Blind Submission (8 page)

“Angel?”

“Karanuk,” I blurted. “Karanuk's on Line 1 for you.” Lucy lifted one of her boomerang-shaped eyebrows and stared at me, puzzled. “It's not a very good connection,” I ran on. “He must be calling from Alaska. He's holding.”

“Angel,” Lucy said, “Karanuk lives in Los Angeles.”

“Oh, okay. Um, he's on Line 1. And I'm going to go home now. Thank you.”

Lucy shook her head, as if she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing, and picked up the phone.

“Thank you, Angel,” Craig boomed, rising from his position on the floor. “We'll see you in the morning.”

I backed out the door, gathered my manuscripts, and ran from the office as if my hair were on fire.
Stupid,
I cursed myself as I got into my car and drove home.
Stupid, stupid, stupid,
I thought as I unlocked my door and sat down on my bed.
Idiot,
I added, as I spread the manuscripts out in front of me and prepared to go through them. Although I'd relived the last five minutes of my day at least twenty times on my way home, I still couldn't believe that I'd been stupid enough to barge into Lucy's office, stammering like a fool. There was a dull but insistent ringing in my head. On balance, I thought, I hadn't given a particularly stellar performance for my first day. I wondered, not for the first time, if I would even last the week. The ringing in my head persisted. I looked up. It was my phone.

“Hello, Lu—Um, hello?”

“Angel!” Lucy's voice slammed through the phone, hitting my brain like a mallet.

“Lucy?”

“Listen, dear, we hardly had a chance to chat and get acquainted today. You ran out of here so quickly.” She gave a short, coughlike laugh.

“I know, I'm—”

“Anyway, dear, I wanted to welcome you and tell you that I think you have tremendous potential as a team player in our agency. Really,
tremendous.
I'm very pleased with your work on the Italian book and I think this is only the beginning. You've got a good eye and this is something we've been sorely lacking.”

“Thank you,” I said, exhaling the breath I'd been holding.

“And because there's been a lack in that area,” she went on, “I want you to review
all
the submissions very carefully. You know, Anna's very sweet and she means well, but she clearly doesn't have your eye. I worry about what we're missing with her. Do you understand?”

“Um…” I glanced down at the rejected manuscript Anna had given me. Her reader's report was clipped to the top and started with,
This is a stupid idea. And boring.

“So just
entre nous,
Angel, keep a close watch on what she's doing, all right?”

“Sure.”

“Perhaps you can come in a little earlier tomorrow morning and we can have a quick meeting before the rest of the staff arrives. Because, frankly, Angel, I really can't spend this much time on the phone with you. I have dinner reservations.”

“Sure, Lucy. No problem.”

“You've brought the Italian book home with you?”

“Oh yes, I've got it—”

“Fabulous. I'm so excited about this book, Angel. See if you can make some inroads on it tonight. We'll discuss it in the morning.”

“Okay.”

“Again, I'm so pleased that you're joining us, Angel. I knew you were sharp the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Thank—”

“Just one more thing, Angel, and then I really must go. I realize that today was your first day and all, but I must insist that you dress a little more professionally. There's no need for a business suit or anything that formal, but I believe that jeans are too casual and send the wrong message. So no more jeans, all right, Angel?”

“No more jeans,” I repeated thickly.

“Fabulous. I'll see you in the morning. Early. Good-bye, dear.”

I replaced my phone in its cradle, tenderly, as if it were a newborn. The last thing I wanted was for it to wake up and start ringing again. I picked up the manuscript that Anna had so summarily rejected and stared at it, the words blurring in front of my tired eyes. For the first time that I could remember, I had a fully formed desire for an alcoholic beverage. But I had no time to think about when or where I might get one because, to my horror, the handle to my front door was turning, opening, and someone was walking in.

A handsome blond man stood in front of me, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and what looked like a very large manuscript in the other.

“Baby!” he said. “How was your first day?”

Malcolm. For a second, I hadn't even recognized him.

THREE

Lucy Fiamma

Lucy Fiamma Literary Agency

 

Dear Ms. Fiamma,

 

I am a writer seeking representation for my first novel, titled ELVIS WILL DANCE AT YOUR WEDDING. As per your recommendation in the guide to literary agents, I am enclosing the first fifty pages of the novel, a synopsis, and a self-addressed stamped envelope for your response. The entire novel is available if you'd like me to send it.

Although this is my first novel, I have published several short stories in literary journals over the last few years. Most recently, my stories have appeared in
Elephant Cage Quarterly
and
Flabbergasted.
I would be happy to furnish you with copies at your request. I am a graduate of the MFA writing program at California University. ELVIS WILL DANCE AT YOUR WEDDING was originally written as my master's thesis, but I have since revised it substantially.

The novel is about a road trip that takes place over a twenty-four-hour period of time. The two main characters, Michael and Jennifer, drive from Los Angeles to Las Vegas, get married, and drive home again. They are a young couple and know very little about each other as they begin their journey into matrimony. Over the course of the novel, several secrets are revealed and they learn a great deal about themselves and about each other.

I understand that your time is valuable, so I'll keep my letter brief and hope that the writing will speak for itself. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,
Shelly Franklin

 

ELVIS WILL DANCE AT YOUR WEDDING

By Shelly Franklin

Chapter 1

Michael's eyes are the color of phosphorescent algae. They are so bright and so green that as Jennifer opens the back door and walks in, she speculates for a moment that the color is chemically induced. But love, Jennifer thinks, can do this too. Her thought is a bright spark in the darkened room. So, this glow is from love. This is what Jennifer chooses to believe as she approaches the man who will soon be her husband.

He is sitting in near dark and the TV is on without sound. He's left the windows open and the September air is warm and moist coming through the screen. Jennifer doesn't wonder why he has turned out all the lights. She knows he uses the TV like some people use food. For him, it's a nurturing lifeline. She glances quickly at the TV and recognizes a home shopping channel. An under-fed woman in red is selling golden angels on a chain for under twenty dollars.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” Jennifer says, kissing Michael on the cheek.

“It's all right, Jen,” Michael says, his voice a pan of melted butter. “We've got plenty of time. Las Vegas never sleeps.”

Jennifer puts her arms around Michael's neck. His ocean eyes shine up at her and his mouth curves up into a smile. “Nervous?” she asks. She keeps her tone light because she can smell the fear on him, subtle but biting.

“Yeah,” he says. His hands find a place in the small of her back and press in. “Aren't you?”

No, Jennifer thinks. She's not nervous. She's never been more sure of anything in her life. She says, “Do you have the rings?”

“I've got the rings, Jennifer. And, more importantly, I've got the car. Did you see the car?” He presses his lips on the side of her neck. He smells of the cigarettes he supposedly quit smoking three weeks ago and the mints he's chewed to disguise them. She can also detect the faint but unmistakable odor of alcohol.

“The car?” she asks.

“Go look outside,” he says.

Jennifer breaks his grip, walks slowly over to the window. There is a candy-apple red Corvette sitting in the driveway. Even in the dark, it glows like a Pacific sunset.

“What's all this, Michael?”

“You like it?” He is smiling wide enough to swallow a small lake. “I rented it. For tonight.”

“Why?” Jennifer asks him.

“Isn't it beautiful? I figure if we're going to do this, we're going to do it right. A classic car for a classic American experience. A wedding in Las Vegas. What do you say?”

Jennifer wants to be as enthusiastic as he is over this car, but she can't quite catch the same thrill.

Still she says, “It's great, Michael. When does it have to be back?”

“Tomorrow.”

Jennifer raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Well then, cowboy,” she says. “We'd better get going.”

 

Title: ELVIS WILL DANCE AT YOUR WEDDING

Author: Shelly Franklin

Genre: Fiction

Reader: Anna

This is a stupid idea. And boring. The title is awful. The author has an MFA and she has had some things published in literary magazines, but otherwise no credits. This is a first novel. It's about a couple who drive to Las Vegas to get married. I don't think anything else happens. It's very slow and it's a dumb premise. The writing is dry and not evocative. I don't know where this is going. I don't know why Elvis is in the title. She doesn't say if she's sent it to any other agents, but I don't think it matters. This isn't our kind of thing. My recommendation is to reject.

 

Title: ELVIS WILL DANCE AT YOUR WEDDING

Author: Shelly Franklin

Genre: Fiction

Reader: Angel

Author is a graduate of the California University writing program, which has been producing many bestselling writers over the last few years, so I gave this (originally her thesis) a close read. I actually like the title. I know it's a bit wacky, but the novel is about getting married in Las Vegas. Who better than Elvis in the title? I also like the writing here. The author sets up a certain tension right away so we know, as readers, that there are already problems between these two people and that getting married might be a mistake. I didn't find the writing dry—quite the opposite. I read the synopsis and it's clear that the author knows where she's going with this material. She has a definite plot and structure, both of which will work, in my opinion. The only possible problem I see is that the novel is written largely in the present tense. Although this works in terms of keeping us in the moment (and the novel does take place over the course of one day), it's also a bit confining and could become a little claustrophobic. However, I think this is easy enough to remedy if the author is willing to rewrite. I think there is potential here for a good book about contemporary relationships—always a topic of interest. I'd recommend contacting her right away to make sure she hasn't gone anywhere else with this and asking to see the complete manuscript.

 

MY FIRST DAY
at
work quickly turned into my first night
of
work. I read through my stack of manuscripts first, placing Shelly Franklin's novel at the top of the pile so as to rescue it from Anna's ham-fisted rejection, and then I turned my attention to editing
Parco Lambro.
I was surprised by how easily the work came to me. It was as if I knew, instinctively, which words to move around and shave off to uncover the picture Damiano wanted to create. I could hear his voice in my head as I read and sensed the story he meant to tell. I responded with marks from my red pen. I'd never really done anything like this before, unless you counted the minor editing I'd done on Malcolm's stories, but it felt entirely natural to me—unlike the other first-day tasks I'd fumbled through. The biggest bonus, though, was that I was truly enjoying myself.

Malcolm hovered around me as I worked, careful not to interrupt me at first, but growing increasingly impatient as the hours stretched on. It was clear he wanted a full report of everything I'd experienced at my new job, but I explained to him that he'd have to wait for the blow-by-blow account.

“She has to have this
tomorrow,
” I told him, pointing to Damiano's manuscript.

Malcolm came up behind me and put his hands in my hair, stroking my neck. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice heavy with seduction. “You've been at it so long, baby.”

“Malcolm, please…”

“Fine,” he said, dropping his hands and his attempt to sway me. “Then I guess I'll make you some coffee.”

“That would be great,” I said.

The next time I looked up it was close to dawn and Malcolm had passed out, fully clothed, on my bed.

I WAS ON MY WAY TO
the office a few short hours later, and by the time I made it in, still long before nine o'clock, Lucy and Craig had already generated a list of ten top editors for
Parco Lambro.
In the meantime, Lucy had sent a copy of the unedited manuscript overnight to Natalie Weinstein, to whom she'd promised an exclusive. Natalie Weinstein would have it exclusively for exactly two days, but according to Lucy, that was long enough. “She knows this business,” Lucy told me. “She knows that I can't let a hot manuscript languish on her desk.”

While I walked Damiano through my revisions on the phone (“We need this yesterday, Angel,” Lucy told me. “Make sure he gets it to you by tomorrow or type it up yourself. On your own time.”), Lucy pitched his book to her ten editors. Because she wanted me to hear her make these pitches (“You need to learn how this is done, Angel.”), I put Damiano on hold several times to run to her office, paper and pen in hand, and listened to her conversations in progress:

“Well, I can't give you an exclusive, you understand, Charles. However, I
can
guarantee that you will be the first to receive it. If you'll give my assistant your home address, I can overnight it to you there.”

“I'm telling you, Katherine, I've really never read a manuscript with so much raw power. Of course, this is why I thought of you first. I know your talent for keeping such emotion fresh on the page.”

“Yes, Julia, he's extremely marketable. Think dark and sexy.”

“I thought of you immediately, Frank. This is bigger than genre—it's a sweeping social comment. What? Yes, I agree, we certainly do need one.”

Periodically, during the course of these conversations, Lucy would hold up notes for me to read.

Where is author photo?!!!
one said.
Need it NOW!!!

Are edits finished?
asked another.

And then there was,
Start pitch letter.

I nodded and mouthed “Okay” after the last note, but I had absolutely no idea what she wanted. As I sat down at my desk, I gave a look around the office at my coworkers and debated who might be able to help me. My prospects weren't so hot.

“Damiano,” I said into his perpetually holding line, “Lucy's really got a
lot
of interest and she wants to go out with this as soon as she can. Do you think you can get this done by, um, tomorrow?”

“Bella,”
he said after a pause. “Okay. I can call you later? How do I send it? And please call me Dami.”

The sound of my intercom cut off my answer before it left my mouth. “Angel, have you begun that pitch letter? I'd like to see it, please.”