Concentrating on the business at hand, she found a chair in a corner and skimmed the schedule for Hunter Brown’s workshop. With a dawning smile, she took out a pen and underlined.

CREATING HORROR THROUGH ATMOSPHERE AND EMOTION

Speaker to be announced.

Bingo, Lee thought, capping her pen. She’d make certain she had a front-row seat. A glance at her watch showed her that she had three hours before Brown began to speak. Never one to take chances, she took out her notebook to skim over the questions she’d listed, while people filed by her or merely loitered, chatting.

“If I get rejected again, I’m going to put my head in the oven.”

“Your oven’s electric, Judy.”

“It’s the thought that counts.”

Amused, Lee began to listen to the passing comments with half an ear while she added a few more questions.

“And when they brought in my breakfast this morning, there was a five-hundred-page manuscript under my plate. I completely lost my appetite.”

“That’s nothing. I got one in my office last week written in calligraphy. One hundred and fifty thousand words of flowing script.”

Editors, she mused. She could tell them a few stories about some of the submissions that found their way to Celebrity.

“He said his editor hacked his first chapter to pieces so he’s going into mourning before the rewrites.”

“I always go into mourning before rewrites. It’s after a rejection that I seriously consider taking up basket weaving as a profession.”

“Did you hear Jeffries is here again trying to peddle that manuscript about the virgin with acrophobia and telekinesis? I can’t believe he won’t let it die a quiet death. When’s your next murder coming out?”

“In August. It’s poison.”

“Darling, that’s no way to talk about your work.”

As they passed by her, Lee caught the variety of tones, some muted, some sophisticated, some flamboyant. Gestures and conversations followed the same wide range. Amazed, she watched one man swoop by in a long, dramatic black cape.

Definitely an odd group, Lee thought, but she warmed to them. It was true she confined her skill to articles and profiles, but at heart she was a storyteller. Her position on the magazine had been hard-earned, and she’d built her world around it. For all her ambition, she had a firm fear of rejection that kept her own manuscript unfinished, buried in a drawer for weeks and sometimes months at a time. At the magazine, she had prestige, security and room for advancement. The weekly paycheck put the roof over her head, the clothes on her back and the food on her table.