3. Trina
TRINA
I give it about a week of being open to queries again before I even bother to look at them.
In my defense, I have plenty of other things to be working on.
Scarlett and I brainstormed a second time, which, sure, isn’t paying the bills right now, but it will eventually.
Another author sends me a manuscript they’ve been working on for a while, so I get that ready to pitch.
And another wants me to look over the first ten chapters of something they’re playing around with and give feedback.
That last one takes me two days. While I have a degree in English lit that I’m still paying for, I’m not an editor.
It takes some time for me to offer editorial feedback, even though it’s something I like doing.
It has nothing to do with the fact that I’d rather scoop my eyes out with a spoon than read through queries.
Eventually, I run out of things to do. After refreshing my inbox fourteen times and manifesting an urgent email that I need to deal with immediately, I move over to the app we use to manage queries.
Squinting one eye closed and gingerly typing in my login information, I hold my breath as I hit Enter.
And then I let out a loud groan.
My queries have been open for a week, and I have over a thousand to go through.
I like this job. I really do. Being on this end of the process of bringing new books into the world is a dream come true for me.
But so much of publishing is luck and timing, and I got lucky when I first started out and signed the Scarlett Frye as my first author.
Now, my name is out there. And while I’ve had lots of successful authors on my list over the years, everyone thinks I’m the magic piece when, in fact, it’s the manuscript.
But that doesn’t stop them from querying me in droves.
I wiggle further into the soft cushions of my couch. Then I shift my laptop over so I can grab a blanket and spread it over my lap. I’m going to need to get cozy before I attempt to tackle these.
I click open a query letter and start reading, but it reeks of artificial intelligence.
Pass. The next is from a writer who seems to be submitting to me as some sort of assignment for a creative writing professor.
If she doesn’t really want it, neither do I.
Up next is a thriller written by someone who noted, and I quote, I know it likely needs some editorial work, but I don’t know where to start because I don’t read thrillers.
That’s where you come in! Hard nope. Even if I had thrillers on my wish list, I wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole.
“Okay. Three down and nine hundred ninety-seven to go.” I rub my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. I pride myself on being great at giving my authors pep talks. Apparently, I cannot use those considerable talents on myself.
Luckily, at that moment, my phone rings. “Oh, thank god,” I mutter, stretching sideways to retrieve my phone from the other end of the couch, where I had put it face down to avoid doomscrolling as procrastination. But when I check the screen, I flip it right back down and let it keep on ringing.
It’s my aunt. And I’d rather look through the rest of these query letters than talk to her.
I click through a few more duds, but my phone rings again. Grumbling, I reach over to silence it, but this time it’s Isabella, another agent at Northbridge.
“Saved by the bell,” I mutter as I answer the call. “Hey.”
She skips all pleasantries and gets right to the reason she’s calling. “I hear Suzanna is sending you to Writers and Agents.”
I groan. “I don’t suppose you want to take my place?”
“Fuck no.” She laughs. “Are you kidding me? There’s no way I want to sit in a room with aspiring authors for a weekend and listen to their questions and bad pitches. I’ve worked too long to get thrown to the wolves like that again.”
“I’ve worked there longer than you,” I protest.
“Yeah, by two months. But that means you shouldn’t be going either. What the hell did you do to earn the honor?”
“More like what did I do to piss Suzanna off,” I say.
“I mean, that’s the reason why I’m calling. Give me the juicy details.”
“You want to meet for coffee in a few minutes? I’ll tell you the whole story.”
Isabella immediately perks up. “Is there that much to tell?”
“No.” I twirl a piece of hair around my pointer finger. “I just don’t want to sift through more queries and need a reason to get out of my apartment.”
“Bitch, you had me all excited.”
“And yet, you’ve never refused to stand between me and an honest day’s work.”
“Very true. But coffee’s on you. See you in twenty.”
As one of the only other Northbridge agents in Chicago, Isabella and I meet semiregularly for lunch or coffee or work sessions.
Being an agent is a fantastic job, and I make my own hours, but it can get lonely when there’s no office to report to and most of my meetings are video conferences.
It’s nice to have someone nearby to commiserate with in person.
By the time I get to the coffee shop we always go to, Isabella is already seated at a table by the window. She’s sipping her drink—an Americano if she got her usual, which I’m sure she did—and there’s another cup of something iced in front of an empty chair.
“I thought you said coffee was on me.” I pull out the chair and plop into it. Using the back of my wrist, I blot some sweat from my forehead. “I don’t know how you drink hot coffee when it’s so warm out.”
“It’s busy, so I had to buy coffee before taking a table. Next round’s on you. And the only way to drink coffee is hot. Whatever this contraption is”—she waves at the drink in front of me—“is an abomination.”
“Agree to disagree,” I say, taking a sip. As usual, Jake the barista got it exactly right. An iced oat milk latte with one pump of sugar-free vanilla syrup. Perfection.
“Okay, you’re caffeinated. Now spill it.”
I tilt my head, idly stirring my drink with the straw. “Maybe I just wanted to go to Denver. I’ve been so busy that I haven’t been able to travel much—”
“Bullshit.”
“Fine,” I concede. “Suzanna is getting nervous about Scarlett taking some time off. She wants me to sign a few new people, and she thinks sending me to the conference will… I don’t know. Inspire me?”
Isabella snorts. “Right, because the chances of you walking away from that event with a new author are slim to none.”
“You never know…” I start, but when I see Isabella’s look of disbelief, I laugh harshly and slump forward. “Yeah, I don’t suppose the next Hemingway is attending a conference to learn how to pitch.”
“Got any good queries?”
I’m grateful for the change of subject, though I don’t have much to report on that front, either. “I had only looked through three of them when you called, but big nopes on all of them.”
Isabella sighs and takes a sip of her drink as she leans back in her chair.
“It’s rough out there. The literary fiction market is oversaturated, and the economy is down.
Even good books aren’t selling anymore. Editors have to be extra tough on new work.
Sometimes I worry I chose the wrong profession. ”
“It’ll turn around,” I say, trying to remain hopeful, but she’s not the only one feeling the pinch.
I have a hunch Suzanna wants me to sign new authors, at least in part, to try to stay ahead of what is clearly a sort of publishing recession.
The only problem with that is no one can tell what the next cultural zeitgeist is going to be.
Not to mention I already struck gold once with Scarlett.
What are the chances that I can do it again?
“Hey.” Isabella’s voice drops to almost a whisper as she leans forward conspiratorially. “Isn’t that Casey Endersen?”
Before I can stop them, my eyes widen. My heart rate also ticks up a notch, but hopefully she can’t see that part.
“Where?” I ask. It has been over a year since I’ve seen or spoken with him, and I’m not about to frantically look around the coffee shop only for him to catch my eye in some kind of poorly written rom-com moment.
Isabella’s gaze flicks over my shoulder, then back to me. “In line. I could be wrong, but it sure looks like him.”
Slowly, I turn around as if I’m afraid any sudden movements will draw his attention.
Sure enough, there he is, standing in line waiting for coffee.
He’s dressed more casually than usual in a heathered gray T-shirt and athletic shorts, but I’d recognize the lines of his broad shoulders and the curve of his ass anywhere—which is especially juicy in those shorts.
It doesn’t escape me that I know exactly what that ass feels like beneath my touch, late at night as I grazed my fingernails over it and made him shiver as his tongue danced with mine.
I whip back around and lean forward on the table, bringing my hand close to my mouth before redirecting at the last minute to half-hide my face. “That’s him.”
Isabella frowns at me, a deep crease forming between her brows. “Why are you being weird? Did he reject one of your pitches or something?”
Why am I being weird? It’s a great question.
There’s no reason to react this viscerally to seeing Casey in public.
We slept together a few times over a year ago and agreed to keep it casual until we were more or less forced to walk away.
I haven’t seen him since because I haven’t had a reason to pitch anything to him.
And, I mean, maybe I’ve been avoiding him a little.
But what was I supposed to do, walk into his office a week later with a new manuscript and pretend like I don’t know the exact spot under his left earlobe where he loves to be—
“Hello? Earth to Trina?” Isabella waves her hand in front of my face. “What the hell is going on with you?”