The Penguin Press Novels & Stories

The publisher's name was Yetunde. Adaeze discovered this when she clicked through to the profile that had sent the message, finding there a woman in her early forties with the particular quality of someone who had built something deliberately and inhabited it with the ease of long ownership. The publishing house was called Rootword Press — small, independent, Lagos-based, with a catalogue that Adaeze spent an evening reading through with the careful attention she brought to things she wanted to understand properly before forming an opinion about.

A text from an unknown number. *Dear Dr. Zanetti, I'm Clara Benson, Senior Editor at Meridian Books. I read your thesis abstract online and was incredibly impressed. I'd love to discuss the possibility of publishing it as a monograph. Are you free for a coffee next week?* Keira stared at the screen, her heart hammering. Meridian Books. One of the most respected independent publishers in the UK, known for their beautifully produced academic titles and their commitment to emerging voices. They'd published books she'd cited in her thesis. Books that had shaped her thinking.

"Make it ten." She had it ready by nine-thirty. Meridian Press was a midsize publisher, independent, well-regarded but perpetually undercapitalized. They had been looking for investors for the past two years, ever since their primary backer had pulled out during the pandemic. Iris's book was the biggest thing they had published in a decade, and they were scrambling to capitalize on its success while also keeping the lights on. Perfect.

"I just got a deal. A really good one, actually, with a publishing press in England. The incentives are huge. I get a new house and everything." "That's great! What's the name of the press?" He asked. I could perfectly picture the smirk on his face as I heard clicking sounds of his keyboard. He was going to look them up, to vet them for me like he always did. "Bloodhound Press," I answered proudly. More rapid clicking sounds followed on his end. "They're new ... really new. Just a few months old. I'm happy for you, Catherine. Proud, even. But..." "But what?" I asked, the smile fading from my lips.

“No. I’ve been working on the rewrites of Legal Briefs all day. I’m not even dressed, why?” “Well, you can forget the rewrite. Peter Williams, the main man from Prelude Press just called and he loves the book.” “Prelude? I’ve never heard of them.” “They’re a small, very exclusive New York House. Started publishing poetry back in the early seventies, expanded to political non-fiction, then opened their fiction department about a year ago. Peter said he mailed your contracts express overnight, so throw some clothes on, or go in your underwear, I don’t care, but get your little ass over to that little post office of yours and pick up your mail.”