Saturday, 8 June 2013

I got the "Sorry you feel slighted. Clearly you are unable to appreciate compromise" speech today. From one of the people who made my book. I wasn't allowed to reply all of what I wanted to reply, so I just thanked her and complimented on her part of the deal. She did a good job. Not much of how we talked about in the beginning, but she's happy. Just as the editor is happy. Something to be told about a piece of work that makes the editor, the graphic designer and the publicists happy and the author want to kill herself.

Well, this is my blog and I get to say here what I care.

I wanted to say: compromise. Compromise. I can't compromise? Says you, who does what you're told regardless of opinion of the people whose name is on the cover. How fucking smart would you be if someone fucked up your work? Really? Compromise? Work on something for three years and be proud of what you've done, a professional that you are, then see your work turned to retarded resort catalogue for moron parents of moron kids who hate to leave their car. Please do that. HATE what was done to something you loved. Hate it with all your intellectual and emotional span, regarding things that will have your name on the cover. Hate it. Hate that all of the good ideas were destroyed, the bad ones were enforced and so very little of your originality preserved for the sake of you editor's ego polishing. Have THAT done to your work. Then talk to me of compromise.

Compromise was the title replaced with a joke. Compromise was the cover replaced with the cheesiest of photos ever. Compromise was writing about parking lots and meal prices. Compromise was having the rainy photos replaced with sunny flower ones. Compromise was agreeing to write in first person plural - which ultimately wasn't realised by the proof readers and now comes out mixed and stupid. After having reminded them twice - and that was THEIR order to begin with. Compromise was having the list of "additional travel points" removed and then replaced by something that is nothing and makes no sense. That is compromise. Not having any of your graphic ideas/requests heard. That is compromise.

Every single. Every single. Every single sentence changed into a humourless, witless fucktard list of places to see and things to do and food to eat and where to shit, so terribly unoriginal and worse than any number of countless travel books already published by this disgustingly moneygrabbing publishing house. Having your name signed under the book that you are so ashamed of you can't stop crying. Being sold to the world as a writer THAT BAD as the editor is bad writer. Maybe I wasn't the concept designer of the book and clearly I wasn't the photographer. But I WAS the writer. A good writer. The editor was not the writer, she is a terrible writer. But now her writing is what the world will think of me when they read this godawful book. They will think *I* am the bad writer. In a book, saved by photos of flowers and Shutterstock kids previously used in dental hygiene commercials.  My talent, my reputation, my ambition to be appreciated by peers FUCKED. And being told my opinion, sentiment or reputation matters LESS THAN NOTHING.

That, darling person who accuses me of not being able to compromise, in my humble personal opinion, isn't a failure to appreciate compromise.

It's criminal.