Part 1: Editor of Genius

Ruinas Gloriosas y Directrices de Metáforas
This book is dedicated to Maria ███████

A man hurries through a hallway, a folder tucked under his arm and two cups of coffee clutched in his hands. He turns the corner and collides head-on with a contributor.
A booklet falls to the ground.
Contributor: Please be a little more careful, sir.
Contributor: Hmm? It's you, Tommy! Here to beg Ms. Hunting to publish your ever-unnoticed expressionism literature again, are we?
Writer Thomas: Goodbye! I don't have time to argue with you today. I need to show this to Ms. Hunting.
Thomas picks up the fallen booklet and strides by without a second glance.
The H.A. Publishing House, at the end of the third-floor corridor, in the office on the left.
Thomas, his movements brisk, takes two familiar turns before pushing open the glass door.
Writer Thomas: I'm sorry, Ms. Hunting. I know I'm a few minutes late, but at least the coffee hasn't gone cold. Anyway, before we discuss my publication, you simply have to take a look at this.
Movie posters are plastered on the walls between bookshelves, holding countless great literary works. The air is thick with the scent of coffee and ink.
Editor Hunting: No rush. Have a seat, Mr. Thomas. And thank you for the coffee.
Editor Hunting: Actually, you're already eight minutes late, but that doesn't matter.
Editor Hunting: I looked over your latest revisions. I think putting aside thirty minutes for this meeting was a little optimistic.
Writer Thomas: Which means ... it's good to go? Then, we can just—
Editor Hunting: First of all, Mr. Thomas, your work doesn't meet the publishing standards.
Editor Hunting: And second, you're refusing to cooperate with me. Not only have you kept some lines I marked for deletion, but you've snuck in a few extra sentences.
Editor Hunting: Now, let's use the remaining 20 minutes to discuss something unrelated to your manuscript. How about the recently released film The Atuel River Murder? I believe you could learn a great deal about storytelling from it.
Thomas concedes under the editor's relentless barrage, his enthusiasm doused as if by a bucket of cold water. Any argument he prepared is now left unsaid.
Writer Thomas: I see. Okay. You really are as strict as ever, Ms. Hunting.
Writer Thomas: But I can't give up on my work. It's the only way I'll break free from my mind. I have to find a way to get it published.
Editor Hunting: Then I wish you luck. By the way, the director of The Murder sent me a few tickets. I think you should take one and go see it.
Writer Thomas: I want you to take a look at this first.
The man gently places the booklet he's been holding under his arm on top of the movie ticket Hunting just placed on the desk.
Editor Hunting: And why should I look at it? I scheduled you last so I wouldn't run overtime, you know.
Writer Thomas: Listen. Guess who I came across on my way here?
Editor Hunting: What, you ran into your idol, Franz Kafka?
Thomas is well used to jabs such as these.
Writer Thomas: Here's the case: There's a messy-haired girl working at a café. Whenever she had a free moment, she'd pull out a thick stack of booklets and eagerly hand them out to any customer who seemed interested.
Writer Thomas: But the strange thing was there was no publisher, no category, no recommendations, not even a price printed on it.
Writer Thomas: I thought it was a hotel flyer, or a travel brochure, or a university club ad, or something, but to my surprise, it was a short story!
Editor Hunting: So, is it any good?
Writer Thomas: I think that it is more "special" than "good."
Writer Thomas: No matter what, please just read it. It won't take you ten minutes.
Writer Thomas: In less than ten thousand words, it manages to create something magical, something totally unique! It's like—like a literary demon leapt out of Pandora's box and tried to mimic human language for the first time.
Writer Thomas: The elusive metaphors, the layered structure ... Good grief! I can hardly believe it was written by someone so young.
Editor Hunting: Let me take a look.
For a time, there is no sound but the hum of the fan and the faint crackling of burning tobacco.
The minutes tick by, and a scratching pencil joins the chorus. At first gently and steadily, and then growing harder and more hasty. At some point, the lead snaps with a crisp crack.
Editor Hunting: Mr. Thomas, I have a request.
Editor Hunting: Can you tell this sleepwalking writer to meet me here before six? She's quite remarkable. This thing could turn the world upside down.
Writer Thomas: Haha! I told you so! I met her outside that café on the corner. If we're lucky, she should still be there.
The young writer strides in, a box of the café's special honey-poached quince pie in her hands.
Recoleta: Ms. Hunting. How exhilarating that you asked for me by name! I knew that handing out my work for free would eventually pay off.
Hearing her own name, the editor looks up, surprised.
Editor Hunting: Oh? You know me?
Recoleta: We met in Guadalajara. I saw you at the booth of the H.A. Publishing House.
Recoleta: Later, a writer friend of mine told me that you're the golden signature of the H.A. Publishing House—especially skilled at helping authors rise to fame and even getting their works adapted to film.
Recoleta: If I'd known that back then, I'm sure we would've talked a little more, and I might even have a few novels published by now. Well, better late than never!
Editor Hunting: Hold on. When did I say I was going to help you publish a novel?
Recoleta: Huh? Isn't that why I'm here? After all, you said, "Let's bring in that little genius who could turn the world upside down!"
Editor Hunting: Did Thomas put it that way? Good grief. No wonder his writing is so flowery.
Recoleta: Then, why am I here, exactly?
Hunting walks to the window, pushes it open, and lights a cigarette. Recoleta notes how impeccably dressed she is.
The noise of the traffic outside makes her voice sound distant.
Editor Hunting: Give up writing.
Recoleta: I-I beg your pardon?
She can hardly believe her ears.
Editor Hunting: You're too obsessed with the purity of literature. Your work has no place in the '90s. It's all about films now. Listen, if I could send you back 30 years to a gun-riddled Latin America, I would. At least then you'd have a chance.
Hunting sends a puff of smoke out the window and taps her knuckles lightly on the desk. She fixes Recoleta with the gaze of a strict teacher.
Editor Hunting: Do you have a clear vision of your work? Any carefully structured or thoroughly polished ideas in your mind?
Recoleta: My vision is crystal clear! I want people to talk about visceral realism again, to capture the fleeting and make it eternal, just like the great writers of the '60s.
Hunting eyes Recoleta, a complex smile appearing at the corners of her mouth. She stubs out her cigarette and sits back down at her desk.
Editor Hunting: Let me rephrase that. You want to write good work that readers can understand, right?
Recoleta: That's right, Ms. Hunting. But I think it's difficult to balance that with literary depth.
Editor Hunting: No need to get ahead of yourself. Sit down. I've read your story.
Hunting hands over the open booklet. Recoleta's eyes are immediately drawn to the revisions covering its pages.
Editor Hunting: "Under their homeland sky, the shadows of the cowhands loomed larger than their bodies." This line isn't bad—quite vivid, actually.
Recoleta: Hmm? Oh, yes! And after that, the cowboy meets a cowhand without a shadow, not realizing that the cowhand's shadow is actually his own ...
Editor Hunting: "When the sun sets, their silhouettes stretch into great beasts along the mountain ridge, and they wave their whips to drive the nonexistent cattle." This part feels redundant.
Editor Hunting: Besides, how would the readers know that the cattle are a metaphor?
Recoleta: Okay. But planting a seed of doubt here allows for a wonderful moment of realization at the story's climax!
Editor Hunting: Now, look here, at this line—
Editor Hunting: "These cattle never lower their heads to graze. They'll chase the stars until they drag the cowhand's soul along with them. No one should dream of returning home. The land there will bite and bite at you until you can never leave."
Editor Hunting: Why did you write this?
Recoleta: It's ... it's a metaphor, too. Like the cattle herd.
Editor Hunting: I'm not questioning the sentence itself. It has style. But where's your theme?
Editor Hunting: This is clearly a story about the protagonist returning to their homeland after many years, exploring magical realism through the unfamiliar. So why, by page 5, am I still only seeing cowhands and cattle?
Recoleta: I understand what you're saying, but these are important elements of the novel. They'll all come into play later on. The cowhand looks exactly like the protagonist when he was a child. Actually, he's a phantom of the protagonist's childhood, but the protagonist doesn't recognize him.
Editor Hunting: Alright, I suppose there's some interest there. But how am I supposed to know that? Let's flip ahead to here—page 37.
Editor Hunting: Look, little genius. You took 37 whole pages just to tell the readers that the cowhand from page 5 is a mirrored symbol.
Recoleta: Ah, perhaps you're right. I really do need to adjust the structure.
Editor Hunting: Literature isn't the place to act out your private dreamscape. Do you think imagination alone will win over your readers?
Editor Hunting: Here's my suggestion. You're still young, and you have potential, so why don't you try studying screenwriting?
Recoleta looks utterly confused.
Recoleta: I don't understand. What does screenwriting have to do with literature? Every time I try to watch a film, I end up falling asleep before the end.
Editor Hunting: It's just a suggestion, though I understand, a rather extreme one. I just want you to stop underestimating the importance of storytelling.
Their conversation continues beyond the setting of the sun. Even so, the true marathon has only just begun.
By the time Recoleta lifts her dizzy head, the clock has already hit a quarter past eight.
Recoleta: Oh, it's so late! Sorry for taking up so much of your time, but what a thrilling literary discussion! Thank you!
Hunting rubs the corners of her eyes with her thumb and forefinger, leaning back into her chair, exhausted.
She has to admit her impression of Recoleta has changed.
Editor Hunting: Don't worry about it. It's been my pleasure to meet a writer as unconventional as you.
Editor Hunting: Phew. Alright, that's it for today. Go home and think over these three questions:
Editor Hunting: First, why does the cowboy return home? Second, why does he meet the bubble-blowing cowhand? Third, why do the characters know things that even the author doesn't?
Recoleta: Does that mean ...?
Recoleta's fatigue vanishes in an instant.
This is true, invaluable advice, not just the back and forth from a few friends. This is the guidance of a professional editor.
Recoleta: So, if I revise my novel according to your suggestions and come back, does that mean I have a chance at publication?
Editor Hunting: That depends on how well you revise it. I'm not making any guarantees.
Recoleta: I just need two weeks. No, one week. I'll bring you a completely reworked version.
Editor Hunting: If possible, I'd prefer you make an appointment at the front desk next time you come. At least let me know you'll be here.
She holds no high expectations for the young writer. After all, years of experience have taught her that writers have a tendency to exaggerate.
Editor Hunting: Best of luck. I'm heading home to warm up with a hot drink.
Recoleta: Till next time, Ms. Hunting. I'll most certainly be back; believe you me.