Deborah 6

Our rules of manuscript submission state a one page summary must be attached. I riffle the slush pile of romance, pick four likely candidates. Three sound airy fairy, unreal, as if the writer had no direct experience or research. The fourth has that stark authenticity that proclaims been there, done that, got the Tshirt.
I don't want Murray to know how fast it went, so for a week and a half I do sci fi work, but pretend to be engrossed in romance.
He's stunned by my selection, grins wickedly, "have to paddle Joel when he gets back, for his negligence."
We both laugh.
With my Reservist background, it's easy to spot good or bad military fiction. Eventually I trip over a civil war, fought on Mars, between rival Earthling colonist factions. Again, what draws me is the clear clarion call proclaiming the author to be a combat vet.
Murray is pleased with both choices and we're ready to roll.
My "romance" selection outsells the sci fi by 8 to 1; but still the sci fi made money. Murray is ecstatic and half my student loan vanishes in the bonus payout.
All is rosy til Joel returns. Joel accuses Murray and especially me of "being backstabbing hypocrites who cherry pick my manuscripts."
Murray is a good sport, points out he covered salary while Joel was away. This only inflames Joel further. A startup gay publishing house had been making overtures to him prior to the vacation and he takes their offer.
Now Murray is desparate. The ads and newspaper stories worked only too well and the readers are eagerly awaiting the rest of our series.
Finally, he says, "I hope you don't feel too insulted by this. Too late to hire a new person. None of the women here really have the talent to handle the romance line. So, each gets to pick her favorite romance. At least we'll have lots of variety, not a hackneyed line."
"Why should I feel insulted?"
"Because I wouldn't let you near that line again with a ten foot pole."
"Why? Afraid the line will look too raunchy if I pick another S&M?"
"That, and I'm afraid I created a demon."
In order to keep this story family suitable, let's just say yes I have had fantasies. And yes when the author and I met, a certain amount of this energy was noticeable. And yes, my arm was sore for awhile. Nuff said.
Stanley's parents call again, demanding if I have any news. As if I'd be rude enough not to tell them!
And once again, I decline to mention Aliens, just say you know how drinkers are.
I've decided there was no abduction. I got Sam to show me the hologram. Exact match to what I saw. Surely the Aliens would be a bit taller/shorter, fatter/leaner, different coloration and use at least slightly different gestures.
Also, none of Stanley's mail has come here since. I don't have authority to view post office records, but I'm positive he gave a change of address.
Sam himself is certain Stanley ran out on me. He apologizes for his part in helping to invent the hologram. His intentions were good, he asserted, merely to play the joke, not to have it misfire like this.