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I roll my eyes at this answer and click my pencil until the lead peeks out. This is exactly the kind of thing I am trying to avoid in my book. Every protagonist in the romances I read seems to be an undervalued, secret child prodigy who bakes award-winning apple pies, surprises everyone (including herself) with fluency in three languages, has a library full of classical literature she knows by heart, and volunteers at the homeless shelter in her spare time. No female lead is normal. They’re all ruby-lipped Victoria’s Secret–level models with the talent of a hundred lives combined just waiting to be swept into the arms of their heroes.

Yes, but what about dates with average human beings? I write. I think back. What about with girls who spend every day working in a job they aren’t stellar at? Who live off oatmeal-square cereal as it’s the only thing they can afford? Who spend most evenings either going to some charity event their family has coordinated, watching some movie sandwiched between their sister and sister’s fiancé, or slaving away in my room writing this stupid book that apparently is so flawed nobody will ever read it?

I stop, staring at my own words, then flip my pencil around.

I can’t write that. It’s much too personal.

And besides, I’ve even made the critical error of switching from the hypothetical “their” to a most definitive “my.”

It’s unprofessional.

It’s cringy, even.

But then, as I hold the eraser of the pencil over the words, I hesitate. Because a part of me does want to know: What about me?

What would somebody think of a person like me? Who, out there in the world, would think I was special enough to make the heroine in their story?

Or am I to be only the protagonist of my own?

I hesitate for another long moment and then flip the page. I’m going to leave it. Leave it and see what he says.

I work through the rest of the notes, taking pictures of the comments I need to address in my manuscript that evening, replying to comments and adding questions of my own.

I’ll have you know I actually owned a cat named Whiskers when I was a kid, and yes, he really did bark like a dog and was immune to catnip. That’s a real thing.

Well, if her ears are allergic to earrings, like mine, then I really do think it’ll be a nice touch for him to notice and . . .

No. I’ll concede that being able to season your own pots is a good skill, but honestly, it’s not something to brag about . . .

By the time I’ve finished, I’ve learned a few more things about my mystery editor. He’s tall, not supremely so, but enough to know offhand a few places to buy smart suits with extra length. He is actually dyslexic, a surprising issue that very few know about. And he doesn’t think my manuscript is hopeless.

I know because at the bottom of chapter 7 there are new words.

This is good. Do more of this.

The first positive comment. The first positive comment amid a slew of critiques.

I feel myself smiling as I lean back in the chair, sunlight streaming through the window highlighting a thousand dusty particles dancing around me. The light has changed, I realize, looking up from my page to the wall opposite, where about two dozen simple wooden frames hang, each showcasing an autographed title page of a book. It glints on the glass so roughly I blink, the room that bright haze just before the world goes cool and dark at the end of another day. I stand and realize my knees are achy.

How long have I been up here?

I check my watch. Four fifty-two p.m.

Then my steps. 8588.

I hurry through the ARC room, hesitating at the door to the hallway as I try to remember if I shut the filing cabinet door in my haste. I’m fairly certain I did, but as I turn back just to be sure, doorknob in hand, I stop dead.

Sam from Contracts has stopped and is looking at me with a startled expression as if he, too, is caught in a trap.

“Sam.” I let go of the doorknob. “Hi. How are . . . you?”

Sam smooths his tie and flashes a smile. “Good. Good.” There’s a beat of silence as we both look at each other.

Sam?

I never noticed how tall he was before. I can’t help but glance down at the hem of his trousers. Six feet? Six one? Does six one qualify someone as needing to order special lengths?

But surely not.