Job Reading Manuscripts Novels & Stories

Sometimes, I allowed myself to wonder if he truly, earnestly wanted to see me graduate this year. Yet, I was drowning in exhaustion from this endless cycle of revisions. To me, weaving a scholarly manuscript was far more soul-crushing than the labor of writing fiction. I had reached a breaking point of pure frustration. Was I truly expected to take such an extreme path—to surrender my honor to Mr. Jefri? Even so, Dita’s proposition felt like a jagged piece of logic that refused to fit. I drew a long, deep breath, preparing to reignite our debate, but just as the words formed on my tongue, my phone erupted into a frantic ring.

I'd have to figure out how I’m going to get around keeping Harlan a secret from her forever, though currently, that is the least of my worries. When she hasn't seen me all week, she comes into my room to check on me, only to find me pouring over books and articles with fistfuls of hair seized between white-knuckled fingers. I hear my name fall breathlessly off her lips, and turn to see her looking positively concerned and horrified by all the contents in front of me. "What is all this? Homework?" "It's for Harlan," I tell her. "He has his publication due this weekend, and I've missed a source. I have to find it. And I have to grade, like, forty papers," I say, lip trembling, feeling stress-h

Surely, they couldn’t be a criminal organization. Could they? A knot formed in my stomach at the very thought. I paused once I reached the bookshelf with the manuscripts, and I gazed upward. I needed to get those papers. I began climbing the wooden steps until I reached the top. The manuscripts looked to be even older up close, and they were literally collecting dust. I blew some of the dust off and instantly got attacked by the dust bunnies, making me cough and my eyes water with irritation. Perching myself up on the bookshelf and attempting to sit, I had the manuscripts in hand. There were so many of them and most of them were manuscripts of Joseph’s books. As I skimmed through some of the

I picked up a manuscript from the desk and shuffled through the pages, all marked with yellow highlighters. Saying that I wasn’t tired of my job sometimes would’ve been wrong. Sometimes I couldn’t stop myself from imagining the life I would’ve had if I’d had taken after Dad, the luxury I would’ve had. But then, this was what I was good at. Reading and editing. I loved the smell of the manuscripts, the sounds of the papers ruffling and the touch of them on my fingers. How poetic! My phone rang again and even though I had no intention of looking at first, a single peek at the device had me dumbfounded. It was Vincent.

“The told version, in the story shape I gave it. What you’re describing is a different version. The version before it becomes a story. The still-live version.” “Yes,” Leo said. “Both are true. I want both.” The paper with Dr. Voss came back from the journal in the third week of October. Not accepted. Not rejected. Revise and resubmit, which was — as Dr. Voss explained in the email she sent alongside the forwarded reviews — the best realistic outcome for a first submission to this particular journal with this particular kind of argument. The reviewers had engaged with it seriously, which was itself a form of reception. Their concerns were specific and addressable. Their acknowledgment of the

he said when his brother answered. A brief silence. "I know. I've been watching the parliament feed." "Of course you have," Julian said. "Eighteen months," Malcolm said. "The paper will be ready." "How close?" "Dr. Sharma submitted her section this morning," Malcolm said. "I have two weeks of revision. Then it goes to peer review." A pause. "It's good, Julian. It's genuinely good work." Something in the way he said it — not pride, something quieter. The specific tone of a man who had built something he believed in and was allowing himself to know it.

I occasionally helped Joaquin but I was politely honest with him through work email that I need space and he acknowledged it with “Noted with thanks.” It had been months since I’d last touched the draft of my new manuscript, but my hands remembered the rhythm. Letters turned into words, words into something like purpose. Jessy said work was the best kind of therapy. Maybe she was right. The afternoon light poured through the window, warm against the scattered pages on my desk. My phone buzzed every now and then—emails, messages, deadlines—but I ignored most of them. The world had learned to keep spinning without me. Jessy looked up from her screen. “You okay?”

"Is there any chance you would be willing to sell the manuscript? My employer, well, money is no object, so I can offer you more than what you just paid.” "No," comes the reply. "If you had been paying attention, then perhaps you would have won, but the auction room is no place for amateurs." I pick up a faint Aussie accent, but the delivery is as cold as ice, and I feel like I am five years old, being told off by my mum. Still, I get the weirdest feeling that his reluctance is a ploy, that there is something else going on, like there is a joke somewhere in all of this and I am the last one to be let in on it. "Please," I implore, dignity going straight out the window. "My job is on the line

"Don't go down the rabbit hole searching for anything else he's written. He wouldn't want you wallowing." "I can't decide if it would be dumb to ask him for help or pathetic not to ask him." "With your dissertation?" "Writing papers, even science papers, has never been my strength." "You're worried?" "It's going to be published in the Werewolf Academy Journals and peer-reviewed." The Academy's standards weren't the same as Northfall's, but there was a chance that my research would be circulated in the same pools as Eason's. "I can't look… like an idiot who spent half a decade as a housewife."

Subject: Submission Review—Immediate Opportunity I gasped. Mrs. Selene Harold, your recent work has been reviewed by the editorial team at Lyric Press. We are impressed by your voice, your pacing, and your style. We would like to offer you a position as a contributing writer. Full training and mentorship will be provided. Please reply within 48 hours to accept. My eyes widened.