She flipped the cover of the manuscript and resisted the urge to throw it across the room.The whole thing was an insincere jangled up sensualization of a sad woman–a supposed charity case with a debilitating disease.
Margot initially thought Jack was the author she had been looking for. She thought he was the archetype of radical youth that might cause the publishing industry to erupt with wonder. Margot had been an editor for twenty long years, tired of the mundane writing attempts that arrived daily. Her desk was amass with hellish stories of zombies, or faraway planets threatening to scourge the earth. Her personal nemeses were the continuous tomes of graphic sexual encounters with no romance or storyline.
Where were the new fresh authors she wondered? She hoped she had found one in Jack. His embryonic notes and ideas seemed promising. The story of a disabled woman who lived on the street. The idea was intriguing, could be interesting, but once again, the author failed his subject.