Russell, editor extraordinaire (short story 1)

Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories.
*

It’s eight o’clock on a quiet Sunday night. Russell’s finishing up notes on an article he’s editing for Modern magazine.

His mathematics professor wife Bertie is happily knitting. A sock, a blanket, or maybe it’s a sweater, he’s not sure. She knows a lot about mathematics, but she’s not the best knitter.

Should he call it a day and have a nightcap, or read one more submission? Just one, he decides. Russell settles into his comfy chair with the article, a fresh cup of decaf coffee and his trusty red fine-point pen.

He plops his feet on the coffee table and starts reading Russell, editor extraordinaire. “Russell was an editor, an extraordinarily good one,” he reads. Strange coincidence, but good name and occupation, Russell thinks. Who wrote this? Henry Maxwell Dempsey. Never heard of him.

The phone rings. Bertie doesn’t even look up. “It’s for you,” she says.

Russell picks up. “Yellow.”

“Russell, good news. Did I wake you?” It’s his boss, Tamika, the managing editor.

“Yes, you did. Does that mean it’s bad news?”

“I did not. You’re wide awake. This is good news. You got a promotion.”

“Is there a pay raise involved?”

“No, but it’s a really good deal. You’ll only edit works written by other editors.”

“So, presumably, less crap? Not that any of our authors submit crap.”

“No, of course not.”

“But they do.”

“Think of your old self like a crude sieve, a gatekeeper of the barbarian horde –”

“I always said that.”

“And your new self is a finer filter, more select, more elite.”

“Oh, elite. I like that.”

“You’re an editor extraordinaire.”

“I get it. What about this piece I’m reading now by Henry Maxwell Dempsey? What do you want me to do about it?”

“I know him. He edits for EC Comics, keep reading it.”

“Will do.”

“Remember, only edit those editor-writers who do not edit themselves.”

“Thanks, Tamika. I guess.”

“Yipee! Congratulations! See you tomorrow at the office.”

They hang up.

“More money, honey?” Bertie asks.

“No. She just called to tell me I only edit for editor-writers who do not edit themselves. She calls it a promotion.”

“Do you edit your own stories?”

“Of course.”

“Not any more.”

“Because I –”

“... only edit for editor-writers who do not edit themselves.”

“Right. Now I can’t edit my own stuff, dammit. I gotta call her back.”

“Hold on. You do not edit yourself –”

“I just said that.”

“Don’t interrupt me. You do not edit yourself, but you ‘only edit editor-writers who do not edit themselves,’ right?”

“Sounds logical.”

“Therefore, you can edit yourself.”

“Bertie, thank God you’re the mathematician in the family, not me. I’m glad we straightened out.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So, for the record, you’re saying I can edit my own stories after all?”

“No. I’m saying you don’t exist,” Bertie says, returning to her knitting.

And, with that, Russell disappears.