“His prose?”

“wonderful, piquant”

“Sentence structure, syntax, use of colloquialisms?”

“The entire body…of his work…is chopped…a little hard to digest but deliciously robust narrative nonetheless.”

“You really have been spending a lot of time on your food blog, huh?”

“Platform is everything these days Bascombe. How are plans coming for tonight’s get-together.”

“Oh, you know, the usual drama and complaining, of course. It wouldn’t be a literary circle event if someone wasn’t bitching about someone or sticking the knife in somebody’s back. It’s all part of the fun and games, I suppose. You’re part of the scene long enough and nothing surprises you. These writers though– continue to show even poorer taste if I do say so. This latest one– couldn’t have been any more impertinent really. You shepherd them through “the process”–you offer them immortality and you give them a chance to be sampled by the true arbiters of the literary intelligentsia and do you receive any form of gratitude from them whatsoever–hardly.”

“I know Bascombe- they are truly the basest of all creatures. All ego and no talent. Insecurity and hubris. They grab and cloy and never once realize that they are not special in the slightest. They are simply the current flavor of the month.”

“This new one was the worst I tell you– he thought he was born with a gift of some sort. You know the type. He had no time to “play the game” as he would call it. No time for foolish submission guidelines or petty protocols.”

“Can you imagine?”

“Yes…he really did say that.”

“Didn’t he realize that those submission guidelines and protocols that he mocked were instituted centuries ago to keep out the dreck and the unwashed masses who claim to be writers?”

“If we did not maintain standards or a threshold, then there would be nothing but a giant puddle of dung surrounded by flies.”

“And by flies you mean, of course, aspiring writers”

“Of course.”

“So who shall we expect at tonight’s heavenly soiree?”

“Oh, all the usual suspects- the staff from Creative House including the illustrious Madame B and her devilish young ingénues all dressed in high fashion like Dorothy Parker clones, all the top literary lights, bloggers and buggerers…some glitterati, musical theater friends, a surprise or two –expect the usual standing room only.”

“Lovely, lovely– are they all going to be pulling this new fellow apart to get at him?”

“Mmm…there should be enough of him to go around….when last we spoke he impressed me with his big personality.“

“So how did you handle the particulars?”

“Per usual…he signed his rights over to us for the novel etc, etc..for the standard minor advance.”

“Did you make him jump through hoops?”

“Of course.”

“And dance like a chicken with his head cut off.”

“Naturally”

“And he didn’t read the fine print on the contract?”

” They never do—do they?”

“That’s right, so eager they are for that small advance and for that sweet taste of fame.”

” They never have time for contracts or submission guidelines or petty protocols…”

“They never do.”

” Even when it says very clearly in black and white.”

” Upon the occasion of my death, all rights to my novel revert back to Bascombe Wellington & Associates.”

“Speaking of which…how’s your famous “writer-stew” coming along?”

“Should be the hit of the party –as always.”

“Bascombe, you are a cheeky devil.”

“Thanks, old friend–be a good fellow and pass me a fresh sprig of rosemary will you..and could you toss these left over metacarpals into the incinerator–I have a feeling he won’t be needing them anymore”

“Quite right…. you incorrigible old rascal, you.”