This story perfectly illustrates why I say bestselling authors should burn everything they don't want published. Not even the damn trash is safe.
Speaking of garbage, the final word on this is something like we'll change the sky to the right color (green) but you're stuck with the rest of it.
Many things run through your head when you get stuck with the rest of it. Like buying back your contract and telling the parties involved a creative, non-literary use for the rest of it (the agent stopped me in time.) Or taking a large chunk of the savings account and offering readers a bounty on the rest of it which they tear off your novel and send to you, hopefully in pieces, and which you then collect in a large pile, douse with gasoline and burn while dancing around the rest of it, preferably on national television during a SuperBowl Game while Eminem sings the National Anthem.
Okay, a bit of a personal fantasy involved there, but you get the picture.
What do you really do, when there is nothing left to do? You move on, that's what. You keep your chin up and you keep smiling. It's a nice version of spitting in their eye and it won't get you sued.
Of course, no one can stop me from doing as I want with the jackets on my author copies. I'll have nine months to dream up something really special, too.