The Bastards of Hollybird

It’s very easy to kidnap somebody. I know. I did it, and got away with it.

It wasn’t for ransom, political reasons, or rape. Hell, I’m extremely wealthy, apolitical, and get serviced regularly by acrobatic call girls.

I did it to get satisfaction for receiving eight, preprinted, nondescript, 3 x 4 inch, generic rejection slips from those bastards at Hollybird Publishing.

I’d sent them eight magnificent novella manuscripts, and they didn’t have the damn decency to type or write a single word on their rejections. The preprinted slips they stuffed into my SASE were barely legible. Plus, they all said the same thing about my novellas not meeting their current needs. Jerks.

Before I ever dreamed of kidnapping, I was pretty happy-go-lucky. Money does that. At thirty-six, I’d seen it all, been everywhere, and done it all, but I had never written a best-seller. That shouldn’t have mattered, but one day, walking into a huge library, I noticed the mountain of books -- not a single one bore my name. The thought bugged me.

As new books were being added to library shelves everywhere, my frustration increased. To relieve my distress, I wrote eight sci-fi western novellas. Masterpieces. Followed every rule of fiction. My opening sentences had gripping hooks, the kind that knock your drawers off. My descriptions were divinely inspired. The dialog was crisp, dynamic, incredibly moving.

Self-publish or use the vanity press? Nope. Anybody can do that. I wanted my creations to bubble to the top due to sheer magnificence. I wanted to inspire, and change readers’ lives.

But all I got were crummy rejection slips.

Enough! I’d make them pay. Principle was involved.  I made a plan.

First, I added a 40 x 50 foot luxury bedroom and bath to my estate. Installed every convenience.

Then, a few calls to Hollybird identified Ms. Victoria Chubbs as Editor-in-Chief. I paid triple the going rate for a P.I. who’d keep secrets. I learned where Chubbs lived, dined, and shopped. White Plains. Tavern on the Green. Macy’s. But she’d bought groceries at Wal-Mart ten Sundays in a row.

That’s where I snatched her.

I locked her in the new bedroom.

When the chloroform wore off, she panicked. “Where am I? What’s going on? I wanna go home.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” I said gently over the intercom. “The bar’s full. Snacks are behind the bar. You’ll get gourmet meals. All your needs will be met scrupulously and respectfully. I’m not a rapist, or insane.”

“Please let me go.”

“After you complete certain tasks, I promise to release you unharmed, with twenty thousand dollars in your handbag. Make yourself at home. Look around. You’ll never rest your head in a more sumptuous room, or enjoy better food. Wait until you see the bathroom. Think of this as a vacation. A working vacation.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“In the desk are eight manuscripts. Each bears a rejection slip from Hollybird. Read all the manuscripts and write in longhand why they were rejected. Make suggestions for improvement. That’s all. Just that.”

“You gotta be kidding.”

“Nope. Dinner is at 7:00. Coq au Vin. I’ll serve it through the dumbwaiter by the bar. Meanwhile, have a drink to settle your nerves.”

She looked around warily. Hopefully the fabulous surroundings and the vodka she poured would help calm her.

The surveillance camera showed her heading for the bathroom.

“I guess you’re gonna watch,” she said.

“The bathroom’s surveillance-free. I’m not a voyeur.”

Later, she ran her hand down the beautiful marble columns and exquisite tapestries. She examined paintings, and toyed with the satellite radio. She watched CNN on wide-screen, high-definition TV.

After dinner, she opened the first manuscript.

“Are you there?” she called.

“Yep.”

“I guess I have to say everything is just peachy, or else you’ll --”

“I won’t harm you. I’ll accept your honest opinion. Let the chips fall.”

“This opening line is, well, unsatisfactory, ‘It was a dark and stormy night when Brace Brute, the ambidextrous, bi-sexual, Martian sheriff half-galloped toward the groveling town of Destiny, heading for the Bucket of Blood Saloon, knowing that buried beneath was the Ark of the Covenant.’”

“Write down why you think it’s bad.”

She scribbled.

“This description doesn’t work. ‘His nose dribbled like the anus of a horse with diarrhea.’ It’ll turn your readers off. Makes me wanna puke.”

“Don’t tell me everything. Write it all down.”

Four days later, all eight manuscripts had been critiqued.

After feasting on Boeuf de l’Orange de Mandarin, she complained of dizziness.

“A sedative was in your espresso. When you awake, you’ll be near a pay phone. Hang on to your purse; I’ve put twenty thousand dollars inside. When you return to Hollybird, burn those miserable preprinted reject slips. Henceforth, make your readers and editors handwrite comments on all rejections. Show some respect for writers.”

“But we get hundreds of unsolicited manuscripts every day.”

“Find a way to do it. And sign them yourself. Oh, and I want to see faster turnaround, too. Unless you’d like to return here for an extended vacation.”

She shook her head and passed out.

At midnight, I took her to a park, then called 911.

I read her critiques. What a bitch! She wouldn’t know talent if it bit her in the ass.

Four months later, I sent a fabulous 500-page pirate story to Hollybird Publishing.

After three weeks, a two-page rejection letter arrived signed by Victoria Chubbs. Her highfalutin words said my story stunk.

Originally against the idea, I decided to self-publish the pirate story. It was too good to leave unpublished. I donated copies to all the libraries in town. It looks good on the shelves.

But I’m bored with writing. I’ve decided to compose a symphony.

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