Steve,
I’m writing to inform you of several issues with the work you submitted this week. The frequency of simple errors is slowing our editorial process. Your use of contractions in legal content — for example, wasn’t instead of was not — is against our policy. While I would prefer to keep you, I will terminate your contract immediately if your work does not improve.
Sincerely,
Elizabeth
Elizabeth had written some version of that note so many times that she barely thought as her fingers moved across the keys. Professional. Curt. Direct. Email was her element.
She stood and stretched, glancing at the diplomas aligned precisely on the far wall. Medical content. Legal content. Formatting rules. She could work anywhere. She demanded standards. Clients stayed happy.
She had joined the SEO company two years earlier as a freelancer. Within six months, she was promoted. Within a year, she was feared.
Most writers performed well. A few did not. She learned quickly that clarity was kindness — and termination was cleaner than negotiation. She made expectations clear. If they were not met, she let the writer go.
Control mattered. In others. In herself.
An hour after sending the email, Steve called.
She declined it.
Let him sit with it.
Another call. Ten minutes later, another.
Now she felt irritation tighten behind her eyes. She preferred discipline in writing. Calls invited emotion.
“If he keeps this up, I’ll just terminate him,” she muttered.
Rob appeared in the doorway of her white-and-black office. “Another freelancer?”
“Yes. He’s fifty. And the errors — basic ones.”
“So fire him.”
“I usually give them a chance. Replacing one is tedious.”
Another call.
“That’s it,” she said.
Dear Steve,
After further consideration, I am terminating your contract. Good luck in your future endeavors.
Sincerely,
Elizabeth Peterson
Senior Managing Editor
Rob leaned over her shoulder. “You’ve never been wrong about a writer.”
An email from Steve appeared in her inbox.
Then the internet dropped.
The screen froze.
“Damn.”
“It’s late,” Rob said. “You can finish in the morning.”
Her daughter appeared beside her desk. “Mommy, can you read Captain Underpants?”
“Of course.”
Elizabeth read twenty pages without pause. Tucked her in. Slept.
In the morning, the internet had returned.
She opened her laptop.
For a moment, the email screen was wrong.
Letters rearranged themselves. Words sagged. A sentence collapsed inward like wet paper.
She blinked.
Everything snapped back into place.
Fatigue.
She exhaled.
Two hours later, she realized she had read the same paragraph three times.
She submitted four blogs to management.
Twenty minutes later:
Elizabeth,
There are several formatting errors in the first and fourth articles. Also, you know contractions are not permitted for this client. Please revise immediately.
Best,
Management
Her stomach dropped.
She had written the formatting document herself. Ten rules. No deviations. No contractions. Writers who ignored them were terminated.
She opened the documents.
Red comments flooded the margins.
There they were.
Errors.
Contractions.
How had she missed them?
The rest of the day blurred. What once took fifteen minutes now took thirty. Sentences resisted her. Paragraphs would not hold still.
Her supervisor called.
“These drafts are full of mistakes.”
“That’s impossible,” she said too quickly.
“It wasn’t before. It is now.”
She emailed a junior freelancer she had disciplined twice that quarter.
“Can you take a quick look before I send this up?”
She did not add please.
He replied an hour later.
“I made a few small corrections. Nothing major. Let me know if you need anything else. — Joe”
Small corrections.
Nothing major.
The next morning, her inbox was garbled noise. Words slid past each other. Meaning would not settle.
That night, she opened Captain Underpants again.
The sentences looked ordinary.
She began reading.
Halfway down the page, her voice stopped.
“Mommy,” her daughter said gently, “you skipped a part.”
Elizabeth tried again.
“That’s not what it says.”
She did not sleep.
At the hospital: bloodwork. Neurological exam. Scan.
“Everything looks normal,” the doctor said. “This is likely stress.”
Stress.
He prescribed lorazepam.
At home, she turned the bottle in her hand.
The instructions blurred.
She brought it closer to the light.
The letters refused to arrange themselves.
She handed it to Rob.
Two weeks later, doctors still called it stress.
She took the medication. Returned to work.
Words made sense again.
They stayed where she put them.
But.
Every few hours, a flicker.
Their becoming there.
Was not threatening to contract.
Then even that seemed to fade.
On a Friday morning, before reviewing ten blogs for publication, she searched her inbox.
Steve.
She opened the termination email. Read it carefully.
Then she typed.
Steve,
I’ve been thinking about our last exchange. If you are open to it, I would be glad to review your recent work together and go over formatting expectations.
Best,
Elizabeth
She reread it slowly.
The words were steady.
She pressed send.
As the message whooshed away, she could have sworn she saw do not contract into don’t.
She wasn’t sure it was a mistake.
She wasn’t sure it wasn’t.