“Say again?” Phil’s composure cracked; surely the editor was joking.
“This manuscript is the product of infertile imagination.”
Phil darkened. He’d worked. Slaved.
“Look,” the editor seemed cagey. Nervous. “It’s overtaxed with adverbs, cliches, common tropes-”
Phil grinned, enjoying the sound of a cracked skull.
He’d try elsewhere.