The coalition of evil editors meets once a month in a grotty East London pub.
Today, Chairman Farqhart adjusts his monocle and says, “First on the agenda: tormenting writers. Our usual cruelty is losing its edge. They shrug off insults, and blunt rejections no longer crush their spirits. Suggestions?”
“What about…” a new voice ventures.
“Go on. This is an evil space, but it’s a safe one.”
“What about acceptance letters?”
The crowd gasps.
“Explain,” Farqhart instructs.
“Not ordinary ones. We’ll ask for extensive revisions, and offer cryptic, contradictory feedback.”
Farqhart grins. “That’ll break them, all right.”
And everyone cheers.
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