the rights to publish my novel. It could make us millionaires by tomorrow morning.’ He insisted.
‘I admire your ambition, young man, but you must be realistic. And just so you know, it can take a good couple of years for a new book to hit the shelves.’
‘Would you mind giving my manuscript a read? Then if you don’t like it, you can return it to me.’ John said.
‘We’re not in the habit of returning submitted work.’
‘I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer.’
‘And, what will you do if we decided not to publish your work? Where would you go from there?’ She asked.
‘I would post it on this website. It’s a great website. Now, those guys,’ he jabbed a finger, ‘they recognise good writing when they see it.’
‘What is the name of this wonderful website.’
‘It’s called StoryStar.’