The Quest for the Perfect Fantasy Book - Emma Rowene (reading strategies book .txt) 📗

…He leaned in so close I could hardly breath. I mean, yeah, I knew what he was, but I wasn’t afraid. He leaned in closer, and I felt him press his soft lips to my throat.
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” he asked.
“Why should I be? I love you, I don’t care what you are.”
He leaned back to look at me. I could tell from his eyes that he wanted me—in a bad way. I looked back at him.
“If you know what I am, you know I could kill you.”
“Then why haven’t you done it yet? You may be a vampire, but I know there’s still good in you.”
He looked at me and he looked so sad I just wanted to hug him. His beautiful brown eyes were focused on mine and his sexy brown hair flopped into his face. And his body was sculpted like a model’s as he…

I groaned in horror and collapsed onto my couch. The pitiful manuscript I was reading fell from my hand, landing in a heap on the carpeted floor to reveal the title “Forbidden Love” by Monica Blake.
After recovering from my initial horror, I pushed myself up and looked around. My apartment was a mess, but I didn’t have it in me to care at the moment—my head still hurt from reading “Forbidden Love.” I placed the manuscript on top of three others—none of which were any better than “Forbidden Love.”
I am the Editorial Director of the fantasy and science fiction department at Harrison and Austen books, a prestigious publishing company that turns out dozens of best sellers each year.
It took me six long years to earn my current position, and truthfully, I am slightly disappointed. My parents raised me on the classics—Tolkien, Weis and Hickman, Zelazny, etc. Therefore, my ideal fantasy novel involves knights, dragons, wizards, and elves. When, as a child, I said “I want to be a book editor so I can read books every day,” sappy, unrealistic romance stories about vampires and werewolves were certainly not what I had in mind.
When did the fantasy industry change so drastically? Will it ever change back? My goal, before I die, is to publish at least one genuinely promising fantasy book with all of the classic fantasy elements. I have published several average books, of course, but only one went on to become genuinely successful, and I am not very proud of it.
Sick of reading bad manuscripts, I got up and poured myself a large glass of wine. I took my wine and A Hobbit’s Tale and spent the rest of the night relaxing. In less than hour, I found myself in a fantastic mood, laughing out loud to Tolkien’s witty humor.

“Is Ms. Sommers in yet?” I heard someone ask my assistant.
“Yes, sir. She’s in her office now.”
I straightened my shirt and ran a hand through my hair quickly as someone knocked on the door to my small, barren office.
“Come in!” I called. A man entered the room. “Good morning, Mr. Johnson!”
Mr. Johnson, the editor and chief of Harrison and Austen Publishers, was of below average height and above average weight. His skin was always tanned, and his dark hair was always greased back. Ultimately, he was fairly handsome and not quite 43 years of age. He had a genial smile and blue eyes that narrowed drastically when he was either amused or infuriated. He was always very kind to me and very irritable to everyone else.
“Please, have a seat Mr. Johnson.” I said. Then, after realizing that I made it sound like a command, I added, “If you’d like?”
“Yes, thank you. Did you get the email I sent you last night, Ms. Sommers?”
“Oh…No, I didn’t have a chance to check my email last night. Sorry.”
“That’s quite all right. Bottom line: we need to keep up our publication rates. We haven’t published any successful fantasy books in some time, and the boys upstairs are getting impatient with us.”
“Ugh. I know, I know. I just don’t want to publish a book that’s a piece of crap just because we need to publish something!” I complained. Taking a deep breath, I continued, “I’m sorry. We’re actually working on one right now, a lovely story about a clan of shape shifting humans that actually has some potential.”
Mr. Johnson made a face, “Whatever you think best, Ms. Sommers.”
I waited for him to say something more, but he just stared at me for some time.
“Are you feeling alright?” he finally asked.
“What? Yes, I suppose I am…I’m just exhausted.”
“You are trying to overwork yourself. I’ve seen it happen to far too many good editors to let it happen to you, Ms. Sommers. Here’s what I suggest: take the night off tonight.”
“I don’t think—“
“You and I could go out to eat at a nice restaurant and possibly go see a movie after… or something. I don’t know about you, but going out with a friend when I’m under stress always makes me feel better.” Mr. Johnson suggested nervously, tugging at his collar.
“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Johnson, but you just said it yourself: the fantasy department really needs to work to turn out a bestseller, so right now really is the worst possible time for me to ‘take the night off.’ How about this: When my department finally publishes a best seller, you and I can go out to celebrate. Heck, we can take the whole department with us!”
“The whole department? Sure, kid. That sounds great. Until then, however, don’t overwork yourself.”

The rest of the day flew by. I worked frantically all morning, met an author for lunch, and argued with my fellow editors all afternoon. I won all of the arguments, of course, whipping my department into shape with threats and promises, causing them to work harder than they had in a very long time.
That night I brought five manuscripts. The first four were terrible. Settling down with the fifth manuscript, I prayed that it would be the bestseller I desperately needed.
Suddenly, the room was filled with the chorus of Sinatra’s “I got the world on a string.” I pulled my mobile phone out of my pocket, fumbled with it, and checked the caller id. Unknown number.
“Hello?” I answered hesitantly.
“Ellie?”
“This is she. May I ask who is calling?”
“This is Mackenzie! Mackenzie Peters, from Lorriton! Ellie…are you still there?” Mackenzie asked.
“Uh…Yeah, yeah I’m still here.” I croaked in surprise. Mackenzie Peters was one of my best friends growing up in the small town of Lorriton, Minnesota. We still spoke online occasionally, but we never call each other. Why now? “What’s up?”
“Oh, Ellie! You’ll never guess what has happened to me!” Mackenzie shouted into the receiver.
“Ugh. I have to guess? Let’s see…did you win the lottery?”
“No. You’re never going to guess it, so I’ll just tell you. I’m getting married!!” Mackenzie screeched on the other line, “When my boyfriend proposed, you are one of the first people I thought to tell. You have to come to the wedding!”
“Married? To whom? Why didn’t I hear about this sooner, Kenzie?! I didn’t even know you were in a relationship! Of course I’ll come to your wedding!”
“Don’t be mad at me, Ellie…I do have a reason for not telling you…I’m getting married to Stephen Byers. I know you two dated a couple of years ago, and I didn’t want it to be weird…You don’t mind, do you?”
“Oh! No, I haven’t thought about Stephen for a very long time.” I lied. “I’m happy for you Kensie, really, but I have to ask: can you be happy with him? You’re so different.”
Mackenzie laughed on the other end, “Of course, Ellie! I love him. But you’re sure you are okay with it?”
“I have no problem with it whatsoever.” I said. In truth, however, I was not sure how I felt about it. “When is the wedding?”
“Two weeks from today! It’s going to take place in the old Cathedral at the top of Hide Hill, just like my parent’s wedding.”
“So soon?” I asked, my heart sinking, “I might not be able to get off work.”
“Oh, you have to, Ellie! I’ll die if you can’t come! I would change the date if I could, but…”
“But what?”
“Well…I can’t the date because…because I’m pregnant, Ellie.”
I sat down in shock, not knowing what to say. Mackenzie’s morals have always been slightly wayward, but growing up, I never imagined Kenzie would someday have a shotgun wedding, let alone one with my ex-boyfriend.
“Oh. Well, congratulations.”
“You don’t mean that Ellie, but thank you anyway. I think being married with a child will be good for me.” Mackenzie said seriously, “Anyways, you have to come to my wedding because when you were younger, you vowed to be my maid of honor someday. Remember? You gave me your ‘word as a warrior.’”
I laughed. “What a warrior I turned out to be. Listen Mackenzie, I’ll try my hardest to convince my boss to let me come, but don’t get your hopes up.”
“Oh Ellie, thank you! Try to come up to Lorriton as soon as possible, because I need your help with the nuptials!” Mackenzie chirped, “I have to go, Ellie. There are still so many people to tell!”
“Naturally. Bye, Mackenzie! I hope to see you soon!”
I waited for Mackenzie to hang up before I began panicking. I panicked about going home, about seeing Stephen Byer again, and about taking a vacation at such a critical point in my career.
Like Mackenzie said, I dated Stephen once. We got together just after college, and I was infatuated. We were together for two years, during which time I postponed my career to work in my parent’s grocery store. At one point, we were even engaged.
Not long before our wedding, however, Stephen dumped me because he felt that we were ‘too different’ for such a lasting commitment. I didn’t blame him, I still don’t. It’s true: we are different. Throughout our relationship, I obsessed over my future and favorite books while he obsessed over his beer and favorite sports.
After a month of wallowing in self-pity, I moved to New York City and devoted myself to my career. During the following six years, I took on no new relationships. It certainly wasn’t that I never got over Stephen, I just never allowed myself enough time for a relationship. But now that he is engaged to my close friend, I wonder if I do still care for him.
I don’t think I do. Of course, how I feel doesn’t matter much; it never has. If I were still passionately in love with Stephen, I wouldn’t have the courage to say anything either to him or to Mackenzie.
Despite my feelings, I thought, I will go to Lorriton and be Kenzie’s maid of honor. I will not be bitter or antisocial, and I will stay on top of my work from Minnesota, even If it means bringing a suitcase full of manuscripts with me.
That resolution finally reached, I returned to my manuscript.

Ertaierum Rothundackuskskel was a great warrior. He was also a handsome one. He was extremely tall and muscular. He had curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes.
One day, he was walking through the forest when several bandits jumped out of the forest.
“Look at this one, boys” one of the men, probably the leader, said. “’E’s decked out in fancy trappings. Ee’s probably loaded!”
The men all