What do you do when your supervisor takes his title of editorial

history channel documentary What do you do when your supervisor takes his title of editorial manager too truly and needs to alter your book to obscurity? Oh my goodness a story (with interferences) to represent my point. The story is entitled: 'What happened to my original copy?' 'The book was sent off on March fifth.'

I am conversing with Blasted and Co., a distributed firm to whom I presented a composition very nearly four months prior. They asked for that I send them the whole book. So at incredible cost, my book was posted from Littlehampton in the Wold, Shropshire, England, where I, Oswald Spinfrith live, to Anchorage, Alaska, where Blasted and Co. have their godforsaken office. 'The fifth of March,' I rehashed. 'Gracious! My!' answered this Alaskan voice with the Hollywood articulation. 'I was thinking about whether it had wandered off-track,' I said. "Off track?" she questioned. Don't they that have that word in Alaska? gone through my psyche. 'Disappeared, got lost by one means or another,' I clarified. 'Goodness, geee, no! Books never do that. We're terrible watchful. What was the book called, sir?' 'Waste Bin.' 'Come back once more,' she answered. 'Waste Bin - er, similar to you say junk would!' She be able to snickered down the telephone. 'Goodness! I see. What's more, you never heard anything from us?' 'Not a hotdog,' I rashly answered. "Aah!" she squeaked at me. Perhaps that was another expression which they don't use in Alaska? There was hush, a noteworthy interruption. She was most likely weighing up the advantages and disadvantages of a writer who composed a book about waste jars and raised the subject of hotdogs unnecessarily when chatting with a relative outsider. 'All things considered, sir,' she started finally, 'I'll get our senior proofreader, Mr. Proudfoot, to ring you back when we have found your composition.' after a hour the phone rang. "Proudfoot!" drawled an American pronunciation. 'Ringing from Blasted and Company! Mr...' he lurched a minute. Clearly he'd overlooked my name.