Claire Ellis begins to experience strange wet dreams, with an unknown man who will show her that life is wider than what she knew.
Being an editorial assistant has never been so incredible.
The book fair is approaching, and her best and only option...
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"I want you... " The sound of his voice pronouncing those words made me jump from my seat. I blinked in confusion, I had fallen asleep for a moment. Strange... I thought. I blamed the manuscript I was reading, bored, full of forced scenes that, although fictitious, bordered on the ridiculous. I buffet with annoyance.
All the manuscripts I had read that morning had been a waste of time, it had to be that because I almost never fell asleep while doing my work.
The ringing of the phone made me jump. Why was I so sensitive? It was from Carl's office.
"Tell me..." I answered, tersely. I heard him clearing his throat on the other end of the line.
"Nothing interesting, right?" I smiled. I was amused that he was huffing and puffing because he couldn't get any new manuscripts that would make him fly through the clouds. He was like me, an inveterate dreamer who longed to find promising new novels that would transport you to the edges of the unknown.
What I liked most about Carl was the fact that he never looked down on a new writer, ever, even when he was disgusting on social media or didn't know how to interact with the real world. Carl valued the intrepid imagination of those writers who let the chimeras fade from their minds and instead, exalted the muses who often gave us masterpieces that ended up being a success for our publishing house.
I had learned from him. At first I thought, like a rookie. That a recognized name was worth more than a good novel, however, with the passage of time, I understood, the hard way, because I had to read all the crap of recognized authors who, indeed, were a crap, a star work does not guarantee success after success. There were writers who presented you with worlds so incredible that they made you believe that you were there, with them. Their names were not recognized by anyone, in fact, most of the time, these born artists used pseudonyms on writing pages, created fanfiction better than the original novels and invited you to a much better possibility than reality.
Then, after 5 months working for Carl, I understood that it was what was really important.
And it was the story, not the name.
That is why I continued with him, because I judged what should be judged, and I fought for what was worth fighting for.
"Unfortunately..." I snorted. I heard him mumble a few curses. Something unbecoming of him. But I understood, we had been more than 6 months without a good novel to launch. And although the publishing world is difficult, too much for my taste, and that we still had a lot of work on our backs, printing new editions, continuing orders, etc.
I knew I longed to know the new best seller, I knew it because, simply, it was what I wanted too.
"It would be inappropriate to throw myself out of my office window." He joked. Acid. As usual. I laughed.
"I don't have time to be picking up dismembered pieces." He laughed rather gracefully. I smiled, too. "Do you want me to take the complaint of a rejected author to you?" I knew his answer, but it was my duty to ask. He snorted harder. Laughed. Mocking.
