3 #2
I glanced around. Behind the frosted glass walls, I could see agents hunched over desks, surrounded by shelves of first editions and glossy book posters.
Novels that had once been nothing but typed-up dreams—just like mine.
But none of those cubicles could belong to Bronson.
Too humble. Too normal. And Bronson wasn’t normal. He was a legend.
“I’m sorry, you can’t go in there!” the receptionist called as I strode toward the hallway.
I ignored her and picked up the pace. I had a few meters’ head start. She wouldn’t run—not yet. A brisk walk was the most she’d allow herself. I was already in full-on West Wing -audition power walk mode.
The first offices all looked the same: glass walls, fake plants, gray carpets, anonymous agents speaking in calm tones on their phones.
I kept moving, guided by something like instinct—because suddenly, the carpet changed.
The lighting dimmed. The picture frames on the walls became grander.
No glossy posters here—just black-and-white photos of famous authors shaking hands with presidents, rock stars, and Nobel laureates.
I was entering the realm of the “Associates.” The crème de la crème.
But I didn’t stop. Because at the very end of the hallway stood a door unlike the rest. Bigger. Darker. More... final. And on its plaque, in understated but gleaming gold letters:
ROBERT brONSON – Founding Partner
There he was. The man who had turned dozens of dreams into front-table hardcovers.
I approached with the same spirit a gladiator brings to the arena. My heart beat like a war drum, but I ignored it.
Because if he was the greatest living agent...
...then I was the greatest undiscovered writer on the planet. And this moment was our shared destiny finally ticking in sync.
I caught a glimpse of him through the glass door—on the phone, sleeves rolled up, leaning back like he’d just sealed a seven-figure deal. He looked calm. Too calm.
I threw the door open with theatrical flair and shut it behind me with a sharp click, cutting off the receptionist before she could slip in behind me. I heard a muffled thud, followed by a startled “Oh!”—she must’ve nearly face-planted into the glass.
Then came the pounding. Flat palms, panicked rhythm. Tribal drums of alarm.
Bronson looked at me silently, one eyebrow raised while the other stayed perfectly still. Then he returned to his call.
“Katia, I’ve got to go. I think my time has come. Possibly one of the authors I rejected is here to take her revenge.” He paused, utterly deadpan. “Donate half my estate to charity, please. The other half goes to my dog.” Another pause. “What? Yes, yes. Talk soon. Bye.”
He slowly set the phone down, folded his hands, and said, “And you are…?”
I peeled myself off the door like it had suddenly gone hot. “You’ve never read me, Mr. Bronson. But I’m not here for a scene. I just want to leave this manuscript on your desk. That’s all. It’s enough for me to know it was in this room. Then I’ll go.”
The door burst open again. The receptionist stormed in, flushed. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bronson! I couldn’t stop her! She bolted in the second she arrived!”
He looked at her the way you might look at a pigeon that somehow crossed a freeway unharmed.
“It’s fine, Lucy. Leave us alone.”
Lucy hesitated for a second, shooting me a look somewhere between “unhinged” and “fangirl,” then shut the door behind her with a quiet click.
I was still panting like I’d just climbed Everest barehanded. I looked down at the manuscript I’d placed on his desk and spotted a tiny red blotch on the top page. I wiggled my fingers—my right index finger was bleeding a little.
I must’ve nicked myself on the zipper while pulling it out of my bag. Perfect. Now there was literally blood on the pages.
Bronson glanced down, noticed the mark, and read my name at the top in elegant Times New Roman size 12.
“Sit, Bea. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’ve literally bled for this novel, huh?” he said with a half-smile.
I just smiled back. His kindness, unexpected as it was, put me strangely at ease. And for a moment, I felt like a complete idiot for wasting all those years chasing desperate agents with crooked ties and cold-coffee breath. This man—this was the top. You could tell by the way he breathed.
“I’m guessing you’re looking for representation?” he asked, calmly.
“Yes, sir.”
“First novel?”
“Sixth.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Should’ve figured from that hell-bent sprint down the hallway. You’re not someone knocking on publishing’s door for the first time. You’ve already skinned your knuckles. And now you’re done knocking—you’ve moved straight to kicking it in.”
I let out a tired laugh. “Exactly.”
“Mind if I read it right now, Bea?”
That question hit me like a slap with a silk glove. Read it? Now? In front of me? All of it?
I managed not to yell, “THAT’LL TAKE SIX HOURS, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!” and simply nodded with composed restraint. “Go right ahead.”
Bronson turned the first page, took off the reading glasses hanging from his collar, swapped them for a stronger pair, and began to read. His pupils swept left to right, left to right again, like luxury car windshield wipers. Then they stopped. After just two lines.
He removed the glasses, rubbed his eyes with two fingers, and looked at me. “Bea... you don’t have a knife in that purse, do you? Is that how you cut yourself?”
“No, sir,” I said, suddenly cold-sweating.
“You won’t get mad at what I’m about to say, will you?”
I swallowed. “No, sir.”
“Can I ask you something, Bea?” he said, placing a hand on the blood-marked manuscript like it was a medical report.
“Of course. ”
“If someone walked into this room and started playing the piano, how long would it take you to know if they were a professional or an amateur?”
“First few notes.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Exactly. First few notes. You don’t need to hear the whole concerto to tell.”
My spine turned to ice. I already knew where he was going.
“You’re a good writer, Bea. Technically, your notes are right. You don’t hit any wrong ones. But…” He paused, like a food critic delivering the verdict on national television.
“But?”
“They’re academic notes.”
“Academic?” I echoed, like he’d just cursed in church.
“Yes. Precise, correct… but soulless. Your words don’t jump off the page. And I don’t need to read the whole thing to know that. The first few lines are enough.”
I felt myself deflate. And to think I’d spent an entire month on the ending—rewriting it seven times like a maniac. I could’ve just drawn a cartoon dog and gotten the same response.
“Try listening to the opening of a Mozart piece,” he continued. “Then compare it to a chart-topper from today. You see what I mean?”
He paused again. He was good at those pauses—the kind that make you feel slightly guilty, slightly embarrassed, and completely inadequate. Lethal combo.
“You’re good. I mean that. But if you want your words to come alive, to breathe and pulse on the page… you need to stop writing what you think someone like me wants to read. Or a publisher.”
“So what should I do?”
He looked at me with those wise-owl eyes and said gently, “Write your story.”
My story? What story? I spend my days holed up in a room with a typewriter and a wastebasket full of editorial rejection.
He must’ve seen the puzzled, maybe slightly lost look on my face. He smiled and stood.
“You’re good, Bea. And I believe you’ll get there. Eventually.”
I wanted to believe him with every fiber of my being. But all I could think in that moment was: Where the hell am I supposed to find another big-time agent willing to be chased down a hallway by a bleeding lunatic with a manuscript?
“Thank you, sir,” I said, picking up my manuscript with one hand and my dignity with the other. “Sorry for wasting your time.”
I walked out, trying not to limp from the bruising to my pride, as the associates and assistants behind the glass watched me like I’d just beamed down from a UFO. I felt like I was in one of those slow-motion sequences, the kind where everyone stares and you pretend not to care.
And honestly, I didn’t. Not really.
I was still in a daze.
I passed the receptionist’s desk and murmured, “Sorry for making you look bad.”
She looked at me for a beat. Then, with a faint smile, she said, “Happens to everyone, sooner or later.”
I slipped into the elevator just as the doors were closing. When they opened again on the ground floor, the soft ding snapped me back to reality.
And because the universe clearly had the sense of humor of a sadistic playwright, the first thing I saw when I stepped outside was the glistening front window of a bookstore. Of course.
I stopped to stare. Romance novels, neatly arranged, all in pastel covers.
A parade of hearts, curly fonts, and flirty titles like A Manual for Love and Brunch, Kisses & Little White Lies .
Romantic comedies, steamy flings, sugary fantasy.
Books written to sell, not to last. I could never write something like that.
Not because I thought I was above it—well, okay, maybe a little—but because it just didn’t come naturally.
It would be like dressing Kafka in sequins.
Writing stories like that—what difference did it make from doing someone’s taxes? None. Except at least the accountant got paid on time.
But apparently, my words—my beloved, hard- won, hand-polished words—didn’t leap off the page.
Maybe they’d said the same thing to James Joyce. Though I doubt James Joyce ever left the house. What could his personal experience possibly have added?
I thought about Tess. If Tess ever looked inward, she’d write the perfect rom-com novel. She was a rom-com. With her drama, her heels, her voice that could swing from chipper to tragic in under a second.
Me? I was the unfinished Great American Novel type. Stacks of yellowing pages. Rejection letters tacked to the wall like reverse trophies.
And I’d probably starve to death.
But at least I’d die knowing I never wrote Pistachio Kisses or The Contractual Boyfriend . What a poetic little comfort.
I pulled my coat tighter and walked away from the window.
Still not sure if my life was a tragedy... or the best damn comedy no one had dared to write yet.