Ron Writes a Sci-Fi

An exchange between Ron and his assigned editor, Lucian, of Pullet Publishing, after submitting his final draft of “Finis.”

From: ron.g28@gmail.com

Subject: Finis - final edits to last page.

Dear Lucian,

So, that’s it. Edward’s Christmas lights tardiness aside, the reader can assume Bethany would continue distinguishing herself in the field of astrophysics alongside her stalwart alien assistant, Stigitzquatsit.

Yours,

Ron

From: lucian_pullet@pulletpublishing.com

Subject: Finis

Dear Ron,

Where is the exciting finale, as promised? I’d also like to take this opportunity to address more substantive issues regarding your MS.

1: Alien anatomy, as described on pages 153 through 198, could be seen as an insurmountable issue and may even be considered imprudent, considering the culture wars are now at DEFCON 2. Several instances of words are no longer lawful. At one point, you use the ‘G’ word. Since I trust you to keep this message private, you may not know yet that gender is on the list. Of course, one must employ verisimilitude wherever one can. Your readership, I’m envisaging, will be astute as well as politically correct.

2: Once again, I beseech you to address Bethany’s weight issue. During the course of the novel, she gains 80 kg based purely on her alien assistant’s/sexual partner’s anatomical preferences.

3: Your tendency towards rarely used words might prove problematic for your average reading public. For instance, ebeneous, gallimaufry, obluctation, xystus—all require a dictionary. You only want their eyes on your book.

Sincerely,

Lucian.

(PS: I think Edward’s car should be a Chrysler.)

I believed these final paragraphs of my 750-page opus were among the best I’ve ever conceived, let alone committed to the page. Truth be told, I hadn’t written anything else, except for shopping lists, made into fables by Sandra for the very fact that she replaced everything on them. What’s wrong with a cheeseburger in a can, I ask you?

I sent my email to Lucian late Friday and received a reply on Sunday. I was making a decent effort not to be distracted by my wife’s almost entirely naked form on the sofa while I poured our customary three fingers of Lagavulin before our weekly leg over.

Sunday was our day for canoodling and getting trashed on whiskey. I could have ignored the damned thing until Monday, but his reference to insurmountable alien anatomy pinched a nerve.

Aside from wanting me to change the make of Edward’s car to a Chrysler, doubtless for the lucrative American market. In a previous email, Lucian thought it highly unlikely that the deeply traumatised Bethany and Darryl’s daughter, Katlyn, would join forces with a terrorist organisation and blow up the alien spaceship.

Much to Sandra’s annoyance, I thought these issues were sufficiently urgent to resort to WhatsApp.

... gallimaufry is a delightful word … I will not hear of its excision!

… Katlyn should have blonde hair rather than black. …

and not Korean, Lucian thumbed back.

… Utter rubbish! I replied. Not for the first time, I wondered whether the publisher’s assignment of Lucian as my editor was a capricious act of sabotage. That thought lacked logic until his revelation.

… My father has no sympathy for the authorial voice in this novel, Ron.

… I’m confused. Why are you giving your father my MS to read? Should he not be tending to his chickens?

… What?

... Do you, Lucian, think it appropriate to share the text of my unpublished book with a person who breeds our feathered friends for the table?

... Ron … I … he’s my boss and coincidentally my father.

WTF! … Are you also engaged in chicken husbandry and a book editor only on weekends?

… What?

... Is it customary for you and your relatives to discuss subject-verb agreement whilst removing chicken intestines?

... Look … What’s this about chickens? … My father is the CEO of our publishing house.

... So, you and your father divide your time between publishing and chicken farming?

... We have no connection with chickens … either from a business angle or as a comestible … We are generational vegetarians … My sister is, in fact, a vegan …

... ‘Vegetarianism is a terrible idea, Lucian. Whoever thought it up had little knowledge of human bicuspids … and generational sounds vaguely abusive ... However, it explains the mystery surrounding your last publication … Feathers and Freedom, A Macrobiotic Utopia.

... Written by my sister, as it happens. Its sales have been quite healthy, Lucian remarked.

... Hmph! I countered with what I hoped was sufficient outrage ... So, not chicken farmers and daddy provided you with a job. Had you, in your tender years, at least considered alternative employment? I see you in the taxidermy trade, Lucian ... or hairdressing.

I was now experiencing a surfeit of what I would describe as high dudgeon. I suspected dudgeon was a word that young Lucian may not be acquainted with. It did appear, though, that he had a long association with verisimilitude. In any case, I hope he’d be sufficiently impressed to rethink his attitude to my MS.

Sadly, that wasn’t to be the case.

... BLONDES SELL!, Lucian remarked abruptly and, in a tone I’d describe as alkaline. Quite hard to pull off on WhatsApp.

... BULLSHIT! I replied in twin-thumbed fury. Is it your intention to continue trivialising my work so cavalierly?

... Well, Ron … I …

... I am also miffed that I must go out and promote my book at readings and signings. I completed my job by writing the bloody thing, and now you want me to sell it! Isn’t this the very crux of your employer’s existence … aside from chicken farming?’

... ‘It’s in the contract,’ Lucian typed. And as I’ve already said, we have never had any association with breasts bred for the table … Or in any other capacity, now that you mention it.

I absently ogled my wife’s twin attributes and found myself momentarily tumescent.

... I’ve not been one to read the fine print. My optometrist warned me against it. I replied. ... BTW, you spelt beasts as breasts.

… … … I was in the process of typing a correction.

... Too late!

… Look, the requirements for author self-promotion are in the middle of the first page and of Bold Century Gothic typeface, he stated this with an emphasis that seemed aggressive from where I was standing.

... No wonder I missed it. I thumb-mumbled with what I hoped was sufficient restraint. That font is an abomination!

When I received Lucian’s texts, I was indeed standing. I had poured myself yet another liberal splash of Lagavulin at the island bench.

As mentioned, Sandra languished adorably nude, but for a pair of dainty socks with tiny bells on them that she knew sent me wild with lust. I suppose it was all the talk of vehicular transport, but this visage was creating rather a lot of heat in my engine room, and I was eager to exhaust some of my spent fuel. Sadly, this was not to be.

‘Ron, are you still in dispute with that publisher?’ Sandra’s question carried an edge of impatience. ‘I can tell by your groans when you share texts with that editor of yours.’

‘Yes, my heart, I’m miffed. On Pullet Senior’s advice, Lucian wants Edward’s car to be a Chrysler and Katlyn to be blonde. I’m wondering if they have had an association with the literary tradition at all.’

‘Why is a poultry farmer advising your editor?’

‘Precisely, darling. It turns out, though, they are not involved with chickens.’

‘Odd. Where did we get that idea from? Anyway, does it matter? I mean about the make of the car. Actually, let’s buy a Chrysler, the latest one has something called a Connected Car Navigation Cockpit.’ Her bells jiggled dangerously.

I’m overjoyed to hear that. But, look, I have a vision. My characters are fully fleshed out in my mind. Asking me to change the novel’s femme fatale’s hair blonde would be like removing a portion of my cerebral cortex.’

‘For some of us, that may be an improvement. Wasn’t Pullet Publishing the only one willing to take you on?’

‘Yes.’

‘You should be more grateful…or at least, diplomatic.’

‘Thank you, dear. It’s a great comfort to know Lucian and your good self are both eager to advise on my creative activities.’

‘Could Bethany be bald?’

Throughout the novel’s progress, Sandra has never had an ounce of sympathy for Bethany. After reading the latest draft, she said the dear woman came across as a spoiled, simpering whale with poor personal hygiene, and the aliens were disgusting. She knew how to hurt me.

‘Bethany does have an issue with her weight, and yes, this fact exacerbates her funky aroma. All grist for the mill.’

‘I wish you’d come up with a new cliché. I always think of windmills until the penny drops.’

‘And that one suggests only lost coins to me. Anyway, I thought that Lucian might note I’d made a decent attempt at verisimilitude with those details added. I’ve never met him, but I’ll ask him in person if I ever learn to pronounce the word.’

Sandra had not finished monstering Bethany.

‘As written, Bethany is class three obese. If she didn’t have such an awful personality, I might have some sympathy for her. Don’t get me started on Katlyn.’

‘Trust me, I won’t, but surely you agree their joint effort in restraint of her lovelorn but equally smelly alien assistant, Stigitzquatsit, as they examine the meaning of the universe, is a masterclass in sensitivity.’

‘Douglas Adams had already solved that. It’s 42.’

‘He was wrong.’

‘I’d like to trust you with this writing thing you’ve belatedly taken up, Ron, but your description of Stigit-whatsit, with seven limbs, one of which might be a penis, and its anus allegedly on top of its head, and—’

‘Strictly speaking, that’s not its head, but I didn’t think it necessary to go on about it. Besides, I’d already cut my descriptions to the bone based on Lucian’s appalling advice. He once said my insistence on ing constructions is a rhythm-killer, not to mention amateurish, which sounded like something one might say to an unsatisfactory lover. I mean, he probably had a point, but he said it with such a superior tone, I bridled. Never take advice from a vegetarian is my takeaway. If that is not a homily of common parlance in the book trade, it bloody well should be.’

‘Ron, you’ve lost me. Just forget all that and join me on the sofa, you naughty man.’ She deliberately and vigorously tinkled her bells.

‘Soon, dear.’

You can determine a lot about a person’s mood through texts. A Lucian-shaped WhatsApp silence reigned for some time. I suspected a fit of pique was in progress at the other end of the line.

In the interim, I joined Sandra, where specific activities that will remain private ensued. Rest assured, various exertions were met with some satisfaction, though a caveat arose when Sandra indicated I might have spent more time completing not one but two tasks. At some point, I mumbled about the dangers of lockjaw, but this was met with urgent sock jiggling.

By the time hostilities with Lucian resumed, the bottle of Lagavulin was nearly empty, and I felt a tad depleted of literary stamina.

Putting self-promotion aside, I wondered if introducing Edward so late in the novel was a mistake. As anyone with a scintilla of sympathy for the written word would agree from the last lines, he becomes a walking, talking catharsis who drives the story to the final few lines with little relief.

Before booking the Hyundai in for a service, he buys explosive ingredients from the local hardware store. Critical to the plot is Bethany’s daughter, Katlyn’s terrorist group, the oldest of whom is a bespectacled thirteen-year-old who continually neglects to brush his teeth. An earlier flurry of texts between Lucian led me reluctantly to portray him as an obsessive gamer as well. I’m a pushover.

My relationship with Lucian was fraught, to say the least. I admit to having a history in this regard. Fortunately for me, Sandra takes me as I am on the condition that she reserves the right to disagree with everything I do and say. I have decided to ignore the logical conclusion this condition suggests, and we’ve enjoyed many long and happy years together.

In an effort to calm things down, I texted Lucian that a sequel was in the works. An extended dottie pause ensued before he continued.

… … … My job is to help you get your current novel into a shape that promotes sales … hopefully lots … and …

… In the sequel,’ I interrupted. Edward’s holiday plans come a cropper under the most shocking circumstances. A fracture in the space-time continuum occurs. Furthermore, the Korean car manufacturing sector is pivotal to the plot development going forward.

... Oh … ... ... ... ... ... etc.

Lucian’s pause was long enough for me to finish the bottle of Lagavulin and take a short nap. I imagined there would be much granular pecking apart of my proposal with Pullet, the elder. And I was sleepily thinking I might need abluting after Sandra’s visceral demands on me earlier, when finally, a message appeared.

... We need a bit more. Pitch it to us, Lucian’s text-voice altered to a lower register. It’s how … it’s what Dad wants … the pitch.

... We are not playing cricket here, Lucian ... ... An interval ensued for mutual contemplation, too long for my liking.

... Lucian, have you ever wondered whether there was something out there that was just right, but you couldn’t quite grasp what it was? Something bigger than we merry fools … more compelling … some … ’

... That’s not … can you at least elaborate further on the plot for this proposed sequel, Ron?

... Now, now, my dear fellow, all good things, etc, etc.

In truth, I had no intention of writing another word about Edward, Bethany or anybody else. I had come to despise the very ground Katlyn fictitiously walked, although I maintained some affection for Stigitzquatsit.

I started my writing career out of boredom and found myself wanting to end it in the same condition. I’d placed my phone on the kitchen counter and taken a step towards the bathroom when my device emitted its ubiquitous ping. A veritable gust of thumb-wind blows into my phone.

... I still believe Edward’s vehicle should be of American manufacture. Dad suggested a sunroof ... Also, the location of Sunshine Bay is problematic. A horrible downmarket tourist destination ... They have a tacky amusement park with one of those bizarre cup and saucer carousels … ... the entire population believes the mullet represents the height of follicle fashion … … … gosh, did you know it was built on a toxic swamp … and … holy crap, three people were bitten by snakes there last summer. One had two heads … a snake had two heads, I mean …

More dots, but no text. I waited graciously while he exhausted his stroll through Wikipedia before replying.

... I’m astonished. I thought I’d produced a work of fiction. Now you’re telling me Sunshine Bay actually exists?

... Ahh, well, yes … never been there myself. There was a news item on TV.

... Except for the cricket scores, I haven’t seen any news since 1994.

... Really.

... Yep, Richard Nixon died, and Nelson Mandela was elected president of South Africa.’

... I’ve never heard of them.

... That might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard, Lucian. Anyway, back then, I realised I wasn’t waiting for anything else to happen … of lesser significance, Jeffrey Dahmer died, and O.J. Simpson arrested.

... Who were they?

And to top things off for the year, Brazil won the World Cup.

... What’s that?

... ‘Lucian, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I feel you have little talent for editing … or world affairs. Have you indeed considered hairdressing? We’ve never been formally introduced in person, yet I vividly picture you as someone who takes his personal grooming, and that of others, seriously.

... ‘Oh … you know …that’s true. I do rather …’

The dots were loud and clear. I detected a note of chagrin and felt chastened, if not sympathetic.

... Look, I’ll stretch to a four-wheeled, fully enclosed Kia or nothing at all! Considering his current vulnerability, I thought inserting a demanding tone might be convincing.

... Sometimes, I wonder what my purpose is, Lucian texted and then paused, clearly lost in existential reverie.

... You’re not alone on that score. I commiserated, convinced a tear or two had been shed in yet another telling and dotty moment.

... ... ... ... How … … how did you know about my dream of hairdressing?

... I had a vision … Lucian Pullet, Coiffeuse to the Stars, has a ring to it.

... My father wouldn’t hear of it, but I admit, you’ve hit a nerve …

... Lucian, I believe your father might have the answer to the great conundrum of our times … which came first, chicken or egg?

... I told you, my father is not … oh, it doesn’t matter.

One day, some boffin will research the significance of these strange dotted moments in the zeitgeist. It’s like being inside the texter’s mind—a grandiose world of wonders and personal relevance. There’s an odd variety of excitement implicit in the sender matched with the anxiety experienced by the receiver. Fundamentally, the fear is that the sender will provide some personal good news, abruptly curtailing the recipient’s sense of self-worth.