Page 3 of Not a Strong Enough Word

I snort. “Like the Greek name meaning resurrection?”

“Like the name of its publisher,” Trina corrects. “But that definitely feels like a sign.”

“I don’t believe in signs,” I say as a knock sounds at my door.

“I ordered you a burger,” she explains. “It should be there now.”

My cold, black heart swells just a little at her kindness. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“If you had said no, I might have sent fried Brussels sprouts.”

“You ordered it before I said yes,” I counter.

There’s silence for a moment,

I open my door, and sure enough, a Styrofoam container is sitting on my doorstep. The smells coming from it make my mouth water despite the threat of Brussels sprouts. “Good thing I said yes, then.”

“I knew you would. I ordered it before I even called you. How do you think it got there so fast? Now, go eat. I have work to do.”

As we hang up, I’m filled with an excitement almost as pervasive as the rumbling in my empty stomach. If Trina thinks they’ll offer me a deal, she’s probably right. She’s never been wrong before, and I doubt her skills have diminished in the past five years while my own have been languishing.

It feels good to have a plan again. I basically wrote that draft on a wing and a prayer, but knowing Trina believes in it gives me some hope that I might actually be able to get back to writing. And, more importantly, that I might be able to love it again.

Chapter 2

Ryan

There’s nothing on my computer screen worth looking at. And yet, I’ve been staring at it for the past four hours, idly clicking on emails and opening documents only to close them and try something else.

Actually, that’s probably not true. I’m sure some of these manuscripts could be really wonderful books. I’ll probably even make offers to acquire some of them. I’ve edited some interesting books into shining stars over the past few years, but none of them have felt special.

“Anything?” I ask my intern, Margie, as she sinks into the armchair facing my desk. I know better than to get my hopes up, but I need to find something with a spark and fast. Slowly dying inside as the publishing industry passes me by was not on my bingo card for the latter part of my thirties, but here we are. More and more lately, I find myself longing for the days when I was fresh out of college, working my way up to senior editor at John Monroe Press where I got my pick of fantastic books and even more wonderful authors to work with. But somewhere along the line, either I got jaded or the manuscripts got worse. Or both.

Either way, now I’m relying on interns and slush piles. And that’s after I made a desperate move to JMP’s newly acquired imprint. I thought it would shake some things up for me. No such luck.

“There’s a shorter book about…” She trails off and checks her notes, which isn’t promising. We need books that stick with the reader long after the last page, not ones Margie needs to consult her notes about.

“You know what?” I hold up an impatient hand. “Never mind.”

She slumps even further in her chair, pursing her lips to the side and regarding me with her wide, young eyes. A tiny little pang of regret hits me like it always does when I remember I’m supposed to be inspiring the interns, not dragging them down with me into the pit of despair I can’t seem to dig myself out of.

I scrub a hand over my face, unintentionally upsetting the glasses on the bridge of my nose. There’s a distinct possibility that I’m losing my ability as an editor if I even let a sentence that cliché pass through my brain.

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Whitlock. Maybe you can give me a few more specifics about what you’re looking for, and I can try again?” She straightens in her seat and poises her pen over her notebook, ready to write.

Leaning my forearms on my desk and clasping my hands in front of me, I regard her for a moment. “Did any of those manuscripts make you feel anything, Margie?”

She tilts her head and pinches her brows slightly. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

I shove off the desk to tip back in my chair. “Sometimes, identifying a winning manuscript is about a feeling. In your gut. Or in your heart. You read it, and you just know, even though you can’t explain it.” Sure, I’m trying to turn this into a teachable moment to assuage my earlier guilt over dragging down the intern. But maybe it’ll help.

“Okay.” She draws the word out and taps her pen against the edge of her notebook.

“What was the last book you read that moved you?” I ask her.

“Like, to tears?” She scrunches up her face. “I’m not much of a crier.”

I huff a laugh. “Tears are a good signal, but it doesn’t have to make you weep to make you feel.”