When an Editor is A CROOK: A Cautionary Tale for Writers

Ah, the glamorous world of writing—where dreams are inked, hopes are edited, and contracts apparently evaporate faster than good intentions. Pull up a chair, pour yourself something comforting, and let me tell you about the time I hired an editor who could’ve given con artists a run for their money. I call this one: When an Editor Is a Crook.

Last year, I hired someone—let’s call them THE CROOK—to help whip my manuscript into shape. We signed a neat little contract in July. Twelve months, three editing sessions, paid up front. Everything looked professional enough. They had glowing testimonials, probably written by the same people who leave five-star Yelp reviews for gas stations. I figured I was in good hands.

Of course, life had other plans. Between managing sarcoidosis, heart failure, and the general chaos of being a human with too many doctor appointments and not enough spoons, my schedule went sideways. But I stayed communicative, like any decent adult. THE CROOK agreed that flexibility was totally fine. “No problem!” they said. “We’ll make it work.” Famous last words.

By January—six months into our twelve-month contract—I finally sent over my first 30 pages. They responded with warmth and enthusiasm. They “couldn’t wait to dive in,” but they had some other projects, so could I check back in early February? Sure, no problem. I followed up as instructed. Then again. Then again. What did I get? Nothing. Not even a passive-aggressive emoji. Just digital tumbleweeds rolling through my inbox.

Months later—May, to be exact—I received a reply so audacious it should’ve come with popcorn. Apparently, I’d “missed the deadline.” Excuse me? What deadline? The one they invented while ignoring me? The twelve-month contract had somehow become six months. Like a magician’s trick, but instead of applause, you’re left wondering where your money went.

And here’s the punchline: they wanted another $500 to “continue.” For what, exactly? They hadn’t touched the manuscript, hadn’t provided feedback, hadn’t done a thing except ghost me with professional flair. It was the literary equivalent of someone eating your lunch and then charging you for dessert.

Naturally, I pulled out the receipts. The original contract. The emails confirming flexibility. The messages proving I had done everything by the book. I reminded them, gently but firmly, that they were holding both my work and my money hostage. Their response? “I don’t have time for a year-old client.”

Oh, but they had time to deposit the payment last July. They had time to send glowing promises in January. But now I was too outdated? Apparently, manuscripts have expiration dates I didn’t know about—maybe mine spoiled in their inbox next to the unpaid invoices.

So here’s the moral of this ridiculous saga: just because someone plasters their website with inspirational quotes and pictures of sunrises doesn’t mean they’re ethical. Sometimes the loudest “faith-based professionals” are the ones praying no one asks for a refund.

If you’re a writer—especially one juggling chronic illness, fatigue, or brain fog—you’ve got to protect yourself. Get every promise in writing. Read every clause twice. And if someone tries to guilt you into paying more mid-contract, walk away. You don’t need divine intervention, just good documentation.

At the end of the day, this wasn’t just about $500 or a few lost pages. It was about respect. Writers deserve editors who honor their time, health, and creative energy. If someone can’t do that, then the only thing they’re editing is your trust.

So, have you ever been ghosted by an editor or burned by a “mentor” who turned out to be more crook than coach? Drop your story in the comments—I promise not to charge you $500 to read it. And if you enjoy cautionary tales about life, writing, and surviving the nonsense with humor intact, hit that subscribe button. We chronic warriors have to stick together.