A Distant Soil by Colleen Doran

Not a word of this will make any sense unless you read the Previous installments at The Very Bad Publishers Link.

“She doesn’t recognize me because of the beard!” Tom announced as I approached.

No, I wouldn’t have recognized Tom in a lineup. I barely knew this guy. I hadn’t seen him in many years. The only reason I knew who he was was because he was the only person in the diner bouncing up and down and calling my name, while announcing “It’s Tom!”

So, that made it easy to figure out who it was, see.

And Tom brought his kids. He informed me he had relatives about an hour away, and he brought the kids because he knew I wouldn’t mind.

You know, I like kids. I really do. Kids are wonderful small people. Kids are also wonderful small people who have absolutely no business in a business meeting. I hope I was able to pick my jaw up off the floor before the kids took my look of horror personally.

“Why, you look as pretty as ever!” enthused Tom.

Tom was far too familiar for my taste, and I don’t mean I thought he was flirting. This was simply an inappropriate comment from a stranger. This man I barely knew was gladhanding on all cylinders. From his behavior you’d have gotten the impression we were the bestest of buddies who had lunch every day.

Then Tom lurched forward, and revolted at the thought that he might try to hug me, my hand shot out for a stiff and formal shake that was so militaristic I appeared ready to thump my armor and shout “Integritas!” unto my Centurion.

Tom’s smile faded a tad, and then he introduced me to Mr. Disney who looked like a normal bloke.

I considered leaving right away. After I was declared as pretty as ever, I had no appetite. I didn’t even want my free lunch, which was going to cost me, I was sure.

There’s no way to make this long, ridiculous story short because it was one hell of a long hour.

A very important lesson for anyone in publishing, or any other business for that matter: don’t insult your potential client by making it clear that you have no freaking idea who they are, what they do, or what their history is, especially after you have made the extraordinarily tacky semi-social faux pas of assuming a false sense of familiarity.

Mr. Disney didn’t say much at first because good old Tom was engaging in a giddy rush of narrative about our happy lives together. All of it was news to me.

“I was your first publisher!”

“No you weren’t. You weren’t even my tenth publisher.”

Tom was a bit taken aback to be contradicted like this, and plowed forward, insisting he was my first publisher. Apparently, he had a lot of emotional investment in believing he had discovered me, like I was a continent, or an exotic fruit. Actually, I was published by DC Comics first (Who’s Who and Amethyst), and Marvel hired me months before Tom’s company did (Swords of the Swashbucklers by Bill Mantlo). I also had credits elsewhere that predated my involvement with Tom’s company.

“Well, I published your first graphic novel.”

Actually, no. A Distant Soil was published previously as well, and even though it would not see book format for years, technically, it was still my first graphic novel work.

Tom was getting a bit pissed. He insisted he published my first graphic novel because a book was a book and a comic was a comic. Tom couldn’t understand why I was being so contrary. He liked me. We were friends.

“We are not friends. I don’t even know you. I haven’t spoken to you in years,” I said.

Tom insisted we were good buddies. “Don’t you remember how you would come into my office and sit down and talk?”

I recall only one instance of sitting down in Tom’s office to talk. It was about 18 years prior, and it lasted a matter of minutes.

“I have never had a substantive conversation with you in my life. I do not know you.”

I decided to order something to eat after all because I had found the least sociable thing on the menu: a blooming onion. They’d be taken aback every time I opened my mouth, and not just because of what I was saying.

I wasn’t going to win any awards for my diplomatic conduct, but I wasn’t going to sit there and let this guy misrepresent me or his relations with me to anyone.

Another example of his misrepresentation:

“I created the first graphic novel,” he announced.

These words actually came out of this man’s mouth.

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