"REVISED"

By Anne Hutchins

Another rejection slip.

Eva was beginning to wonder if she was ever going to sell a story. "I won't be famous until I'm dead," she muttered to herself, "just like all those painters. Someone will find my stories in a trunk somewhere, sell them, make a fortune -- while I'm suppurating in my grave."

Eva winced at the remarks the editor had scribbled on the note paper-clipped to the story's cover page:

If I ever receive another story like this one, I shall empty my ravaged stomach of its contents en masse. Please, Miss Cameron, TRY another magazine. You'll save a sizeable fortune in postage money.

The editor hadn't signed his name.

"Oh why must they be so blunt?" Eva moaned as she lay her head against the cool plastic of her computer monitor. She had always hoped that an editor might jot down a few reasons why the story hadn't worked. Even a standard form rejection slip would have been kinder! It seemed as if each editor actually enjoyed insulting her.

Oh, what she wouldn't give for one tincture of constructive criticism right now. Great neutrinos, could she use some encouragement. Am I really that bad? she thought to herself mournfully. Should I take a hint and quit altogether?

Eva wrote advertising copy for a mail order catalog and spent most of her spare time writing pulp. Her writing was so mundane and so predictable that even the basest of "sci-fi" rags (for they were not dignified enough to be labeled "SF") would not print her yarns. Eva's main problem, she guessed, was a dearth of unusual ideas -- and the inability to make readers believe in what she was writing. Her imagination was a dry well filled only with the crusty remnants of ideas that everyone had written before.

And perhaps, Eva thought sadly as she played with the spacebar on her keyboard, she wasn't much of a writer. Eva moved her head away from the monitor, wondering how much radiation she'd absorbed from laying her head against it. Hopefully her monitor really was "Energy Star" compliant. Oh well, she thought to herself, maybe a little radiation might make me a better writer.

Eva stared numbly at the frayed manuscript. It was not in the same condition in which it had been submitted. Next time she'd be smart and not spring for return postage -- surely her inkjet printer was up to the task of endlessly reprinting her stories.

It was common knowledge that when an editor did not like what he/she was reading, a manuscript would consequently suffer myriad abuse: cigarette burns, coffee stains and curled corners that would make a manuscript look like the Dead Sea Scrolls.

This editor hadn't liked what he had read. At all.

Eva's manuscript had been thoroughly masticated. "Another candidate for the old circular file, I guess," Eva lamented as she tossed the manuscript in the direction of her wastebasket. She missed, sending the pages to scatter hither and thither upon the carpet like shuffled playing cards.

Eva stared at her strewn manuscript for a moment. With a sigh she gathered the pages together, tamped the edges straight, and sat the manuscript upon her desk with the intention of salvaging something from it. After fifteen minutes of analyzing the cover page, she opened the savaged manuscript and began to re-read it in hopes of figuring out for herself where she'd gone wrong.

Eva read the story very carefully. She pretended the manuscript was not her own, just another story hoping to see print in a well-established magazine. The objective approach, Eva thought. What can it hurt? Maybe I can solve my own problems, answer my own questions.

Once she had finished reading, she dashed the decidedly miserable thing to the floor once again. "What a piece of junk!" she yelled. "I'm never going to be a success writing dross like this!"

She sat, fuming, in her armchair debating whether she should go back to school for more creative writing classes, give up science fiction writing or just kill herself.

Eva decided that killing herself would be the more fruitful of the options, because she really wanted to be an SF writer -- but it was obvious to her that she hadn't the knack for weaving tales of intergalactic plunder. She had yet to develop a narrative hook that worked. Most of all she needed some fresh story ideas. The genre had become an immense black hole that had sucked her in. She could not escape its singularity and was rapidly going to pieces. If she couldn't be a professional science fiction writer, then she didn't want to live. She began to examine the infinite possibilities of suicide.

She couldn't just gas herself or slit her wrists; too many people did it that way and she wanted to be a little original -- if her stories couldn't be, then at least her demise would. Maybe she could just wander out into the Mojave desert and hope she'd get bitten by a rattlesnake. Nope, no good. It was winter and there wouldn't be many snakes out; too cold. "Maybe I can find some old green wallpaper and lick the arsenic off," she muttered to herself, quickly deciding that, with her luck, there was probably a distinct shortage of old green wallpaper in San Bernadino anyway.

She was racking her brain for a third plan of self-attack when she became distracted by a noise outside. It was a high insectivoid whine accompanied by the crackling sound of tree branches breaking. Eva tumbled from her chair and ran to the French doors, opening them just a crack in order to peer out. Unable to see much, she opened the doors a little wider. As her curiosity grew and her common sense dwindled, Eva opened the doors all the way -- but still could see nothing.

The whine spiraled higher in frequency. Suddenly a brilliant light suffused the room as something flew past her and fell to the carpeted floor with a muffled thud. When the light finally died away, Eva knelt before the object. A small spacecraft -- barely a meter in diameter, saucer-shaped with a clear plastic blister on top, sat on the carpet as if flung there. It looked like a toy. Dratted rug-rats next door, Eva fumed, sending their stupid little gewgaws into other peoples' living rooms. Well, the little brats wouldn't be getting this toy back. Fry, lechery, fry!

Curious, Eva lifted the saucer and brought it closer for inspection. As she turned it over in her hands she marveled at the detail: the strange symbols etched into the craft's hull, the lights lining the craft's sides winking alternately. Eva hummed the "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" theme as she shook the tiny spacecraft.

Suddenly, the spaceship hummed and buzzed in her hands. She almost dropped the thing. What if this thing is real? Naw, she thought to herself, couldn't be. It's just a toy. An expensive one. But a toy all the same.

She shook the spaceship again. The craft buzzed and flew out of her hands, landing neatly on the floor beside her.

This is no toy, Eva thought as she held her breath.

Something rattled within the craft -- as if someone (or something) were moving around inside.

Eva froze. She just knew that she was about to be punished for writing all those "Little Green Men" stories. The LGM of the universe did not like being abused by her writing and now they were coming to get her. She wouldn't have to worry about suicide now; she was about to be assassinated by her own imagination -- what little there was of it. After all, she had been looking for a way of doing herself in and one had to admit that being wiped out by a flying saucer full of little green men (or women, for that matter) was a rather novel way of going. Therefore, all she had to do was convince herself that she really wanted to die and everything would be fine.

As if in reply to her thoughts, the blister-hatch fell backwards. Eva's left hand found its way to her mouth and she began to methodically chew her cuticles. "Nobody deserves this," she said aloud, "no matter how badly they write.''

In a dazzling flash the saucer whizzed past her and landed on the chair where she had been sitting.

"Eva Cameron, you're dreaming again," she said, shaking her head as if to dissolve the image before her. "Come on, girl, wake up! You fell asleep while you were worrying about that rejected story...oh please wake up." She even pinched herself.

The ship ceased its buzzing, blinking and whirring. Eva heard a hollow, metallic scrape -- as if something were being lowered and suddenly--

-- a little green man hopped out of the open hatch and climbed down a tiny metal ladder.

Eva Cameron swallowed. Hard. A little green man. She nearly giggled. A little green man. Who'd have thought?

"Hello Eva," the small man said in English. "My people have been watching you." He really was little -- tiny, even -- and green! The little man wore a green (of course) lamé jumpsuit and his swollen belly hung, pendulous, over his tightened belt. The hair of his pale green beard was woven in a haphazard fashion and his wide smile seemed to serve the salient purpose of propping up his ample, bulbous cheeks. If little green men had a Santa Claus, he was standing right on the seat of Eva's armchair.

"I didn't mean any harm," Eva pleaded, clasping her hands together. "I only wanted to sell stories. I just wanted to be a writer -- honest! That's all I ever dream about, you've got to believe me. I didn't realize that my bad writing could spark a galactic war. Please don't laser me!"

The little man looked puzzled. "Harm?" he said in a high munchkin-like voice, eyes twinkling. "Galactic war? Laser you? It is I who should reassure you, then. Eva Cameron -- I am here to help you."

"You mean you're not here to punish me for writing all that garbage about..." Eva paused, wondering if he would be offended by the term, "...about, uh, little green men...?" Eva felt a bit sheepish -- but what else could she say? He was, after all, little and green. And an alien.

The little man waved his hand, laughing, "No, of course not. There was no way you could have known what we are really like. But I must say, you made a very good guess. So now I've come to tell you all about my world so that you may write with accuracy. In the end, we shall both benefit."

Eva was stunned. "You mean so that I can write about your civilization? Me? But -- why me, of all people? I mean, I'm really flattered...but why didn't you contact a better writer? I've been rejected by nearly every science fiction magazine extant. Even fanzines won't touch my stuff. I'm beginning to think I should quit..."

"It's simple," the little man replied calmly. "Those writers couldn't possibly believe in, ah, little green men the way you do. Ah yes, you want to believe -- they would refuse, why they'd even laugh at the very idea. And if we were scientifically feasible by their standards they would believe, but they would over-analyze us, they would make us seem evil in a way. You, on the other hand, are a romantic. We can tell you things and you will accept them for their beauty alone, whereas the others might try to delve too deeply into our technology -- which we cannot allow at this time. Besides, with your lack of scientific background, readers would realize the stories are mere fantasy -- yet entertaining and diverting. And, should we ever choose to reveal ourselves to your world, you would have prepared Earth for our arrival and we would not be feared."

Or laughed at, Eva thought as she disguised a chortle with a cough.

Still, despite the absurdity of the situation, Eva looked upon the small green man standing on the cushion of her armchair with some awe. She couldn't believe that this alien had chosen her -- Eva "Nobody" Cameron -- to relate stories of their world to her own.

Quickly, she began to sort all the opportunities this liaison could -- and would -- offer. Perhaps he can tell me stories of other civilizations. Just think of the endless supply of ideas I can get from this little guy. And they're all true -- but the editors and readers won't know that. Delightful; simply delightful. Who needs suicide now?

"Well, when do we begin?" Eva asked, a hungry look in her eyes.

The little man's name was Thandsa Thyme and his home-world was called Mophet.

He told Eva incredible tales of his planet: the unusual variety of flora and fauna; the delicate architecture of its cities; how they managed their economy; their politics. He told her of their colorful history and how the ingenuity of his people had saved them from many invasions by other races. Eva wrote down every word.

"Tell me about other worlds -- I want to know everything about the cultures of the galaxy," Eva urged.

Thandsa obliged happily. He told her of bizarre, chimerical planets that she could never have imagined. In fact, they were so fantastic that she doubted anyone could've dreamed them up. By the time Thandsa had finished, Eva had transcribed enough material for at least a thousand stories -- enough to last her several lifetimes.

"Well Eva, I believe I've provided you with a sufficient sum of material," Thandsa said as he leaned against the side of his ship. It had grown dark outside -- they had been talking for hours and Eva guessed it was well past midnight. "I have an enormous amount of confidence in you. You won't see me again after this -- you aren't the only writer I must contact. As you've seen, there are many other planets - and writers -- in need of enlightenment." Then, giving her a wink, added, "After all, we are both in the advertising business yes?"

"Of course," Eva sighed, "there should be other hacks like me throughout the galaxy. Somehow I always thought I was the only one with this problem. I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised."

"You shouldn't be -- your predicament is by no means unique," Thandsa said, crossing his small arms upon his small chest. "You'd be amazed. I'll miss you, though. You're an excellent listener -- you never interrupted me once. That's why I prefer to work with beginners -- they haven't become self-absorbed yet."

"When you're as pitiful a writer as I am,'' Eva sighed once more, feeling a lump begin to form in her throat, "then you'd better be a good listener. I'll miss you too, Thandsa." She'd become, in those few hours, quite attached to the little green man in her study.

The little man smiled contentedly as he climbed up the tiny ladder and slipped through the spacecraft's hatchway. The plastic blister slapped back into its original position with a perfunctory click. The spacecraft's lights began to blink and hum. The ship rose, hovering for a moment as Eva opened the French doors. Then the tiny spacecraft zoomed past her and out into the early morning mist.

Exhausted, Eva slumped into her chair and slept fitfully for hours. She awoke a little after noon, headed for her computer and began writing.

For the first time in her life Eva worked with confidence and efficiency. There was absolutely no way she would fail to produce an exciting story. She was spurred by the knowledge that she was writing truth -- and not just the usual garbage she hoped would be entertaining. Thandsa had given her a direction to follow, and she wove her plots together from rote. The more words she fed into her computer, the more her confidence grew. She was mesmerized by the flow of her writing -- it came smooth and fast. She felt giddy with the joy of writing something she knew would sell.

She needed only one rewrite. When she had finished the final draft, she packaged the manuscript carefully and sent it on its maiden voyage to Visionary Magic -- a magazine which had always intimidated her. Before her meeting with Thandsa, she would have gotten a panic attack just thinking of submitting a story to that magazine. She was no longer afraid. She knew they couldn't reject her.

Three breathless weeks later Eva received a letter in the mail from Visionary Magic's chief editor, J.A. Cragmort. She held her breath as she read it:

Dear Ms. Cameron,
I found your manuscript to be quite refreshing.You write as if you truly believe in your characters -- as if they actually exist. Such confidence! Such characterization! Kudos!Enclosed is a check and a bio-request. We have set your story for our January issue. I hope to see more of your work cross my desk in the, er, future.
Humbly yours,
J.A. Cragmort

"It's not a rejection," Eva murmured, dazed. "It's a check. I got a check! They bought my story! I'm not a failure!" Her voice had risen to a scream, "I SOLD A STORY! Thank you, Thandsa, wherever you are! Thank you! I love ya, little green man."

Eva immediately wrote another story. It sold as quickly as the first. She increased her story production to three a week -- and sold each one. The name of Eva Cameron was fast becoming a well-known one. Whenever she attended science fiction conventions, people would point at her name tag and whisper, "She's that incredibly prolific one. Everyone says that it won't be long before she's caught up with Isaac Asimov and Ray Bradbury. She's gotta be the best new SF writer around."

And so it went.

Then one day, while she was mid-way through her second novel, Eva received another letter from Visionary Magic:

Hi Eva !
Enjoyed your latest offering (superb as usual). I've been wondering if you'd like to do a regular column. You would be a kind of galactic tour guide. How does "Alien Correspondent" sound to you? Let me know what you think. Please?
With bated-breath,
Jay

Eva's face beamed brighter than a super nova. Now, this deal was too good to be true. All those years of being shunned by so many editors -- and now the best editor in the genre was groveling at her literary feet. Ah sweet fate -- vindication at last! Of course she wanted to do the column; it was a perfect gimmick, but she decided to let Cragmort -- Jay -- wait and sweat a little. Let him taste a little of the anxiety she had been swallowing during those depressing years.

During her wait, Jay Cragmort sent a total of five letters in a one-month period. He also sent gift certificates for Nordstrom, Staples and Starbucks (he knew she was fond of their Grande Mocha Frappuccinos). He also sent her flowers, a Pilates personal trainer for a week, and an appointment at a day spa for massage, body wrap and facials. Eva savored every moment of delay -- and the gifts. When she could wait no longer, she sent a letter of acceptance along with her first installment.

Visionary Magic's circulation increased dramatically with the advent of Eva's column. Which was a very fortunate happenstance for Chief Editor J.A. (Jay) Cragmort -- as he'd been called before the publisher for a little chat regarding all the expensive gifts he'd lavished on Eva Cameron. After the profit margins shot upward, Cragmort was given a substantial raise, extra stock options and the opportunity to take a leave of absence in order to work on the novel he'd been planning for years. He was a happy man.

By the age of thirty Eva Cameron had become an icon of success. She had a mass of short stories, scores of novels and had won several Hugo and Nebula awards. Three of her novels had made it to the big screen -- instantly turning her into a multi-millionairess.

At the age of thirty Eva Cameron had finally become a leader in the genre.

Eva leaned against the patio balcony railing of her sprawling Monterey mansion and looked out at the cerulean waves of Big Sur.

Many years have passed; many books have been written. She doesn't write much anymore -- she doesn't have to. Her stories live forever in anthologies and her novels are never out of print. She had been canny enough to ask for a percentage of box office receipts for each of her successful novels-to-film. She had also been shrewd enough to allow the licensing of merchandise based on her characters. Subsequent real estate and mutual fund investments added to her lucre.

Interviewers still ask Eva how she got all of her unique story ideas. But she couldn't tell them the truth -- they'd never believe her if she did. After all who would believe her if she told them that she got those visions from a little green man named Thandsa Thyme of the planet Mophet? Because she believed in the little green man and the stories he told, her writing had come alive. Somehow, maybe, she had allowed others to believe -- or at least to willingly suspend their disbelief. It didn't matter anyway.

No, Eva Cameron thought to herself, it didn't matter at all. She looked up at the sky and wondered if Thandsa was still traveling through space sharing his stories with other failed writers -- writers like herself who were about to give up. So what if she hadn't conceived the ideas herself -- so what if she'd needed help from a Little Green Man. What if every other successful science fiction writer on planet Earth had found success by conferring with a Little Green Man? No one would ever know -- no one would ever care.

It was getting dark and a little chilly. As she turned from the railing Eva looked up at the darkening sky once more. A lone meteorite flashed its thin, bright tracery across the heavens. She thought again of her creative benefactor, Thandsa Thyme of the planet Mophet and wondered...

After all, she smiled, there should be other success stories in the galaxy.


THE END

Copyright © 2000 Anne Hutchins. All rights reserved.

[Back to Short Fiction Page] [Home] [Bibliography Page] [Writing Projects]

Graphics provided by: