My fingers fly over the keyboard, the steady rhythm of typing syncing with the rush of energy building in my chest. There’s still an ache—yes—but it’s quieter now, shaped into something sharper. Purposeful. The words are the only thing I want, the only thing that matters right now.
I haven’t brushed my hair. I’m still in one of Nina’s giant hoodies and sleep shorts. A forgotten mug of cold coffee sits beside me, flanked by half-eaten chocolate and a lopsided stack of post-its. But I don’t care. Ifeel alive.
Because the words are coming fast, faster than I can keep up. And they’regood.
My heroine is standing in the rain, mascara streaking down her cheeks, yelling at the man who walked away from her—but she’s not begging him to come back. She’s choosing herself. Her voice doesn’t shake. It rises.
And maybe it started as me on that page—but now? Now it’s something more. It’s a story I believe in. One Ineedto tell.
I pause only when I hear the familiar ding of a new email.
My eyes flick to the corner of the screen, expecting spam or a rejection or something from my bank reminding me I don’t have an income anymore.
Instead, I see the subject line:
“Inquiry from Bloom & Finch Publishing”
My fingers freeze.
I blink, sure I’m hallucinating.
But no—there it is. A real email. From a real person. At a real publishing house. Sent to the anonymous contact address I keep on the blog—the one that doesn’t use my name, just the site’s inbox.
My heart lurches.
I click it open.
Hi there,
I came across your (beautifully) anonymous blog a few weeks ago and was blown away. There’s something so raw and honest in your voice, and it stuck with me. I shared a few posts with my editorial team, and we’d love to discuss the possibility of developing your work into a full-length novel under our imprint.
If you’re open to it, could we set up a quick video chat today or tomorrow? (Totally fine to remain anonymous on the call at first—we can talk next steps and what you’re comfortable sharing.)
Warmly,
Eliza Martin
Senior Editor | Bloom & FinchPublishing
I reread it twice, then a third time just to make sure my brain isn’t playing some cruel trick on me. My pulse is doing cartwheels in my ears.
I suck in a breath and press a trembling hand to my mouth, laughing a little through the tears
A notification pings—there’s a follow-up. A Zoom link. A request to meet.
Fifteen minutes.
Oh God.
My brain kicks into gear like I’ve been struck by lightning. I bolt upright, slam the laptop closed, and launch into motion. I’ve never gotten ready this fast in my life. A cardigan over my tank top. Dry shampoo. A haphazard ponytail. I swipe on the most neutral lip balm I own and avoid looking too closely in the mirror. This is happeningnow.
Only after I’ve thrown the mess of chocolate wrappers and coffee mugs behind the couch (out of sight, out of mind) do I finally approve the Zoom meeting.
I settle onto the couch, laptop balanced on my knees, legs folded, heart pounding.
I click the link.
The screen loads—and there she is. A kind-looking woman in a floral blouse with cat-eye glasses and a warm, curious smile.
