The Cost of Golden Publication

This is a retelling of the classic Rumplestiltskin fairy tale as told through the story about an aspiring author trying to get published in the modern-day.

Mike remembered a time when he did a lot less waiting, it was all he seemed to find himself doing these days. Waiting in the drab hole that served as the entry point to the small but bustling publishers office further in. Waiting for the time he would visit with an idea instead of a load of weak excuses. Waiting to move forward.

           As always, his waiting was eventually cut from him when the bored-looking intern slipped herself into the waiting room and called out, to no one in particular, “Shurmbetsky?”.

           Mike tapped himself out of his chair and moved towards the girl, his arm flapped around with his too-thick tie as he bumbled his way into her attention. They gave each other the participatory hellos and she led him through the proverbial gates. The body of the office was radically different from its bum cousin the waiting room. Suddenly Mike had been surrounded by subtle sheets of grey and modern art hanging off the walls. Leather sofas rose like whales peeking out of the ocean of sleek black carpet. Glass walled offices reflected soft light around the hallway illuminating pretty things in a soft luster until the light was stopped by Mike prodding down the hall.

           Mike certainly didn’t comply with this new thematic shift of chic pleasurable vanities. His tie was thick and protruded from his neck in a tuft of orange, his sports coats were the sort of brown that seemed as though God gave up on the color halfway through, and his pants were shapeless and grey and if not for the contents of their pockets been so forgettable they might have vanished. Truthfully Mike’s clothes didn’t matter, he was the kind of guy that even in the newest most expensive suit would chase style away. His shoulders were thick, but he wasn’t muscular, rather he was slightly fleshy without being fat. His hair was brown and did little more than serve as proof that he wasn’t bald. His eyes were similarly pale, brown, and lifeless. After a single glance, many people were prone to thinking that this was a man best left to forgetting.

           The few that had taken the time to look past his shoddy and forgetful appearance knew that it was all just a superfluous part of the striking depth the man carried. This was mostly people who had read his book and had responded to a steadfast voice in the writing. It was a good thing he wrote instead of acting, his editor was fond of pointing out, because while his writing was ultimately confident and sure of itself, Mike seemed to stumble through life practically unaware of anything around him constantly bruising himself on life’s corners. 

           Mike felt one of those corners being driven into his stomach today as he was led through hallways, that seemed identical to him, by a woman who seemed much more attractive and driven surrounded by the corporate shawl. It seemed the further she led him in the more he stood out. Eventually, she stopped and paused before a grey door, “It’s right in her sir,” she said pursing her lips together and gesturing languidly with her long fingernails. She grasped the knob and popped the door open prompting Mike in with a look and then left closing the door behind her.

           Mike found himself in another waiting room, waiting again. This one was much nicer and much more ostentatious than the previous had been. It featured the same sleek monochromatic color scheme as the rest of the audience and lauded a large flat TV in one corner. Due to its solid size, Mike guessed about five people could wait comfortably in there at any one time, he was the room’s only occupant.

           He took the moment to gather himself and the sheepish stack of worn papers he had clutched under his left arm. It was nothing but ideas really, bad ideas too he knew. Nothing compared to what he considered his actual work; it had none of the content or character his previous project had represented. It had been his first journey into the wilderness of writing and somehow, he had come out rich. Not in money, though he had received a modest sum for his contribution, the real reward was that everyone had loved his book and for a few months there had even been fleeting talks about a movie. Mike had written his own success story and for a few months, he had lived an easy life with no regrets. He had always assumed in those days that his next project would come to him just as the first had. Now perched on the plush sofa in the waiting room rifling through his papers desperate for an idea worth pitching the realities of writing were only becoming clearer to him. He pecked at the papers nervously and periodically checked the clock watching the time peel itself away slowly like wallpaper.

           Mike was shuffling the papers putting them in and out of no particular order when the room opposite of the one he entered opened briskly. There was his editor, Miss Trolley Barker, looking at him framed by her dark bangs. It didn’t seem to be quite accurate to say she looked at Mike, Trolley (She insisted on exclusively going by her first name) had the powerful habit of looking through people rather than at them. It had the effect of making you feel small and inconsequential and she had discovered early that due to her doll-like stature that respect was something she would have to seize. “Mike. Come on in”, she said with a little smile that did more to show the compassion being withheld than anything. Mike squirmed a bit on his way up from the chair and stumbled after her into her office. The waiting room had been an excellent prelude into the office, which was similarly executive, stylish, and cold. It featured a large dark wooden desk, a plush red chair behind it, and fearful looking chair facing it. Mike took his designated seat on the scared chair and faced his editor with apprehension. She picked a pencil off her mostly empty desk and set it back in its place in a small cup. “Mike, what have you got for today?”

           Mike shuffled his feet under his chair like a petulant grade-schooler, “Well I’ve been coming up with some new ideas like we talked about. Trying some new things out and I think, well I think I may have some solid ideas for a short story, maybe a collection of them?”

           Trolley sighed audibly and leaned back in her disproportionately large chair, her small frame, elvish features, and mounds of dark hair that framed her face had always made Mike think of her as a fairy. Right now, with her nose slightly turned up at him and her eyes addressing him with a nonplused attitude he really could see her as an annoying fairy queen pitching fits from her throne. She waved the pencil in front of his face. “Mike did you hear me. I told you that we didn’t bring you on to write short stories. I can’t market short stories, we brought you here to write another book. I’m getting really sick of asking you if that’s gonna be possible.” She sighed again, letting out a cute puff of air, and leaned back. She could see it in his dull brown eyes, there was no excitement or stories hiding in there. When Mike was interested in something his shoddy exterior would melt away and the intelligence underneath would shine through but there was no fire in the man sitting opposite her today.

           “I’ve been doing some work on that.” Mike lied to her; the terse beginnings of a possible next novel had been left untouched for weeks now. “I just feel like I need to work out some more the details and get it all right.”

           “Mike it's been four months since I brought you into the agency,” She said unimpressed, “they’ve made it clear that if you can’t bring some results soon that I’m going to have to let you go.”.

           Mike stood up quickly, feeling his future slip away from him, “I’ll admit I hit a bit of a wall, but I’m gonna come up with something I promise.”

           She nodded but her face remained cold, “I think you will too Mike, really you are a fantastic writer and I know you have more stories to tell, so I got you one more week.”

           “A week?” Mike said exasperatingly, “I can’t write a book in a week.”

           “Come on Mike,” She tutted, “I know you can’t write a book in a week, we just need to see a solid premise, that’s all.” She reached out and lightly touched him on the arm, only her long fake nails making contact with his arm. It felt cold and fake. “You can do this Mike, One week ok?”.

           Mike muttered something about it being ok and herded himself out of her office. He made his way back through the prim waiting room, trudged through the identical hallways, and out through the messy room that held all of the prospective visitors. A few looked up at him with disdain, but most kept their heads forward preoccupied with whatever had brought them there in the first place. He paused at the last door between him and the proper world, he had to come here and be propelled forward, but this deadline had done nothing. He still felt like he was waiting for something. Maybe when he got home and begun writing in earnest the ideas would come to him now, maybe then the deadline would get him properly motivated. Rather unsure of himself Mike headed home.

           Later enclosed in his shabby one-bedroom apartment Mike found that his fears were coming to fruition. Even with the dragon of failure breathing down his neck Mike just couldn’t force any inspiration. First, he had tried reading his most current efforts, A trivial stack of empty ideas taken from his first novel, mostly ways the characters could be more completed certainly nothing novel worthy. Then he had taken to reading passages of his first novel but rather than inspiring him it only made him realize how opaque his writing had become. Lastly, he had gone for a walk, surveying the storied neighborhood, scouring it for inspiration but had again come up empty. That’s what had brought him here standing in the kitchen at the blank laptop perched squarely on the counter in front of him. A notebook cluttered with poor sketches of cubes and trees and terse one-sentence ideas lay next to it similarly neglected. 

           It was quickly becoming clear to Mike that he wasn’t going to be able to make the seven-day deadline draped before him, the longer he stared at the blank document on his laptop the easier it was to see that he had no more ideas for it to consume. He had been a one-hit-wonder; If he had fancied himself a great writer it was because it had been a substantial novel. It hadn’t just been popular with readers either critics had praised it as well claiming it to be the first new source of literary worth in years. He had written something great and so it had been easy to convince himself he was a great writer, something he kicked himself for now. It was crazy how young he had been only months ago.

           A small beep sounded from his computer, an email from Trolley no doubt, hounding him to get on the writing trail. There was no one else in his life to email him after all. He stepped closer to his computer and opened the window, clicking on the beckoning notification. To his surprise, the email wasn’t from his publisher but in the author column, it merely read, interested. Mike eagerly snapping on this distraction from his current predicament opened it and read the following:

 

Dear Mr. Shurmbetsky,

                                   You seem to be having a little trouble with the writing process. We here have all read your earlier novel and think that you’re a marvelous writer. It seems to use that you just need a little help to get going. We are writing to offer our help with the situation. Simply let us know if you’re interested and for a small fee would be thrilled to help you with your new novel.

           Sincerely Interested.

           Mike’s first thought was that his spam folder wasn’t doing its job. It was a strange nothing email, probably some weird conman that preyed on idiots. After all, it had asked for a fee and claimed that impossible, if there was a service that one could use to write a great novel then everyone would’ve written a great novel. Sure, it was strange that they seemed to know he was having trouble writing, and the stranger they seemed to know of his earlier work, and he wasn’t sure how they had gotten ahold of his email but to him, it seemed obvious that this was unimportant.

           Mike puttered around the blank word document the rest of the night before giving up and going to bed. He looked around his small bedroom wondering how he could ever write a story good enough to get him out of there. A story good enough to get him away from the peeling dusty wallpaper that fell away from the walls like dying ivy. Or the stale air that never seemed to properly leave the room, even when he left the window open. It was so opposed to the brisk clean world he had been in just earlier today and he felt that with a good enough story that the world could want him again.

           Mike spent that next five days in a writing fever. He woke up and after a breakfast of toast and black coffee would plant himself at the small breakfast table in his apartment writing as much as he could. He had begun to get better at wringing the work out him he thought, seeing as the pages were coming to him now. He didn’t feel any connection with the writing, not like he had with his first novel, but being pushed by the deadline had motivated him to simply write. So that how he spent his time, crouched over the small table that was still too large for the room writing. The night before his last day he saved his twenty or odd some page proposal with a smile. It had been hard work, but he had seen it through and put together a proposal.

           He woke up the next day and after his routine breakfast checked him work for one last time. It was crap, he knew it was crap. He had known while he was writing it that it had been crap but what else was he supposed to do? Trolley had sent him home and told him to write and he had found a way to make that happen. Today he was supposed to email her his current proposal and all he had for her was the inelegant and uninspired dump he had forced out of himself. It was everything his first novel had managed to avoid, it was unoriginal, irrelevant and the confident voice that had drawn in his readers previously was gone. He knew if he sent it to Trolley it would only be delaying the inevitable, there was no real novel hidden in its pages. She would tinker with the idea for a bit before realizing it was a horse with a broken leg and then she would call him in to put him out of his misery. Of course, if he didn’t turn it in that day would just come sooner rather than later.

           He checked his email and already there was an email from Trolley waiting for him, letting him know that she was eager to hear from him today. He ignored it already deciding to put answering her off until the last possible moment. He thought of moving her email to the trash folder to remove it from his mind and was playing with the idea when he read the subject line of the email under it. It was in all caps and read: HELP WITH NOVEL.

           It was of course, the email that he had so easily ignored days earlier convinced that he would have no problem mustering up a workable idea within the week. Looking at the email now it read much differently than it had to him before. It was possible that they were legitimate and had been referred to him by Trolley or the publishing company, after all, they did know about his first novel. Deciding that it wasn’t as ridiculous as he had predisposed Mike drafted a quick email and sent it to them.

Dear Interested,

                       I understand that you can help me with my novel. I’m currently in the drafting process and struggling to come up with a great idea worthy of being my next novel. Do you mention a fee for your services? Supposing it’s not too steep I would gladly accept your help moving forward. Included is everything I’ve been working with so far,

Mike Shurmbetsky.

He included his sloppy twenty-page attempt and released the message. He felt like an idiot as soon as he sent it. He was smart enough to know there was no simple way to write a successful novel or even to conceive of one. Surely the next email, if there would be one, would ask for his credit card information and promise more nonsense. Mike was still reeling from his own supposed stupidity when the computer dinged softly, and a new email slid into his imbox. He clicked on it readily and scanned it, surprised they responded so quickly.

           Dear Mike,

                       We would be happy to help; in fact, we have already sent forward some materials we think you’ll be happy with. As for our fee, we are happy to inform you that you qualify for our emerging writers’ program and so we will be providing our services for free as long as you qualify. We believe that your talent and future projects are worth our investment.

           Sincerely Interested Creative Works and Solutions.

           Mike fervently scrolled to the bottom of the email and as promised there were several attached word documents. He opened them quickly and to his delight, it was exactly what he was promised. It outlined in a smattering of pages an elegant story. He ended up reading it twice being taken with just the description, the idea, of the story. It was as if everything that had been wrong with the ideas, he had been forcing out of himself that past week had been taken and fixed. The ideas that had seemed so inelegant and ugly when he had written them now seemed mature and deep when presented in the context of this new story. Characters that felt forced and inorganic now spoke to him like they were real. He was being to feel about his new idea with the same fire he had felt for his first. Truly they had taken his work and made it beautiful. And at the bottom of the last page in the same simple font as the rest of it was his name. He copied the file onto his desktop and flicked over to the email Trolley had sent him. This time he had no thoughts of sending it to the trash, rather he responded confidently saying he had an excellent idea and that she should read it when she had a moment. He included that he was eager to hear her thoughts on his new work and that it could even eclipse his earlier work. Then he composed a quick message thanking his new ally for their help.

           He spent the remainder of his morning in a chess match with his computer hitting refresh far too often waiting for a response from either party. His fascination waned as the morning slipped away and he found himself ready for lunch and with nothing else to do decided to step out to the dinner near his place. He went to the diner and ate his food pensively. He couldn’t help but feel as if he had finally moved forward this morning and something as pedestrian and everyday as eating felt so unnatural now. Feeling uncomfortable he finished his food quickly, paid promptly, and left. 

           Back in his apartment, his laptop was waiting for him like an excited dog, the small mail icon wagging its tail, and letting him know he had a message. He opened it quickly stabbing at the laptop with unintended ferocity and saw that it was a message from Trolley. He opened it and was pleased to find that she seemed even more excited about the book than he was. It said that she knew he could do it and when she could expect him to start working on it. He wrote back saying that he was going to begin working on it immediately and she should expect an update in a month. He promised to have something to give her by then so that she could see how his vision was translating from idea to page. She wrote back within the hour telling him she was excited and to expect to hear from her in a month.

           Mike brewed another mug of coffee, stretched out his arms across his body, and then sat back down. He opened a new word document as well as his treatment. He hadn’t been lying when he said he was going to begin working on his new story immediately, he hadn’t felt gripped like this since finishing his first novel and it was a feeling that he missed. 

He was disappointed to find in his first days back to form, that while he felt as inspired and moved as he had when he has written his first novel, he was finding it an arduous process to bring it out of him. He felt as connected with his characters as he once had but felt in the dark about their true inspiration and he felt as though they were hiding something from him. Overall, he discovered that he felt as though he was in the dark about much of his own story. However, he chalked these up to being simple feelings of doubt and inadequacy and pushed forward delving into his writing.

He spent the next month in relative comfort if not for the fevered and urgent mood that had entered his mind when he wrote. His routine breakfasts were still a source of peace for him and Trolley rarely bothered him with emails that only contained empty platitudes and encouragement, his only real roadblock was the effort it took to write. The month passed quickly with Mike engaged in his servitude. He had become so engrossed in his work that he was surprised when an email asking him for an update slid on to his laptop. 

He bounced around his laptop quickly assembling the relevant work for Trolley into a neat set of files to send to her. Altogether it didn’t seem too impressive and it paled in comparison to his initial proposal. There was nothing wrong with it but Mike also recognized that there wasn’t anything right with it either. Struck by an idea Mike gathered the assembled files and sent them, not too Trolley, but to the enigmatic ally that had helped him before. He also included a quick message thanking them again and asking just exactly who they were. Once again, they responded in minutes.

Dear Mike,

This is some excellent stuff, we included what we think maybe some relevant changes. As always we're happy to help and only ask that were properly included in your process. We're here to help. We help people who require a little bit of a creative solution.

Sincerely Interested Creative Works and Solutions.

           Just as there had been last time several attached documents were accompanying the message. Mike opened them and was pleased to find, that just like last time, they had marshaled his lackluster work into something truly extraordinary. He smiled as he sent the reformed documents on to Trolley along with a message promising her a full novel soon, he felt he was on to something with this new book of his. And this company Interested Creative Works and Solutions did seem to be above board after all. If things kept on the way they were going he should have his book finished within the year. It seemed simple to him that all he would have to is rededicated himself to his writing and new would have a new book and a problem-free life by the end of the year.

           Mike spent the rest of the year with one eye on the future and the other squarely fixed on his novel. He wrote every day often forgetting to eat after his daily breakfast until the next day. He would spend hours crammed into his absurdly small desk chair filling the pages on his laptop. Later in the evenings, he would write with an occasional glass of wine or beer in front of him but truly his only vice was his writing. Inevitably Trolley would check in semi-regularly seeking reassurance that the book was progressing. He would write back saying that things were going great and he would have the book for her when he had promised it at the end of the year and shake his head at how silly publishers were. Couldn’t she let him work on the only thing that was important in this whole situation, the story?

           This time he didn’t shake her off so easily. This was the big email, that massive email that had loomed in his head like an elephant. This was the email at the end of the year where she would demand his novel be delivered to her. He had spent the last days editing his work and he had to admit to himself that his novel was done. It was a full story in so much that it could probably be publishable. It hadn’t been the dream project he had devoted himself to certainly, but it was a novel with promise. Still, he remembered how elegant the concept he had presented to Trolley, the one he had revised, had been. He wished he had been able to birth a novel that had truly represented that theme instead of the mound of hastily shaped clay he had come up with.

           It was for the work he decided that he would try to get help one last time. He attached his manuscript and typed a quick message:

           Dear Interested Creative Works and Solutions,

I’ve decided to enlist your help one last time. Attached is my semi-final manuscript for the idea you first helped me refine. I would appreciate any final thoughts you may have and thank you for your help so far.

           Mike.

           Once again there was an email returned in a matter of minutes. There must be something wrong Mike thought, it would’ve been impossible for them to have read his entire novel and give notes by now. He scanned the email they had sent him.

           Dear Mike,

The fantastic novel attached is what we think it could be. We included the first chapter of your new novel and would like to know if you’re interested. Let us know.

           Interested Creative Works and Solutions

           The audacity shocked Mike into inaction for a moment and then he reread the email. His email compatriot had been so helpful up until now that this was shocking. Moreover, who did this person think they were that they could right what his novel should be. Mike opened the sent pages and his demeanor quickly melted off of him. It only took him a few pages to discover that this was the true novel. The words seemed to be written more vibrantly than anything Mike had ever written possibly more than any he had ever read. It would’ve been clear to any but the illiterate which the superior work was and so Mike was forced to face the conclusion that this was the true novel. That pure representation of an idea he had just previously wished for was right here on his computer. It would sell and be appreciated that was also clear. In a strange state of shame and excitement, Mike wrote back.

           Dear Creative Works and Solutions,

You have written something great, let me ask why are you involving me at all? It seems to me you have something worth publishing that I had little to do with. Why not simply take the story and go? Why force me to write a novel that will never be read? Do you suppose that you’re so superior I don’t matter or is it just a game you play to shame us over presumptuous writers? Regardless you have the true story and can do with it what you will.

           Mike

           He had scarcely sent it when he received a reply.

Dear Mike,

You misunderstand this story is all yours. You conceived it, you spent the time to write it, we merely provided help for the process. Nor do we seek to steal your story away from you, we won’t be publishing it any time soon. We’re also not here to play with you or test you, honestly, your story was your own we only followed your talent. We would like for you to publish your story, the only thing we ask in return is that we are privy to the process of your next story. We can happily announce that we plan to expand soon and will be able to handle the publishing and creative rights of your next idea. Simply agree to involve us in the aforementioned ways with your next project and we will send you the true novel that you wrote for you to send to your publisher.

           Interested Publishing and Creative Solutions.

Mike sat back and chewed on what he had just read. True he had conceived of the initial idea and they had only involved themselves as much as he had wanted them to. Would it be so wrong for him to publish a book that was in essence his, even if he hadn’t physically written it? It would be better for the literary world, he decided, if he published the true version of his novel. And there’s no denying the lure of money and stability as an artist. And it was still his story wasn’t it? It was he decided and sent the complete revised work on to Trolley.

           He received a transparent email soon after expressing her excitement and then she would have full notes by the next day, then a quick message that night stating that this novel was perhaps something special, finally a message the next day totaling her experience with the novel. She said she was incredibly impressed and knew that this novel would sell. She said she already had an editor in mind, the benefits of working for a large company, and had sent the manuscript on down. If all goes well it’ll be in printers soon, she wrote. 

           Forty-odd years later Mike sat on a bus stop bench and played with the pencil in his hand. He spent this morning waiting at the bus stop the way he usually did, simply letting his mind wander from one idea to the next. Chewing on the end of his pencil and reading an occasional article from the newspaper spilled on his lap. Sometimes he thought about his life, it had been solid thus far, but he knew he was close to approaching the home stretch. His childhood had been unassuming and uneventful, but his quick mind and slight mouth lead him to be a quick thinker that chased down knowledge. His life hadn’t started in earnest until he wrote his first novel. Truly it had been the only real idea he had in his life. There had been two more novels after the first, but they were nothing compared to his first. After that, he spent some time writing for journals and applying his craft in other ways. He had found time to try for a family and even been married twice but it never held water. He did finally get a book of short stories published in-between his second and third novel, It had been unappreciated and probably best left unpublished but truly he felt it was a life he had enjoyed.

           There had only been one thing missing, Mike had felt his entire life that he was capable of more. He had been so close to a great idea with his first novel and felt that he should’ve been able to conjure that great idea eventually. Thus far it had been out of his reach but now, reaching his last opportunity to write a great novel he felt a little disappointed it had never happened.

           His mind continued to wander as it did when he let it. He sat there at that bus stop chewing on the end of his pencil, glancing at the newspaper on his lap without reading it for a moment longer when his mind stopped wandering. It stopped wandering because it had come upon something wholly remarkable, something tremendous and beautiful. This Mike realized instantly was an idea. It made his first novel look childish and made his other writing look like they weren’t even ideas at all. He scrawled the roots of the idea in the newspaper and began his walk home now too eager to return to his small, comfortable home and begin writing. 

           He was near home, musing some particulars about his new idea when he was stopped mid-step by his phone. He pulled it from his pocket and checked. There was a notification boasting an email on the front page. It was strange he thought because he hadn’t used his email in years. When he saw who it was from, he halted himself abruptly on the pavement and opened it with no more delays,

           Dear Mike,

I’ve come to collect, that’s some idea you had. I mean it’s a real idea, that’s worth a lot to me. I’m writing to let you know that we will be seizing rights of the idea and creative control of the project in perpetuity. Thank you.

           From, Try and guess

P.S you’re a writer you must have read my story before this shouldn’t be that hard for you, let’s see if you know my story. If you do, I let you keep yours.

Mike put his phone in his pocket and hustled home. He tried to convince himself on his short two-minute trip that maybe he had imagined seeing that email, that it wasn’t real but was unable to convince himself. Nervously he entered his house and walked to the small office in the back. He booted up his neglected computer and opened his email. There it was, sitting in his inbox glaring at him. He thought of ignoring the message but thought that it wouldn’t matter, he had agreed to give up his next idea after all.

He remembered, even though he had tried his best not too, just how strange the whole situation had been. How the stranger had emailed him at the perfect time and wrote him a novel for nothing in return. He had done his best to remove it from his mind but know the problem had drifted home to roost. He had agreed to give up his next idea, he knew that he had. He doubted that what he had agreed to would hold up in court, but Mike was not such a literal man to think that law had any consequence here.

Finally, he decided that he was wasting his energy pouting and that his only chance moving forward was to solve the riddle he had been given. First, he searched his computer for all the old messages, but they had long been deleted from his account. No matter what he thought to himself, he doubted the answer to the riddle was the authors handle anyways. The most pertinent information seemed to be somehow that he was a writer and that because of that he should already know the mysterious author's story. Mike thought about that for a while, had a cup or two of coffee, thought some more and finally came to a point of clarity. It was only when he looked at his life as a story that it became obvious what was happening. He was a character in a story, a story he knew well, he had played out his part unwittingly line for line. And if he was the victim locked away forced to spin something from nothing then surely, he knew who was trying to steal his idea now. He opened a new email and confidently typed

Dear Rumpelstiltskin,