Written Off

by Paul Carroll

  While the group nodded away once again in recognition of Chapman’s self-sacrifice the entrepreneur decided that it was time to cut Satire off at the pass. He turned to Bronte. ‘So, if I recall correctly, you are hoping to join us in Lancaster in September?’

  Bronte’s eyes opened wide. ‘Oh, definitely, Chapman. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I realise now how much more I have to learn.’

  As a not-altogether convinced Satire took himself off to get another glass of wine, Chapman relaxed. ‘You know, it’s natural for writers to get anxious about whether they will get published or not. Our aim is to help everybody attain their true maximum potential, that’s all.’

  Bronte made a mental note. Attain true maximum potential. Yes. That said it all.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Eric’s first reaction on meeting his new intern surprised him – what a very presentable young lady she was. His previous charges, both male and female, had sported an array of tattoos, piercings and ‘individual’ haircuts while appearing to have acquired their workday wardrobe from the local charity shop or the Primark sale. That didn’t make them any less able as journalists, of course, but Eric couldn’t help feeling that standards were somehow slipping (which was ironic given that the words ‘journalist’ and ‘dress style’ were rarely found in the same sentence). Julia, on the other hand, looked like she was ready to attend a board meeting in the City. Tall, slender and attractive, Julia was already turning heads in the newsroom. Yet, Eric noticed immediately, she didn’t look cocky or full of herself – quite the opposite; there was an air of humility, expectation and, dare he say it, awe at being ushered into his presence.

  As the HR manager left them to it Julia handed him a packet of dark chocolate ginger biscuits. ‘Do you like biscuits? I just wanted to say thank you for taking me on.’

  Eric was impressed – the only thing his previous helpers had ever given him was a big fat pain in the backside. ‘You didn’t have to do that, Julia – that’s very kind of you. And don’t worry, I love biscuits.’

  Julia relaxed. It was a good start.

  Eric jumped up and fussed around as he settled his new assistant at her desk and showed her how to log on to the server. This avuncular manner would have surprised his earlier interns who found Eric to be rather stiff and given to pantomime exasperation when things didn’t go according to his plans (but being treated as more trouble than they were worth was the lot of most interns).

  ‘Now, what do you know already about what the business desk does?’ Eric enquired.

  ‘I’ve studied the output for some weeks now. I’ve worked out what professional areas are covered on the different days of the week and have an idea of the average word counts for lead stories, features and NIBs. I just can’t wait to get started.’

  Eric was impressed. To maintain mastery of the relationship his next task was to ensure Julia knew exactly how he liked his brew, the constant supply of which she was now entrusted with. Over their first mug – he noticed she had brought her own Early Grey teabags while he drank the regulation-issue builder’s tea – he continued with the ice-breaking.

  ‘So, you’ve done well to get in. That’s always the hardest part I think. There’s a lot of competition for these intern positions.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Julia. ‘I realise how fortunate I am and I’m determined to make the most of the opportunity.’ She hadn’t forgotten her father’s advice not to mention that her presence here was down to him being a major advertiser with the newspaper.

  ‘So,’ Eric said. ‘You really want to be a journalist? Has nobody tried to talk you out of it yet?’

  Julia wasn’t sure if he was joking. ‘Ever since I was twelve years old. I’ve always loved writing – it’s like a vocation.’

  Eric decided that he should tone down his cynical hack impression. ‘Well, that approach will get you a long way. Good for you – I hope you make a name for yourself one of these days.’

  Julia looked bashful, but pleased. ‘Well, I’ll never have a name as good as yours for a writer,’ she said.

  If Eric had been given a pound coin for every time he’d heard that line he wouldn’t still be working at The Chronicle. He ignored her comment and, adopting the face familiar to his previous interns, asked, ‘So what journalistic experience have you had to date?’

  Julia, realising that her attempt at familiarity had been pitched too soon into their acquaintance, searched in her bag for her CV. ‘It’s all on here, Eric. Editor of the student newspaper, and I also write a blog which keeps my hand in.’

  ‘A blog?’ Eric said, hardly able to contain his scorn. ‘A blog on what?’

  ‘It’s about all things Japanese – you know, Anime, Manga, general Japanese culture and food. I’m a bit of a geek on the side.’

  Anime? Manga? So this is what became of the Pokemon generation thought Eric. ‘You know, I read a statistic recently that said most blogs are only read by one person – the person who wrote it.’

  Julia looked wounded. ‘I know what you’re saying, but I have built my followers up over time. I’ve got five thousand now.’

  Eric backtracked. ‘Really? That’s excellent. But one of the things you’ll be learning here is the precision of journalism – the skills and discipline required to present objective facts in short order. Blogs won’t equip you for that.’

  Julia’s impressive list of attributes also extended to diplomacy so she let Eric’s comments ride, calculating that allowing his slight would neutralise his touchiness over her Eric Blair comment. ‘Yes, I can see that, Eric. Completely different disciplines.’

  Authority restored, Eric could afford to be the benign patron once more. ‘Right, Julia, let’s get you sorted with your first story.’ He wheeled his chair up alongside hers to take her through the brief for her first serious piece of journalism. He hoped that she would remember this day and to whom she owed it when she hit the heights in a few years’ time.

  Before they could get started they were rudely interrupted by a young man whose piercing blue eyes nestled beneath the bushiest of jet-black monobrows. Ignoring Eric he stood over Julia and thrust out his hand. ‘Dylan. Welcome to the madhouse.’

  Julia hesitated, and looked to Eric for guidance. Her mentor’s frown signified that this intrusion wasn’t welcome. Not wishing to appear impolite, she held out her hand and mustered a breathy, ‘Hello, I’m Julia, the new intern.’

  ‘Clocked that already, Jules. What’s someone like you doing editing press releases? You should have got yourself fixed up in the department that keeps this ship afloat.’

  Eric felt compelled to intervene on behalf of the brotherhood of journalists. ‘Dylan, as you may already have deduced, is from the sales team. He has a somewhat singular view of the relationship between what we produce in editorial and what he sells.’

  Dylan plonked himself down on the corner of Julia’s desk. ‘We basically pay for Eric’s wages but he doesn’t like to admit it. Now, how about I give you a tour later of what we do – complete your insight into how newspapers work these days?’

  Eric stepped in quickly. ‘I’m sure that would be very educational for Julia, Dylan, but as this is her first day then maybe it can wait? There’ll be time enough for that, I’m sure.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Eric, whatever you say. Just want her to know we’re here to look after her, all right?’

  Julia, caught between the rutting bucks vying for her attention, managed a neutral, ‘That’s very kind, thank you.’

  ‘No problem. Don’t get too attached to this one, though,’ Dylan said, gesticulating in Eric’s direction. ‘He might not be here for much longer.’

  Julia looked surprised at this unexpected tiding. ‘I didn’t know you were leaving, Eric?’

  Before the beleaguered journalist could respond, Dylan delivered his punch line. ‘Oh, yes. He’s go
ing to be a world famous author. Just like his namesake. Well, he will be when he finds someone to take him on.’

  ‘All very amusing, Dylan, but we do have to get on if that’s OK with you?’ said Eric, who had evidently heard all of this before.

  ‘Laters,’ Dylan said as he sauntered off, hands in pockets, pleased as punch at his own rapier-like wit.

  Eric slowly shook his head. She could tell he wasn’t pleased. ‘That was Dylan, or to give him his full name, Dylan Dylan, head of the sales department. A man who is not shy at coming forward, but you’d probably worked that out for yourself.’

  ‘He’s rather young for that position, isn’t he?’ It was a fair question.

  ‘Well, the powers that be have deemed that he’s some sort of wunderkind, a super salesman who can persuade the hard-pressed advertisers of the region to continue to pour their money into our circulation-crippled craft. Personally, I don’t quite see it, but then I’m not making those sort of decisions.’

  ‘I can see he’s self-assured. I suppose that must be an asset in sales?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose the suspension of disbelief must be as beneficial in sales as it is in the theatre. Just different stages, that’s all.’

  ‘And he’s really called Dylan Dylan?’

  ‘Yes. Parents with a sense of humour, perhaps, or an unstinting dedication to Robert Zimmerman. Or maybe just lacking a scintilla of imagination. Probably the latter as it appears to run in the family.’

  Dylan’s brief appearance prompted a further question in Julia’s mind, but she wasn’t too sure how to broach it. ‘What was that he said about you writing a book? Was he just teasing?’

  Eric sighed. Bloody Dylan, bloody DD, bloody snake oil merchant, taking the mick out of him since he’d discovered that he’d written a book. ‘Dylan has a very perverse sense of humour, but yes, that bit is true. I have written a book, and it’s currently out with agents for their consideration. It’s early days yet, so I won’t be disappearing just yet. Probably ever, in fact.’

  Julia looked admiringly at Eric. Not only an eminent business news editor, but an author as well. ‘Can I read it, or is it still secret? What’s it called? What genre?’

  Despite feeling flattered Eric noted that he would have to teach her a little about interview techniques. ‘That’s a lot of questions, Julia. Best to line them up rather than launch a fusillade. But yes, let me see. It’s called Scrub Me Till I Shine in the Dark, it’s a coming of age novel set in the north, and I’m afraid that it’s not for general consumption just at this point. No offence.’

  ‘Oh, I understand. Sorry to be cheeky in asking. A friend of mine is writing a book and she’s exactly the same.’

  ‘Quite. It’s important to be sure you’ve reached the point where you’re ready to share it. Only my wife, Victoria, has read it to date.’

  ‘Well, when you’re ready, I’ll be in the queue.’

  ‘Very good. Now, Julia, shall we get back to this story? Deadlines to meet and all that.’

  As Eric briefed her on how many words he wanted on the exciting news that a new industrial estate was to open next to Manchester Airport, Julia couldn’t help but reflect how befitting it was that a man blessed with such a name as his should have also written a novel. Had he adopted a nom de plume for his book she wondered, but realised that now was not the time to ask. If he had, it certainly wouldn’t be a name as daft as Dylan Dylan. This was quite an introduction to the world of newspapers. And as for sharing with Eric the fact that she, too, had already written a novel, well, perhaps that was best kept for another time.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Survival of the fittest. Kill or be killed. Right?’ Emily nodded – she looked as if she got Rocket’s general drift. It was a different kind of language to what she was used to hearing during her rise up the Franklin & Pope ladder. Those days seemed far off now, like a memory of an idyllic summer once the harsh winter had set in, a faint echo of a carefree time now lost forever. Had those days really happened or were they a figment of her imagination? Ever since Colophon had taken over the business it had been hell for Emily and her colleagues – their new masters marched to a different beat and appeared to view the staff and ethos they’d inherited with deep disdain and distrust. There had already been a number of staff defections to other publishers but for someone like Emily, near the top of the tree, she had to be careful over her next move. She didn’t want to take a salary cut by going to a smaller business yet positions at her level were thin on the ground and generally a question of ‘dead man’s shoes’. A year ago the most important part of her job was picking critical winners, getting them to market and burnishing the reputation of her employer. Her workmates looked up to her and sought her opinion on authors, budgets, manuscripts and marketing. She was respected, revered almost. Now, she was a profit centre. Accountancy had overtaken advocacy. She once thought of herself as having the best job in the world and gambolled into work each day. She was known for her energy, her judgement, her experience and her unerring eye. Now she woke up in the middle of the night, worry gnawing at her unconsciousness like a rat chewing on a Tommy’s toes in the First World War trenches. And the first casualty of this particular war was her self-confidence. A large conglomerate like Colophon swallowing their business would have been difficult at any time but for Emily the timing couldn’t have been worse coming as it did in the immediate wake of Demons Paint Their Lips. At Franklin & Pope, and within the UK publishing industry as a whole, Emily’s deadeye for talent was well regarded – she could pick winners. She was the golden girl. All the more surprising then when she punted big and lost on an erotic pot-boiler with artistic pretensions – ‘erogenous nonsense and insensibility’ as one critic dubbed it. She wasn’t the only editor in this particular boat – after the ridiculous success of ‘that book’ every publisher had rushed to cash in on an already aroused readership. It was just unfortunate for Emily that she took the biggest gamble of them all when she trumped all bids for Demons Paint Their Lips (or, as it was now known out of her earshot at Franklin & Pope, 250,000 Shades of Red in acknowledgement of the unprecedented deficit it had earned). If Colophon hadn’t entered the picture at that juncture she would have got over the misjudgement, put it down to experience, relied on her overall record. One mistake in a hundred isn’t bad. To her and Franklin & Pope it would have been an acceptable risk, an aberration. Instead, to Colophon and the redoubtable Rocket, it was a cudgel to beat her brains out with, an albatross she was constantly forced to sport around her neck.

  ‘So that’s why we’re taking a different tack, Emily. We’re going to get our retaliation in first.’

  What on earth is Rocket talking about? thought Emily. She was nervous in any case having been peremptorily summoned to this one-to-one without having been advised of the purpose of the meeting. ‘Sorry? I don’t quite follow.’

  ‘The market is changing, right? So we’re going to change too. Big advances are cutting our margins. We’re spending too much on marketing. Amazon is bleeding us. E-readers have reduced our product to bargain basement pricing. So what do we do?’

  A wave of panic came over Emily. He was asking her what they should do? Of course, he wasn’t remotely interested in her views as he’d already made up his mind what they were going to do – he was merely testing her. ‘Well, the market is going through profound change, that’s true, and it’s something all publishers are facing, not just us…’

  ‘Yes, right, so here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to corner the market for new writers. Cut out the middleman and get directly to the talent. Everyone else is zigging, we’re going to zag.’

  Emily couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Take on new writers directly, without agents?’

  ‘Sure. That’s a fifteen per cent swing right there. Plus, we can negotiate deals new writers will salivate over and make even more savings.’

&n
bsp; ‘But, isn’t there a quality issue here? I mean, agents have a vital role to play in terms of talent spotting, sorting the wheat from the chaff.’

  ‘They don’t do anything you guys can’t do.’

  ‘But they help to guide the writer, and edit work before it comes to us.’

  ‘Edit? Remind me again what your title is, Emily? Editor. So edit – it’s simple.’

  ‘Agents are a filter for us. If they weren’t there, we’d have writers sending work to us directly; we’d be swamped.’

  ‘So you think a publisher shouldn’t have anything to do with new writers? I thought you Brits were traditionalists? You should be pleased at this new direction.’

  Emily knew she had to be careful. She had to argue her point of course, but constructively. What she couldn’t afford to do was look like she was in total disagreement with Rocket’s radical plan. ‘How do you see it working? I mean, how will we position it?’

  ‘We set up a new imprint. We encourage agentless writers to apply. We run new writer competitions, we put more resource into the slush pile – a couple of interns, won’t cost anything – and we find some winners.’

  ‘Yes, I can see where you’re coming from, but we’ll be wading through an awful lot of garbage.’

  ‘Wrong attitude, Emily. You’ll be sifting for gold is what you’ll be doing. Just because a writer doesn’t have an agent doesn’t make him or her a bad author. All writers have to start somewhere – the only problem is we pick them up by the time they’ve added a few noughts to their price. We’re going to grow our own with this little diversification, that’s what we – or rather you – are going to do.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yup. I’m putting you in charge of all of this.’

  ‘But what about my writer portfolio?’

  ‘It’s a lot smaller than it was, Emily, so you can juggle both for the time being. We’ll slide a few more of your authors out to other editors if the squeeze is too tight. This is a big opportunity, Emily. I’m putting all of my hopes on you to make it a success. I know you can do it.’