The Editor - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Steven Rowley is the New York Times bestselling author of four novels: Lily and the Octopus, a Washington Post Notable Book; The Editor, an NPR Best Book of the Year; The Guncle, winner of the twenty-second Thurber Prize for American Humor and Goodreads Choice Awards finalist for Novel of the Year; and The Celebrants, a TODAY Show Read With Jenna book club pick. His fiction has been translated into twenty languages. He resides in Palm Springs, California.

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One

She moves quickly and with purpose, threading the tight corridor between a hedge maze of cubicles and the string of office doors. Her stride is serious; I have a thousand questions, but the snap to her step suggests I should select only one. Maybe two. Nope, one. I try to take everything in, to remember the details-I'm going to want to recount them later, to relive this in my head-but we're moving so fast. I see paper. Lots of paper. And push-pins, I think, colorful ones, tacked directly into the cubicle walls, holding calendars, schedules, memos, and important lists (more paper!) in place. Marketing standees announce titles as Coming Soon, and a parade of book covers framed like art hang evenly spaced on the walls between doorframes, following me down the hall as if I'm viewing them through a zoetrope.

"I'm sorry, where are we going?" Just like that, my one question wasted. And I hate that I apologize. I have been invited here and I need to act like I belong before they figure out that I'm the wrong guy. An imposter. A dupe.

Without looking back, she says, "Conference room. End of the hall." Then, with barely a pause, "Would you like some water, James?" The sound of my name startles me. Hers is Lila. She told me, by the bank of elevators, where we were introduced. My agent's assistant told me it was Lisa, but that's typical Donna. Thank goodness Lila introduced herself before I had a chance to call her by the wrong name. That would have really started things out on the wrong foot. Lila has blond hair, but not so blond that you can't take her seriously. I really like her shoes.

"No. No water, thank you." I can't imagine walking this fast with a glass of water and not sloshing it everywhere, on my sleeve, or-heaven forbid-down the front of my pants. "I'm sorry I was late." Another apology, but this one is warranted.

"You were five minutes early."

Was I? "I'm usually ten minutes early, so in that sense I was late."

Lila ushers me inside the last room at the end of the hall. "Here we are. Conference room." She stares at me, and for the first time I notice her clothes are impeccably tailored. She's serious for a beige girl. That's what I've heard people call a lot of young women in publishing. I'm not fond of the term; it reeks of an unnecessary sexism. They're called that, beige girls, because they wear understated monotones and sweaters to match. But this girl (woman!) is a different animal. Power beige. Like a cafŽ-au-lait color, or camel or ecru.

"It's nice," I say, about the conference room, which is stupid. It makes me sound impressed, like I've never seen such a room before, and of course I have. I've worked at pretty much every office in Midtown in a never-ending string of toxic, depressing temp jobs. This conference room is exactly like any other conference room, with a bulletin board, a whiteboard, a phone in the center of a long table (at least I think it's a phone-it looks somewhat like a light-up game I had as a child), and a set of dry-erase markers.

"It serves a purpose." Her enthusiasm is considerably less than mine.

Yes, conferencing. For some reason I try to sell her on it. "It has everything. Even a window." Then, as an afterthought, "Anyone ever jumped?"

"Out the window?" She is appalled. I can tell. She tucks her hair back behind an ear while pursing her lips.

"It's just . . . I can imagine these meetings get a little . . . I mean, I know I'm feeling . . ." Fraught? Power Beige is just staring at me. "I'm sorry." I cringe. My third apology inside two minutes. "You're not interested in my twaddle."

For the first time in our incredibly brief relationship, she perks up. "I'm interested if you're going to jump out the window."

"I promise I'm not going to jump out the window."

She exhales. Disappointed? Perhaps. "Why don't you just have a seat, then." We've officially run out of things to say.

Silence.

Which I abhor.

I pull a chair back from the table and start to sit and then stop. There's a loud ringing in my ears similar to the one I would get as a kid after swimming endless summer hours in Lake George. "I always thought I'd be more of a pills person."

"More twaddle?" There is the vaguest hint of a smile. She's joking with me, letting me know to relax.

"Ha, no. It's just, I don't like it when other people have to clean up my messes." Talk of suicide has gone on so long, it may be professional suicide. To change the subject, I try to steer us toward business. "So, my manuscript. You've read it?"

"I have."

I replay that last bit in my head; it doesn't sit right. "Not that I think my manuscript is one of my messes! I just wanted that to be clear."

"It was. Clear." Lila picks up a dry-erase marker from the table and sets it on the lip of the whiteboard. In doing this, she softens slightly. "And even if it wasn't, that's an editor's job sometimes. To clean up."

"And you're interested? In being my editor?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

"It's nerves, I guess. I tend to . . ." I make a motion with my hands like I'm vomiting words. Lila grabs the corner wastebasket and holds it out for me. She smiles again, this time more broadly. I decide I like her; she has the ability to play along.

"No," she responds.

"Oh." I can feel the heat in my cheeks.

"You're here to meet with someone else."

"Oh my gosh. I'm sorry. I was told by my agent's assistant to ask for Lila. Well, she said Lisa, but she can't read her own handwriting." I'm going to have real words with Donna for putting me in this predicament.

"James, it's okay. I set up the meeting for you and this editor."

"And he liked it? The editor I'll be meeting with?"

"She."

"Sorry." Apology number four! I wince. This must be some sort of record.

"Take a deep breath. We're not really in the business of calling writers in to personally tell them how much we didn't like their work."

A wave of relief. "No. I don't suppose that's the best use of anyone's time."

"It's easier to do that in a letter."

"I received plenty of those," I say, before realizing how unvarnished that truth sounds. "Well, not plenty. A normal amount." Pause. "Lila." I use her name as punctuation, unsure if it sounds like an exclamation point or a period.

She pulls the chair out farther and pats the back of it. "It won't be long now. If you'd like to have a seat."

I sit before I get myself in any more trouble, and she leaves the room, closing the door behind her. I swear I can hear her chuckle on the other side before heading off down the hall.

Alone, I rifle through my bag to make sure I have a copy of my manuscript, should they ask to see it. I do. I walk over to the window and press my forehead against the glass to look straight down at moving vehicles that look like Matchbox cars. SPLAT. That would do it. I cross back to the phone. What was the name of that game? Simon. There's one visible button, and without thinking, I push it. It beeps loudly and I jump, but then there's a dial tone. I push the button again, quickly, and it stops. I pray the commotion doesn't summon Lila. She would not be pleased.

I've been a writer for ten years. Since I graduated college. Or maybe it's twenty-five years. Depending on when you start counting. My...