My name is Lana Hartley, and I’ve always dreamed of becoming a writer. There’s something magical about putting words on a page, carefully placing them one after the other and building something that just pulls people in.
That’s why when I finished my degree I started hunting for a job in a publishing house. I mean, although it might be cool to be a starving author, I have a shoes habit that needs to be nursed.
Fate would have it that I finished college at the same time the novel 12 Inches hit the shelves. You know that book, don’t you? Yeah, right, that’s a silly question—I mean, who doesn’t know 12 Inches, right? I still remember all the craze surrounding that book, the way crowds gathered in lines that stretched for blocks, waiting for the bookstores to open so that they could lay their hands on a copy.
I usually don’t tell this to anyone, but I was one of these people waiting in line. And the moment I finished the book (which was just a few hours after buying it, I devoured the thing), I knew whom I wanted to be like. And that person was Abby Cleveland.
Lucky for me, she rolled the profits from Twelve Inches into a publishing house, Naughty Angel Publishing. And do you know what a publishing house that has just started operations needs? It needs employees.
I didn’t even bother with sending my resumé. No,
the moment I knew Naughty Angel was hiring, I drove through the city and knocked at Abby Cleveland’s door myself. Nothing beats showing you’re proactive.
It worked.
I became one of Abby’s personal assistants and a staff writer and, more than just meeting my idol, I took one more step in my path toward becoming an author. The way I see it, working at Naughty Angel might be exactly what I need in order to publish my first novel. And that’s why it’s after hours and I’m still at the office, clutching a manuscript to my chest and standing like a statue in front of Abby’s office.
“Okay, here goes nothing,” I whisper to myself, and then rap my knuckles against the door.
“Yeah?” I hear Abby’s voice from the inside and, feeling my heart punching against my chest, I open the door and step inside. “I thought you had already gone home, Lana,” Abby tells me, a look of surprise on her face as she raises her eyes from the documents on her desk.
Beautiful and talented, she’s everything I aspire to be.
Besides, she also knows how to write some wicked steamy sex—that helps. I can’t even tell you how many times I enjoyed myself reading her sex scenes, one hand on my iPad, the other on my … okay, that’s too much. After all, we’re just getting to know each other.
“No … I stayed behind,” I start to say, feeling beads of sweat starting to take shape on my forehead. I don’t get nervous around her these days, but today’s a special day; after all, I’m going to try and pitch her my manuscript. And she’s Abby fucking Cleveland; I want to impress her! “I wanted to, uhm, show you something.”
“What is it?” She sits up straight behind her desk, leans back, and offers me her smile. For someone as famous as she has become, she’s one of the most kind and down-to-earth people I know.
“It’s a manuscript I’ve been working on,” I tell her, the words feeling heavy on my tongue. Sitting down on the chair facing her desk, I place the manuscript I was clutching to my chest down onto her desk.
“A manuscript? That’s interesting!” She sounds excited, and that’s a good sign. But maybe she’s just being nice to me. She reaches for the pages and starts reading, her eyes moving slowly over my words. I sit in there, awkwardly waiting as she reads, and I can’t stop myself from saying something.
“I’ve named it The Virgin Market. It’s a bit different from what Naughty Angel publishes: it’s a dark romance, but --”
“Oh?” Abby raises her gaze, her eyes meeting mine. “A dark romance?” Oh-oh - I no longer hear excitement in her voice. Crap! “Honey, just like you said … we don’t publish dark romance. Right now the market isn’t buying books with darker storylines. If you had something in the style of Alexis Angel or Mona Cox, I’d be happy to take a look… But dark romance just isn’t marketable right now.”
“Oh,” I say, doing my best not to sound defeated and failing miserably.
“I’m sorry, honey.”
“No, it’s perfectly okay!” I say, trying to sound cheery even though I feel as if the moon fell on top of my head. I’ve poured my heart and soul into The Virgin Market and, apparently, I was investing in a genre that doesn’t sell.
Great move, Lana, great move.
To make matters worse, I really need the money. Living in New York is expensive as hell and, even though my salary isn’t that shabby, I’m struggling to get by. I’m living in a small studio, but I really can’t afford it; soon enough I’ll have to move somewhere else and find roommates. And that’s something I really don’t want to do. I mean, who wants to live with a bunch of strangers? Oh, if only Naughty Angel bought my manuscript, I’d be able to keep afloat for a few more months.
“Okay, let’s do this,” Abby suddenly says, pushing the manuscript toward me and offering me a comforting smile. “Why don’t you finish your novel, and then we’ll wait four months… Maybe the market shifts!”
I look at her, a bit stunned, and then find myself smiling.
“Yes! Thank you!” I say, picking up my manuscript and standing up. Four months is a long time, and I’m not so sure if the market will change … but at least there’s hope! “Thank you, Abby!”
“Don’t thank me. At least not yet,” she smiles, but I’m too excited to register her words. Returning her smile, I turn on my heels and leave her office, a skip to my step. My initial pitch might've failed, but you heard what Abby said: in a few months she’ll reconsider.
I guess I can still become a real writer, after all.
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