The Critic

Yes, as a matter of fact I have looked over your manuscript. Intriguing ideas you possess, I must say. Unfortunately I'm forced to turn it down for publication. It is far too dark and dreary for our standards. The modern reader wants to be uplifted, not submerged in an abyss of hopelessness and despair. Your characters are unbelievable and devoid of personality, with no psychological depth. The plot, if indeed it has one, meanders all over the place, your metaphors are ridiculous, there are loose ends everywhere. There isn't even a proper ending—it just trails off as though you grew tired of writing it and simply gave up. Your use of surrealism is irresponsible. I have no doubt you have a very rich dream life, but just because something is vivid in your head doesn't mean it translates onto the page. People want stories they can identify with, that inspire them, empower them, reaffirm their moral values. Stories that restore their faith in humanity. Your story does none of these things.

What I suggest you do, rather than submerge yourself further in this sort of gloomy weirdness, is set up a cozy little workspace for yourself—by a window if possible, with lots of sunlight, maybe a nice little plant to make it feel cheery—and try coming up with something a little more uplifting, with likeable characters, and most importantly a good solid plot. That's your backbone, you know. That's what carries the reader along.

And for heaven's sake, take this godforsaken manuscript home and burn it at once. It is simply unpublishable. You have talent as a writer, I grant you that—but I might as well tell you, so long as you keep writing this sort of muddled nonsense, you will never make a profession of it. You may as well find yourself a more reliable position in the insurance business and save yourself a lot of grief.

Now I'm afraid I must send you on your way—my time is valuable, you see, and I have a rather pressing engagement I must attend to. Please help yourself to a breathmint on the desk. That's what they're there for.

Err, Lena, can you step into my office for a moment. Yes, would you be a dear and please escort Mr Kafka to the elevator?

Thatta girl...