Love Is... always having to apologise

Chris, my editor, has my revised draft of the first three chapters on his desk, and so far he hasn't said anything except 'Hello' and 'Sit down'. I don't want him to start talking. I feel like a school kid in the headmaster's office who's done something wrong and has no defence. But he does start talking. Because, ultimately, after arranging the appointment and letting me into his office and facing me across his desk, it would have been weird if he hadn't.

"Right then," he begins. "My first thought upon reading the new draft is that you haven't actually really changed anything. Would you say that's a fair assessment?"

I shift uncomfortably in my comfortable chair. "Well, what is 'fair', really?"

"Sorry?"

"I don't know."

He looks confused, naturally. "I don't understand." I say nothing, so he continues. "Very little actually seems to have changed between this draft and the previous version. A few words here and there, a couple of sentences added, enough to show me that you didn't email the original by mistake. Fundamentally, though, it remains the same. It is almost identical to the one before. The previous draft has almost everything in common to the one I am holding now. Please feel free to jump in at any point."

"I'm happy listening."

"I'd actually like this to be a conversation in which we exchange information relating to your novel-in-progress. That is, I feel, the process most likely to achieve some kind of understanding between us."

"I can see how you'd think that, but really, I have very little to say."

"Yeah, I'm beginning to get a little exasperated, Christopher. I mean, I'm working hard for you, and yet you just seem to be acting quite childish, if I'm being honest."

I hold my thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "Steady. I'm this close to walking out."

He starts to lose his temper. "Well then talk to me. Why have you not revised the manuscript?"

"I have. There are some changes. I think it's better."

"We sat here only a few weeks ago and discussed in some detail how we could make your book publishable. Your job was to rewrite the first three chapters in a generous amount of time that's already put us behind schedule, and yet you seem to have completely disregarded everything we agreed upon and just hacked in a few sentences almost at random."

"I worked really hard on those sentences..."

"And what about the rest of it? Chapter two, possibly the weakest of the whole lot, was supposed to introduce the themes of surveillance and the impact on daily life, and there's nothing in there."

"It's quite subtle..."

"No it's not subtle. It's non-existent. And the introduction of Beechill, supposedly this heroic, near-mythic veteran crusader, hasn't been touched. It's rubbish. I don't know how it survived your own drafts. He needs to walk out of a burning war zone with deep gashes across his chest holding a little girl in his arms and an old man hanging around his neck. And he doesn't even debrief, he just goes back out on another mission 'cos he's that fucking heroic and near-mythic."

"That's a little..."

He talks over me. "All these character traits that start their arcs haven't been written. They need to start now to make them believable. I'm really frustrated, Christopher."

"I lost my way, perhaps, I admit."

"You seemed enthusiastic when he talked about it."

I rub my neck sheepishly. "I'd stopped listening towards the end. Actually, quite early on. I have a short attention span."

"What, so you were just nodding and pretending to listen?" he asks sarcastically. I shrug. "What, really? Jesus Christ."

"You were writing it down, though, so that was good."

He takes a deep breath and looks at the ceiling for a few seconds. Then he looks back at me. "OK then. What are we going to do?"

"I'll try again. I've just got to gather the motivation."

"Motivation? Your novel is going to be published by Harper Collins. What more do you need? What the fuck can I offer you?"

"It's just that...I thought the rewrites would be little things. A polish. What you were saying seemed like writing a novel from the beginning again. Fundamental changes would require hundreds of hours."

"Oh I'm sorry. You have something better to do?"

"I've got to work, and spend some time with my wife."

"You've got an advance, haven't you?"

"It's not enough to live on."

"Move into a bed sit. Struggle makes for good art. Just make it work for Christ's sake."

"I will. I've just fallen out of love with writing at the moment."

"Gee. That's bad timing."

"Yeah, I know. I'm sure it's just a phase."

"You better fucking hope it's a phase. You better hope writing starts buying you flowers and sucking your dick 'cos there's a fuck of a lot riding on this book. It's not a game and yet you seem to be playing around."

"I'm not. I'm not."

"What are we going to do then?"

"Let's go through it again."

"You're going to listen to me this time?"

"I swear."

He sighs and opens a pad of A4. He begins to talk. I think about flowers and blow jobs.