Page 24 of Not on the Same Page

I laugh humorlessly and drag a hand over my face. I have to admire her gumption, that’s for sure. “I’m sure you know this already, but publishing is very risk averse. I’m not going to publish something just to make a statement about diversity. It has to be a good book first and foremost.”

“My book is good.” She rummages through her bag, pulls out a folder, and sets it between us. It’s pink, just like her outfit, and I can appreciate her apparent commitment to her brand.

Using her pointer and middle fingers, she pushes the folder to my side of the table. “Inside here, you will find my pitch letter and the first ten chapters of my manuscript. I would love to work with you, Mr. Endersen. Whether you want to make a statement or not, I know you’ll relate to my characters, and I also know you’d take good care of them.”

Impressed that she must have done her research on me before approaching my table, I open the folder and absently flip through the pages. “Do you have an agent, Miss Adrian?”

“Imani, please. And no,” she says tersely, then she clears her throat. “Not yet. But I thought, considering you’re new to the press and you’re here”—she waves a hand indicating the entirety of the conference—“you might be looking for authors and accepting unagented submissions. I figured I’d shoot my shot.”

That gives me pause. I actually don’t know if I’m going to accept unagented submissions. Those sorts of decisions aren’t usually up to me, but I guess they are now. Suddenly, the feeling of being underwater takes over me. It’s a panicky feeling, like I’m just now realizing how much I’m going to have to do and how many decisions I’m going to have to make. Most of all, I don’t want to fuck any of it up.

As Imani has inadvertently reminded me by drawing attention to the diversity in her text, I can’t afford to. I’m a Black man running an imprint. There will be people rooting for me, sure, but there will be just as many people waiting in the wings to watch me fail.

Failure is not an option.

I flip the folder closed and lay a palm on top of it to steady myself. “Even if I am accepting unagented submissions, it will be better for you in the long run if you have an agent to deal with negotiations.”

She cocks an eyebrow upward. “I’m not unrepresented for lack of trying.”

“No, I’m sure that’s not the case.” I run a finger over the edge of the folder. “Okay, I will take a look at this and get back to you within the week. I assume your contact information is in here?”

Imani smiles, her white teeth shining in a perfectly straight line. It makes her look very young—if I had to guess, she’s probably in her early twenties—but what she lacks in experience, she seems to make up for in tenacity. “Thank you.”

“Is the full manuscript written?”

Her smile falters just a little, but she recovers quickly. “Almost. I’m still working out the ending.”

“Great. If I like what I see here, I’ll reach out for the rest of what you have.”

She stands, unable to contain her joy now. “Amazing. Thank you again.”

Skimming through the first paragraph, I hum, “Mm-hmm.” It’s interesting. I can already see a lot of promise in it. If the rest of the manuscript holds up, this could be exactly what I’m looking for. “And Imani?” I say as she’s about to walk away.

“Yes?”

“If I were you, I’d work out that ending sooner rather than later.”

Her smile widens impossibly as she nods once and hurries away.

Tapping my fingertips absently against the folder on the table, I allow myself a moment to muse about that interaction. I certainly never expected to be approached at this conference—I actually expected to do the approaching. But far be it from me to look a gift horse in the mouth. If this book is half as bold as its author, I’m going to need to move fast.

The afternoon sessions must have let out, because the restaurant has become so crowded I can barely hear myself think. I shove Imani’s folder and my laptop into my bag and make my way back into the hotel lobby like a salmon swimming upstream. The elevators are crowded, but I manage to sneak into one going up. But as we all cram ourselves in and the doors shut, I suddenly realize I’ve been searching the crowd for blonde hair and red lips again.

And I’m surprised at how disappointed I am when I don’t see them.

I try to focus when I get back to my hotel room. I really do. I read through the first page of Imani’s manuscript, Keeper of Secrets, three times before I put it away and settle for a bad reality TV show instead.

It’s not the manuscript’s fault that I can’t concentrate. Today was lighter, all things considered, but I have a packed schedule tomorrow with panels, a lunch with all of the Anastasios Press authors who are here, and my own pitch session in the afternoon. The keynote speakers will close out the conference, and then I need to get my ass to the airport to catch my eight p.m. flight home. I had toyed with the idea of switching to a Sunday morning flight and driving straight from Midway to see Robert, but I can’t chance any unforeseen delays. If I miss my scheduled time with him, it’ll throw him off for a week or more. Flying out on Sunday for my own comfort isn’t worth it.

Oh, and in that time, I need to find a standout debut author who has a lead title for Starlight. No pressure.

I’m overstimulated and stressed. I know I am. The hallmark of my stress level is always losing my ability to concentrate on work. And here I am, watching some woman with makeup at least an inch thick make doe eyes at some beefy guy who is ostensibly looking for love.

More like looking for a couple nights of fun.

“Who am I to judge?” I mumble to myself as I turn off the television in a fit of frustration and toss the remote somewhere farther down the bed. Isn’t that exactly what I was doing with Trina a year ago?

And isn’t it exactly what I’d like to be doing with her now?