Writers' Horror Stories

(for Halloween)

As night fell over the publisher’s downtown backyard, wieners sizzled, and smoke curled high through the dimming branches. Gaaass--p, beer cans popped open. Ice cubes knocked in punch glasses. “Bottoms up, everyone!” The Unfinished Monument Press tenth anniversary Burnout Barbecue was warming up. Bobo & the No plugged in twin electric guitars. From octopoid wires and speakers stacked on the darkening deck, lights flashed in bumpa-bump rhythm. Twaaang, thwaang, the entertainment tuned up.

“So happy anniversary, hey!” Writers, artists, and assorted well-wishers milled about bare limbed in sundresses and shorts, while the boy next door peered down through the moonlit leaves overhead.

From the house, two shadows emerged and strolled toward the lawn. “So you’ve got one too!” The short, plump brunette swathed in black laughed. She patted the skinny young writer’s arm. “You’re not alone. Everyone does.”

“Does what?” With a wink, an athletic blond in white shorts jogged past, swigging a beer.

“Have a horror story or two,” the brunette shouted. “About writing. Publishing. The literary scene.”

The young writer clawed his long hair. “You make it sound so casual!”

“It is.” The seasoned brunette nodded. “So your promised chapbook didn’t get published after all. Think of this disaster as an initiation, the acid test of a pro. You’re not a beginner, crying over rejection slips. Can you pick yourself up and push on? Submit the manuscript elsewhere? Then, you’ve got what it takes to survive as a writer. If not, well, there’s always... tennis.”

“But it’s so unfair!” The young writer dug his fists deep into his jeans. “I mailed my chapbook manuscript first class to Montreal, with a self-addressed-stamped envelope and everything! And I got my own postcard back, saying that Obscurity Press received it! And the publisher even wrote me a letter: he loved my poems and wanted to bring them out in March! So how come ten months later, I’m minus a chapbook, and all my letters whiz back ‘Address Unknown’!”

 “Maybe there was a flood in his basement.” The brunette drowned her smile in a mouthful of punch. “You know, the sewers backed up, and when he went down to dig out your manuscript, a zillion pieces of sog floated toward the stairs. The stench was overpowering, so he moved....”

“You’re making that up!” the young writer cried.

“Actually,” the brunette lowered her glass, “I’m not. I really did know a novelist that happened to.”

“What did he do?”

The brunette crunched on an ice cube. “Guess.”

“No! Typed the whole manuscript over, from scratch? At least I’ve got a computer! My printer can bang out a hundred pages an hour. It’s just that I told all my friends....”

“Aha!” The brunette threw her head back and laughed. “The first rule,” she shook her finger, “is never announce you have a collection coming out, until you hold the published book in your hand.”

The young writer sighed and kicked at a dandelion.

“Now, don’t be so glum. At least a chapbook is short.” The brunette waved toward the barbecue. “See that long-haired gal twisting the skewers? A few years back, her small press computerized. How she slaved to key four, full-length book manuscripts onto disk—and I mean edited, designed, and formatted into pages. A single lightning flash wiped out her entire stock of new releases!”

The young writer sucked in his breath. “I would have jumped off a bridge! What did she do?”

“Had hysterics the first day, depression the rest of the week. Then, of course...”

“Keyed all four books over again! Yeah, but lightning—that was a natural disaster, not the fault of some unscrupulous jerk.”

“Somebody call my name?” The athletic blond bobbed past with another beer.

Bobo & the No thumped into a rousing rhythm and blues, as the fragrance of hot apple pies wafted through the dark, past the barbecue.

“Look,” the brunette sighed, “maybe your publisher was at fault. Or maybe something beyond his control happened. In poetry and fiction land, there’s one thing you have to realize. Small presses are small because they make little money. In Canada, the literary market’s not big. Most presses need a subsidy of some kind, whether from arts councils, friends, or the author’s pocket. Lots of press owners work full time at other jobs; their publishing efforts are part time at best, even volunteer labour. They do what they can, with scanty resources and help. It’s amazing they accomplish as much as they do.” The brunette swirled her punch, then took a deep drink.

“Well,” the young writer grumbled, and kicked the grass with his running shoe. “I still think I should complain. To a national association too. That should have some clout.”

The brunette choked on an ice cube, trying to block out the memory of one writers’ organization, its first national office located in the storage space behind the president’s furnace.

“Yes,” the young writer threw back his head, “maybe I’ll even phone The League of Canadian Poets—and The Writers’ Union.”

“If you must,” the brunette sighed. “But why not save your guns for bigger game, like vanity publishers who soak you for thousands, but never promote or distribute your book. Or my favourite horror tale: the guy in a large commercial firm who requested an author’s photo and bio for advance publicity on his manuscript they were accepting, then phoned him three months later to say, ‘What makes you think we’re publishing your book?’”

“I thought a big publishing house would be classy—and safe!”

“No publishing house is safe.” The brunette leaned closer. “Even when a book gets into print, you can count on surprises.”

“You mean typos?”

“Of course, not to mention wrong page numbers in the table of contents, or the author’s name misspelled, even whole chunks of text misplaced.”

“I would never let that happen!” The young writer snorted. “I’d demand to triple check the proofs!”

“See that tall woman by the barbecue? She went through the proofs of every chapter in her last children’s novel with a magnifying glass. A week after it shipped to bookstores, her west-coast publisher telephoned. ‘The good news is the kids’ party launching the book was a great success. Everyone said you’ll love the cover and illustrations.’”

The young writer winced. “And the bad news?”

“A small girl at the party had asked, ‘Who is the little green man in the table of contents? Isn’t this a book about a farm?’ She’d noticed what the publisher, editor, and production staff all had missed: the table of contents was wrong. It belonged to some other book. Of course, my friend razor-bladed the offending page from all her own copies, but whenever she read in the schools, some kid always wanted to know, ‘Where’s that little green man it says in the front?’”

“At least she got to give readings.”

“Yeah, like the poet who was mailed a flyer announcing he would appear as part of a ‘Gala Bookstore Reading’, on the very next day, no less—except that no one had ever asked him first. He scrambled his way out of a family party, grateful to read for the publicity and expecting the same fee as his last Canada Council gig. Once the disappointingly small audience of five had left the big-chain bookstore, he opened the host’s envelope. It contained a colourful card, and inside only the words, ‘Thanks a million’.”

“Even so, I bet all that advance publicity helped sell copies of the book at the next reading.”

“—If there are copies to sell. Just ask the blond in the striped sundress, passing around the crackers and cheese. She was thrilled that her second poetry collection would be launched at a writers’ conference at the National Library of Canada. With hundreds attending the glamorous Saturday night reading and party, think of the sales!”

“How could she lose?”

“Simple. After her set, a couple came up to ask where, exactly, her book was located in the display. ‘You can’t miss it,’ she insisted. ‘It’s the one with the bright red cover.’ When the couple returned empty-handed, she offered to show them herself—except, as her blood pressure climbed, she soon realized the book was nowhere to be found. Of course, when collared, her publisher blamed the conference organizer, while the conference organizer insisted the books had never been shipped.”  

“That’s got to be the exception,” the young writer persisted. “I still just want to get published. I’d put up with all the rest.”

The brunette smirked.

“Besides,” he went on. “She could plug the book elsewhere, even have her publisher enter it in a literary contest. Winning something would really help sell copies.” He lowered his voice. “You know my dream?” he blushed. “Someday, I hope to win a Governor General’s award.”

The brunette snorted. “Who doesn’t?” She drained her glass. “But be prepared.”

“You mean for stiff competition? I’d wait a few years, of course—until my writing has really peaked.”

“I mean check your calendar. For ten years, my best friend laboured over the last of her several books, which went on to great reviews. Like you, she figured a G.G. would be the crown of her lifelong career—or even just placing on the shortlist.”

“So, still her book wasn’t good enough?” the young writer asked.

“Who knows? Her publisher missed the submission deadline.”

“Ouch!” The young writer shook his head. “But winning big is a long shot anyway. Surely, good reviews help almost as much.” He stopped as the brunette raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Loads of poetry books are published these days, but space is tight in the litmags. In the big daily papers, there’s next to none.” She gave him a crooked smile. “Not everyone gets critiqued. And if a small press doesn’t mail out review copies, well ...”

“Doesn’t—?” The young writer sputtered.

“You see,” the brunette chuckled, “you got off easy so far. Next time you mourn your poetry chapbook, think about my cousin Lou. An international textbook publisher invited her to write stories, poems, and articles for a new language arts series. Over the next few months, she mailed in three fat manuscripts. And three times she got back cards in the mail, acknowledging that her work had arrived. A year passed, and one day the telephone rang: ‘Hello, this is Miss So-and-So from XYZ International Publishing. How would you like to write stories, poems, and articles for our new language arts series?’ Lou gasped. ‘What the devil have you done with the work I sent you already?’ Of course, you guessed it—“

“Lost!”

“Yup.”

“Bless you!” The athletic blond wove out of the shadows. He slapped the young writer across the back. “You look like you need a beer.” 

“Just guts,” the brunette replied, and raised her glass. “Just guts.”