Well, if you do, you might not be far from the truth.  I mean, wouldn't it stand to reason that if you made a living--went to work each and every weekday of your life--opening, perusing, and closing manuscripts in order to decide whether or not you wanted to publish them that you would literally have to be nuts?

Let's face it.  It's hard enough to do that when you're editing a magazine, and you receive 10 or 20 unsolicited manuscripts from hopeful writers a day.  At least those are only two or three thousand words long.  I can understand dealing with that without going crazy.

But can you imagine opening 10 or 20 unsolicited book-length manuscripts a day, each one weighing in at 80 to 100 thousand words or more?  I mean, can you imagine reading all those manuscripts?  Of course you can't.  And that's only one of the things that makes book editors crazy.

Not only do they have to write turn-down letters all day long for the authors whose works they so ignominiously reject, but also they must lie about their reasons for rejecting them.  Observe:

Dear Author, Thank you so much for sharing your manuscript, Titular Head of Vinuncular Flats, with me.  While I found the first 65,000 pages to be witty, lively, and filled with vim and verve, I'm afraid the last 50,000 words dragged a little too much for my personal tastes, so I'm going to have to pass upon making an offer on it.  I'm sure, however, that you'll find success locating the right publisher for this work soon. - Sincerely, Clyve Servewell

See what I mean?  Lies.  But what else is the editor to do?  Tell the truth?

Dear Author, Thanks for sending this manuscript, which I am returning unread because I'm just not up for starting another hundred-thousand-word piece of shit with a stupid title.  I doubt anyone else will be, either. - CS

Which brings me around to trying to understand why anyone in his right mind would ever want to be an editor.  The answer, of course, is that he wouldn't.  Only someone who is genuinely off his beanie would go to work each day, subject himself to a series of literary thrashings, and then be forced to think up a whole trough of lies in order to justify his existence.  Not to mention his paycheck.  Are you kidding me?

Nobody is that crazy, unless, of course, he's that crazy.

In fact, now that I think about it, my ex-wife would have made a good editor.  Reflect upon that for a while, if you dare, before sending me your condolences. 

Until then...

Smoke if you got 'em.

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