Page 79 of Kill Your Darlings

What the heck did that mean?The question was as vague as his bio.

I felt that the obvious answer—say, what?—would be walking into a trap, so I took a leaf from Colby’s book, leaning forward and letting forth.

“I think editors, good ones, understand that what we’re doing isn’t just transactional.Books come from deeply personal places.We shepherd them into the world.That doesn’t mean we always get it right.But yes, I think we have a responsibility—if not to every author, then to the integrity of the work.And maybe to the people we were when we said yes to it.”

Blah.Blah.Blah.Sheer nonsense.

Rudolph tilted his head, as if intrigued.I stared over the sea of heads toward the back of the room where I knew Finn was.Was he getting this?(Whatever it was.) I couldn’t think how to signal him.

Thou art the man!Like Poe’s short story?

“One more question?”Colby suggested.

I looked at Rudolph, who understandably seemed like…uh, whatever.

“Keiran, how much of a writer’s life belongs in their fiction?If something happened to you but notonlyto you, is it still your story?”

“Your part of it is your story.”It was a lame answer.I was terrified he was going to give a specific and career-ending example.

I don’t think Colby even heard my reply.He wasn’t interested in answers.Asking the questions was the point.

“And do you think an editor’s personal history ever colors the way they respond to a manuscript, even if they don’t realize it?Like, maybe they reject something that hits too close to home?”

A tide of thoughtful murmurs.On the surface, it was a smart, nuanced question.In reality?Jesus.

I adjusted the mic.

“Whether conscious or not, writers draw from their lives all the time.However, the job of the author of fiction is not to write an autobiography.The goal of fiction is to write recognizable truth while making everything up.And as for editors...sure.We’re human.We have blind spots.Sensitivities.We also have an instinct for the real thing.Like an art critic, we know it when we see it.”

Colby nodded, but didn’t smile.He handed back the mic and sat back in his seat.

Rudolph took a beat, waited for someone else to speak up and then finally said, “Friends, regretfully, this will be my final year hosting Backstory.”

He paused to let the murmurs of dismay and outright protests play out, before continuing “The time’s they are a-changing and we all know it.I’ve had a good run.It’s time to start a new chapter.Time to hand the torch to the next generation.That said, I can’t pretend I haven’t been wondering about what comes next—for legacy publishers such as Millbrook House, for our wonderful, talented authors, for our gifted, dedicated editors like Keiran Chandler.”

He said a few words more, but it was a brief and pithy farewell.

When he was finished, Rudolph reached across the small table and laid his hand briefly over mine.“Thank you, my boy.Good luck to you.”

I turned my hand and shook his.“Thank you, Rudolph.Good luck to you.”

“Good luck to us all,” he said a little cryptically.

“He’s getting impatient.”

I was not talking about Rudolph.I meant Troy Colby.

Finn and I were in his red convertible Mercedes-AMG CLE53 on our way to Steeple Hill.Finn enjoyed driving.In fact, rather than flying up for the conference, he’d driven from San Clemente to Monterey.He was an excellent driver and I was happy to take shotgun.The trip had felt endless the day before, but with Finn behind the wheel we made excellent time.I could even relax and enjoy the coastal scenery a bit.

The placid sunshine felt good on my face and the salty breeze whipping through my hair was bracing, cleansing.

Finn replied laconically, “Yep.”

“Which means he might escalate.”

“Maybe.But it also means, he’s going to start having doubts.Which is good.We want him to question what he really knows, how strong his position really is.”

“He didn’t seem doubtful today,” I said.

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