even make it past acquisitions.” An almost sneer twisted her lips slightly. “I have thirty years of experience. I know what I’m doing. I work for the best house in New York. I won’t waste my time on crap.”
“Whoa,” someone murmured behind Felicity.
Whoa is right .
Ophelia stepped forward, taking the spotlight once again. “Felicity, on the table in front of you are pencils. Each pencil has a contestant’s name on it. Please make a decision and hand the correct pencil to the editor you wish that author to work with for the next four hours.” She focused her gaze on the group in general, her hands on her generous hips, over her baby-blue suit. “Each one of you will consult with the editor on your current manuscript, which we have previously approved. Do not try to show the editor anything but the work in progress we approved.” Ophelia stared hard at Tiffani until the erotic writer squirmed and stared at the floor.
Felicity thought quickly, bit her lip, and made a decision. Dez and Roy, she didn’t know enough about their writing habits or internal thought processes to do much damage to them, but Victor, Carmen, and Tiffani … as much as it pained her to throw a loop at Victor … well, then again, if he was a good writer, this could work in his favor.
Shoving guilt and misgivings aside — this was a competition after all — she checked the names on each pencil as she picked it up from the table and double-checked it as she handed it to the chosen editor. Hers was last. She clutched it in her sweaty hand just for a moment longer before handing it over.
She hoped she was doing the right thing.
“Editors, please read the name on your pencils aloud,” Ophelia commanded.
“Roy,” the bald guy read from his pencil.
“Carmen?” Lucinda tucked her pencil in her cleavage and glanced around.
“Dez,” James stated.
“Tiffani.” The children’s books editor actually clapped her hands with her announcement.
“Victor.” Brent cast an eye at the group, looking grim and ready.
“Felicity.” The severe Ms. Friar arched a brow and crossed her arms over her chest.
Felicity heard all kinds of damns , shits , and oh nos behind her as each name was called and was pretty sure someone even muttered a fuck — probably Victor — but Ophelia left them no time to stand around and complain.
“You will have four hours to work with your assigned editor on your current work in progress. Your editor will report back to us what they think of your work, communication skills, and willingness to revise. Your time starts … now.”
“You can’t use this paragraph.” Ms. Friar pointed at the screen, glaring over her reading glasses.
Felicity stiffened in her chair. The show had set up tiny tables and chairs in each writer’s cave to make this situation easier — most likely for the editors, not the competitors. The round tabletop was big enough for a laptop and a notebook and not much else. Ms. Friar’s knees were almost touching her own. Beads of sweat spread across Felicity’s brow and traveled down the concave between her breasts, but the editor appeared cool as a cucumber, unfazed by the situation, by the job, or even by the close quarters.
She looked as though she ate authors for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day.
Swallowing back a sharp retort, Felicity asked, “What’s wrong with it?”
“Right here you have too many adverbs. That’s a sign of a lazy writer.”
Felicity felt as though she’d been slapped. Her face heated as if she had.
The editor ignored whatever facial expressions were playing a war on Felicity’s face and continued, “Why are you using so many LY words to describe instead of taking the time to give us vivid detail? You just throw an LY word in there, telling us he’s doing this slowly, when you could tell us in more words he’s moving his hands across her body as though unwrapping a precious gift, one corner at a time, as though afraid of tearing the paper
“Whoa,” someone murmured behind Felicity.
Whoa is right .
Ophelia stepped forward, taking the spotlight once again. “Felicity, on the table in front of you are pencils. Each pencil has a contestant’s name on it. Please make a decision and hand the correct pencil to the editor you wish that author to work with for the next four hours.” She focused her gaze on the group in general, her hands on her generous hips, over her baby-blue suit. “Each one of you will consult with the editor on your current manuscript, which we have previously approved. Do not try to show the editor anything but the work in progress we approved.” Ophelia stared hard at Tiffani until the erotic writer squirmed and stared at the floor.
Felicity thought quickly, bit her lip, and made a decision. Dez and Roy, she didn’t know enough about their writing habits or internal thought processes to do much damage to them, but Victor, Carmen, and Tiffani … as much as it pained her to throw a loop at Victor … well, then again, if he was a good writer, this could work in his favor.
Shoving guilt and misgivings aside — this was a competition after all — she checked the names on each pencil as she picked it up from the table and double-checked it as she handed it to the chosen editor. Hers was last. She clutched it in her sweaty hand just for a moment longer before handing it over.
She hoped she was doing the right thing.
“Editors, please read the name on your pencils aloud,” Ophelia commanded.
“Roy,” the bald guy read from his pencil.
“Carmen?” Lucinda tucked her pencil in her cleavage and glanced around.
“Dez,” James stated.
“Tiffani.” The children’s books editor actually clapped her hands with her announcement.
“Victor.” Brent cast an eye at the group, looking grim and ready.
“Felicity.” The severe Ms. Friar arched a brow and crossed her arms over her chest.
Felicity heard all kinds of damns , shits , and oh nos behind her as each name was called and was pretty sure someone even muttered a fuck — probably Victor — but Ophelia left them no time to stand around and complain.
“You will have four hours to work with your assigned editor on your current work in progress. Your editor will report back to us what they think of your work, communication skills, and willingness to revise. Your time starts … now.”
“You can’t use this paragraph.” Ms. Friar pointed at the screen, glaring over her reading glasses.
Felicity stiffened in her chair. The show had set up tiny tables and chairs in each writer’s cave to make this situation easier — most likely for the editors, not the competitors. The round tabletop was big enough for a laptop and a notebook and not much else. Ms. Friar’s knees were almost touching her own. Beads of sweat spread across Felicity’s brow and traveled down the concave between her breasts, but the editor appeared cool as a cucumber, unfazed by the situation, by the job, or even by the close quarters.
She looked as though she ate authors for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day.
Swallowing back a sharp retort, Felicity asked, “What’s wrong with it?”
“Right here you have too many adverbs. That’s a sign of a lazy writer.”
Felicity felt as though she’d been slapped. Her face heated as if she had.
The editor ignored whatever facial expressions were playing a war on Felicity’s face and continued, “Why are you using so many LY words to describe instead of taking the time to give us vivid detail? You just throw an LY word in there, telling us he’s doing this slowly, when you could tell us in more words he’s moving his hands across her body as though unwrapping a precious gift, one corner at a time, as though afraid of tearing the paper
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