Books, like children, are a labor of love. And as it takes a village to raise a child, so too does it take an army to really ruin a novel. Starship Repo started life as a perfect story, unmatched in the history of Western literature for its pacing, character development, world-building, plot, wit, social insights, and humor. Beta readers, grown men and women, openly wept upon completion out of both elation at having experienced it, and the crushing realization that it was over.
It was only through a deliberate effort to sabotage this one flawless thing during the editing process that what could have been a singular human achievement was hauled back down from the heavens. Anything that you didn't like about this novel, dear reader, is entirely the fault of someone other than the author, who is just as much a victim here as you are.
Any joke that failed to land, any dangling plot thread, any inconsistency or even typo, was inserted in post-production by publishing industry professionals who succumbed to their jealousy and base impulse to destroy that which they envied.
And while many hands made light work or butchering this aborted cultural touchstone, from the cover design team, to the typesetter, to the copyeditors, even to my agent, immediate family and wife, there is one man who deserves to be singled out for blame, and perhaps even criminal prosecution, for desecrating a work that otherwise would have cruised to this year's Nobel Prize in Literature.
That's right, I'm talking about my editor, Christopher Morgan. I trusted you, man. I already put a down payment on my flat in SoHo in anticipation of the Nobel Money. Now what the hell am I supposed to do, keep writing?
