Chapter 1
Painted bright grey, the walls were coloured in the most perfectly borning shade.
Perhaps they’ve embellished the walls with purposeful intent: to give workers nothing more exciting to look at than the countless manuscripts sent to them on the day-to-day.
Or, maybe, perhaps, they’ve gone with the colour grey simply because it’s inexpensive. I wager the ladder.
Damn literary agencies don’t make enough since the 21st century hit to afford the royal blue colours they’d employed.
–Doctor William Galberth, I presume?”
‘Presume? I thought as an auburn-haired literary agent lent her palm out for the American gesture of greeting.’
’Was she intentionally using early 1900’s vocabulary to match my, old fashioned, mannerism, or was she merely gifted by means of her profession?
I glance up, hardly making eye contact, and say:
–err, yes. I’m Doctor Galberth.”
“Yes, Yes, Yes—” I repeated stupidly under my breath.
I shook her hand politely, they were cold, like aluminium in winter.
–It’s good to meet you, sir. My name is Claire Marsh. Though, as your potential agent and friend, you can call me Claire.”
I nodded, though, I was only slightly listening.
–Got it,” I said blankly: “Ms Marsh.”
I sat up from the chair. I felt the blood rush to my legs, my ass was numb from the prolonged sitting. A haze shielded my eyes with blurred vision. An uncomfortable sensation in my temples like my skull was being clamped by a blacksmiths’ vice.
From this angle, the blurred auburn-haired literary agent was quite short.
–This way Doctor Galberth.”
I followed.
The fifth floor of the Chrysler was slowed in time. The worker’s faces were solemn, and the Quillen literary agency sign on the arc above the glass office sang a tune of minimalism.
I looked at the weave of the red chair. I rubbed my thumb on the fabric.
–What genre do you write in Doctor?”
–Fiction.” I responded. “I write about circumstances that many people are blind-sighted to: Proceeding to convey them in a more simple fashion for people to understand
–And how about Foreseen Idiocracy— The Unbiased View of the Human Condition? What is that about?
My mind blanked. ‘A man who—,’
’Urm, shit. I hate this question.
–You write literary fiction, right? What’s the theme?
–The Unbiased View of the Human Condition is formatted in a fictional sense for readers to understand the display of the decline of humankind.
Assuming, Ms Marsh laughed under her breath.
–I think I got that much, but in what way are your readers going to be captivated by your characters? And how will they get sucked into your plot?
–That is not what I want in my writing.” My attempt to push away from the normal way of writing has done nothing but hold me back. “Yes, of course, I hope my readers can understand my character, but to put my character through the turmoil of making him/her relatable is dishonourable. I feel that–itself–is the most offensive part of authorship.”
Ms Marsh took a breath.
–I don’t typically invite authors into my office—no one here does.”
Ms Marsh took another breath.
–I also don’t typically—
–You know, Humans are just fish that can smoke cigars and drink wine.”
–What do you mean?”
I laughed at the faint memory: “I’m–not–really sure.”
