Blind Submission by Debra Ginsberg Page B

one.”
    Periodically, during the course of these conversations, Lucy would hold up notes for me to read.
    Where is author photo?!!!
one said.
Need it NOW!!!
    Are edits finished?
asked another.
    And then there was,
Start pitch letter.
    I nodded and mouthed “Okay” after the last note, but I had absolutely no idea what she wanted. As I sat down at my desk, I gave a look around the office at my coworkers and debated who might be able to help me. My prospects weren’t so hot.
    â€œDamiano,” I said into his perpetually holding line, “Lucy’s really got a
lot
of interest and she wants to go out with this as soon as she can. Do you think you can get this done by, um, tomorrow?”
    â€œBella,”
he said after a pause. “Okay. I can call you later? How do I send it? And please call me Dami.”
    The sound of my intercom cut off my answer before it left my mouth. “Angel, have you begun that pitch letter? I’d like to see it, please.”
    â€œListen, Damian—
Dami,
” I whispered into the phone, “why don’t you call me after you’ve made some more of these changes? And then you can just, um, e-mail it to me at home. I’ll—I’ll just print it out.”
    â€œGrazie,”
he said.
    â€œAnd a photo,” I added hurriedly. “Do you have a photo you can e-mail? Of yourself?”
    â€œNot really, but—” he began, but my intercom buzzed again and I rushed him off the phone. After assuring Lucy that I’d have a pitch letter for her momentarily, I took a chance on the possible kindness of strangers and approached Craig.
    â€œHow are you doing, Angel?” he asked. Craig looked particularly scrawny in a blue polo shirt that was a size too big and brown pants that had seen better days. As he pushed his spectacles back on his nose, I was reminded of Woody Allen minus the irony. But that voice! It resonated in the center of my body and made my heart skip. Craig’s wife, I thought, was obviously a lights-off kind of gal.
    â€œI—I’m okay,” I said. “But I wonder if you could give me a hand with something. Lucy wants me to—”
    â€œDraft a pitch letter for the Italian book?” Craig asked.
    â€œRight,” I said. “And I don’t…” I trailed off, not wanting to admit to Craig that I didn’t have the vaguest idea how to start such a thing.
    â€œThere’s a template on the computer,” Craig said. “But if you want an example to follow, I’ve got one here somewhere.” He slid open a meticulously neat file cabinet beneath his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Here you go,” he said. “But I’ll need that back when you’re finished with it.”
    â€œSure,” I said, but hesitated.
    â€œYou’re going to have to jump right in, Angel,” he said, and the sound of my name in his mouth made my throat constrict. “It’s the best piece of advice I can give you. Don’t be afraid to get wet.”
    This was, oddly, the warmest, most encouraging thing anyone had said to me since I’d started, and it immediately endeared me to Craig, who was, nevertheless, frowning as he uttered it.
    â€œOkay,” I said, giving him a high-wattage smile. “Right you are.”
    I returned to my desk and scratched out a one-page letter that included a brief description of
Parco Lambro,
heavy on superlatives, and a short paragraph stating why “Dear—(Ed.)” absolutely had to have it. I copied the sign-off on Craig’s sample letter, which was “As always, Lucy Fiamma.” And I supposed she was. Always Lucy, that is.
    It took Lucy less than ten seconds to decimate my letter with razor-like flourishes of her fountain pen.
Redo as per my notes,
she wrote on top.
This reads as if a (small) child wrote it.
    I felt a flush spread up my neck as I read her comments and my ears began to burn with