Explore New Fiction with
Lee Quail 

In his cottage, Philip contemplated the recent events. Richard’s unexpected presence at the workshop had caught him off guard. Upon deeper reflection, he recognized that Richard did share a common interest with him; after all, Richard was an English teacher, and a writer. However, he questioned what he could possibly offer Richard that he didn't already know. Philip didn't particularly mind Richard's presence, but what truly bothered him was that both Richard and Silas were eager to edit his manuscript. 
     That was something he simply couldn't allow.
     Lost in his thoughts he was oblivious to the sound of the doorbell. After a brief moment, he finally snapped out of his thoughts and made his way to the door. Opening it, he found Richard standing there, a smile on his face.
     “I thought it would be nice to catch up over dinner,” Richard said.
     “I've already ordered Uber Eats," Philip said. "They’re on their way. Come on in.” It wasn’t only exhaustion: it was his tone of voice, almost contemptuous, like thin ice cracking. 
     “Is there something wrong?” Richard asked, cocking his head to the side.
     With a deep breath, Philip let his feelings surface. “How could you, Richard?” he exclaimed.
     “What do you mean?”
     “When Silas hired you to edit my novel, I told you to say no, but you said yes.”
     “Publishing houses use editors, and I believe it will enhance your work.”
     “I've worked tirelessly on my book. I’ve self-edited it to perfection. I told Silas it doesn’t need editing. Yet, you both ignored me.”
     “In any creative process, there's always room for improvement,” Richard said.
     “You're not listening! This is my work, my creation. I don't want it touched by anyone else. Can't you understand?”
     Richard struggled to find the right words. “I made a mistake, sorry.”
     “Sorry won't undo what's already been done,” Philip retorted.
     Richard crossed his arms. “You know, I listened to you at the workshop earlier and you said something so true. Many writers write for money, and like you said, you’re one of them…”
     “What’s your point?”
     “My point is if you don’t have a polished manuscript, you’re not going to make any money. It will affect your future work and your relationships with other publishers. Besides, look around you. You have this amazing cottage on one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, you have everything, yet by your own admission you still do things for money.”
     “Now you’re treading on dangerous ground, Richard. Don’t go there. My financial status has nothing to do with you.”
     “I see, is it because you never worked for it? Because Mike left you a fortune?”
     “That has nothing to do with you.”
     “Or is it because everything’s about you, Philip. Only you.”
     Philip’s blood boiled. He pointed to the door. “Right now, I think it's best if you leave. There's nothing more to discuss.”
     At the door, Richard said, “I'll call Silas and tell him I've had second thoughts.”
     “Whatever,” Philip said, his voice weary and defeated.
     He watched as Richard climbed into his SUV and drove off. Writing this book had been an intensely personal endeavor, a journey of self-discovery and creative expression. The novel was more than just a collection of words; it was an extension of himself, a piece of his heart laid bare for the world to see. Control and ownership were at the core of his reluctance to involve an editor. He wanted to retain complete authority over every aspect of the book, from the smallest nuances of prose to the overarching themes weaving through its chapters. The thought of someone else tinkering with his words filled him with unease, as if he would be surrendering a piece of his identity in the process.
     What if the essence of his voice was lost amidst the changes? What if the delicate balance he had achieved was disrupted, leaving behind something unrecognisable to him?
     He felt a deep conviction that nobody could ever understand his vision as intimately as he did. Yet, beneath all these reasons, lay the ghosts of past negative experiences. He had once entrusted his work to an editor who had not understood his artistic vision, stifling his voice and imposing changes leaving him disillusioned. The encounter had left a lasting impact on him, one that now fed his reluctance towards external editing. He had chosen a solitary path, relying on his own judgement and instincts to refine his manuscripts.
     Richard did not understand.