New York in December is no joke.
There’s a fresh coat of snow on the ground, and I’m lucky the weather cooperated the entire flight from one end of the country to the other.
“Here.” The cab driver twists in his seat, handing me a card. “Call that number anytime you need a ride while you’re in town, and I, or a buddy of mine, will try to help you out.” He winks as I take the card.
“Thank you.”
I push open the door, getting out and then slamming it behind me. The gust of chilled air nearly takes my breath away as I get my bearings and peer up towards the forty-story building I’m about to enter. The home of Slater Publishing. They’re the hottest publishing house in the market right now. With romance being such a trending genre because of a franchise of popular movies, they’re representing some of the biggest names.
I start my way towards the building when I feel my phone vibrate in my coat pocket. “Hello?”
“Hey, Whitney,” Liam’s voice comes through the line. “Did your flight go all right?”
“Yeah, everything went great.”
“Good. Glad to hear it–”
“Hey, sorry to cut you off, but I’m here at the building, and my meeting’s in fifteen minutes. I still need to head up, and I don’t want to be late.”
“Yeah, sure, no problem. I just wanted to wish you good luck in there. I know you’ll do great.”
“Thanks, Liam. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Pocketing my phone, I rush into an open elevator. The elevator is rather large, but being packed with bodies, it feels a bit suffocating. The ride up is one of silence, with a few coughs and throat clearings to break the awkwardness. I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, but I reach in, clicking the button on the side to ignore it. I’m already on edge about my meeting, and the calls aren’t helping the situation. When the elevator dings for the fifth time, it’s the floor that I need, so I make my way towards the door and follow a few people out.
Glass doors act as a backdrop to the front receptionist desk, and I’m greeted by a young woman in a slick, chestnut bob and bright smile. “You must be Whitney,” the receptionist says.
“Yes, that’s me.” I give her a small smile.
“Please take a seat. Harold Slater is scheduled to see you this afternoon. He’s en route from our press house so he should be here in a moment.
Nodding, I take a seat in a leather chair. The walls are stark white decorated with abstract works of art. After studying them, I notice that they’re more than abstract pieces. They’re popular covers of books made to look artsy. Standing, I pad over to one of the pieces. It’s the cover of the most recent New York Times Best Sellers. The cover of the book is normally a simple black with a shattered red heart, but this piece is simply magnificent. Not only does the artist use the cover, but it portrays the emotion and heart break that embodies this novel. I remember reading this book, and it gutting me. The emotion this author could draw out was overwhelming, and I’m feeling the same passion now.
“It’s pretty awesome, isn’t it?” the receptionist says as she comes up behind me.
“Yes, it’s incredible. This book is so amazing, and by looking at this piece, I feel like I’m suffering the same heartbreak all over again.”
“Lange, the artist, not only reads the books, but he also spends time with the author to get a feel for who they are as a person. It’s an incredible process, and we’re honored that he chose us to paint for. We have him exclusively.”
“He’s simply amazing.”
I take a step back and gaze upon the other pieces that align the walls of this expansive area. A buzzer breaks the silence.
“That would be Harold. Please,” she says as she sweeps her hand out, “let me show you to his office. He’ll be in shortly.”
I grab my things from the nearby chair and follow her down the hall. “I’m Britney, by the way.” She pushes open the door to Harold’s office. “Take a seat in the lounge area. It shouldn’t be long now.”
“Nice to meet you, Britney, thank you.” She smiles before she closes the door behind her.
Taking a seat, I look around the room. This office is stark contrast from the waiting area. The deep wood accents match the deep coloring of the doors and desk. The far wall is covered in books, displayed as they would be in a home, but the welcoming feeling of the room doesn’t do anything for the nerves that have taken up residence in my stomach. When I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, I pull it out, seeing Heath’s name on the screen. He’s sent me two text messages, both full of words of encouragement. The thumbs up emoji makes me smile.
When I hear someone clear his throat, my head snaps up. A gentleman around my age is standing in the doorway with a smile on his face. He’s wearing a charcoal suit with a baby blue shirt underneath. His hair is styled with a slight wave on top and shorter on the side, and his complexion is tanned. I wonder if he was in a tropical location recently?
“Hi.” I stand, making my purse fall from my lap and hit the floor. “Shoot.” I bend down, grabbing it and stand back up. By this time, the man is already standing in front of me.
“Sorry, about that,” he says. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you heard me come in and close the door behind me.”
“No, I didn’t, sorry.” I put my hand out. “I’m Whitney James.”
He puts his hand in mine, giving it a firm shake. “Hello, Mrs. James, I’m Harold Slater. It’s nice to meet you. Please,” he says as he unbuttons his jacket, “take a seat and let’s talk.”
I give him a smile and sit back down on the same leather seat.
“May I ask what caused so much emotion in your eyes just now?”
“Excuse me?”
“When I came in,” he sits back in his chair that’s directly across from me, “you were looking at your phone. There was so much sadness and delight on your face at the same time.”
“Oh.” I look back down at my phone that’s still in my hand. “My, um, husband sent me a text.”
“I see. That explains the delight, but the sadness?” He tilts his head to the side, pushing the question.
“Yes, well, the text is bittersweet. We’re separated, and it’s nice that he gave me words of encouragement, but it would have been better if he’d said them throughout our marriage.”
He nods as he absorbs the information. “I take it this separation took place while you wrote this last book?”
“Yes.”
“It’s amazing how much emotion one can express through the written word, Mrs. James, and this book shows such emotion. You were pouring your soul into your book, like a form of therapy, and the quality showed. When Caroline reached out to me, I had no intention of taking her bait.” He laughs. “She’s a tenacious one, that editor of yours. She’s been that way since we met over a decade ago. She’s like a dog with a bone, but I guess that might be her finest quality, at least for her clients it is.”
“I take it her stubbornness isn’t as beneficial for you?”
His lips fall away to a quirk. “No certainly not. But in your case, I’m glad she wouldn’t let up because I want to represent your latest book. Since it’s only one in an established series, I would need to sign them all as a whole, but the first few books lack what this book embodies and that’s your heart. Creating a story, a town, a character, is one thing, but in order for the reader to want to be in that story, visit that town, and fall in love with that character, they must feel the heart of the author. I need you to go back, rewrite, re-use and experience these stories again, and I need you to do it with as much emotion as this last one.”
My stomach drops. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with changing these stories. I have readers who love these characters–”
“Yes, but do you love these characters? That’s the question that you need to answer.”
I sit back, as Harold did a few moments ago, and absorb the words that he said. I try to think back to the two books that came before this latest one, and I can’t remember the details of each one separately. Sure, I know the storyline, I wrote it, but I can’t remember each character as their own person. When I look up and regard Harold, I can see that he knows I understand what he’s saying.
“I wouldn’t need to re-write the entire storyline, would I?”
“No, but I want you to go back, read your words and then write them with passion—heart. I want to feel your emotions. I want the characters to reveal their emotions vicariously through you. I don’t want you to tell the story I want to feel it. Just as I felt this last book.”
“Okay, I can do that. I can add to the stories. I can make them come alive.”
A smile spreads across his face. “Excellent. That’s what I want to hear.” He sits up. “I want to sign this series, Mrs. James. I want these three books as well as three more. I want to expand on these characters, allowing the reader to experience more heartbreak and healing. I want them to feel these stories so deeply that when they talk your stories, it will be like they’re retelling their own families’ tragedies.”
“I think I can do that.”
“Well, I know you can do that.” He gives me a wink before he gets up and walks over to his desk. He comes back, holding my manuscripts. Setting them on the table in front of me, he uses his fingers to thumb through the pages.
“I’ve already had our in-house editor work on these. They’ve gone through, made their notes and given you suggestions. Take this home and make them the best they can be. Give me the same emotion as you had in your latest book, and you’ll be golden, Mrs. James. Once these babies are ready for distribution, your name is going to be highly talked about in the world of contemporary romance.”
This is overwhelming.
I see a ton of red marks as he flips through the pages. Taking a deep breath, I meet his gaze. There’s determination in his eyes, and I wish I had the confidence that he has. “Are you sure about this?” I point to the pages. “There are a lot of marks on these pages.”
“Don’t feel discouraged. You should know, Mrs. James–”
“Whitney, please.”
He nods. “You should know, Whitney, that finishing the book is only the beginning of the process.” He takes a seat. “Caroline is an excellent editor. I still don’t understand why she hasn’t attached herself to a traditional publishing house, but I see the draw when it comes to the indie community. There’s a lot of fire in indie authors. They have the drive and desire to make sure they make it. Some authors, who are continually traditionally published, lose that fire. It turns into a ‘job’ and not a way to share their passion. But I digress. The difference between Caroline and our editors is that Caroline will give suggestions at times, and it’s your decision to change it or leave it.” He shakes his head. “That’s not how it works here. If you don’t or can’t get these books to where the editors want them, then there’s a chance that our deal will be dead in the water.”
“So signing with you is contingent on getting the first two books to the level of the third?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I’m glad he doesn’t beat around the bush. I don’t want or need to be coddled throughout this process. “Okay, well thank you.”
He squints at me. “Am I wrong about this? Did Caroline jump the gun?”
I shake my head. “No, of course not. If I didn’t want to do this, then I wouldn’t have made the trip, Mr. Slater. But this is a big jump, and it seems like I’m setting myself up to fail.”
“Believe me, Whitney, there will be no failure here. I trust my gut, and my gut says that this is going to be huge for you. You’ll be in constant contact with your editor. You need to establish that relationship for this to work. In fact, while you’re here, I’ll arrange for you to meet her so you can get a feel for each other. That may help the process.”
“Yes, sure, I’d like that.”
“Great.” He claps his hands then stands, making his way over to his desk. “I’ll set everything up. What works best for you? Tonight or tomorrow?”
“Tonight, please. I fly out tomorrow.”