Rejection and Acceptance (Part I)
“Creativity only works when you’re truly inspired,” Cathleen said peering over her glasses and handing him back his transcript. “Unfortunately, this was clearly forced. If you want to get it published, you’re going to have to do better.”
The seventeen-year-old boy looked at her. “This is my livelihood,” he said. “I live to write, I breath words, I don’t know what more you’re looking for.”
“Perhaps you would do better focusing on your grades,” she said brushing her bright red hair annoyed out of her eyes. “Education is crucial to writing. Besides, school is an excellent point for observation.”
He bit his lip and stood up. “Thank you for your time,” he said and left the office. He glanced at the other people dressed in business suits and nicely cleaned before embarrassingly remembering his own grubby appearance in baggy clothes and his, now, dark blue hair that was tousled from the wind when he rode his bike. He walked back down the lobby and stared at the clock in the main marble hall: one o’clock. It was too early to go home, and much too late to go back to school. He had feigned being pulled out sick for the first half of the day, but his editor had been later to work than usual and had messed up his excuse. He paused before turning around and going back into the elevator. Surged with a little more energy, he tried hard to ignore the people staring at him. Finally, suffocated by the tension of judgment, when the elevator door opened, he practically ran down the hall and skidded to a halt at the end.
The door he had wanted read: Daphne McAllen, editor in chief, and was open just slightly. A man shook Daphne’s hand and ran out of the door completely passing the boy. He took a deep breath and walked into her office.
“Excuse me,” he said, “could I have a moment of your time?”
Daphne looked up from her desk where she was rearranging papers and glanced at him. “Sure,” she said. Her hair was obviously died blond and she wore a business suit, but she was the first person in the office complex who had not only not immediately kicked him out, but didn’t seem to judge him upon first appearance.
“I’m Philip Lacrosse and I have this draft of a novel I’ve written. If you would be so kind as to look it over—“
“Pleased to meet you, Philip,” she said extending her hand out to him, “but I’m on a tight schedule and I need you to make an appointment with my secretary.” There was a knock on the door as she said this and Philip’s heart sank.
“You can keep that copy. I’ll be back on Wednesday to see what you thought,” he said running out the door before she could refuse. His head was spinning, but he was clear on the fact that he was glad he had typed up his novel and therefore had a copy kept on his hard drive to use again if she never returned that copy.
