The arrival of a new package was always a cause for celebration. Stiff cardboard with his name printed on the front. Priority delivery—overnight as promised. Handed to him with a smile by the regular delivery driver. Never a surprise, always a delight. A new book, straight from the publisher!
This was one he had been expecting for some time—the memoir of the late, prize-winning Belgian author. He found the man’s life story fascinating, from his youth in Nazi-ruled Europe to his role in local politics and later in the country’s government, and finally his rebirth as the celebrated author of seven novels, literary works of wonder that were widely translated. He had read the English editions of four of them.
“Until next time,” the delivery driver said, but he was already back in the house, tearing open the cardboard to reveal the wonders within. A slim bound manuscript with the phrases ‘Not for sale’ and ‘Advance Readers Copy’ printed in a large red font on the title page. Not yet a book, but one destined for publication.
What an amazing feeling to hold in one’s hands a work of art, a masterpiece of literature not yet seen by others. Almost like foreseeing the future. This ARC arrived on his doorstep four months ahead of the official publication date, sent by the publisher with hopes he would give it a positive—honest, yet positive—review.
He was a book reviewer, well known and highly respected by those who read The Times. His reviews could make or break a newly released book. Blurbs from his reviews featured prominently on back covers and in the opening pages of contemporary literature, biographies, and speculative fiction.
“Brilliant!” — Seymour Seeber in The Times.
“Outstanding!” — Seeber, The Times.
“Highly recommended!”
Seymour liked to believe that a positive review of his was worth a thousand book sales, but obviously, there was no way to get such a statistic. Publishers readily sent him their upcoming titles, although there were some he refused to write about, either because he judged them poorly written, or written in poor taste. Overall, he enjoyed the variety of the books that came to him for review.
“What did you get this time?” Martha asked, coming into the living room and offering him his second cup of coffee that morning. He had drunk the first hours before—he was an early riser and enjoyed the caffeine pickup after a morning run. Martha, on the other hand, took her time before emerging from their bedroom to face the new day’s tasks and priorities. The thought of exercise never crossed her mind.
“This,” Seymour said, holding up the bound manuscript.
“What is it? I can’t judge a book without a cover.”
“A memoir. The Belgian author I was telling you about.”
“Belgian? I don’t remember your mentioning anyone from Belgium.”
“I did!” Seymour insisted.
“If you had, I would have remembered it. Sometimes you think you said something, but you didn’t. I worry about you, Seymour. You’re not always with it.”
“What are you talking about?” he said, heading into his study. How could she say something like that? Admittedly, he was getting older, and his memory was not like it used to be, but surely Martha had exaggerated!
Seymour placed the manuscript on his desk, to the right of his laptop. This one would join the others in queue for him to read and review, but he would get to it soon enough. He was a speed reader, reading three or four books simultaneously, balancing novels with short story collections, true crime mysteries with historical fiction. He had no preference for one genre over another. Every book was a work of art, an author’s creation come to life.
Seymour had once considered a career as a writer. He had majored in American Literature, but his true talents were in his analytic skills, judging the creativity of others. He knew how to balance praise and critique, how to mention both the positive and negative aspects of a book without offending the writer. Authors appreciated him; publishers held his reviews in high esteem; and readers thanked him for guiding them into their next read.
The creativity of his reviews frequently outweighed the creativity of the authors he reviewed. Or so he thought.
“Tom called earlier,” Martha announced, standing in the study’s doorway.
“Yes?”
“He had big news to share. He wanted to speak to you directly, but you were out running.”
“What was his news?” Seymour asked, still admiring the bound memoir on his desk.
“He received a promotion!”
“A promotion? That’s wonderful!” Seymour smiled, pride in his son’s accomplishment lighting up his face. “One day, they’ll make him a partner.”
“You see, Seymour, it’s just like I said!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Tom’s promotion. I told you about it yesterday and today you act like you’d never heard about it before. Your memory is not as sharp as it used to be!”
Seymour ignored Martha’s comment, dismissing it like he had dismissed so many similar observations in the past. What he did think about was his son. Tom was on track to become a partner in a prestigious law firm. A far cry from his own mediocre career in copyediting at the local newspaper. He had been a diligent employee from the day he graduated all the way until his retirement, five years before, but had never been a candidate for advancement.
Tom had once done his best to convince Seymour to read digital books, even buying him a Kindle for his birthday. Seymour refused to even start up the small device. For him, a book was only a book if he could feel its solid cover in his hands, could flip through its pages with his fingers. Hardcover and paperback were both just fine. E-books? Not for him.
He stood silently by his desk, wondering whether he should dive right into the Belgian’s memoir, or pick up the suspense thriller he had started the day before. There was also the self-help book promising to teach readers the seven habits of effective people. He had assured his editor he would finish that review by week’s end.
So many books to read, so many reviews to write. Seymour enjoyed his second act career more than he could have ever imagined.
Throughout the day, Seymour read. One book after another, occasionally jotting down notes. When Martha invited him to join her for an afternoon snack in the kitchen, he put down his reading glasses and reluctantly rose from his chair. After coffee, he would work on the draft of the self-help book’s review.
“Tom told me he’s dating a nice young woman, a veterinarian,” Martha informed him as she sliced a piece of sponge cake. “She just moved here.”
“That’s nice,” Seymour said. “Let me guess. You told me this yesterday.”
“No, not this time,” Martha said with a laugh. “Your mental facilities are sharp only part of the time, but in this particular instance, I hadn’t previously mentioned Tom’s girlfriend.”
Seymour cared about Tom, took pride in his career, but couldn’t relate to details about his son’s social life. As his wife carried on with further information, followed by neighborhood gossip, Seymour began forming in his mind the opening paragraph of his upcoming review. Every so often, he nodded and repeated the mantra, “That’s nice,” as she continued the one-sided conversation.
What can one say about a self-help book, anyway? That it’s helpful? Educational? He knew he would find the appropriate words, providing his editor with a suitable review for the newspaper’s Book Reviews section.
At dinner, there was more casual chitchat, and Seymour did his best not only to pay attention but to also actively participate in the conversation. His mind, though, occasionally drifted to the reviews he was writing, the manuscripts he was reading. His world was books, but he would only get back to his passion the following day.
“What shall we watch on Netflix tonight?” Martha asked, and soon their evening plans were set.
The next morning started like any other. Seymour rose early, went for his run, had his morning coffee, checked his emails, and prepared for his daily routine of reading and writing. The first draft of the self-help book’s review needed editing, and he was eager to compose the review of the Belgian author’s narrative.
A knock on the front door startled him. He wasn’t expecting any deliveries, but there stood the regular driver, holding out a cardboard package.
“Package for you,” the man said, smirking as if he had never been to the house before.
Seymour signed for the delivery and turned it over, searching for clues which publisher had sent it. His name was handwritten on the front with a thick magic marker, but there were no other identifying marks.
In his study, as he took a pair of corrugated scissors to cut the cardboard, he heard his wife moving about in the kitchen. The refrigerator opening, a cupboard door slamming, coffee cup on the counter—the usual sounds of morning. He cut a line down the package and pulled out the bound paper from within, turning it over to look at the title page. The name of the manuscript caught his attention.
The Book Reviewer
And under that was a dedication. To Martha, my loving wife.
How amusing, Seymour thought. The author’s wife had the same name as his own wife, Martha! He didn’t know whether the manuscript he was holding in his hand was a work of fiction or non-fiction. He began to read.
The arrival of a new package was always a cause for celebration. Stiff cardboard with his name printed on the front. Priority delivery—overnight as promised. Handed to him with a smile by the regular delivery driver. Never a surprise, always a delight. A new book, straight from the publisher!
Seymour sat down in his recliner and skimmed through the manuscript. The protagonist of the story started each day with a morning run and ended it by watching Netflix with his wife. His son was named Tom, and Tom was dating a veterinarian.
“What are you reading now?” Martha asked, stepping into the study.
Seymour held up the bound manuscript, showing her its title page. The Book Reviewer.
“Oh, how exciting!” she said, coming forward to kiss him on the cheek. “You’ve been waiting for this moment for years!”
“I have?” Seymour asked, but then realization set in. This was his book, his memoir, the manuscript he had been working on for quite some time. He held in his hands the advance copy sent by his publisher ahead of the official release date for Seymour’s review. Not for a book review, but rather for a review to make sure the copyediting and proofreading and formatting were up to his expectations.
“My book at last,” he said with a sigh, putting down his reading glasses on the desk.
*****
Ellis Shuman is an American-born Israeli author, travel writer, and book reviewer. His writing has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, The Times of Israel, World Literature Today, and The Huffington Post. His short fiction has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and has appeared in Isele Magazine, Vagabond, The Write Launch, Esoterica, Jewish Literary Journal, San Antonio Review, and other literary publications. He is the author of The Virtual Kibbutz, Valley of Thracians, The Burgas Affair, and Rakiya – Stories of Bulgaria. https://ellisshuman.blogspot.com/
