Page 29 of Drawn Together
Maybe it’s the optimist in me. Or maybe I am delusional. But I swear I almost hear a hint of admiration in those last three words—I’m not you—as if being me is something to be proud of.
“Well.” I don’t know how to do that. I can’t tell her, her favorite color or who she is. But, giving her the right book? I can do that. “I think I know what you’d like.”
I round around the corner and reach for a classic of mine since middle school—the first romance book I ever read. Or thefirst book with any romance in it, considering it’s a very minor subplot.
“The Fireflies of Embermoor.” I turn the book over to read the back in my narrator voice. "In a mist-shrouded village where fireflies carry forgotten memories, a girl searching for her missing mother unravels a centuries-old mystery—with the help of a boy who may not belong to her time."
Lennon raises a skeptical brow at me, and I smile. “There’s a romance subplot, yeah, but there’s also ancient village lore, dream walking, time loops, and intergenerational secrets. Trust me, get three chapters in, and I promise you’ll be hooked.”
She flips the paperback in her hand, reading the back and scanning beginning pages before nodding. “Okay.”
“Okay.” I smile.
I think back to Sloane's call last week when she signed. Maybe try to make friends with the people already around you, and grin to myself. I think I might be doing just that.
Twelve
Wordoftheday:Amity
Definition: Warmth in a friendship
I go to bed that night with two notifications resting at the top of my phone, and my eyes first snag on the emailed reply from Cedric.
From [email protected]
Miss Honey Bell,
Though I can appreciate your enthusiasm, I don’t like the idea of cutting my agent out of the conversations. I have already expressed my concerns about us working together, but it seems the message didn’t come through plainly enough, so let me make my response clear.
Your illustration style is entirely mismatched for the tone and substance of Threadbare. This is a dark novel, not a pastel-colored bedtime romp. What you've sent me so far feels more like it belongs on a cereal box than in the pages of a story aboutmissing children and whispering shadows. I don't need smiling squirrels or doe-eyed orphans. I need dread. Atmosphere. Teeth in the dark. I’m not interested in softening the material to make it palatable for parents who'd rather pretend children don’t have nightmares.
In short: if this isn’t a good fit, I will not pursue it further. For any further attempts to re-pitch or revise, my agent will follow up, should there be any confusion.
Best,
Cedric Brooks
Before I can even begin to think of a response—besides an all capital WHAT followed by ten question marks—there is a text banner from Fletcher.
Fletcher:Is there a reason you assigned me this book specifically?
I smile to myself.
Me: I have no idea what you mean.
Fletcher:First Rochester and now Darcy. I feel like you’re trying to make a point.
Me:You said it, not me.
Fletcher:How’sFrankenstein?
Me:I practically feel the monster in me growing.
Fletcher:Can you?
