Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
A Cosmic Penance explores themes of hope, resilience, and the weight of the choices made by these astronauts for the future of humanity. It’s a grand and emotional conclusion to—
I reach the end but then I immediately flip back, trying to see if I missed something.
Fifteen pages. Fifteen pages and there’s no mention of the evolution of Amelia and Julian’s relationship.
WHY?
Did Nate change his mind? Is he going to have Amelia choose Marcus in the end? If I thought my heart was pounding before, now it’s about to slingshot out of my chest altogether.
I read the summary through twice more, no skimming, no skipping ahead, before I sit back and just stare at the thing. My mind is racing. The summary is wonderful. My concerns for Nate’s writer’s block are now officially unfounded. He has this project firmly in his grasp. If he can flesh out these concepts in a heartfelt way, his readers will give him a standing ovation.
That’s really, really great, but WHERE IS MY LOVE STORY?
I feel absolutely hollow over what he’s left out. For me, the potential romance between Amelia and Julian is pivotal to the story as a whole. Without their emotional entanglements, there’s less at stake. It’s the motive driving so many of their decisions.
I’m so perplexed I read it twice more because I don’t trust my brain, my eyes, my reading comprehension skills. If Cat could read, I’d get him in on this as well. I need a second opinion, but I don’t want to send this to Joy just yet. Would she be absolutely thrilled? Yes. I imagine she’ll scream when she sees this pop into her inbox at some point, but I have to discuss it with Nate first.
I am his developmental editor after all, and we’re about to develop the hell out of this love story. Just…as soon as he finishes typing.
I creep up the stairs again, and I don’t even think he’s come up for air since I last checked. If anything, he’s typing faster now. How many words per minute is he striving for? I can’t help but do a silent happy dance for him, arm pumping in the air and everything.
He’s doing it.
He’s writing!
And sure, he could be working on something else entirely, an in-depth manifesto about how much he wants me out of this cottage or a very descriptive review of my lovemaking skills or I don’t know, details of his fence project! It doesn’t matter! I get the feeling this is good news. He hasn’t holed himself up in his room at his computer once since I arrived.
Suddenly, there’s a break in the typing, and I jump on it.
I knock twice, gently.
“Nate?”
“Yeah?” Then, “You can come in.”
I turn the handle and push the door open, but only a crack. If there’s magic in his room, I don’t want any of it seeping out into the hall.
Nate sits at a narrow writing desk positioned in front of a window. Light streams through the glass, and the view is spectacular: blinding white snow as far as the eye can see, a herd of sheep just in front of a dense green forest.
Nate’s bed is perfectly made, untouched from the looks of it. His room smells like his soap and books. There are shelves up here, and I spy more foreign editions of The Last Exodus and Echo of Hope. Sheesh, there are so many of them. It’s hard to comprehend the sheer number of readers Nate has waiting on tenterhooks for this third novel.
I peer back at him just as he glances over his shoulder at me. Aside from the fact that his shirt is wrinkled and his hair is messier than I’ve ever seen it, this is the perfect image of him. A writer at work. So handsome it hurts. Sharp cheekbones, scruffy jaw. My stomach swoops as our eyes lock. After last night, the line between us has only tightened, drawing me toward him like a moth to a flame. I’ve been so careful with my feelings today, treating them like a fresh bruise, one I should be careful not to touch or press.
Nate’s eyes are tired and a little red, and it occurs to me that he might not have ever gone to sleep last night, not if he was up working on the summary.
“Everything alright?” I ask tentatively.
He smiles, and it unfurls something in my chest. “I’m working,” he says with a note of pride.
“Writing?” I venture, my voice filled with unrestrained hope. Please say yes.
He nods in confirmation, and there’s relief evident in his widening smile.
Oh my god. I want to scream, but I gather myself quickly enough and rein it in. Just act cool. Don’t spook the creativity out of him!
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
His eyebrows furrow like the thought that he might need food only just occurred to him. He nods. “Starving.”