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Darren Van Osten took a sip of tea, trying to figure out how to convince his editing client that twelve exclamation marks on one page, even in a thriller novel, were at least eleven exclamation marks too many.
It had been years since Darren had had to deal with these kinds of amateur faux pas. He had been spoiled by the fact that until the previous year, almost all his editing work had been for Jock Quine’s Robert Wolfram thrillers. Jock had probably used fewer than twelve exclamation marks across the entire series—he had more sophisticated means of keeping a reader’s attention.
And it wasn’t only Jock’s talent as a writer that had spoiled Darren; Darren had also become way too accustomed to the generous salary Jock provided. When Harrison & John had first picked up the Wolfram thrillers, Darren worked for the publishing house, and Jock Quine was one of a number of H & J authors to whom he was assigned. But after the success of the first few books in the series, Jock hired Darren away from H & J to work for him full-time. In fact, the salary Jock provided had enabled Darren to drop most of his freelance clients as well.
Now Darren was regretting having put all his financial eggs in the Jock Quine basket.
As he did periodically—but with decreasing frequency—he tapped jock quine tamaston into his browser and scanned the results. There was nothing within the last month, and the most recent news article had barely more information than the first articles about Jock’s death, ten months earlier.
Jock Quine, author of the enormously popular Robert Wolfram thrillers, was gunned down in his Princeton home, Tamaston. It appears that Quine might have surprised a burglar, since his collection of ivory figurines, valued at several hundred thousand dollars, is missing.
At the time the break-in was estimated to have taken place, Jock Quine’s son, Alec Quine, author of legal thrillers, was attending an event in New York City hosted by their mutual publisher, Harrison & John. Also in attendance at the event was Jock Quine’s editor, Darren Van Osten.
H & J had been panic-stricken at the prospect of the Wolfram series cash spigot shutting off. They had appealed to Jock’s son Alec, whose legal thrillers they published, to take over the series. Alec agreed, and H & J had contracted with Darren to shepherd Alec through the transition to a more action-oriented genre.
Alec wasn’t a bad writer—at least he didn’t try to enliven his prose with exclamation points—but Darren wasn’t having much luck redirecting Alec’s focus from the crafting of nuanced, if fictional, legal arguments to the gun fights, chase scenes, and seductions that Jock’s readers expected. Darren’s faith that the bookish Alec could hold Jock’s devoted fan base was dwindling. He sensed that H & J shared his doubts, and that they placed the blame at Darren’s door. Their most recent email to Darren had included a reminder that Jock’s fans expected a new Robert Wolfram adventure every six months, and that the three years it had taken Alec to pen each of his legal thrillers wouldn’t cut it. Couldn’t Darren hurry Alec along?
Alec was not to be hurried, and if Darren didn’t rebuild his client base—and quickly—it wouldn’t mean just missing out on some of the perks of working on the Wolfram thrillers, such as the 1979 Ford F-150 that he had bought with the bonus Jock had given him when sales of the series hit ten million. It would mean selling that pickup and downsizing to an even more modest apartment. It might mean relocating to a place with an even lower cost of living than Wilmington, Delaware, and losing the benefit of being able to hop on the train and be in the mecca of the publishing universe, New York City, in less than two hours. Losing that access would make it even more difficult to find new clients. He was holding on to his professional standing by a thread, and it wouldn’t take much to snap it.
He heaved a sigh, set his mug of tea aside, and began typing a note in the manuscript.
While I certainly agree that the scene is a thrilling one, it’s best to convey that not through the use of exclamation marks but
His laptop chimed with a notification, and he clicked over to email, grateful for the distraction.
The message was from the editor of Latent Prints magazine, Maude Solas.
Darren, I’m so happy to inform you that Latent Prints has nominated Lara Seaford’s Darkest Before Death for our best debut novel award!
His celebratory slap on his desk and pleased exclamation—“Excellent!”—set off a brief barking fit from the hypervigilant German Shepherd in the adjacent apartment.
Congratulations are in order for you as well as Ms. Seaford, since I know her first novel wouldn’t have reached such levels of sophistication and polish if it hadn’t been for your editorial ministrations.
Self-published novels generally don’t hit our radar screens, and I might have missed this one if it hadn’t been for that fabulous review by Egan Salier.
Darren smiled. He himself had brought Lara’s book to Salier’s attention. Then the smile faded. This ability to exert some influence in the publishing world was another thing he would lose, along with his livelihood, if he couldn’t drum up some more clients. But a nomination for best debut, even from a publication as modest as Latent Prints, would help attract some much-needed attention to his editorial services.
I’ve tried to find Miss Seaford’s contact information and have been unsuccessful. Might you have an email address I can use to reach her?
The two of you have certainly crafted a thrilling and compelling novel—an impressive debut indeed. I look forward to seeing what else might come from Miss Seaford’s pen (and your editing pencil).
Best,
Maude
P.S. Looking forward to seeing you at GothamCon!
Lara Seaford was Darren’s only client other than Alec Quine and the exclamation mark aficionado. H & J had all but said that if Darren couldn’t get Alec to produce more suitable material more quickly, they’d shift their focus to promoting a more viable heir apparent to Jock Quine’s dynasty. Might Lara Seaford be that heir apparent?
Her story had arrived on Darren’s desk a bit meandering, her plot points too overtly borrowed from other thrillers. However, it was her first novel; some issues were to be expected. And not only did she not skimp on gun fights, chase scenes, and seductions, but she had crafted a killer ending. In Darren’s few attempts at drafting a novel of his own, the endings had been his Achilles’ heel.
He reached over to the bookcase next to his desk, pulled out his copy of Darkest Before Death, and flipped it over to the author photo on the back cover. It showed a woman from the shoulders up, her face turned away so that the camera caught only dark hair pulled back in a fashionably messy bun, an intricately patterned silver hoop earring, and a deeply tanned cheek. It was all Darren had ever seen of his client—she didn’t even have a social media presence.
He put the book aside and tapped out a response to Maude.
I’m so thrilled to hear about the Latent Prints nomination! Lara has asked me not to share her contact information with anyone—there’s a true thriller novelist for you—but I’d be happy to forward your email on to her. Just let me know how you’d like me to proceed.
He sent the email and returned his attention to Lara’s author photo. She had proven to be a cooperative client—willing to heed the advice he dispensed via email—and Darren had been more pleased with the final manuscript than any save Jock’s. He was proud of the role he had played in bringing Darkest Before Death to fruition. From a more practical point of view, even if no one ever found out that ghostwriter might be a more accurate representation of his involvement than editor, a win by his client would be a valuable addition to his résumé. Latent Prints might not be the biggest name in the genre, but any nomination by a well-respected publication was helpful, and it might pave the way for bigger things … like a Best Debut nomination from GothamCon.
Darren had served as a volunteer supporting the GothamCon board for many years, mainly acting as a liaison to the conference speakers. It would be a thrill to be one of its honorees, even if only second-hand.
And if the reception of Darkest Before Death continued to be this favorable, might Lara be persuaded to write a second? For all Darren knew, a sequel might be drafted and awaiting his own editorial ministrations, as Maude had described his contribution. If anything would draw in clients more than award nominations or even wins, it would be a follow-up novel whose enthusiastic reception and sales matched that of the first.
