Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
“All right, people, I have a busy day and a busier night. I promised my wife to quit early and take her on a date, and I think you all know I’m a man of follow-through.” Jonah looks at us with an amused smile, and we all nod back in response. “So, who’s first?”
I raise my hand like a kid in school, knowing if I don’t get this whole thing out of the way, I’m liable to spontaneously combust with anticipation. I’m in Upchuck Alley, and too many minutes hanging out here is bound to end with chunks of my lunchtime chicken salad sandwich all over my socks.
“Dawson. Great.” Jonah pulls out his chair at the head of the table and unbuttons the front of his suit coat before taking a seat. He grabs his reading glasses out of his chest pocket and slides them over the bridge of his nose to glance through the packet I’ve placed in his spot.
As he reads, he talks. “You’ve received Garden of Forever from Brooke Baker, correct? How are we looking with the manuscript? Can we make a three- or four-month timeline, or do we need longer? No reason to shit the bed by waiting too long and letting the Netflix buzz cool off. We’ve got to strike while the iron is still in the fire.”
And here we go…
“Actually, sir…” I clear my throat. “It’s not Garden of Forever…” Jonah’s eyes come to me over the edge of his black-framed glasses, and the steeliness makes me swallow twice. “Brooke turned in a different book…called Accidental Attachment.”
“A different book?” he scoffs, and to be honest, I can’t blame him. An author going that far off legal script is highly unusual.
“Yes, sir,” I make myself reply confidently. “I assure you, though, I feel very strongly that this book option is much better. I know it’s unorthodox, but I believe we’re getting the better end of the deal here.”
He blinks. Just one, long, hard blink. “Did Brooke Baker supply a reason for the change?”
I shake my head. “No, sir. And truth be told, I was too excited about the book she did submit to even think to ask her.”
Jonah removes his glasses and tosses them on the table, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.
“You didn’t think to ask her?”
“No…sir.” Boy, my throat feels thicker than usual.
Jonah studies me closely for several seconds, and I spend every one of them wondering if I should be filling them with babble. Unable to come up with any, I settle for meeting his gaze with a steadiness I have no idea how I’m producing.
Swath of smooth peppered hair bouncing slightly, he shifts in his chair and purses his lips before speaking. “Junior editor at Brentwood Books in Nashville for five years. Senior editor for three years after that, with three debut authors unexpectedly hitting the New York Times and staying there for several weeks under your leadership. Have I got that right?”
I swallow a nervous burp and nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Your track record is impressive, Dawson, and one of the reasons I personally voted to hire you.”
“Thank you, sir. I—”
“But this isn’t the kind of thing we do—switching out an approved manuscript for one we’ve never seen or heard of before.”
“I understand that, sir. Really, I do. I know that the algorithm for sales is made up of one part writing, two parts marketing, and three parts similarity to things people have a proven history of liking before. I know it’s highly unusual to switch to an untested genre, even with a vetted, proven author like Brooke, but I wouldn’t be presenting this idea to you without merit. This book is worth it. I promise you that.”
“You sound pretty damn sure.”
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“Sure enough to bet your job on it?”
The question isn’t theoretical—I can tell from the sharp inhalation of all the air in the room by everyone in it. If I don’t make this book a hit, I might as well pack my shit.
Fuck, I’m rhyming. Now I know I’m nervous.
Of all the major moments I’ve had in my life, this one somehow feels like the biggest. Like the decision to go for this or not—the choice to take this challenge by the balls instead of sitting around and twiddling my thumbs—will be a huge factor in the outcome of the rest of my life.
I don’t know if that’s true or if it’s some sort of coping mechanism I’ve acquired to keep myself from literally shitting my pants while one of the most powerful men in publishing stares me down, but I have to roll with it. I can’t back down now.
“Yes, sir. I am.” All the air in the room shrinks as if sucked up by a vacuum, and wide eyes stare back at me from every department.