Editor Jobs Remote Novels & Stories

"Your résumé mentioned you're an illustrator, and you have a background in graphics design." It still sounded too good to be true, but the longer Eden thought about it, the more she liked the idea of freelancing for Anderson Logistics. "Here's everything you need to know," Zara pushed the file in front of her. "Your salary won't be as much as what you're getting now, but you'll be working fewer hours, so it balances out. You won't have any of the company perks, either. And you'll work remotely, but there are times you'll be required to come in once or twice a week."

The bed is spacious enough for a child and a parent, but the closet is too small. So, little rose is planning to give up her room for me? Although I appreciate the gesture, it’s entirely inconvenient for Ben. I take out my phone and call Jake. “What do you want now?” He asks, irritated. I try to cut it short. “Put me on the phone with the Chief Editor of the Literary branch.” Jake obeys at once and puts him on the conference call. “What can I do for you, sir?” “I hear they’re lacking employees in our branch in San Francisco, correct?”

It's late in the evening, and I'm still in the office. Tracy asked me to edit a news video story, which is not my regular job, but I'm happy to do it. I know this is a stepping stone to working full-time as a journalist, which is my dream.

It started with a ping from my editor. “Need to talk. URGENT.” Not the kind of message you want to wake up to at 7:04 a.m. Jeff was still asleep beside me, his face relaxed in a way I rarely saw when he was awake. I didn’t want to disturb him, but the pit in my stomach was already forming. I slipped out of bed, padded to the kitchen, and called. “Demi,” my editor said without even saying hello, “Did you see the blog post on Watchdog Weekly?”

“Please continue without me. You can fill me in through an email.” We walked side by side to his office. The Chief Editor didn’t look at me. He appeared preoccupied and distant. “What’s going on?” I questioned. “Is everything alright?” He simply stared at me. Sighing, he walked over to his desk and picked up the remote of the television, flipping the channels. I turned my head slowly towards the wall where a reporter was speaking.

He squinted his eyes, "What will it take for you to be in charge of my work?" That sounded like a joke to me and I laughed but the laughter sounded weird like it was forced, which of course it was. It sounded like a witchy one and it was very dry, dried from any sort of emotion. I didn't bother to cover up my displeasure, "No, no. I can only edit it for you and that's my job, that is why this is a company sir, the writers write, and we the editors edit their writeup in case of any mistakes or omissions." I explained to him.

Instead, there was a clean desk and a stack of creative briefs for an international travel campaign. ​"I’m not hiring you to be a spy, Hannah," Mateo said, leaning back in his chair with a cup of coffee. "I’m hiring you because you’re the best editor I’ve seen in years. I want Velez International to look like the future, not a tabloid. You do your work, you get your paycheck, and you stay out of the crossfire. That’s the deal." ​"Thank you, Mateo," I said, the weight in my chest finally easing. "That’s all I’ve wanted since we got back. Peace."

I was wearing a cheap trench coat and carrying a cardboard box. "Victor?" I turned. A woman was standing outside a diner. She was wearing a lab tech’s uniform. She had a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. "Elodie?" "Are you okay? You’ve been standing there for five minutes." She walked over to me. She looked the same. Younger. Tired. Real. "Did you get the job?" I looked at the cardboard box in my arms. "Yeah," I said. My voice was mine. No gravel. No growl. "I'm the new night shift editor at the Chronicle."

those words barely made any sense but whatevs. Thought being a real journalist was your dream? Well, dreams change. Since when? Since I spent weeks under an editor who won't let me write one word. The smallest news, even obituary, he won't let me cover! Then he makes me clean the dirty floor and spends several minutes just ogling my ass with his creepy reptilian eyes. I woulda quit last week, but I'm waiting to give my boss a special surprise before I go. Ru? If you get your ass arrested while I'm stuck in goddamn Tartu, I'm going to string you up by your balls.

I will not let this tear me down not here, not now. Within a week, as promised, I receive an email from Marcus which contains only three words: Congratulations, It's final! The message came in just as I finished emailing my editor the most recent installment of my new weekly article for the online magazine, Southern California Living. I'm the style editor for the magazine. While it doesn’t pay very much, I'm having a ball, and more importantly, it keeps me busy once combined with my blog and other writing gigs. At this point, the money only equates to mad money but I hope to make a name for myself eventually.