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Received: 10:03 AM

To: Savannah Cade

Subject: RE: Manuscript

Dear Savannah,

It is with deep regret that I must tell you that Baird Books will not be moving forward with your manuscript. Although I was greatly impressed by the final product you sent, my own opinion seems to vary from the team as a whole, and I have been unsuccessful in my efforts to sway them. These are hard days, as I’m sure you know. The competition is quite fierce. Nevertheless, I have no doubt you will find a wonderful home for your story. You truly do have much to be proud of.

Best wishes,

Claire Donovan

Chief Editor, Romance

Baird Books Publishing

For a long minute, neither of us speak.

I read the email again. And again. Quite solemn. Quite still.

My book is rejected.

My dream . . . crushed.

After my fourth reread, I realize Olivia is no longer standing behind me but is in the corner of the living room, a phone pressed to her ear.

“Yes, I’d like to order for delivery, please. What are your specials?” She pauses, listening. “Yes, that’ll be fine. Bring it all. Yes. All of it . . . All.”

Chapter 22

The next week goes by in a blur.

I try to be positive. I try to hold tight to the words Olivia has bestowed on me through at least a dozen randomly placed Post-It notes and, if I let her, long monologues over breakfast. I try to remember that there are “other fish in the sea” and that “Baird Books isn’t the only publisher out there” and “Isn’t it just good to know she loved it? Isn’t that just a great new step worth appreciating in this journey?” But at the end of it all there still lies the fact of the matter: my dream publisher turned me down. And I have no contract. And no potential contract in sight.

Because that’s what was also so amazing in it all.

I don’t have a literary agent. I haven’t spent years drafting proposals and querying agents and building up a competitive social platform. I don’t have thousands of people on my newsletter list, itching to hear from me every week and to buy my book the instant it’s out. I have nothing. Nothing.

Except a manuscript.

And nobody is going to want me like I am now.

Baird Books was the golden-ticket moment because I met Claire in person, an opportunity that barely ever happens. Aspiring authors pay thousands of dollars for a fifteen-minute pitch session with an editor at a writers’ conference, and I—fortunate of fortunates—had been given an hour.

And she liked me. And the hook of my story. And was just powerful enough to potentially take on my project without all that other stuff, because she was with Baird Books. They could make anything sell, even hermit authors with no social media accounts and no previously known name.

But me? Savannah Cade, now having to take a long, hard look at what it will really take to get my manuscript in front of reputable literary agents and editors and have anyone take me seriously? It’ll take years. If not decades.

Even so, I’m trying to swallow the idea bit by bit. Like Olivia keeps telling me, “How do you eat an elephant? One spoonful at a time.”

I hate the imagery. I’ve always hated the imagery. But the point is true. And at the end of the day, I do feel joy in the writing.

Writing is what makes me happy. Writing, even, is how I feel I contribute to the world. Reminding people of what’s important. Letting them escape the harsh parts of life, even if just for a few hours. Helping them feel happiness through watching happily-ever-afters unfold. Remembering truths. Recalling their self-worth. Loving others. Living well. Learning.

I want to do that.

So, I will press on. Even if the road ahead is harsh and the journey long, I will keep on.