His usually calm voice was raised with emotion. "I got word the serial
was done and Bob Durfree called before I sent for it. I've got some
bad news for you, Phil. They've been dissatisfied with Durfree's
editorial policy for quite a while. Over the weekend, the Board met and
they've hired a new editor. Serials are out, from now on. I reminded
the new editor that the characters in your story belong to them--and
you can't sell it anywhere else. He said he was sorry; said he wanted
short stories about Cynthia, as usual. But no serials. You know, they
never consider a request as a commitment. I'm as sore as I can be! I
realize you were counting on the money for your new house. But--can't
you change the characters and do it over and let me try it on somebody
else? It's a mighty good story!"
Harold is not just my literary representative. He is my friend. I
didn't want him to guess how I really felt.
I told him I'd decide later whether to write the serial over or to
chuck it. I hung up. Went to the desk. The carbon copy of my summer's
work was sitting there, mute and blurry in its box. I took it out and
fingered it and wondered how long it would be before I'd get to that
sober book which would try to tell what certain men had learned of
human instinct and how different it was from what most of the rest of
mankind believed.
Quite a while, I thought.
There were other things to do first. A wife to heal, a kid to send to
school, a house to finish, taxes to pay, trips to make, furniture to
buy.
Maybe a war to fight at some frustrated desk.