Page 6 of 10

The Author slept fitfully.
“Bloody Harry Potter,” he mumbled in his sleep.
For some, the arrival of the eighth Potter story was a welcome thing, a celebration for the book industry. Certainly the new book was flying off the shelves just like one of Harry’s magical owls.
And yet, for others – particularly the authors of struggling or “sale-challenged” books like our dozing Author, the appearance of the new Potter tome was a cause of consternation. Even, shall we say,  jealously.
It wasn’t necessarily true that there were a finite number of book sales to be had in the world, and that the success of Potter and friends meant woe for everyone else.
But to The Author in his irrationality, people were only going to buy so many books –there were only so many sales around to be had – and every time someone bought Harry Potter And The Cursed Child, it mean The Author was cursed with a disappearing sale. It was like good book reviews: there was a finite supply in the world.
And J.K. Rowling was hogging them all.
How dare Rowling fulfil the dreams of millions of adults of children around the world with her addictive fiction?
Suddenly there was a fluttering of wings.
Then a thud.
For a moment The Author thought he was still dreaming. Perhaps he had imagined one of Rowling’s griffins had flown through the window, a sack of cash from fresh Cursed Child sales in its beak. Or huge Hagrid had just burst through the door.
But, as he sat up in bed, his thoughts about Hagrid weren’t entirely wrong.
Or, at least, the idea of some large, ungainly, male intruder.
For sitting at his computer, dressed in an ill-fitting pink tutu and with wings protruding from his hairy back, was a large man.
“Who … who are you?” gasped The Author.
The intruder briefly stopped typing on the computer and turned to face The Author. His face was that of a heavy-set middle-aged man with a particularly tough job.
“What … you’ve never seen a Book Fairy before, mate?”
The Author gasped again.
“A what?”
“A Book Fairy, mate, a bleeding Book Fairy,” said the figure in the tutu, turning back to the computer screen. “After all, you called for one.”
“I called for a Book Fairy?” said The Author, confused.
“Of course you did, mate,” said the Book Fairy cheerily as he brought up the Amazon home page on The Author’s computer screen. “I’ve got the work order. ‘One plaintive cry for unappreciated author wanting to improve his sales and his Amazon ranking. Order to be fulfilled post haste.’ So here I am, mate. One Book Fairy as ordered.”
“Oh,” said The Author, still not knowing what to believe.
“I can see you’re still confused, mate,” said the Book Fairy. “Think of me a bit like the Tooth Fairy … who, I hate to break it to you, doesn’t exist. Paying money for someone’s teeth? That’s just disgusting, mate.” The Author could see that the Book Fairy had accessed his book details on the Amazon website.
“Nah, what me and my mates do is help struggling authors get their Amazon rankings up.”
“I’m not a struggling author,” harrumphed The Author.
“That’s not what Amazon says, mate. You’ve got some good reviews, but you haven’t exactly set the world on fire with your sales, have you? Not like, say, J.K. Rowling …”
“Bloody Harry Potter,” muttered The Author peevishly.
The Book Fairy laughed. He had a laughed like a lorry driver. “If I had a dollar for every envious author who slagged off Harry Potter, I’d be a bleeding millionaire, mate. Anyway, let’s get down to business. Book business.”
The Book Fairy reached for a credit card from a wallet in his pocket. “Right then … let’s buy 10 copies of your military thriller, shall we? That should give your rankings a welcome boot up the fundament.”
“Ten copies?” asked The Author.
The Book Fairy flashed him a look. “What, 10 copies not enough for Little Lord Fauntleroy here? Who do you think you are, mate, J.K. Rowling?”
“No, I …”
“You know how many authors me and the boys will be visiting tonight? How many critically acclaimed but critically undersold sci-fi novels, military thrillers, cookbooks, Young Adult potboilers and Old Adult autobiographies we’ll be putting on the credit card? We’re not made of cash. We’re not …”
“J.K. Rowling?” quipped The Author.
“Are you taking the piss, mate?”
“No, no I …”
“Because if you are, you can fuck right off.”
The Author waved his hands. “No. I’m not. I apologise. Yes, 10 sales would be very welcome. That is very generous of you.”
The Book Fairy smiled. He then pushed “enter” on his order for 10 copies on The Author’s novel.
“That’s all right, then,” he said, mollified. The Book Fairy then stood up. The Author noticed the Book Fairy had a long wand in his hand. “Me and the boys will enjoy reading your book, I reckon. Keep up the good work. And remember … not everyone can be J.K. Rowling.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind, Good Fairy.”
“Nah, mate, I’m not the Good Fairy, I’m the Book Fairy.” The Book Fairy pointed his wand at himself. In an instant he was gone.
The Author looked around his apartment. There was no sign that the Book Fairy had ever visited.
His email pinged.
There was a record of the 10 purchases of his military thriller.
He quickly clicked onto Amazon.
Yes, there it was … his Amazon ranking had zoomed up in great strides.
The Author felt satisfied, proud, powerful … honoured.
Maybe Harry Potter was right.
Maybe magic was real after all.

The Book Fairy says it would make his job easier if you bought a copy of my ebook military thriller The Spartan.

In honour of Arya Stark’s epic chase scene with The Waif in the latest episode of Game Of Thrones, here are our 10 rules for chase scenes everywhere.

A fruit cart must be overturned Because we have no sympathy for small businessmen just trying to make a living.

It can be a vegetable cart, too Any food that comically rolls on the ground, really.

Or cardboard boxes Wooden crates full of live chickens are hilarious, too.

We must see the horrified reaction of the fruit cart owner when his wares are destroyed Why are we laughing at his pain? What’s wrong with us?

We will never know the back story of the fruit cart owner Does he have 10 kids to feed? Is he studying to become a lawyer at night school? Is he a political refugee from his home country? Don’t pretend that you care.

Pedestrians can double as fruit carts They should add comments like “hey”, “woah”, “look out” and “he’s crazy”.

The authorities are powerless to act Apart from shaking a fist at them as they pass.

At least one melon must explode Or a sheet of glass being comically carried by two men.

There must be at least one detour down a small alley A convenient escape from the scene of the crime. Meanwhile, the fruit cart owner must face the daunting task of explaining to his family why they won’t be eating tonight.

At no point will the hero or heroine express any remorse for destroying another person’s livelihood They won’t even look back at the weeping fruit cart owner as they pass. Do you still want to pin up their poster on your wall? Of course you do.

My ebook military thriller, The Spartan, is out now on Amazon.

Chen loved his country. He loved China’s glittering past, its refusal to bend down to the great powers, its promise of a better future.
But if there was one thing Chen didn’t love, it was his job.
That’s because he was a wumao.
And he was one of the best.
Chen had been compelled to become one of China’s wumao – one of its anonymous, government-sponsored army of internet commentators and trolls – when his father in China had been found guilty of a minor indiscretion. The indiscretion itself, which Chen didn’t like to think about, was minor enough that it didn’t land his father in jail … but significant enough that it required some act of contrition on the part of his family.
It had been suggested that Chen, educated at Harvard and earning a six-figure salary on Wall Street, may be able to pay off his debt. There was desperate need for a wumao who could successfully promote China’s interests on the internet in the West. The domestic wumao market in China was already covered – what was needed was someone who was savvy enough about the West to successfully comment on Western websites without automatically being accused of being a wumao.
Because to be caught acting as a wumao was the worst thing that could befall one.
Thus Chen had been called back to one of China’s more distant provinces to work in a dank computer room with the other pro-government commentators. His skill as a wumao meant that he was acting No.2 of his department. He was currently writing a style guide for his fellow wumao on how to work in the West.
It wasn’t his colleagues’ fault that they weren’t educated in the West like him and didn’t fully understand how “freedom of the press” worked there. They didn’t understand the syntax, the grammar, the cultural references, the idioms of the West. That was why many were caught out when commenting on newspaper or magazine websites, sometimes by Chinese students overseas themselves. Their clumsy approach – for instance, getting a Simpsons reference or a sports observation wrong – often led for them to be outed as wumao. Under Chen’s guidance, they were doing better … but there was still much work to be done.
One of the problems Chen had with his job was the pay. Indeed, the saying about wumao being the 50 Cent Army – that they were paid 50 Chinese cents a post – wasn’t exactly far from the mark. It was certainly a lot less than what he earned on Wall Street. Plus where he was sent had no decent nightclubs, cafes or restaurants … another hardship he had to silently endure.
Then there was the work, which he felt was slightly beneath him. He wasn’t matching wits with the great minds of the West on the internet sites. Their great minds were busy occupied elsewhere, perhaps writing the article themselves above the comment section boxes. Or they had better things to do than comment on internet sites. His adversaries were overwhelmingly men of middling education with too much time on their hands and too much fondness for their own opinions. “Keyboard warriors”.
That wasn’t to say that the work itself didn’t have its rewards. Chen liked to pride himself in the skill he brought to the task. Educated in the West, he understood the nuances of the culture. He understood that, although the West often complained about Communist Party propaganda, Westerners existed in a world of propaganda of their own. Only the West’s propaganda was more invisible, more subtle … and more professional. It had entire multi-billion-dollar industries devoted to selling messages without the targets knowing they were being targeted. What was called wumao in the East could just have easily have been called “PR” in the West.
Indeed, two of the books he encouraged his staff to read were Confessions Of An Advertising Man and How To Win Friends And Influence People, both fine guides on how to win over the Western mind.
(Chen sometimes wondered if it might not be more effective to outsource the entire wumao department to the West. The cost could be greater, but the results more convincing. And there would be many, many companies in the West that would accept such work.)
Working as a wumao in the West required a different mindset than, say, working in China. One had to seem more “friendly” … more flexible. More ready to abandon an argument than risk being seen as “uncool”.
In Chen’s mind, comments were to be kept short and to the point. Upper case was never to be used, upper case being the province of the unbalanced. One should never be the first to post on any given subject – being overkeen was suspicious.
Comments should never be too rigid or dogmatic … or too numerous. Sometimes he had to tap a colleague on the shoulder to step away from a computer and a conversation when they became too angry and risked being identified.
In short, their comments were supposed to seem like they came from Westerners themselves.
Chen often used a Western-sounding handle – he had several, in fact. He knew when to back off, when to respond to an argument with a jokey image or meme. Humour was very effective in winning an internet argument. And it was something Westerners didn’t expect from the “humourless” Chinese.
They all had certain key points they were supposed to push. Fortunately, China had a great story to sell. What other country had lifted so many millions out of poverty in so short a time? What other country had given the world gunpowder, porcelain and printing? What country came to the world’s rescue during the 2008 global economic meltdown? China had many, many positive aspects one could casually drop into a net conversion.
Certainly his department had an easier job of it than their Russian counterparts.
But Chen’s true enemy wasn’t the West: he had liked living there and thought China could forge a working relationship with it. And China and America were so interlinked they were calling the combined being “Chimerica”.
No, his true enemy was his boss.
Because he wanted to return to his former life as a banker. And he had no idea how long his penance was supposed to be.
Thus he had begun his own campaign. He would submit small errors in his entries. Perhaps a comment might not be fervent or patriotic enough. Or a joke might seem too Western. Perhaps he would go soft when he should go hard, go slow when he needed to address a trending topic immediately. Perhaps he would even allow himself to be unmasked online as a wumao. As they would say in the West … “whoops”.
He would be moved on.
And finally he would be free.

My ebook military thriller, Game Of Killers, is out now on Amazon.

Kings. Queens. Noble houses at war. Brother against brother. True love thwarted. Villains celebrated. An audience spanning much of the known civilised world.
All written by an author whose fame exceeds almost all others.
Shakespeare, the greatest writer of antiquity, was known for all this and more.
In fact, he sounds a lot like Game Of Thrones author George R.R. Martin, who also lists Britain’s War of the Roses as his main inspiration for GOT. Both the Bard and Martin thus drank from the same well and achieved all-encompassing fame in their lifetimes.
Which brings me to ask: is George R.R. Martin the Shakespeare of the modern world?
I would argue … yes.
What other author has won over the rich and poor, young and old alike?
Who else embraces the grand scope of themes favoured by the Bard?
Who else has created such an intimately relatable world? Whose works do we so eagerly await?
Who else is not afraid to make tragedies of our heroes and heroines?
Who else makes us care so much?
I just hope one day scholars recognise the same grand themes in Martin’s writings as they do in Shakespeare’s … and make students study Martin in school.
Just take a look at some of Shakespeare’s most famous quotes – paired with the best quotes from Game Of Thrones – and see if you don’t agree.

To be, or not to be: that is the question. (Hamlet)
What do we say to the Lord of Death? Not today.

Now is the winter of our discontent. (Richard III)
Winter is coming.

Off with his head! (Richard III)
The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.

Get thee to a nunnery. (Hamlet)
Shame! Shame! Shame!

How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child! (King Lear)
You’re no son of mine.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. (Henry V)
For the Watch.

All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. (As You Like it)
When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die.

As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods/They kill us for their sport. (King Lear)
Why are all the gods such vicious *****? Where is the god of tits and wine?

The course of true love never did run smooth. (A Midsummer Night’s Dream)
The things I do for love.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. (Hamlet)
You know nothing, Jon Snow.

Et tu, Brute? (Julius Caesar)
The Lannisters send their regards.

What’s in a name? A rose by any name would smell as sweet. (Romeo and Juliet)
Is a girl truly No One?

My ebook military thriller, Game Of Killers, is out now on Amazon.

One of the greatest mysteries of the post-World War II era is what happened to the Honjo Masamune – the greatest Japanese sword ever made.
Forged by the legendary swordsmith Masamune in the 13th century, the Honjo Masamune is regarded as a National Treasure in Japan for its artistry, history and strength. This singular samurai sword was considered so special it was the official weapon passed between the shoguns, the military rulers of Japan. The Japanese Excalibur, if you will. A blade for conquerors.
A far cry from the samurai sword imitations crass Westerners kept on their mantle pieces, bought from gift chain outlets to let a faux air of Japanese militarism and culture to their garish living rooms.
The Honjo Masamune belonged to the ruling shoguns for centuries. Handed down through the generations, it was still in the possession of the Tokugawa family when Japan surrendered in 1945 at the end of World War II.
Determined to rid the newly surrendered nation of all weapons – including edged ones – General MacArthur demanded that all samurai swords be handed in to the new occupying power to be melted down and destroyed. Many of these were ordinary swords that had no special purpose or history, merely mass produced for Japanese soldiers to wear into battle. Blades without names.
Yet others had survived for centuries, baptised on the battlefields of ancient Japan. They were more than mere weapons: they were sacred heirlooms that had belonged to families for generations. As much works of art as weapons of war, they represented a precious, vanished world of honor. And the mighty Honjo Masamune was the best of them.
Many Japanese objected to surrendering these special swords to their barbarian conquerors. But the Emperor had ordered the nation to surrender and Japan’s citizens were honor-bound to hand in these priceless treasures. And so the Tokugawas, determined to endure the unendurable at the command of the Emperor, handed in more than a dozen of the family’s swords – including the priceless Honjo Masamune – to a Tokyo police station.
The Americans later repealed their edict, recognising the genuine cultural significance of certain legendary blades, but by then it was too late. According to the available information, the Honjo Masamune and other swords were collected by a US cavalry sergeant called Coldy Bimore from the Tokyo police station and then promptly vanished. No record has ever been found of the GI, which led some to believe that the Japanese police recorded the soldier’s name wrong.
The official history is that the sword was never seen again: that Bimore, whoever he was, kept the sword as a war souvenir, and that it languishes in some dusty attic or basement somewhere in the United States.
But the official history is wrong. The Honjo Masamune has been found … and it lies in the hands of Japan’s enemies.
Many decades after World War II, an agent of that foreign power was stunned to discover that the sacred blade was being sold in a garage sale in the American south-west. An aficionado of Japanese swords, he recognised the weapon from drawings and etchings made centuries ago. Scarcely believing his luck – and the astonishing ignorance of the sellers  – he purchased the sword for a middling price rather than the untold millions it warranted, shook his head again at the ignorance of Westerners, and took the blade home to his house.
He permitted himself a precious day with the Honjo Masamune, marvelling at its beauty and sharpness, wielding it in his dojo: even holding it up by the light of the moon to see if, according to legend, it shone in moonlight. He swung it again and again until he collapsed to the ground, exhausted.
Reluctantly, for he had already fallen in love with the sword by now, he arranged for the Honjo Masamune to be delivered to his homeland. Then the agent left America forever, lest the Japanese discover his purchase and his identity.
The Japanese continued their frantic efforts to find the Honjo Masamune, unaware that was being passed around by the military elite of one of its enemies. Even today they search for it still. But to no avail.
Now the blade has a new owner. And he has brought the Honjo Masamune back to American soil … to christen it in American blood.

The prequel to The Spartan: Blowback, The Spartan, is out now on Amazon.

Image above … an example of Masamune’s work.

I have a confession to make – I am a biblioholic.
I am addicted to bibliohol.
Actually, I’m addicted to books.
And my habit is getting out of control.
My house is now full of books that I have only partially read or begun to read. And despite having enough books to erect my own paper Roman fort in my living room, I just keep adding to the pile. Like the Sorcerer’s apprentice, as soon as I finish a book two more spring up in its place, because I can’t stop collecting them.
It doesn’t matter what the genre is, either … my thirst knows no bounds. Herodotus’s Histories, bought after I saw The English Patient? Sun Tzu’s Art Of War?  Thomas Piketty’s Capital In The 21st Century? The unauthorised story of Motley Crue? Errol Flynn’s My Wicked, Wicked Ways? Sci-fi? Zen? Game Of Thrones? Inspirational bios by dudes with no legs?
From the finest bibliographic burgundy to cut-price goon, there’s all lying around, waiting to be imbibed.
And I never seem to ever get the pile down. I’ve thrown out more books from the great Western literary canon than you’ve had hot dinners. I’ve turfed out more Australian political leaders in a fit of pique than either Labor or the Libs.
Yet more books keep coming, mostly because I have trouble walking past a bookshop without stopping to peruse its wares (why, sometimes you can find me there at 9am as soon as they open).
Part of me knows I’m never going to read a 700-page opus on the ills of modern capitalism. Part of me realises that I’m never going to go back to The Lord Of The Rings, read Wolf Hall, Stephen King’s IT or I Am Pilgrim again or peruse The Slap once more. And I have as much a chance of reading The Iliad in the original Greek as I do of taking up the violin in homage to my childhood hero, Sherlock Holmes.
But it’s just so hard to know where to begin the cull. As soon as you pick up a book to throw out, they seem to fight for their lives. They tease you that you might just read them again one day, even though wading through that last Antony Beevor war book seemed to go on longer than D-Day. So you hang onto them, in the oft-chance you will wake up one morning and be in the mood for Harry Potter, High Fidelity, Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance or How To Avoid Huge Ships.
Sometimes I feel pangs of shame at my choice of material. I once devoured The 4-Hour Work Week like a four-dollar bottle of wine. And I read the Country Women’s Association Cook Book in a dentist’s office because I just HAD to read something.
Why, once when I was at the airport, I read The Da Vinci Code – and ENJOYED IT.
When you start buying books at airports, perhaps it’s time to admit that you have a problem.
OK, so maybe reading lots of books – some of dubious quality – isn’t such a bad problem to have. Maybe I just need a literary intervention, for someone to come in and throw out the old to make way for the new.
And maybe The Iliad is a good place to start the cull. Or The Slap.
Because I’ve already seen them on TV.
But I will always hang onto my copy of How To Survive A Garden Gnome Attack.

My ebook military thriller, The Spartan, is out now on Amazon.

Whether you’re chasing the head of BHP or the drummer for AC/DC, hacks can expect to spend a lot of time waiting for the phone to ring or the email to ping.
Ultimately, your interview subject has the power to decide when, where and if they speak to you. You can handle this in a few ways. Harass their publicists (who may very well be already on the case, trying to find out which New York hotel the star has passed out in). Phone them directly anyway. Use email. Quickly make a coffee in the kitchen and rush back to your desk.
Bounce your leg up and down in frustration under your desk, leading your colleagues to ask if you have restless leg syndrome. Swear. Do complex algebraic equations. Contemplate your mortality. Stare at the posters and art stuck to the walls of your pod, particularly that amusing graphic depicting the life cycle of a writer, which swings from joy (“Hoorah, I have a story”) to depression (“None of my friends and colleagues read my story – what am I doing with my life?”).
You may want to have some tactile object on your desk with which to take out your frustration. A stress ball is recommended – particularly when you hear that your subject is locked in a hotel room with a mound of cocaine which he is fashioning into the shape of the mountain from Close Encounters of the Third Kind,  leaving you to explain to your editor why you don’t have that page one for tomorrow’s paper. Suck a lolly if you’re feeling nervous (it works, apparently – don’t ask me how). Or use a pen to doodle and spiral as you hang on the phone with Telstra, who are attempting to connect your conference call.
Waiting to be connected is a good time to underline important quotes in press notes, key points in business press releases and anecdotes from the turgid biographies of sports stars. You never know what titbit might be useful when you finally speak to them (“Why, yes, my childhood ambition was to be a children’s clown/sumo wrestler/euthanasia advocate”).
Just remember not to lose your cool. Even if an interview slot is cancelled, they might get back to you with a new one. And don’t abuse the publicist, because you’re probably going to have to deal with them again some day … and they have long memories.

PS Re Godot. Why hasn’t someone made a Godot Action Figure by now?

My ebook military thriller, The Spartan, is out now on Amazon.

  1. That voice. Because a man now knows you are reading this in his voice.
  2. His quotes are the best. “You stole three deaths from the Red God. We have to give them back.” (You’re reading this in his voice again, aren’t you?)
  3. He’s just about the coolest character on Game of Thrones. He’s the James Dean of Westeros.
  4. He’s a good authority figure for wayward children.
  5. His back story must be fascinating. Who was he before he became No One?
  6. Tom Wlaschiha, the actor who plays him, has a style all of his own.
  7. He’s got a cool house full of interesting things. Just don’t touch his stuff … Jaqen doesn’t like you touching his stuff.
  8. Forget The Hound, The Mountain or even Ned Stark … in a world of killers, Jaqen’s probably the best there is.
  9. Because Valar Morghulis, that’s why.
  10. Because when we run out of material from George R.R., we’d got a whole new dramatic arc to explore. Unless George R.R. wants to write it himself (hint, hint).Hey … a man says, check out my military thriller The Spartan.

8.30am: No need for parking tickets at the car park of the Sydney Writers’ Festival – I just leave a copy of Pride & Prejudice under my windshield wiper.
9am: “I’ve got Ferrante Fever,” says a friend. Embarrassed, I reply, “Hopefully calamine lotion will work for that.”
10am: Big crowd for enfant terrible author Susan Smithers, author of How I Quit Both Sugar AND The World’s Deadliest Terrorist Group.
11am: It’s an incredible sight seeing hundreds of grown adults filling in colouring books with crayons. If only they were actually at a mindfulness workshop.
Noon: People keep talking about Man Booker. How come we never see him? Is he an actual person?
1pm: Have the choice of seeing “the most important Chinese intellectual of his generation” or the dude who writes those Minecraft “how to” guides. Go to the Minecraft session.
1.45pm: Authors are always going on about “uncomfortable truths”. Why can’t we have “comfortable truths” for a change?
2pm: “A gruelling and intense journey that leave little room for catharsis and redemption … and makes one ultimately despair about one’s fellow man” I tweet as – yes, finally – I reach the head of the coffee queue.
2.30pm: I’d like to see more books featuring haughty butlers on the program line-up.
4pm: I learn that the collective noun for a group of librarians is a “shush”.
5pm: Purchase commemorative festival quill.
6pm: Ushers throw me out of A Love Affair With Shakespeare after I keep insisting the speakers refer to Shakespeare as “the man we call ‘Shakespeare'”.
10pm: Yes: everyone still talking about THAT thing.

Like books? Hey, why not try my ebook military thriller, The Spartan?

Your editor will probably be a crusty, salt-and-pepper-haired but ultimately benign 55-year-old man The horrifying truth is that he’s really only 35 … but has been prematurely aged, reverse Benjamin Button style, by the stress of journalism.
He will occasionally deliver soul-crushing wisdom in front of the entire staff Like “no one buys newspapers any more”.
He will ask you to suddenly write stories that aren’t your specialty Written about nothing else but politics and world affairs for the last 10 years? Your crusty but benign editor will come in one day and ask you to write about sports, despite the paper having a full-time sports desk complete with experienced sports reporters. Because, hey, we’re wacky that way in journalism.
He will go through “your personal Dropbox” to see what stories (hopefully sports related) you have filed Even though Dropbox is mostly used for downloading and exchanging photos and that you are far more likely to file any stories to a central server for the sub-editors to work on. (Is he also going through your email, you wonder? Probably.)
He even wants to put your “sports” story on page one Superpowered aliens are flying around the city, things are blowing up left and right and a mysterious vigilante has enacted his own version of martial law in Gotham, but your editor believes the tale of some overpaid, overmuscled jock deserves the front page over these earth-shattering stories. (Maybe he’s right. He’s the one who sees the daily sales figures, not you.)
When he finds out that you blew off the “sports” story to cover a high-class party featuring an eccentric billionaire – Bruce Wayne, the owner of the newspaper, no less – there will, oddly, be no repercussions He’ll just be grateful for any copy to fill the holes in the paper … because, hey, “no one buys newspapers any more”.
Despite the fact that no one buys newspapers any more and he has the budget of a school tuck shop, he will occasionally be outrageously magnanimous Such as allowing you to hire a helicopter for PERSONAL REASONS … even though such an expense just wiped out that entire week’s profits.
He’ll also be cool with all your regular, mysterious absences With rolling deadlines and a constant barrage of information to somehow cram into each daily edition, every second counts on a newspaper.  Yet your crusty, salt-and-pepper-haired but ultimately benign 55-year-old editor will be OK with your frequent, unexplained absences, which seem to occur at the same time that Superman is busy rescuing orphans or cats or bats or something. It’s the last days of Rome here. Go nuts.
(Years later, you will learn that your crusty, beloved editor developed ulcers from holding in all the grief you were giving him.)
He will grab the first edition featuring your non-sports story straight off the printing press Even though the actual printing presses will be located dozens, if not hundreds of kilometres, from your office.
He’ll back you when the owner of the paper complains you keep writing “puff pieces” about Superman Despite his inability to identify and cover the major news stories of the day, spot imposters hiding in plain sight behind spectacles or even discipline his reporters, your crusty but benign editor is big into maintaining the editorial independence of the newspaper, even to the point of refusing to soften the paper’s line against the “Bat vigilante in Gotham”.
He will fight for your right to file what you want, whenever you want until the day he is eventually escorted from the building at Bruce Wayne’s orders, clutching his Walkleys and his cactus on the way out.

Hey, check out my ebook military thriller The Spartan on Amazon.