Blind Submission

by Debra Ginsberg

  “I’m so pleased to meet you,” I said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Well, it can’t have been too bad,” she said, laughing, “or you wouldn’t be here, would you? This is Craig Johnson, my right-hand man and the voice of reason in this office.”

  I hadn’t even been aware of Craig’s presence until Lucy introduced him. He was fairly easy to miss, so fair and slight he practically faded into the wall behind him. Craig looked as if he hadn’t had a decent meal or a good night’s sleep for some time. His eyes were sad and brown and his clothes hung lifelessly from his bony frame. So I was shocked when he said, “Nice to meet you, Angel,” in a rumbling baritone. Craig had a radio star voice trapped in a milquetoast body. Just one more in a growing list of peculiarities here, I thought.

  “Well, why don’t we sit down and get started?” Lucy said, gesturing for me to sit on the couch. Craig positioned himself on a chair next to me, holding a legal pad on his lap. Lucy sat down next to me, so close our knees were almost touching, holding a small pad of her own.

  “Now, where’s your résumé?” she said to nobody in particular. “Nora!” she yelled toward the door. “Can I have this woman’s résumé please?”

  Nora appeared at the door and said, “It’s on your desk, Lucy.”

  “It most certainly is not.”

  Nora shuffled over to Lucy’s oversize glass desk, removed a sheet of paper, which I immediately recognized as my résumé, and handed it to Lucy.

  “Nora, it would help me a great deal if you didn’t hide these things, don’t you think?” Lucy said. Nora simply sighed and left the room.

  “Okay,” Lucy began, “Angel Robinson. What a name! Surely that’s not your real name. You must have changed it, yes?”

  “No, no, that’s my real name. From birth.”

  “Then maybe you ought to change it. I mean, Angel of all things. Quite a title to live up to, I’d think.”

  “Well, my mother…She saw me as her little angel, she said, when I was born, and so she thought, I mean…” I trailed off into an awkward silence. The truth was, I’d always been embarrassed by my name. It didn’t help that the mega-bestselling book Freakonomics listed Angel as the number one “white girl” name that best indicated parents who were uneducated. I hoped Lucy hadn’t read Freakonomics and resisted the urge to wipe my hands on my dress. My palms were slick with sweat and I could feel the prickle of perspiration on my lower back.

  “Names are very important,” Craig said suddenly. Again, I was startled to hear such a deep, sensual voice coming out of such a mouse of a man. I didn’t know if I’d be able to get used to it. “My wife decided to hyphenate our names so that she could keep her own identity,” he added.

  “Hyphens are even worse,” Lucy said dismissively, and then stopped short as if something important had just occurred to her. “Do you have a husband?” she asked me, her tone making husband sound a lot like herpes.

  “No, no. I mean, I have a boyfriend—fiancé, actually—and he…” He what? I cursed myself. Is writing a book? Would love to be represented by you? How was it possible that I had spoken no more than a handful of words and was already in such a deep hole? And why had I referred to Malcolm as my fiancé? The two of us hadn’t even come close to making any official plans to wed.

  “Are you planning to get married sometime soon, then?” Lucy asked. “I mean, I’d hate to offer you a position and then have you disappear on a honeymoon or something. Or get pregnant. You’re not planning babies, are you? Little Angels, as it were? Because we can stop right here if you are and not waste any more time. Time is money here and I don’t have nearly enough of it to squander.”

  “Actually, we haven’t really set a date.” I could hear my own voice getting smaller in my throat. “And I haven’t even begun to think about children.”

  “Good,” Lucy said, “because this is an extremely busy office, and while I don’t expect my employees to work twenty-four hours a day, there will be plenty of reading to do outside of the office and occasions when you may have to come in early or stay late. And as my assistant—” Lucy stopped herself short, her eyes narrowing, a new question working its way to her lips. “You understand that this position is that of my assistant?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, but I was confused by her emphasis.

  “Because if you are thinking of being hired as an agent, we should probably terminate this interview immediately.”

  “Oh no,” I rushed to assure her, “I understand the position. And I’m not interested in agenting.” I gave Lucy a broad smile to underscore my words, but I questioned, if only for a fraction of a second, just how truthful they were. Would I be interested in being an agent myself? Who knew? I hadn’t even seen it as a possibility until that moment. I was surprised, and maybe even a little intrigued, that Lucy had. But no, I thought again, I could never—

  “Good,” Lucy said, drilling me with her laser eyes.

  Nora entered the room once more. “Lucy,” she said, “Natalie Weinstein’s on line two for you.”

  “I have to take this,” Lucy said, leaping from the couch. “This is a very important editor. I’ve been waiting for this offer.”

  Craig rose from his seat in tandem. “I’m going to make a couple of calls while you get this,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few.”

  “Fine, go, go,” Lucy said. “You can make yourself comfortable, Angel. Have a look at all of our books.” She made a sweeping gesture at the room around us and then sat down at her desk to take the call.

  “Natalie, my dear,” she began, “are we in business on this delicious book? I’d love to tell the author that you have won the prize….”

  My head had started to buzz and I found myself unable to focus on Lucy’s conversation. I felt my interview had started badly, but I couldn’t explain why. I distracted myself by looking around the room. There was a display on my left, a virtual shrine to Karanuk that I hadn’t noticed earlier. Nestled between various animal pelts and a costume I assumed was native Alaskan garb was every edition of Cold! in print. Beside all the English editions in hardcover and paperback there were two shelves of foreign editions. I studied the spines for title changes. Fa Freddo! screamed the Italian title in red. The French copy was much quieter. Le Froid, it said in beige lettering. There was no exclamation point.

  “No, it’s certainly not a bad offer,” Lucy was saying, “but this payout schedule is simply not going to work. Frankly, the author’s no spring chicken, if you know what I mean. Is she going to live long enough to get this money? I can’t say.” Lucy flashed me a toothy grin. I smiled back and turned my head, afraid to be caught eavesdropping, even though she was clearly speaking loud enough for me to hear every word. But some poor writer’s fate was hanging on the outcome of this conversation and it just seemed wrong for me to know how it would all turn out before the writer did.

  “No, I’m not implying that she’s ill,” Lucy went on. “What I’m saying is that we might all be dead by the time this advance is paid out.”

  I turned my attention to another shelf of books. A slim volume caught my eye. I recognized it immediately as Long Shadows, the one book I’d always said I’d want with me on a deserted island. It was a short but densely written novel about three generations of women who were all writers. Through the different voices of her characters, the author gave a layered, intricate account of women, history, and the writing process. I’d first read it in college and still kept my copy where I could reach it easily, just to thumb through it. It was the author’s first and only book. I reached over, almost involuntarily, pulled the book from the shelf, and felt its compact weight in my hand. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and got a little light-headed.

  I knew then that Malcolm was absolutely right about this being the perfect job for me. The author’s mind was certainly where the seeds for great books germinated, but this was the place where they began to bear fruit. Without this agency, who knew how many books w
ould have remained out of sight forever. I replaced the book on the shelf and realized that I really wanted this job. I’d been detached, even equivocal, when I’d first walked in the door, but after being surrounded by this flurry of literary activity for only a few minutes, I couldn’t stop the flush of excitement from overtaking me. I wanted this job so badly I could feel my fingertips tingling with desire for it. I wanted—no, I needed Lucy Fiamma to hire me, and I scrambled frantically to come up with ways I could convince her to do just that.

  Lucy was off the phone. “I see you’ve been admiring some of our books,” she said.

  “Oh yes,” I said. “Long Shadows is one of my all-time favorites. I love that book.”

  “Yes, that was a good one,” Lucy said. “One of my first. It’s a pity the author only had that one in her.” She gave an exaggerated shrug. “And of course you’ve read Cold!?”

  “Oh, of course. It’s a brilliant book,” I said. “But you must know that,” I added.

  “Hmm,” Lucy said, and rose from her desk. “Let me tell you a little publishing story, Angel. Since we’re discussing brilliance. Of course, Cold! is a phenomenal book, no question, and would have done well regardless. But do you know what really made that book work? In terms of market?”

  Several possible answers raced through my brain, but I settled for silence.

  “What did it, I mean really did it, was the exclamation point on the title,” Lucy said triumphantly. “And I am the one who put that exclamation point there. Indeed.” There was a new note in her voice, something like, if this were possible, flirtatiousness. I was dumbfounded as to how to respond, but had developed an instant understanding of her fondness for exclamation points. I smiled like an idiot.

  “Right,” she said briskly, as if snapping out of a trance, “let’s get down to this. I’m really running short on time now.” She sat down on the couch and patted the space beside her. “I’ve looked over your résumé and your experience looks pretty good, but my concern is that you haven’t had any direct experience in publishing.”

  “Yes, but I—”

  “Which could actually work in your favor,” she interrupted. “It means you have no preconceived notions about how things should work. Am I correct?”

  I nodded mutely.

  “Of course, in terms of salary, I’d have to take your limited experience into consideration. I’m sure you can understand. But let’s discuss salary later, shall we?”

  I couldn’t figure out if Lucy meant that to be a rhetorical question, so, again, I just kept my mouth shut.

  “I should let you know that this will be a very different environment than Blue Moon. As you’ve seen, we are very busy here. So you think you’d be able to juggle several tasks at once? Are you prone to feeling overloaded?”

  “Oh no, I—”

  “Well, let me ask you this. Say you’re sitting here, answering the phone, and you get two calls at once. One is an associate editor at a small publisher you’ve never heard of who just wants to touch base with me. The other is an author whose book I’m about to sell. Say it’s Karanuk, for example. Who do you put through to me and what do you say to the other one?”

  I hesitated, unable to solve this Sphinx-like riddle with any kind of ease.

  “Hurry!” she said. “You’re not going to have time to mull this decision with two lines blinking.”

  “I put Karanuk through to you and let you know that the editor is on the other line,” I said quickly. “Then I tell the editor that you’ll be with her—or him—shortly.”

  Lucy smiled again, showing all her gleaming teeth. I exhaled and felt my shoulders relax a little, confident that I’d given the right answer.

  “Wrong!” she said. “Always put an editor through first, no matter how small. That’s where the money is. Without publishers, we have no business. That small-time editor could be a big-time publisher tomorrow. It’s happened before and it will happen again.”

  “Oh,” was all I could think to say.

  “But you’re obviously an author advocate. That’s very sweet.”

  Craig had come back into the room in the middle of this interchange and seated himself with his pad once again. The two of them proceeded to ask me a series of questions, all of which seemed more or less standard, considering the position. Which books were my favorites? Why? Which popular books hadn’t I liked? Why? What had I learned about publishing trends from my work at Blue Moon? How fast and how accurately could I read?

  I answered all their questions with responses I’d prepared ahead of time, but part of me was removed from the interview and watching in dismay. I was quite sure I’d blown my chances with my answer to Lucy’s editor/author question.

  “Now…Angel,” Lucy said, my name seeming to stick in her throat before she forced it out, “I must, of course, ask you why you’ve decided to leave Blue Moon. Doesn’t Elise treat you well?”

  “Oh no, it’s not that at all,” I said quickly. “Elise is wonderful! But she’s closing the store.” I felt a pang of sadness just saying it out loud. “I guess you didn’t know.”

  “What a shame,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “Although I’ve often told her she needed to do more to keep up with the big boys. Too idealistic—that’s Elise’s problem. What a pity.”

  “Yes,” I said, “it’s a real—”

  “We could talk all day, I’m sure,” Lucy interrupted, rising to her feet, “but I’ve really got to get back on the phone, and I have several other candidates to interview today. Really, we’ve had an overwhelming response from that ad, haven’t we, Craig?”

  “Overwhelming,” Craig rumbled.

  “What I’d like to do is to get your take on a couple of manuscripts,” Lucy said. “Why don’t you have Nora give you some things from today’s mail and also something that we’re working on now? She can give you the George proposal. I think that one would be good. You can drop off your notes if you like or fax them in. We’ll talk again after that. How does that sound?”

  “Great,” I said, and shook her hand once more. “Thank you so much.”

  “Just one more question,” Lucy said. “You’re not a writer, are you? There’s no place for writers here.”

  My mind stumbled over the irony of that statement while my mouth started forming an answer, but Lucy interrupted me once more. “I have made the mistake of hiring writers before. It doesn’t work.” She shuddered, as if remembering a bad dream. “We represent writers here, we don’t create them. Is that clear?”

  I had no difficulty responding this time. Of all the questions Lucy had asked me, this one had the surest answer.

  “I have no talent for writing,” I told her. “Reading is my passion.” I thought about Malcolm and felt strangely guilty, as if I was somehow betraying him and lying to Lucy at the same time.

  “Good, good,” Lucy said, ushering me to the door. “What do you think of my office, by the way? Do you think you could be comfortable working in such a beautiful environment?”

  “It’s fantastic,” I said, and as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized what her office reminded me of, the image that had been nagging for definition at the back of my mind. Lucy Fiamma’s office was very much like an igloo.

  AT THE SOUND OF Lucy’s door shutting against my sweat-damp back, Nora and Anna simultaneously swiveled their heads in my direction. Nora looked completely wretched. Anna simply looked annoyed. Both of them raised their eyebrows, forming two sets of inverted parentheses, as if to ask me what the hell I wanted now. Standing next to Anna was a tall blond woman wearing a tailored gray suit and clutching a briefcase in one hand. She was, I assumed, the next “candidate” scheduled to interview with Lucy. She gave me a quick, questioning look as if to ask me what to expect, but I looked right past her. I meant to get this job and I wasn’t about to offer someone else any help to take it from me, even if that help came from a simple smile. I turned toward Nora.

  “Um…I…Lucy…” I drew back some of the oxygen that see
med to have been sucked out of my lungs and started again. “Lucy asked if you could give me some manuscripts from today’s mail and the…um…the George proposal?”

  Nora slid out from behind her desk and began riffling through a mail tub full of manuscripts. Anna got up as well, only to sit down again on the edge of the same desk she’d wrecked before. Both of them seemed to be intent on completely ignoring the woman in the gray suit.

  “Guess it went okay in there?” Anna inclined her head toward Lucy’s office. I smiled at Anna as politely as I could and hoped that would suffice as a response to the nosy question I had no intention of answering.

  “This’d be your desk, you know,” Anna said, patting the papers underneath her rump. “It’s the closest one to her.”

  “Right,” I said. “That makes sense.” I looked away from Anna for a moment, not wanting to brand the image of her backside spilling onto the desk. If I managed to get the job, it wasn’t a vision I’d want every time I reached for a Post-it.