Laureen's Manuscript (short story) 4/4 by Leanne Dyck

This is part 4 of Laureen's Manuscript. Here are the links to part one (the writer), part two (the Acquisitions Editor), part three (the Publisher).

"Leanne reading on the ferry"

by Byron Dyck

Wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, earplugs maintaining silence, eye mask ensuring darkness, Jon Torgelson snored. He was enjoying the extra hours of sleep the weekend provided. Laureen inched out of bed. For her, it was a normal workday. She made a pit stop in the kitchen to grab a quick bite. Then, still in her pyjamas, hair and teeth unbrushed, she stumbled down the hall and into her writer's den. Laureen wrote for a couple of hours before deciding to take a break and survey her email inbox.

"Oh, look, another rejection letter," she mumbled when she found the email from Knight's publishing house. "I'll just give it a quick read." But the words confused her. What? It can't be. I must be reading it wrong.

She heard noises in the kitchen, followed them, and found her husband pouring coffee. "Jon, I need you to read something out loud to me."

"You need me to... what?"

"Read something."

He followed her to her computer screen.

"Ms. Laureen Torgelson," he read aloud. "Please send us," Jon paused as he felt the full weight of what he was reading. "The complete manuscript." He was so proud of her; he wrapped his arms around her, and they held one another. Then he said, "One step closer."

And she knew he was right. This isn't acceptance, she told herself, not yet. It's merely an opportunity.

The End

Thank you for reading my short story. I hope you enjoyed it.

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Laureen's Manuscript (short story) 3/4 by Leanne Dyck

(photo by Leanne Dyck)

Thomas ended the phone call by saying, "I do understand. You are an important author to us. And rest assured we will handle this issue promptly." Then he hung up. If they only knew how hard I work. A publisher does far more than publish books. He signed. The tasks are endless. And there's another one. He regarded the manuscript with a cold-eyed stare. He made up his mind to ignore it.

But the manuscript didn't rest peacefully on his desk. "Read me. Read me." It seemed to call.

It was like dark chocolate. He couldn't keep his fingers away. So he gave in, picked up the ten pages, and began to read. "By Laureen Torgelson."

Thomas' heart fell. It was the name that stopped him. He'd known several Torgelsons throughout his life. It had been a Torgelson who'd tripped him during a soccer match—ending his involvement in the sport. Without the exercise, muscle quickly became fat—a condition that had permanently altered Thomas' five-foot, nine-inch frame. It had been a Torgelson who'd broken his heart. Years ago, he'd knelt on one knee, held her hand, and asked the question. That's when she'd crushed him like a bug.

But he'd found someone else. Thoughts of his wife filled his mind; he checked the clock on his computer screen—5:30 PM.

He was almost out the door. But, at the last minute, he retraced his steps, picked up the manuscript, and shoved it into his briefcase. One of the first things he did when he arrived home was exile the manuscript to a corner of his desk in his study. 

No work. Not this weekend, he told himself.

***

The weather had turned unseasonably warm; Thomas and his wife, Marian, were outside enjoying it. He, like a porpoise, doing laps in the pool. She sat at the glass-top table, pen in hand and chequebook open, paying bills.

Thomas swam over to a side of the pool and pushed himself up, resting his stomach on the edge. "Surely you don't have to do that now. The water is perfect. Come and join me."

Marian's pen didn't stop moving. "In a minute," she told him. "I'm almost finished."

When she started affixing postage, she discovered the shortage. "Do we have more stamps?"

"In my desk," he told her.

Marian slid the patio door open and walked into her husband's private domain. The study was styled after an English hunting lodge—brown padded chairs, wallpaper depicting hunting scenes, and a Winchester hung over the fireplace.

Marian eyed the piles of paper that filled the desk and easily located a manuscript lying abandoned on the corner of his desk. In the past she'd helped Thomas unearth gold in the slush pile.

I'll just take a peek. 

But she immediately shoved the idea out of her mind. 

"No, that's none of my business, not any longer," she scolded herself. 

Marian grasped the handle on the middle drawer and gave it a tug. But the drawer didn't budge. She swung her hand out and up to coil her fingers around the edge of the desk. Perhaps by accident, the manuscript tumbled off the desk, onto the floor. 

"Oh, no, how did that happen?"

A trace of a grin swept across her face. 

Marian stooped to pick up the pages and read the title. It caught her imagination. She picked up the ten pages, slipped into a padded chair and read. 

Well, she laughed, she cried, and she said, "My book club would love this book. He has to publish it."

Part Four

(photo by Leanne Dyck)

Next post:  Part 4 of Laureen's Manuscript (we return our focus to the author)

More:  

What does a book publisher do? on Chrone.com

I've published a few interviews with publishers on this blog...

You'll find them on the Guest Post page (link)

These posts included interviews with these small presses...

Story Plant (link)

Central Avenue Publishing (link)

Ronsdale Press (link)

Sharing my author journey...

This week I received another rejection email. In the past, especially... 

(photo by Leanne Dyck)

Laureen's Manuscript (short story) 2/4 by Leanne Dyck

(Link to part 1)

photo by Leanne Dyck

Laureen's submission arrived at Acquisition Editor Cora Green's laptop at 5 AM on a Monday morning. Cora's padded wall cubicle was sparsely decorated—a notepad and a small glass jar full of pens sat on the corner of the desk. Cora's purse was in a drawer. She'd obtained the job two months ago—celebrating by drinking and dancing too much at a pub with a few friends. The next day she'd paid for the fun with a headache.

Because the submission was one of too many, it sat unread, unnoticed, until 9 PM Saturday night. It would have waited longer, but Cora's boyfriend of three weeks stood her up with some lame excuse of coming down with the flu.

"Sure. I understand," she'd told him, over the phone. But she hadn't.

I should dump him, she told herself. But she knew she wouldn't. He was just too cute—sandy blond hair, large green eyes, and a dimple. It was the dimple that melted Cora's heart and made her think that he was a sweet guy.

***

Monday morning, Mr. Thomas Knight leaned over his desk in his corner office, jotting notes regarding an upcoming marketing campaign into his overstuffed suede-bound Day-Timer. Swiveling in his chair, Thomas faced his computer, strolled through his emails, and discovered that Cora had forwarded a submission. His mood darkened. 

"Cora, you know I prefer a hard copy. Please deliver this submission to my office," he typed.

***

After reading Mr. Knight's email, Cora immediately set to work, and moments later, the printer spit out the last page. Times like these she felt like a golden lab playing fetch. I should have told him to print his own copy. I should have... Cora fumed as she headed for Knight's office. But she knew she'd never complain—she was too intimidated by him and enjoyed her job too much to make waves.

Mr. Knight's voice drifted through the crack between the door and the doorframe. "Just calm down. Calm down."

Cora poked her head through the gap.

Mr. Knight waved her in. "Just a second, please," he told the caller and cupped his hand over the phone. "Thank you, Cora. Please leave it on the desk."

Cora did as instructed and then left quickly.

Part Three

More...

What Does An Acquisitions Editor Do? by Joyce Gram (editor)

Acquisitions Editor from the Inside Jobs web site

I published an article with Acquisitions Editor, Sunny Frazier (link)

Next post:  Part 3 of Laureen's Manuscript (Focus on Thomas Knight, publisher)

Sharing my author journey...

Laureen's Manuscript (short story) 1/4 by Leanne Dyck

I hope you enjoy part one of this four part metafiction short story. 

"Flower in my pond"

photo by Leanne Dyck 

This suburb of Victoria on Vancouver Island had no shortage of fascinating characters. And they existed in the most unlikely of places. The house was grey stucco with a concrete walk that led to a white door. Neighbors would never have guessed the adventures that occurred within its walls. People were born, lived, and died—sometimes at the hands of a murderer. Laureen Torgelson witnessed it all. Some would have said that she and her pen created it all. The adventures had begun shortly after Laureen had been laid off from her teacher-librarian position at the local high school.

Even though Laureen was well over forty, she looked much younger. Retaining youth was hard work; she wore night cream and in the morning plucked grey hairs from her temples. That is to say, she used to. Lately other people's lives had taken over hers. She loved spending time with these people. She didn't want their relationship to end, but she'd known from the start that this was the desired outcome. In fact, she'd religiously worked to achieve this goal. Still, it was with no shortage of trepidation that she'd told herself, Today is the day.

Laureen leaned towards her computer screen. She read the email she'd been writing-- checking for verb tense, spelling accuracy, and clarity of meaning. "Please accept the attached ten pages, or should it read, 'Please find'?" Laureen wondered aloud—talking to herself; that too was new.

She'd read the attached pages half a dozen times. And she recited words, phrases, and paragraphs in her sleep—annoying her husband. But he knew how much stress she was under, so he'd rolled over and tried to ignore her.

Jon often told his air traffic control co-workers. "I'd never be a writer. It's way too stressful."

Laureen rubbed the belly of the Buddha doll that sat on the windowsill beside her desk, kissed her fingers, and ran them across the computer screen before she pressed send.

"Oh, no. I shouldn't have done that. Not yet. I wasn't... It wasn't ready," she moaned five seconds later as she paced the length of the back bedroom that had become her writer's den. It's all too late, she thought and crumpled into a tight little ball in her chair.

She breathed out slowly and visualized her email travelling in cyberspace past grey granite mountaintops and through golden yellow wheat fields to a glass and steel office tower in Canada's largest city—Toronto, Ontario.

Part Two

"Beauty in my front yard"

photo by Leanne Dyck

Next post: Part two of Laureen's Submission (focus on Acquisitions Editor, Cora Green)

More...

What is metafiction? 

Answer:  click this link

Sharing my author journey...