Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75626 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75626 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I email the agent on the football one, explaining I need a couple of days to decide but ask for a full manuscript. I’m curious and the pitch was at the top of my list, but I need to make sure I know what I’m getting into before I take it to the higher-ups.
Back in the breakroom, I head to the refrigerator and grab my yogurt while I wait for the next pot of coffee to brew. Each of us has suggested we get one of those one cup brewers, but again, the cost and waste is a problem. The owner, Jonathan Tally, is very conscious about the amount of waste we create, which I get. He recycles everything, including the coffee grounds.
Basha Norris stands at the counter and drums her finger on the granite countertop. She’s been at WP for a year, and while I mostly take contemporary romance, she’s the historical queen in our small publishing house.
“What do they say about a watched pot?” she asks with a sigh.
“It doesn’t boil,” I reply. “Or brew.”
“I should bring my own machine in. If I leave it at my desk and take my trash with me, Jonathan won’t say anything, right?”
I shrug and lean against the counter with my empty mug in my hand. “He might. We could always ask.”
“You know who’d have a problem with it?”
“Kit,” I say with a sigh. She’s the boss. Everyone loves her except she complains a lot about noise. The open office concept isn’t for everyone, and on this floor, she’s everyone. Someone sent Jonathan an anonymous note asking him to move Kit to an office, so the editors and staff could work in peace without Kit sending a mass email reminding everyone to keep their nails cut short because she hates the clickity clack they make on the keyboard.
“Right. The noise would bother her.”
Finally, there’s enough coffee in the pot for one cup and Basha pours herself one. “Sorry,” she says with an apologetic look.
“I don’t mind. Hey, let me ask you something. I received a pitch today and I like it, but it’s in the sports romance category and I don’t know jack about football. Should I have Jonathan read it?”
“Is it sporty or one of those ‘he’s an athlete, but they never actually detail anything about the sport’ sort of thing? Because those annoy the crap out of me. I read one the other day about cricket and the bloke didn’t play a single game or if he did, it was in the female POV, so she just gushed about his tight ass in his pantaloons.”
“Is that what she called his pants?” I open my yogurt and start eating.
Basha nods and takes a sip of her coffee. She takes it black, no cream or sugar. Nothing fancy. She calls it her high-octane formula. “Yep. I don’t know how many times I had to delete it from her MS only to find out the lead is British. It’s one of those things where the author should mention it before I get click happy.”
“Huh. Anyway, I think by the submission this is going to be detailed, which is great, but what if some of the terminology or game play is wrong?”
“Why don’t you go to a game? We have a team here.”
“I’m not sure that would help me understand the game. Like what does a tackle mean? Or a sack? Those were two words she used.”
“Seasoned or new author?”
“New. Otherwise, I might let it go. I like the concept though, a lot.”
“Oh!” Basha’s dark eyes widen. “What if you interview the team or something?”
“Like an on-the-field reporter?”
“Sort of, I guess. I’m thinking more like the coach or someone giving you a crash course in all things football.”
Hmm. “I like that idea a lot, actually. I wonder how I’d set that up?”
“Check with Valentine. I bet she can figure it out for you.”
“I’ll go see her after I fill this mug up.” I rinse the yogurt cup and put it in the correct recycle bucket. “Thanks, Basha.”
“Of course. Let me know how it goes.” Basha exits the breakroom, leaving me there with my thoughts. I like the idea of being on the field or whatever. Firsthand knowledge is better than anything Google is going to give me.
After I fill my mug, I head to the other end of the floor, where our superhuman publicist, Valentine Geis, sits. She’s typing frantically on her keyboard and bobbing to whatever she’s listening to through her headphones. I stand in front of her cubicle to avoid scaring the crap out of her by tapping on her shoulder.
“Hey, what’s up?” she asks after removing her headphones.
“Any chance you can set me up with an in-depth tour with the football team?” I fill her in on why.
“Which one?”
“We have more than one?”