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2
Liam
A voice in the back of my head is telling me that my editor has it out for me.
I’ve never met the woman in person, but Harlow Knight is someone I’ve heard plenty about. Before signing with Midnight Press, I had my agent do a little research, and what he found was quite impressive. Harlow had been with Hart for as long as I’ve been publishing my work, and Midnight Press was her big break. She’d gone to Brown University, she had a pretty large family, and every Tuesday night, she watched Younger and live-tweeted her thoughts about it. And though this had nothing to do with her career, I’d browsed through her Instagram feed, and found myself struck by how attractive she is.
In her latest post, her shoulder length blonde hair framed her petite face, her green eyes sparkled like she held a secret close to her chest. Her cherry lips pulled into a smile, and an ado
rable pink blush had been burned onto her cheeks.
That image is the one I see whenever I think of her. Gorgeous, but with secrets. Secrets that I’d like to uncover.
Despite how attractive I find her, I’ve never been this frustrated with someone.
I’d started my morning off relatively fine, waking up at ten and spending the rest of the morning lounging around the house as I took mental notes about my next project. At noon, I went to lunch with a few of my writer friends to discuss a possible anthology they wanted me to be part of. By the time I got back from lunch, I found an email in my inbox. The dreaded editorial letter.
These are nothing new to me. Like every author, I’ve gotten one of these letters for each book I’ve published. Most of the time, they’re somewhere between five to fifteen pages, but the document I’d received this afternoon ended at page thirty-seven. At first, I’d thought it was a mistake. Maybe she’d taken big chunks of the book and commented on them or hell maybe she tripled spaced. But after reading it over, it was nothing but her opinion on what needed to be fixed and what needed to be reworked.
Her biggest issue was the storyline with Grace, a woman based off one of my longest relationships. Quoting her, she felt this piece of the story, “seemed to portray an affair in a positive light…something that might alienate your main demographic.”
That phrase has haunted me since one o’clock. I’ve always prided myself on my honesty and ability to be completely upfront with my writing. It’s what my readers have come to expect. Basing this story off my life means portraying all of the painful, uncomfortable relationships I’ve had.
When I’d finally calmed down, I sat down to reply, sending her my own novel-length response to her criticisms. Though I felt aggressive, I tried my best to be patient and explain my reasoning. I didn’t want to piss an editor off—especially not this one. What I thought would be the end of my communications with her, though, has proven incorrect.
There’s another email sitting in my inbox. Begging me to open it. To talk to her. Unable to resist, I grab my laptop and pull it closer, clicking open to read her response. Her opening line makes me smile just a bit.
“Allow me to quote Grace. ‘You’re all kinds of adorable when you’re pissed off.’”
I read through her response, relieved to see that she’s not upset with my passionate email. There are a few things about pacing and plot that I can agree with her on, but she’s still persistent with her opinions on the affair between Grace and my hero. I pause, giving myself time to think. A new editor means learning her level of patience and willingness to compromise. She’s not an enemy, but rather, someone that wants me to succeed.
I feel childish having to tell myself this, but it helps. I send back a response telling her that at the moment, my brain is fried. I don’t want to send back scrambled thoughts and incomplete sentences about my book.
Just as I go to close out of my inbox, a new message pops up.
“Take all the time you need. I’ll be ready.” I smile at her words. I have no doubt in my mind.
“You’re up awfully late, aren’t you?” I respond.
In New York, it’s almost three. I’m surprised she’s still around at this hour.
“I’m a bit of a night owl,” is all she says, accompanied by a smiley face.
“What a coincidence. So am I.” I reply.
“You should use that to get started on the edits I gave you.”
I chuckle and shake my head. “But I’m having so much fun talking to you, Harlow.”
“I’m sure.”
“I’m also curious to hear your thoughts on Liza and Charles’ relationship.”
“Someone’s been Twitter stalking me,” she writes.
“Not stalking so much as taking a particular interest in what you’re up to. I like to get to know my editors personally. I feel like it helps us get on the same wavelength. We’re able to understand each other a little better.”
Am I being flirtatious? The answer is a resounding yes. But I can’t help it. The picture of Harlow pops up in my head again, and suddenly I’m imagining those bright green eyes crinkling as she laughs at my emails. Is her laugh soft, or does she laugh loud and boisterously? I like the idea of both options.
