33. War & Art
33
War it’s making them convince themselves.
For weeks, I did what I thought I was supposed to do, the corporate solutions I thought I’d learned from my time in KMG: meticulous pitches, airtight financials, email after email trying to make the case for Inkspill on its own merit.
And for weeks, I got nothing but polite rejections, vague non-answers, and, in one particularly memorable case, an editor telling me to fuck off and let the imprint die with dignity .
That one was particularly tough; I deleted it before letting the team see it.
But Greer Manning changes everything.
The realisation doesn’t sink in straightaway.
For the first few days after the email, I keep telling myself she’d already made up her mind, that I’d just happened to show up at the right time, say the right things.
But the more I think about it, the more I realise that’s not what happened at all.
Greer didn’t stay with Inkspill because I wore her down with polished arguments and strategic pitches.
She stayed because I sat in her living room, drinking milky coffee out of a chipped Cambridge University mug, listening to her talk about how publishing’s changed over the years, and about history, and about books.
She stayed because I admitted I had no fucking idea what I was doing but that I wasn’t willing to let Inkspill die without a fight.
And when I walked out of her house, hands stuffed in my coat pockets, snow settling on my collar, she’d seen something in me that made her realise I was telling the truth.
I’ve spent my entire life thinking that winning means being the smartest guy in the room.
That power comes from polish and practice and perfection, from being untouchable.
But that’s not the person Greer Manning saw when she looked at me.
And the person she saw was enough to give her faith, to give Inkspill one last chance.
And I think I like that person.
The realisation finally sinks in at a publishing event in mid-January.
One of those black-tie, three-hundred-dollar-a-ticket evenings where people drink wine and nibble finger foods while metaphorically patting themselves on the back.
The kind of event that people like Inés and Patch and Mina and Matt would rather die than attend.
So of course, they send me.
I’m here for Dr Caleb Pranav, a best-selling historian who writes about the philosophy of war.
He’s exactly the kind of guy Inkspill needs and has been at the top of Inés’s wishlist ever since I started at Inkspill.
When I spot him, he’s mid-conversation with two serious-looking old guys, a glass of whisky in hand.
The two guys are talking his ear off, and by the longing looks he keeps throwing at the drink in his hand, he looks like he’s been done with the conversation for a while now.
I don’t wait. I walk straight up and nod at his drink.
“Single malt?”
He blinks, caught off guard.
“Excuse me? ”
“The whisky,” I say, smiling.
“It’s the kind you drink either because you’re really into whisky or because you’re trying to look sophisticated.”
The other two men chuckle.
Pranav’s dark eyes narrow, assessing me, but there’s amusement in them.
Despite being in his late fifties, he’s in great shape, with broad shoulders and a full head of dark grey hair.
“GlenDronach,” he says with perfect pronunciation.
“A twenty-one-year-old, perfectly exquisite.” He shrugs.
“Looking sophisticated doesn’t hurt, of course.” He gestures towards the bar.
“Care to try?”
“Thank you, but I’m more of a Talisker guy.”
“Ah,” he says, nodding.
“And do you like your women like your whisky: harsh and unapproachable?”
I laugh out loud, a genuine, surprised sound.
“You have no idea.”
But I do end up trying the GlenDronach, in the end, even though I don’t particularly like whisky.
Dr Pranav is a pretty persuasive guy, and I realise quickly why he’s so good at what he does.
The things that he loves and is interested in, he can speak about with such passion that you can’t help but be fascinated.
Fifty minutes later and we’ve not spoken once about publishing.
Instead, I find myself drawn into a sort of impulsive history lesson of warfare and military strategy.
“The best generals didn’t just win battles: they made their enemies believe they’d already lost. That’s why most wars are fought in the head before they ever make it to the battlefield.”
Impulse tells me this is my opening, and the cosy burn of whisky under my skin tells me I should go for it.
I lean in slightly.
“You know, Caleb,” I say, “I think you’d hate working with us.”
He rolls his eyes but smiles.
“I would, would I? ”
“We’re terrible at war.” I grin.
“Inés, Patch, the rest of the team—they’re shit at strategy and power plays. They don’t agree with treating academics like soldiers and books like weapons. We don’t publish like it’s a battlefield—we publish like it’s an art.” I run my hand through my hair, laughing.
“Even if that means it can sometimes be messy, passionate, personal.”
“Sounds terrible,” Dr Pranav says, raising his eyebrows over the frame of his glasses.
“I know, I told you.” I shrug.
“You’d hate working with us.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, he laughs, hearty and warm and a little smoky, just like his whisky.
A week later, he signs.