LETTER TO AN AMERICAN EDITOR
by Mark Gullick
A snippet snapshot of the great trouble of our times
Dear Mr. XXXX,
I have been in or around publishing for over forty years. By publishing, I don’t mean online hobbyists; I mean IPCMedia [sic], EMAP, The Independent, Melody Maker, New Musical Express. I was once commissioned by Auberon Waugh to write a book review. My best friend in England works the international desk at The Times in London. Real journalist, not pickleball stringing.
In all that time, and all those millions of words, I have never dealt with such editorial incompetence as that displayed by YYYY YYYY (if that is his real name; if not, tell him that a VPN and a silly nom de plume won’t help). He wasted my time by failing to inform you of a thousand-word cap on a piece. You sent a snarky takedown because your organ-grinder’s monkey failed to tell you the arrangement. As for payment, he doesn’t know what an IBAN or an EBT is. Was it you who had the lad on the magazine who died? He was way better. And you can’t use PayPal or Wise? How do you usually pay your writers? Bitcoin? Beads? Barter?
Then, he had the Olympic-level chutzpah to tell me not to approach your magazine with future articles. Well, XXXX XXXX, you got that. I prefer to work with professionals. But something still baffles me. I am a great admirer of your work. I own every book you have ever published (as far as I know), and have even read a couple more than once. I quoted you in my own book on the death of Western philosophy. So, my question is this: Why does a man of proven talent and intelligence hire Forrest Gump as his office-boy?
Don’t ever contact me again,
ZZZZ ZZZZ
Mr. Gullick is a philosopher (Ph.D. University of Sussex) who writes on English politics and culture for American magazines. He was born in London in the early 1960s, and he currently resides in Central America.