The Invention of Clay McKenzie

By Ed Teja and J. Reid Beckett

All she needs is an author!

Stephanie Masters has exactly what she needs to make her mark in publishing as an editor. She has found a writer who has written a great book and is writing more. But he is a recluse and there is no way he can promote his book--she needs an author, a charismatic person she can put in front of the world.

With the help of friends, she begins a project, creating what she doesn't have. But overwhelming success brings its own problems and her world spins out of control in ways she could never have imagined possible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Float Street Press
• Release date: Nov 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386882169

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

AS STEPHANIE MASTERS CAME OUT OF THE BEDROOM she pulled the door shut slowly until she heard the soft click of the latch. Not that it was necessary for her to be quiet. After they made love, Pablo inevitably fell asleep soundly enough to ignore a world war.

She pulled the belt of her robe tightly against the chill in the living room and went to the side table where she poured a glass of red wine. Crossing to the couch where she had left the stack of manuscripts she had brought home to read, she carefully placed the wine on the end table, looked at the pile of paper and sighed.

Stephanie was finding it increasingly hard to fall asleep at night, these days. Not that anything troubled her; in fact things were pretty damn good. No, it was more that nothing especially good was going on. She had been working in the publishing world for two years and her company seemed to scarcely know she existed. Okay, it wasn't like struggling to get out of the mailroom, but working as a junior editor had a lot in common with being in a closet. Once in a great while, someone would open her door and toss work in, and that was most of her interaction with the exciting world of book publishing. The only time she got much feedback was when she screwed up and at review time.

It was depressing to think that life could stay that way until you grew old. The only hope of promotion was if someone above her died, and even then there would be a dozen well-educated, eager junior editors competing for the job. Print publishing was going through tough times on the editorial side, even if the companies were raking in the money from the new digital media.

So her spirits were down and tonight, as on many nights, she needed something to occupy her while the wine made her sleepy. Her eyes went to the pile of manuscripts from the slush pile she had brought home from the office. Often as not, they did the trick. It still amazed her how bad so many of these unagented submissions could be. Some seemed as if they were just thrown together or the writer had never read a book and didn't know how to write one. Every publisher received tons of them and most felt obligated to have someone read them, or at least see if they were readable. Naturally, the task fell to junior editors and outside readers. At least the outside readers got paid to read the manuscripts and write opinions. All Steph got for the extra effort was the soporific and the depressingly fading hope that she would discover a gem, jump-starting her climb to the top at Icon Publishing.

Taking a sip of the wine, she put the glass on the table, tucked her feet up under her robe and reached for the stack of manuscripts.

She sighed again, resigning herself to the pain of another unreadable piece of trash, and then picked up the first manuscript. Lifelong Love, the title promised. She flipped to the first page, read the first paragraph and dropped it on the floor beside the couch.

More like lifelong pain, she thought. She felt bad about not reading more, but just couldn’t bring herself to slog through another boring paragraph.

She picked up the next envelope and hefted it. The manuscript was long. A bad sign, she thought. Before she'd read a word, the heft of the manuscript made her wonder how much attention the author paid to the books that were selling these days. Long was for blockbuster authors with marketable names.

Steph tore open the envelope and slid out the title page and cover letter, tossing the cover letter onto the glass top of the coffee table unread. There was no point to reading the cover letter unless the book had promise. She didn't care why the author wrote the book, or how many years he or she had read books published by the publishing house; such was the nonsense she found in cover letters. No, cover letters were mostly for secretaries, who read them to find out where to return the manuscript along with an impersonal rejection slip.

She took a quick look at the title and grimaced. Strike two. The good news was that she probably wouldn't have to read more than of couple of pages of this one either. She wasn't getting sleepy, but she would make a significant dent in the slush pile. Maybe someone would notice that for her next review.

She focused on the page. At least it was formatted right, double spaced, used a nice font and the page had nice margins. She took a sip of wine, tucked her robe tightly around her cold feet, and began reading.

ARE YOU PLANNING TO read all night? Pablo's voice jolted her from her reverie. She looked up at the digital clock Pablo had hung on the wall that gave the time in the capital cities of six countries. The New York display said three AM. Pablo had assured her it was as accurate as clocks got, but it was hard to believe. The night owls are headed for their roosts, he said.

She grimaced. Her wine was untouched; she was halfway through the manuscript and the story buzzed inside her. The author was playing with her emotions, teasing her, arousing her interest with words the way a fisherman worked a fly on the water. He lured her from the comfortable depths of the cold stream toward the surface. Pablo’s interruption shattered the mood, but the author had already set the hook. Stephanie knew she would have no trouble returning to this story later. I lost track of time, she said. I only planned to read for a few minutes.

I thought so.

She looked over and saw her lover standing in the doorway to the bedroom, naked. He grinned, and said, Here I am, happily having a delicious dream - about you I might add - and I half wake up thinking I should get you involved in my dream, as it is very sexy, and I reach for you, but nope, the lady editor has gone back to the office.

She smiled an apology, feeling foolish. I started reading and lost track of time.

No problem, he said, scratching his head. Hello! Update from the bedroom for Stephanie Masters; it is now the middle of the frigging night in Manhattan.

Pablo, this book is good. Very good. It’s amazing how the author brings his characters to life.

I'm so happy, he said. I think I can hardly stand it.

There really is no need for sarcasm.

So, in the morning, you can take this book to the office and tell your company to publish it. As I understand things, that is what they do.

Sometimes they do. She grinned. They've been known to put out a book or two.

And whether or not this particular book is published will make no difference in your life, will it?

What do you mean?

You are a corporate employee, working hard to earn money on your own time for the company. Finding your share of good books isn't going to do much for you, except perhaps push you a bit up the editorial ladder. Right?

But it would make my life nicer to have this book to edit, instead of some celebrity autobiography one of the hacks cranked out.

If they let you edit it, he said.

She considered his words. That is a point. There isn't any guarantee that Mr. Craft would assign it to me. It depends on the work load as much as anything.

So you will help this author get discovered on your own time, not to mention mine, and for what? The satisfaction of finding a good book.

She shrugged. That is one way of putting it, I suppose.

He laughed. And is there another way of putting it? Obviously I know little about publishing, but in my world a smart person does whatever it takes to put a deal together as long as the return is worth it—if the juice isn't worth the squeeze, then you drop it like a hot rock. In your world, it seems that those who have the least to gain do all the work, and that is, to coin a word, fucked. You are too smart to play that game for long.

Publishing is an odd business. People get into it because they love books, and enjoy the publishing process.

Is your love of books greater than your concern for yourself? It seems to me it is a vicarious way to go about things. You get the dog work and not the glamour.

I have to learn to play the game before I can figure out a better way to go about things.

Pablo sighed and threw up his hands. Okay. I give. What kind of book is it anyway? he asked. Is it good erotica or something worthwhile like that?

I'd call it a contemporary Western mystery.

Is that a real genre?

She laughed. No, not really, but that is what it is.

And what I am, Stephanie, is horny and grouchy. Now come to bed and let me bring you up to date on the great sex scene that was in my head and see if we can make that come alive.

Reluctantly, she put the manuscript down. Fortunately, she was between chapters, and feeling quite sexy herself, although she doubted Pablo would like it if she told him it was the protagonist of the book that got her hot.

She looked longingly at the pages on the coffee table, wanting to know what comes next, how the story played out. A good sign. She sighed. I'll come to bed now and finish this in the morning.

Thank you, he said. That would be splendid.

You don't do irony well, she said.

Does it pay better than being grumpy?

She got up and stretched in a languid motion that seemed sultry. I would imagine that that depends on the kind of payment you require, sir.

Oh, the type is negotiable, he said. She walked up and opened her arms to him. As she slid her arms around his neck, he opened her robe and then touched her breast. Your opening offer is tempting, he said, and the naked body under this robe matches my dream sequence well. I think we can easily come to some sort of mutually satisfactory agreement.

She sighed as he ran his hands over bare skin, making her tingle with delight. She moved closer to him and kissed him, and then he led her back to their bed.

WHEN THE MORNING CAME, with bright sunlight and alarm clocks and Pablo switching on the stock market news on his computer, Stephanie groggily put on coffee, fixed a bowl of cereal and sat at the kitchen counter eating. Pablo blew through the room, fresh from the shower. Breakfast meeting with some big guys, he said vaguely, kissed her and went out the door. In short, it was a normal morning. She wondered if he ever met with little people. Probably not, Pablo wasn't into people who didn't have money, or looks, or both.

She was running late. She looked longingly at the unfinished manuscript, then went for her cell phone to call the department secretary. Tilly, she said, if anyone is looking for me, I will be working at home this morning. Give them this number if anything important comes up.

Wish I could work at home, Tilly said. Of course I doubt the company would like the sound of my kids screaming as backdrop.

It would be better than the inane corporate hold music, Steph laughed.

Fortunately, I never have to hear it.

This morning it is Rolling Stones ringtones.

Argh! Anyway, message noted. Have a lovely sweaty morning in bed.

This is legit, Tilly. The boyfriend went off to work leaving me alone with a manuscript.

Tilly sighed. Life kinda sucks sometimes, don't it Stephanie?

When she hung up, she poured a second cup of coffee and carried it back to the couch, then sat down and picked up the manuscript. It drew her in quickly, as if she had not deserted it earlier. She intended to take notes, but found herself reading it straight through. When she finished, she took a deep breath and realized two important things:

The book was as good as they got; the writing held up all the way through, and

Her coffee was cold

Any book that made her forget about both wine and coffee was definitely a good read.

But what next? The obvious thing was to prepare a standard first reader report. With a good recommendation, the book would be sent to a second reader. And then, and then...?

And what about her own role? She hated to admit it, but Pablo's words stung. He was incredibly successful and she knew he had a reputation for playing by his own rules. That made him hard to best in business and exciting as a lover. His creativity was tied up in the development of Pablo, the envy of many. Not that his face was known. He was a behind the scenes person, and only the movers and shakers were aware of him. He was invited in on a range of business deals and so asking him what business he was in only produced a smile. The business of business, he liked to say.

And so, his disdain for her work hurt.

She picked up her phone and called the office again, this time entering the number for her boss’s office. Naturally, Rose, his secretary answered with her typical no-nonsense briskness, as if being polite was inefficient, which she considered a rank perversion.

Can you get me an appointment with Mr. Craft for tomorrow morning sometime? It's about a book he will want to know about she asked.

She knew that Harley Craft's secretary was wary of the enthusiasm of the young people who worked for him. Everyone hoped to become Craft's protégé, although she knew that no one had managed it yet. So they came to him with their ideas for reorganization, innovations, and even for help with personal problems. Rose guarded the publisher’s citadel jealously, making sure that anyone wanting a slice of the great man must have a valid reason. She made it clear that she was granting a large favor when she grudgingly made an appointment. It was even worse now that the rumor that Harley Craft was first in line for the recently vacant position of CEO of Icon had begun circulating. It was probably true as it seemed that he was spending more time studying business summaries and spreadsheets these days than he did managing his editorial staff.

That sort of thing is handled by reader reports, Rose said gruffly.

This is a very special book, Stephanie said firmly.

Then the report you turn in to Mr. Craft will be glowing and it will be fast tracked for a second opinion, the woman said firmly. Now is there anything else?

I guess not, she said and heard Rose hang up.

The rebuff was irritating. How the hell were you supposed to excel? Why would you do more than you were asked if you couldn't even tell anyone about it? The idea made Pablo's attitude that she should be looking out more for her own welfare easier to take. If the company wasn't interested in her insights, if they didn't want to know that she had found a truly commercial book, then it might be time for her to find a way to, as Pablo suggested, deal herself into the project. If there was anything she could do to see that this book got published, if there were a way she could use her editorial expertise to take it the final few yards, she wanted to find it. What could she do? What could she offer?

The questions spun slowly through her mind for a time, but they cast off no clear answers. Something would come, she knew, but apparently she was on her own. Okay, I'll call the author and see what he expects, what he can do, she said out loud. Wanting to prepare her thoughts for the call, she scribbled some notes on the cover letter.

1. Needs marketing plan

2. Chief competitors?

3. Needs elevator pitch

4. Needs an outline

5. Need author information—previous publication credits, background...

Keep with the basics, she told herself. Don't give him too much to do. Maybe he has done some of it already. After a moment, she added a line to the list.

6. Any other unpublished books completed or in progress?

Satisfied that she had her thoughts clear, she had one other task to take care of. On her first reading, she had tripped over a couple of scenes. She would have to read the manuscript a couple more times and find those places again, identify the problems and have solutions to suggest.

There were undoubtedly a few other things in the book that could be, should be improved as well. Today she would work on that as she reread the manuscript. When she was ready, she would call this unknown author, find out who Clay McKenzie was and how he, with her help, could launch an assault on the bestseller lists. Once the book was perfect and the author indebted to her, if Icon wanted in on the deal, she would make sure it would be on her terms.

And fuck you, Rose, she snapped over her shoulder at the cradled phone.

She picked up the manuscript and began reading again, this time with her editorial hat on. As she read she scribbled hasty, almost illegible notes on a yellow legal pad, and marked places in the manuscript with blue and green sticky notes.

Too bad you aren't on disk, she told the manuscript. It would be so easy to just turn on the track changes function and start editing.

She picked up her red felt tip pen and stared at it balefully. What was it with authors and paper anyway? Text files made editing, and therefore life, so much easier.

She looked at the manuscript for a few moments and let out a long sigh. I can’t work this way, she muttered.

She picked up the manuscript and took it into Pablo’s small office. She switched on the scanner, put the first fifty pages in the sheet feeder and set it for optical character recognition. Inserting a thumb drive in the machine she selected it as the destination and hit the start button. Chew on that for me, she said. I’ve got a couple hundred more just like them when you finish this batch.

As she watched the scanner convert the typed pages into characters and send them to a text file, she shuddered at the thought that her sparkling new author might be as much of a dinosaur as her boss, Harley Craft.

CHAPTER TWO

He felt as though the room was sucking all the air out of his lungs. The furniture began to sway and the walls seemed to bounce closer with every beat of his heart.

Are you still there, Mr. McKenzie? the voice was asking. Can you hear me?

He stared at the phone, unable to speak, not wanting to speak. The small portion of his mind that wasn't in sheer panic mode remembered the exercises. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing.

Deep breaths. No, no. Deep, slooow breaths, he coached himself. Relax and breathe.

After a minute that seemed to last an eternity the world began to come back into focus. The furniture stopped moving and air eased back into the room. It dawned on him that she was waiting for his response; she expected him to say something.

Umm, yes, Ms. Masters. I heard you. I'm sorry. I had to stop and think for a minute.

I wondered if the connection was lost or something, Mr. McKenzie. You seemed to just go away. Anyway, I hope now that you see that although the manuscript is very interesting as it is, we need to get to work on these other items. After all, we all want the same thing here—for you to have a successful book. It is a combination of art and business.

Yes, of course, he said abruptly, wanting to end this conversation before the demons returned. He didn't want to freeze up and be unable to function. He needed to find an answer for her, something he could say that wasn't absolutely moronic. She liked the book, he told himself. Keep in mind that she liked it. He knew what he wanted to say, but that would kill his dream before it was born. He needed to stall, to get some time to think. He needed a way to deal with what she was telling him.

But how?

I understand what you are saying, Ms. Masters, he said, speaking slowly and carefully, keeping his voice even. I am delighted that you like the book, naturally, but all of these other things, well, I had no idea that they were needed. I am a writer, and I have to digest this other material. You have given me a lot to think about.

Why don't we just go through the list, Mr. McKenzie, and talk about what each involves. Perhaps I can help you with some of it.

We can talk about this more later. I have to think a bit. Right now, I have to hang up; someone's at the door. I don't want to keep them waiting for whatever they are waiting for. Thanks for calling.

Without waiting to hear her goodbye, or worse, an objection to postponing the inevitable conversation, he carefully placed the receiver on the cradle and leaned back into the soft brown leather of his chair letting his cheek sag against the headrest. The chair embraced him. This chair understood. It had shared the long hours of work, the joys and frustrations. It had comforted him when the ideas refused to come, or take meaningful shape. Now it held him soothingly as the world tossed yet another of what seemed to be a never-ending series of bombshells that were exploding in his face.

Things are never as easy as they should be, even if you try to do them correctly. Who had told him that? It had been a long time ago. He didn't think it had been Helen. She didn't say that sort of quotable thing often; besides certainly he would remember it being her if she had. Maybe some teacher had said it. Whoever they were, they were damn right and until now, he hadn't really noticed.

"Maybe you never tried so hard to do something correctly before," his inner voice suggested, and he thought there might be some merit in that simple thought. Truth was often simple—very simple. And the truth now was that he hadn't one single idea of what he would or could do next.

It would be half an hour before he was able to get up. Even then, he wasn't sure he should have.

THAT NIGHT STEPHANIE told Pablo about the phone call she had made to McKenzie. I don't understand why the things I told him came as a surprise, she said.

So you are saying that this author freaked out when you told him you needed a business plan for marketing the book and an analysis of books it competes with?

Those are the big ones, and I mentioned some other things as well. But that's about it. I don't mean that he went crazy or anything, it was more like he collapsed. He sounded overwhelmed. After we hung up I seriously considered calling 911 and reporting a heart attack.

Pablo smiled. You are surprised that he didn't know that stuff? He sat next to her on the couch, leaning back. He watched her closely and Steph sighed. His sharp insightful gaze was one of his most striking features. It gave him power. He seldom spoke before thinking through what he said, which sometimes frustrated her. She was used to a rapid-fire give and take in talking to her friends and people at work. When she had met Pablo, she had found his way of speaking attractively different; living with him it sometimes drove her through the roof, especially when she wanted his honest reaction and not his considered opinion. He tried to keep his spontaneous reactions to himself.

It is just common sense things, Stephanie said. The writer has to make his book an attractive proposition for the publisher to consider it, and without some of that, how do we know that we can sell it?

Pablo laughed. Yet for two days you've been telling me that this book will sell shit loads.

She winced. It is one thing to convince editors. But if the sales staff doesn’t sign off on it, it won't get published.

To be fair to your cowboy writer, he said, I wouldn't have known that publishers need all that stuff either. And I certainly wouldn't expect to have to plan on doing all, or most, of the marketing myself. If I sent a manuscript to a publisher, I'd think of the process as similar to that when an engineer develops a new product. Someone has identified a need, he comes up with a product to meet that need, and then the company takes over, doing the packaging and marketing. He scratched his head. But you guys expect your product designer to develop and execute the marketing plan?

Sure. Why wouldn't they? They get paid royalties, so the more books we sell, the more they make.

Pablo laughed. I think I am in the wrong business. What is it that Icon does for its share of the money, which I presume is significant?

Editing, cover design, printing, distribution, and advertising.

Pablo tapped his fingers on his chin. Let me think about this. You go open that nice bottle of wine I brought home today.

As Stephanie got the wine, Pablo took out a note pad and scribbled. You know, there isn't anything in that list of things Icon does you gave me that I couldn't have done for either a percentage of the profit or small cash outlay.

What do you mean?

Think about the engineer I mentioned. Maybe instead of turning in his design, he starts a business. To keep outlay down, he simply gives pieces of the action to other people. So if Icon said they liked my book but they expected me to do all that, my take would be that I might as well start a publishing business for myself. He pointed to the notepad. Consider the editing. You tell me that you work so hard because there are dozens of good editors waiting to take your job if you don't. That tells me that it wouldn't cost much to hire one to edit my book, or perhaps I could find one to do it for a percentage. The same goes for cover designers. I work with graphic artists all the time. Some are great and creative, but none of them are that expensive compared to full-time employees. You can print the book with print-on-demand, which eliminates the need for up-front capital and I read that some of those companies will do the distribution for you. So an author should be asking: what does Icon bring to the party? If I were you I’d tell the guy that you will publish it yourself. He scratched some figures on the pad. I'd guess the entire thing could be done for $20,000 without you doing a thing. Toss in a bit more for promotion and marketing if you think you need to but I’d bet there are a lot of excellent companies that would do that for a monthly retainer.

Stephanie handed him a glass of wine and sat beside him. She sipped her wine and considered her words. It's hard to explain, Pablo, but there is a cachet in being published by one of the old line houses like Icon. It might not be more profitable but the author gains prestige. It works for an editor too. If I am a freelance editor, even if I call myself a publisher, I might as well say bum as far as many are concerned in this industry. With Icon, even as a junior editor I have some clout.

"I think that means that you get clout in an industry that has lost its balls. They aren't investing in anything that isn't guaranteed to provide a steady return, which