My friend Robert Francis III was given four months to finalise his manuscript. The publisher set March first as a strict deadline. Prior to this period Rob had only been writing in his spare time. Now that an official contract had been signed he took several months’ leave in order to concentrate his full attention on the project. As a self-employed person we saw a lot more of our old friend; he’d come to the city for lunch, call for a morning coffee, and drop by almost every Friday and Saturday night. I asked him around mid-January how his novel had been shaping up; I don’t know why it hadn’t come up earlier; he’d been on leave for almost seven weeks at that stage. “I reduced the font size from twelve to eleven and a half, and changed the chapter headings from numerals to words,” he replied. I tried not to sound critical but suggested that perhaps his time had been a little unproductive. After a moment’s reflection Rob agreed that he probably should’ve done more. The following day he returned to work and I barely heard from him until the launch of his novel.
“You obviously had no trouble with the finished touches,” I said, when we finally had a chance to chat. He’d spent most of the evening chatting to men in tailored suits.
“Not at all,” Rob Francis III replied. “The sequel has already been edited and I’m halfway through the third in the series.”
“You obviously had no trouble with the finished touches,” I said, when we finally had a chance to chat. He’d spent most of the evening chatting to men in tailored suits.
“Not at all,” Rob Francis III replied. “The sequel has already been edited and I’m halfway through the third in the series.”