Well, that's what's happening to me right now. I'm serious.
I feel like a changed man. That's not even an exaggeration.
No joke.
Lana Hartley's manuscript, The Virgin Market, has fucking changed me. I feel like my eyes have been opened.
Jesus fuck.
I mean, it's like I've got a new lease on life. That may sound dramatic, but do you know what I mean?
If you don't, let me explain it another way for you.
One minute, I'm floating on a sailboat, in the middle of a windless ocean, and the next, I feel like a huge gust has just blown across me, filling my fucking sails and making me fly. I have new direction.
That murky mud puddle of life isn't sucking me down with that lipless mouth.
I'm a new fucking man.
Reading Lana's The Virgin Market manuscript has made me realize that I've been a jaded person for so long. Too long.
The industry that I had appreciated for so many years was devoid of any fucking color to me. It was like living in a black and white world. I had been walking around in some dazed stupor, bored, and uninspired, and cynical.
I'd sooner smirk at a book, than feel inspired by it.
But now? Right now, my world has gone full fucking color. Funfetti style.
Glitter on top of glitter on the floor of a New Year's Eve party. Get the picture?
What? You think I'm exaggerating?
With as many bad stories as I've read, I know a good one when I see it.
Lana Hartley is good. Real good. And she hasn't even landed her first book deal yet.
She's a natural, and she deserves to be published. That much I know.
It's hard to believe that not a single publisher has bid on her manuscript.
Are they not paying attention? Why don't they see what I see?
Who the fuck cares about market trends?
If a story is good; it's good. And this isn't just good; it's excellent.
It takes you into a character's head, and enables you to stay there—explore the landscape, so to speak.
It's of the highest fucking caliber. Trust me.
But now I need to find Lana. I have to tell her what I think before it's too late. Before she feels like throwing it into a fire or something.
I know she's feeling like the book was an epic waste of her time, but I believe she could have a best seller on her hands.
Correction. I don't believe. I know.
But fuck, I don't have Lana's number. That's one thing we failed to exchange during the MaxSex convention. What was I thinking?
Clearly, I wasn't.