Jorge Luis Borges
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Jorge Luis Borges's ghost materializes in my home library.
"I imagined libraries that contain every possible book ever written," he says, examining my shelves.
Me: "Mine just has overdue returns from 2019."
Borges, nodding slowly: "Also infinite."
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Editor called. Urgent. "Chapter 8 has to go." "Why? What's wrong with it?" "Nothing." "Then why delete it?" "It's the only good chapter." "That's... a reason to KEEP it." "It's making the others look bad." Long pause. "We should discuss chapter 8's salary."
Writing workshop. Third revision. Instructor reads my chapter. "It's missing something." "Character depth?" "No." "Tension?" "No." "Symbolism?" "Add a dog." "Why?" "So you can kill it in chapter 12." "I don't want to kill a—" "Do you want to be published or not?"
Manuscript stolen from my apartment. Called police. Filed report. Two weeks later, detective showed up. "We recovered your property." "You found the thief?" "We found your manuscript." "Wonderful! Where was it?" "In evidence. We all read it." He placed it on the table. "We're returning it." "Any leads on the burglar?" "Ma'am, we found nothing of value at the crime scene."
Query sent: January. Response: December. Full text of response: "Pass." Four letters. Twelve months. Ratio: Three letters per quarter. Efficient agency. Respecting everyone's time.
"Your opening needs a hook." Added hook. "Not a literal— why is chapter one entirely about fishing?" "You said hook." "Metaphorical hook." "Page two is about metaphors. Also fishing metaphors."
Author bio: "Lives with cat." Cat's version: "I live alone. He exists nearby. Occasionally brings food. Acceptable arrangement. Will not be acknowledging him in my memoir."