In 500... (or less)

The Risk of Revisions

Mel trudged into Bentley's office, exasperated at being summoned.

He burst through the door, complaining. 

"I don't know why I had to come all the way to England for this, we could have done this through correspondence."

"Good to see you too, Mel," Bentley laughed, patting the giant manuscript on his desk. "It's quite a literary work."

"It should be," Mel grumbled. "It took a year and a half to write."

"Almost as long to read," Bentley chuckled. Mel was not in the mood for jest.

"But you have changes, no doubt," Mel said.

"A few. All minor, I assure you," Bentley said. Mel's eyebrows bent in irritation. But the book would never hit the shelves without the publisher.

"Out with them then," he blustered. 

Bentley was used to the resistance of the authors when it came to necessary edits. Each word was carefully procured and placed. The editor simply wanted to save on typesetting by excising whole passages.

"Well, the postscript on Chapter 25," Bentley started. "You'll make no friends here with that kind of criticism."

"Well founded criticism," Mel corrected. "I suppose you will cut it regardless."

"Then there are a few other passages," Bentley continued. "Ones that compare mankind to the Almighty. I understand the context, but they will land your name, and more importantly, your book, in the middle of an angry sermon."

"Only for your edition, Bentley," Mel said. "Those stay for the copies meant for America. All of it."

"Mel, try to be reasonable..." Bentley didn't bother finishing his sentence. There was no point in arguing. Mel could be as obstinate as the captain in his manuscript.

"Fine," the publisher said. "But I must insist on half profits to cover the extra costs."

"Half prof..." Mel was about to explode, but drew himself back from the brink. He was in no position to negotiate. He already owed sizable sums to quite a few people just to get the manuscript done.

"Agreed," he blurted out. "But I don't have to like it. I only agree because I know this book will make a lot of money."

Bentley smiled. 

"That it will, Mel," he said. "It really is a masterpiece. A mite too long perhaps, but gripping nonetheless."

Mel said nothing in response. He knew Bentley too well. There was still something else. Something big.

The silence grew into an uncomfortable pause. Bentley nervously looked around the room, he did not want to make eye contact with the author.

"Spit out, man," Mel demanded. "I know there is something you wish to change. Something of the 'not so minor' variety."

"I think it is minor," Bentley stammered, "umm, minor in a sense that it does not change the narrative in any way."

"What is it then?!" Mel bellowed. "Out with it!"

"The beginning," Bentley said. "I don't like the way it starts."

"And just what would you prefer?"

"Well, I just don't think 'Call me Fred' is quite right. Doesn't really spur my interest. Can we rename him?"

"What you prefer? George? Percival?" Mel's face was glowing with rage. "How about I call him 'Ishmael'?!"

Bentley, who was cowering behind his desk, suddenly sprang up.

"As I live and breathe, Herman Melville, that's it! Call me Ishmael!"